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imagines--galore · 6 months

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||Mind Over Matter|| Part Fifteen

Summary: Evelyn is Penelope Garcia’s protégé. She is a tech wiz, and knows her way around any kind of security and just like her mentor knows how to dig deep and get into the past of anyone and has a knack for anything with a chip in it. Including potato chips. The one thing she fails at is figuring out is the mind and how it works.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Evelyn Richardson(OC)

Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+ Romance. Adventure. Family. Some language, blood and violence in later installments.

Previously - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen

A/N: A brief intro to someone from Evelyn’s past!

"Evelyn? Mind handing me that box of files?"

Silence greeted the young Doctor's request. A few seconds passed before he glanced up from the file he had been thumbing through, only to frown slightly at the sight of his friend staring blankly at the screen of her phone.

"Evelyn?" He spoke again, this time a little more loudly. No response.

Leaning forward he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Eve?" Despite his voice being gentle and low, the red head jumped, startled. Quickly putting her phone away, she sniffed before turning to Reid.

"Sorry Spence, I was thinking about something. What did you say you need?" She asked, eyes blinking rapidly behind her glasses. Spencer frowned. "That box." He pointed to the one right beside her. Nodding, the woman quickly slid the box over to him before turning her attention to the laptop screen she had opened in front of her. Though he had begun to rummage in the box for whatever file he needed, Spencer did not miss the way Evelyn brushed at her cheek where a tear had escaped. Not wanting to pry at the moment, he made a note to ask what was troubling her later.

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"That was quite the lucky break Ginger." Morgan commented, smiling slightly at the petite red head, who merely shrugged in response. "It was really chance on my part. I mean its unbelievable how narcissistic the man was that he wanted to watch as we went over the crime scenes. He really didn't think he'd get caught." She muttered incredulously under her breath as she packed up her laptop in her bag.

Her mind was still reeling from what had happened in the past couple of days. The Unsub picked up the three victims and one would be victim at rather upscale and luxurious locations before charming them and courting them for exactly two weeks. Flowers, dinners, dancing, nighttime walks. The works.

And then at the end of the second week, he would insist on coming to their home for the first time. He would sleep with them and afterwards, insisting that since they had had the best two weeks of their lives what more could they have asked for before killing them. Of course, he wouldn't kill them immediately. The Unsub, later named Julian Black, would give them some form of anesthesia that would have them feeling numb around the area where he would then stab them so they would not feel any pain. Afterwards, he would watch them lay there, helpless and vulnerable, as the bled to death.

He had been in the process of courting his fourth victim when Evelyn, wanting to see if there was perhaps a hidden USB the last victim had been using to keep her more personal files safe, had stumbled upon the tiny camera while on the hunt. The Unsub had not been monitoring his feed at the time, and the red head had been quick when it came to tracking where the signal for the camera pinged. Within half an hour the FBI had apprehended Julian Black and led him away in cuffs.

Job done and killer behind bars, the BAU were now packing up. Though since it was nearly midnight Hotch had given the order for everyone to rest up for the night. They would be heading back to Quantico in the morning.

Emily smiled at the younger Agent. "Still, it was rather quick work on your part. I'm sure Penelope will be proud of you." Evelyn blushed at the praise, smiling brightly as she shouldered her bag. "Are you saying she isn't proud of me on a normal basis Emily?" She questioned, the teasing lilt in her tone evident as she raised an eyebrow at her friend.

The dark haired woman rolled her eyes. "Don't go fishing for compliments Richardson, you need to earn 'em." She called over her shoulder as she exited the room. Whatever retort Evelyn was about the give died on her lips the very moment her bright blue eyes focused on the person who had just entered the room they had been using to conduct all their research. The smile dropped from her lips, the light in her eyes dimmed, her shoulders slumped, and she appeared to make herself smaller. Smaller then she already was.

"D-Diana."

She whispered softly, prompting Morgan and Spencer, both of whom had been helping put away everything for later evidence, to stop what they were doing and turn their attention to the newcomer.

She was gorgeous, there was no denying that. Beautiful long blonde locks, bright blue eyes, a perfect heart shaped face and small nose with a set of full lips. Tall, with curves in all the right places, and dressed head to toe in designer attire. There was the telltale sign of a baby bump showcasing that she was not that far along, and that only seemed to add to her aesthetic. Of course, all that beauty was for naught given that her lips were pulled into a vicious smile and her eyes full of hatred and anger.

"Were you really about to go without even saying hello to your older sister? Aww Evelyn. I'm hurt." She spoke in a voice dripping with sarcasm, walking forward, towering over the red head.

Evelyn shook her head. "N-no. I-I was just b-busy with the c-case." She managed to stammer, eyes darting to her friends. Suddenly she flinched seeing Diana lift her hand. Only to relax when she simply placed a finger under her own lips as she assessed her sister. The flinch wasn't missed by the two profilers. Obviously Diana had hit Evelyn in the past given how the latter had reacted. Though the two men were still trying to wrap their head around the fact that they were looking at Evelyn's sister. They had known she had an older sibling, but one living in New York, so closely connected to their case? That was new information.

Diana nodded. "I'm sure you were. Though if you had gotten here sooner I wouldn't have lost my best friend." Evelyn flinched at the mention of the third victim. Morgan, bless his soul, jumped in to save her. "We were only informed of the case after Hailey's body was found. And it was your sister's quick thinking that we were able to catch the killer." Sharp blue eyes glanced carelessly in his direction before they were back on Evelyn. "I'm surprised she didn't manage to screw it up like she does everything." The words cut deep, prompting the red head to inhale sharply to try and steady her rapidly beating heart.

"Diana…I-" She was cut off when her sister cast her a hard look. "Did I say you could speak?" The other two Agents were absolutely stunned with the way Diana was speaking to their friend. Before Morgan could say anything, Reid had already stepped forward and placed his hand on Evelyn's shoulder, pulling her away from the taller blonde and stepping in her place. His face was unreadable as he fixed his gaze on Diana.

"If you're only going to speak to her like that I suggest you leave." He spoke coldly. The woman growled under her breath before sparing Evelyn one last glare, where she was staring at her sister from over Reid's shoulder. "I see you're still letting someone else fight your battles for you." The blonde turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. She paused at the door, glancing back at her cowering sister. "Even as an FBI Agent you're just as pathetic as you were when we were kids."

And then she was gone.

Stunned silence followed her exit. Morgan and Reid both turned their attention towards Evelyn. Her eyes swam with unshed tears, and her body was trembling. Her knuckles were white from where she had been gripping the strap of her bag.

"Evelyn? What was-"

"I have to go." Without even giving Morgan a chance to finish his question, Evelyn darted out from behind Reid and out of the room, leaving two stunned men in her wake.

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An hour later found Morgan exhausted and saddened as he stepped out of Evelyn's room at the hotel. He very nearly ran into Reid who had been standing just outside. Morgan had offered to check in on Evelyn first, while Reid had made a quick detour to his room to change out of the clothes he had been wearing the entire day. He had opted for a plain t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, with a hastily tied dressing gown over it. The older Agent pursed his lips before sighing. "You can go in, but I don't think she has the strength to talk about it again." Reid glanced at the door over Morgan's shoulder, before shaking his head.

"I just want to make sure she's alright."

Nodding Morgan patted him on the shoulder before disappearing down the hall towards his own room. Neither of them had spoken to anyone else on the Team about what had occurred. Both of them had decided that it would be Evelyn's decision at that front. Hesitating for just a moment, Spencer inhaled deeply through his nose before gently knocking against the maroon colored door. "Evelyn? Its me. Can I come in?"

There was no response. Spencer was just about to turn away, thinking that perhaps she wanted to be alone, when the handle turned, allowing the door to stand slightly ajar. Taking it as his invitation, Spencer stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The room was spacious and was one with a balcony. Evelyn had left the sliding doors open to allow the midnight breeze to cool her room. The girl in question had walked back to her spot on the bed. Laying down on the soft mattress, dressed in an oversized shirt and faded pajama pants, she lay there with her gaze trained towards the ceiling.

Spencer was so used to seeing them shimmer with a range of different emotions. From laughter and anger, to confusion and distaste. But right then they were dull and lifeless. And sad. And alone. She gently patted the spot beside her. Walking over to her, he settled down next to her staring up at the ceiling as well. The bed was just big enough for the two of them, leaving barely any space between them.

"You talk to Morgan?" A meek nod followed his question.

Silence.

"Are you alright?" A slight shake of the head was his response.

Silence.

"I'm not the best when it comes to these things but if you want to talk some more, I'm here."

Silence. And this one stretched on for a good few minutes before her lips parted and she spoke. "Even after so many years, she still hates me." Spencer turned his head to focus his gaze on her. "I don't know what I did, but ever since I can remember she has always hated me." A sigh followed her words. "And she refuses to tell me what it is that I did. Now I think she hates me because she has hated me her entire life and just can't associate any other emotion when it comes to me."

He stayed quiet. "I'm sure that whatever you did, if you even did anything, you didn't mean any harm." Spencer had his doubts that Evelyn had done something wrong. She was the kindest most caring person he had ever met so far in his life and he doubted she had ever done any person any harm intentionally. Her gaze turned to him, and he realized that she wasn't wearing her glasses. Without the wide frame of her glasses, her features appeared delicate and soft.

"I was always envious of her. Still am. When we were kids she was always the one with all the friends. And even back then she was so beautiful. People refused to believe that we were even sisters since we look nothing alike and given how plain I am." He hummed once she finished speaking. "Typically the older child is the object of envy for the younger child, since they have more expectations to live up to."

The red head nodded, unconsciously leaning her head against his shoulder, scooting just a little closer to him. "I know. It's the natural order of things." For his part Spencer turned on his side and wrapped his arm around her waist. The change in his position had her head shifting to rest on his chest instead, right above his heart. Another few minutes of silence, before a sniffle was heard.

"I just sometimes wish she would see me as her sister. I even made a birthday wish about that once." A tearful laugh escaped her lips as she recalled her childhood memory. His other hand lifted to gently run his fingers through her brilliant red locks. Evelyn's hands rested against his chest, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, as if she were afraid he would suddenly leave. "I know that it doesn't make up for it but you can always adopt Garcia as your older sister."

A chuckle sounded from her, prompting him to smile as well at her words. "I think mother-hen is a better fit for her." He laughed softly, his gaze soft as he looked at her. "You're probably right. JJ then and I suppose in time Emily as well." Evelyn nodded against his chest, tilting her head back to look at him. "Then I suppose Morgan is my older brother. Given how protective he is." Spencer hummed in agreement, feeling his eyelids start to grow heavy. "And Hotch and Gideon your father figures." The red head made a small noise of agreement as she yawned. Her lips were pulled into a smile though as she thought about the family she had made over the years.

Snuggling closer to Spencer, she inhaled deeply, taking in his unique scent. "What about you?"

The man blinked. "What about me?"

Her blue eyes found his hazel gaze. "What title do you hold in my make-shift family?" The Genius thought for a few seconds before shrugging. "I don't know. What title do you think fits me as someone in your life?"

Pursing her lips slightly, Evelyn allowed her eyes to slide close mind pondering on the question. The answer though came not from her brain, but from her heart and the words rose to her lips unbidden, unfiltered and with no hesitation.

"My best friend." Came her sleepy reply, which was followed by a sleepy kiss to his cheek on her part.

Spencer lay there stunned. He took in her half-asleep state. The gentle smile on her lips and her heavily lidded eyes, her breath beginning to even out as she fell asleep. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to stay awake. A warmth spread through him at her words. One that finally came to settle in his chest. Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead he whispered against her soft skin. "And you are mine." Humming sleepily Evelyn snuggled even closer to Spencer, greedily seeking his body heat as she slowly succumbed to sleep.

"And Evelyn?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't know how anyone wouldn't think you're pretty…"

"That's because I'm not…"

"You're beautiful."

"Thanks Spence. You're beautiful too."

"You're welcome Evie."

The words slurred as they both drifted off to sleep. Evelyn with her head resting near Spencer's chest, one hand resting against his chest, the other resting atop him, just under his shoulder. And Spencer, for his part, slept with one arm under her waist and the other lifted at a slightly odd angle so that his fingers could tangle in her red hair.

Neither stirred the entire night. Not by the cold breeze. Or nightmares.

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Tag List - molethemollie @cillsnostalgia @aceofspades190 @kathaaaaaaa @lovelyygirl8

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x oc #spencer x oc #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid x oc #dr spencer reid x y/n #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine

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twotimeracewinnerlandonorris · 2 years

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here are all twelve fics and one art that the wonderful participants of the winter break fic exchange in the carlando server made and posted.

i want to thank @boohowdy and @ruffboisebvettel for helping me with the planning and execution of this, for the cheerleading and for always being available for anyone who had any questions.

huge thanks to everyone who participated. thank you for putting your hearts and souls into your work; thank you for always being there for each other, and thank you for allowing us to share in your multitude of talents and creativity. you are all amazing people, and the carlando server is lucky to have you all.

watch this space, I'm open to falling from grace by tiredtiredsharl (@wolfiemcwolferson)

Summary: Lando is used to not seeing the people who live in the building. He comes and goes at odd hours and he uses the laundry room on his days off in the middle of the day and he checks his mail at 3:30 in the morning, so it’s more weird to him that he runs into Carlos twice in a five day period. He had started to think that he maybe made it up - got dosed at the bar or had a vivid dream about a man who was every single fantasy he’s ever had - tall and broad and hair and hands and lips.

Someone new moves into 4B and nothing is as it seems.

are you a future or a fairytale – am i naive or is this real by Missha (Mishtique) (@mish-tique)

Summary: It takes Lando a few semesters before he finally settles for studying photography at an international university. He hopes that this is the time when he finally settles and turns out to be happy studying – his parents just pray that he won’t change his mind again. They want him to settle down, find a nice person and become stable.

He just wants to be happy and live his own life without having people trying to micromanage it.

His sudden decision to also rent a room on campus comes with a surprise in the form of a Spanish, older, and-blessed-with-visuals-shaped-by-the-gods Alpha.

Carlos Sainz Jr is both the best and the worst thing that could happen to him during his first year in uni. Especially when the alpha keeps walking in on him wearing his, his – pretty clothes.

Or: 5 times Carlos catches Lando with something special + 1 time Lando wears something special for Carlos.

i love you forever, not maybe (you’re my one true love) by csjr (@boohowdy)

Summary: Lando is starting to suspect that off-camera, he’s quite the soft and gentle guy. What did he say once in an interview? He protects love? I’d love to be protected, Lando thinks.

or: the one where Lando is a student, Carlos is a F1 driver, and they go through a lot before they get their happy ending

Twin Flame by Phebes (@phebess)

Summary: 98% of people know exactly when they've met their soulmate. 2% do not.

or: the soulmate slow burn that nobody asked for

All The World Wondered 🔒 by biscuitydenim

Summary: Crimean War AU

Pull Everything to Pieces by kolyarostov (@landinrris)

Summary: Daniel’s here because he left classified documents on a train for someone to find (and find them they did). Max is here because he was in charge of tailing a suspect who was dealing illegal firearms and lost track of them (and thus the guns that were eventually found at the scenes of various crimes). Pierre’s here because he royally fucked up a diplomatic meeting with the French ambassador (Carlos thinks it was probably accidental nudes). Carlos is pretty sure Nico’s here because no one actually likes him. What he doesn’t truly know is why Lando’s here— but it can’t be good.

Or: Carlos gets sent to the bottom of the MI5 ladder after a training fiasco, and he'll do anything to make up for it.

That’s what happens in the movies, anyways 🔒 by Belzebubcat (@waddlingpenguin)

Summary: Lando isn’t sure what he expects. Maybe he thought Carlos would kiss him or- or say it back. That’s what happens in the movies, anyways. He leans in, eyes on Carlos and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Carlos doesn't respond.

There are no fireworks.

No string quartet playing in the background.

It’s nothing like what happens in the movies.

Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer (With You) 🔒 by Toasted_Teacake (@the-toasted-teacake)

Summary: Carlos invites Lando to spend a few days at the Sainz villa under the guise of golf. Lando thinks he might finally be ready to fall.

it's the heart that really matters in the end 🔒 by LucysFault (@ruffboisebvettel)

Summary: So here Lando is, completing one step of the journey alongside his son, and a family somewhere out there are on the same path but just starting out. It’s like Candyland in his mind. They’re moving over the finish line while the other family have just had their piece placed on the board.

Or, Lando and Carlos meet in a hospital cafe, Daniel and Charles are their kids, and some springs are worth waiting for.

Impractical Magic by goldenboygate (@goldenboygate)

Summary: Charles and Lando were born into a family where falling in love means you end up dead. They take different paths in life, Charles wanting nothing more in life than to feel the exhilaration love brings, and Lando too afraid to ever put himself out there.

When Charles gets into trouble with one of his boyfriends, Lando must figure out how to help him while trying his best not to fall in love with the one man who can take his life apart, Detective Carlos Sainz.

Take My Breath Away by kabutocat (@foo1ishheart554)

Summary: Art. Lando and Carlos as Maverick and Iceman from the original Top Gun.

take my sweater with the loose threads by sadcornyfuck (@enjoythebutterflies)

Summary: Carlos is a patient man, waiting his entire life for a moment like this.

Te amo - I love you 🔒 by NamarieCarlando (@jolandax13)

Summary: Carlos and Lando are roommates. And in love. They just don’t know the other feels the same. But when Landos suppressants run out and he goes into heat, their feelings are finally revealed.

#carlando #carlando fanfiction #carlando server exchange #lando norris #carlos sainz jr

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sparrow-mask22 · 3 months

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The Umbrella Academy Story of The Mothers (5/8) umbrella edition: Efa

TW: childbirth, brief Delores slander, implied mental health issues, mentions of blood

October 1, 1989. Dublin, Ireland. 38 seconds before noon.

Efa Cloherty was a 27 year old woman who had been living in Dublin for as long as she could remember. She was standing in the crowd, watching the clock tower of O'Connell Street Methodist Church strike the hour of noon. As the bells chimed, she felt a sense of both relief and dread wash over her. It was the day she had been dreading for months, but also the day she knew would change her life forever.

Efa worked as a butcher at the Bijou Deli in Temple Bar, a job she had held for the past five years. She was known for her skill with a knife and her unflinching demeanor when it came to the daily slaughtering of livestock. As she made her way to the back of the shop, she couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping up on her. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why; it was just one of those days when everything felt a bit off.

"Hey Efa," called her coworker, Gerry, as she sharpened her knives. "You alright, girl? You look a bit off."

Efa paused, wiping her brow. "I'm fine, Gerry," she lied. "Just a bit tired, is all."

She knew that Gerry could see right through her, but he simply nodded and walked away. He'd known Efa long enough to know that sometimes she just needed a little time to herself. As the morning went on, she tried to focus on her work, but her mind kept wandering back to the reason why today felt so different.

Delores, the owner of the Bijou Deli, glanced at Efa as she went about her tasks. She'd noticed the young woman's distraction, but decided not to say anything. Delores knew Efa well enough to understand that sometimes she just needed time to sort things out in her own head. The deli was bustling with customers, the familiar smell of cured meats and coffee filling the air. The morning rush was almost over, and Efa was eager to clock out and put an end to this day.

(Hahaha Efa your boss has the same name as your son's sex doll. That's funny!)

"So your dad has been after you to bring some of the sausages over to the family farm, huh?" asked Gerry, trying to make conversation as they worked together. Efa nodded absently, still lost in her thoughts. "Well, you know where they live. If he asks for them, you can just tell him you forgot or something."

Efa smiled weakly. "Thanks, Gerry. I appreciate it." She didn't want to lie to her coworker, but she didn't want to tell him the truth either. She didn't know how he'd react. Delores, watching them from the other side of the counter, wondered if there was something more going on than Efa was letting on. She decided to give her a break and offered to close the shop early for her.

But then twelve pm came and went, and Efa’s knees began buckling. She felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen, and she freaked out. She had completely forgotten about her baby. How could this be possible? She took a pregnancy test that very morning and it was negative. She had just assumed she was imagining things, or that the stress of her job was getting to her. But here she was, in the middle of her work, starting to give birth.

"Efa! Efa, are you alright?" Delores called out, rushing over to her. "You're white as a ghost!" She quickly assessed the situation and realized what was happening. "We need to get you to the hospital right now!"

Gerry and two other employees, Aisling and Cillian, immediately assessed the scene. "We don’t have time for an ambulance," Aisling said decisively. "This baby is coming here and now." She quickly moved to clear a space behind the counter, pushing aside displays of bread and cheese. "Gerry, help me move this," she ordered, gesturing to a large wheeled tray of cold cuts. "Cillian, get some towels from the back and boiling water from the kitchen."

As the three employees worked together to create a makeshift birthing area, Efa began to pant heavily. Delores knelt beside her, holding her hand and murmuring encouragement. "You're doing great, sweetie. Just focus on your breathing." She glanced over at Aisling, who was already setting up a makeshift birthing pool using a large plastic tub and a clean apron. "Aisling, any idea how much time we have?"

Aisling shook her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Not really. It's hard to say. This is our first time doing this. But you're doing great, Efa. Just breathe deep and let nature take its course." She glanced over at Delores, who was supporting Efa, her face etched with worry. "Delores, could you hand me that packet of sterile gloves from the back?"

Gerry and Cillian moved the last of the towels and boiling water to the makeshift birthing area, and then stepped back to give Aisling room to work. Aisling placed the towels on the floor, creating a soft, warm surface for Efa to lie on. She carefully spread out the sterile gloves, making sure they were easily accessible.

"Okay, Efa," Aisling said gently. "I'm going to check how far along you are. Just relax and let me know if it hurts." She placed her hands on Efa's abdomen, feeling for the baby's head. After a moment, she looked up at Delores. "The head's already out," she announced. "Just a few more pushes and you should be able to deliver the rest of the baby."

Delores nodded, her eyes filled with tears. "You're doing amazing, Efa. You're so strong." She held Efa's hand tightly, willing her friend to find the strength within herself. "And Aisling, you're amazing too. You're really making this happen."

Efa let out a sharp cry as another contraction gripped her. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, focusing on the sensations in her body. "I-I can't...," she stammered, her voice barely audible. "It hurts..."

Aisling placed a reassuring hand on Efa's shoulder. "You're doing great, sweetie. Just a few more pushes and we'll have the baby here. Cillian, do you think you could help hold Efa up a bit? It might make it easier for her." Cillian nodded and moved behind Efa, wrapping his arms around her waist, supporting her as she continued to push.

Delores's eyes were fixed on the baby's head, which was now emerging from Efa's body. She could see the baby's tiny hands, covered in a sheen of vernix caseosa, and a thick mass of black hair. As the baby continued to push through the birth canal, Aisling gently guided the head, helping it make its way out.

Finally, with one last mighty push, Efa delivered her baby boy. He let out a healthy wail as he emerged, his tiny body covered in a layer of blood and amniotic fluid. Aisling quickly cleaned the baby off, revealing a handsome child with a mop of black hair. "Oh, he's perfect!" Delores exclaimed, tears welling up in her eyes. "Just look at that beautiful head of hair."

As the baby continued to cry, Cillian carefully placed him on Efa's chest. Efa looked down at her newborn son, tears streaming down her face. "He's perfect," she whispered. "Thank you, Delores. Thank you all." She pulled the blanket up around them, cradling her baby close.

Aisling smiled, her heart swelling with pride. "Well, we did it," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "We all did it together. And we'll be here to help you take care of him, Efa. You're going to be the best mom ever." Gerry nodded in agreement, wiping a tear from his eye. "Indeed you will," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And we're so grateful to Delores for being here with you. You've been such a tremendous help."

Delores smiled at Efa, her eyes shining with tears. "It's been my pleasure. I wouldn't have wanted to miss this for the world. He's such a beautiful baby." As they all admired the newborn, an old man quietly entered the room. He was dressed in a rumpled suit and carried a worn leather briefcase. His face was lined with age and wisdom, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he surveyed the scene before him.

"Sir, we are closed now," Delores said, noticing the old man as he entered the room. The man, Reginald, didn’t bat an eye at Delores's statement. He slowly made his way over to Efa and Cillian, studying the new family with a curious gaze. "This child is one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever seen," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I think I'd like to give him a home."

Efa was baffled by the old man's sudden appearance, but she couldn't deny the sincerity in his voice. "I... I don't know what to say," she stammered. "The baby's not even a day old yet, and we haven't even had a chance to figure out what we want to name him."

Reginald smiled gently, his eyes twinkling with wisdom. "Ah, names can be given. But to find someone who is willing to give a child a loving home, that is truly a gift. You have done well by this child, Efa. You've given him life, and now you're giving him the chance to grow up in a family that loves him."

Delores and Gerry exchanged surprised glances, but they didn't interrupt. This was a moment between Reginald and Efa, and they wanted the young mother to have the chance to speak her mind. Efa looked at the old man, her heart swelling with gratitude. "Thank you," she managed to say. "It means so much to us that you would even consider taking him. We've been through so much, and it's been hard, but we knew we could give him a good life."

Reginald nodded, his gaze never leaving Efa's face. "I understand that, my dear. And I believe you when you say that you can give him a good life. But I need you to understand something as well." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "If you ever try to find him, to track him down and bring him back into your life... well, let's just say that it wouldn't end well for you." His voice was calm, almost soothing, but there was an unmistakable threat underlying his words.

Efa's heart skipped a beat, and she felt a chill run down her spine. She glanced at Delores and Gerry, who were both looking at Reginald with wide eyes, clearly surprised by his words. But before she could say anything, Reginald reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather book. He opened it to reveal a series of intricate symbols etched into its pages. "This is a ward," he explained, his voice solemn. "It will protect him from harm, and it will make sure that he can never be found. It is my gift to you, Efa, along with this child."

He held the baby out to her, his wrinkled hand steady and gentle. Efa hesitantly reached out and took the child, cradling him in her arms. Tears streamed down her face as she looked into the old man's eyes. "I... I don't understand," she managed to say. "Why would you do this?"

Reginald smiled, his weathered face creasing into a thousand lines. "Because, my dear," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "your son is not meant for this world. He is meant for something more. And I, Reginald, am meant to protect him. I have seen things, experienced things that you could not even begin to fathom. I know the darkness that lurks in the hearts of men. I know the terrors that stalk the night. And I know that your son must be kept safe from them, at all costs."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Efa felt as if she were being pulled into a world she had never known existed, a world where darkness and danger lurked just beyond the veil of everyday life. "You must trust me, Efa," Reginald continued. "You must believe that I am doing what is best for your child. For all our sakes."

Although reluctant at first, Efa felt a surge of relief wash over her as she realized that Reginald truly intended to keep her son safe. She looked at the old man, his ancient, weathered face creased with lines of wisdom and determination, and she knew that she could trust him. Delores and Gerry, who had been watching the exchange in silence, exchanged glances once more, this time filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

As Reginald took his leave, promising to return in a few days to check on them all, Efa couldn't help but feel a strange sense of loss. A part of her was torn away from her son, but she also knew that this was for the best. She clutched the worn leather book that contained the ward protecting her child, feeling its power emanating from within her grasp. She would never again see her son's face or hold him in her arms, but she took solace in knowing that he was safe, and that he was loved

#canon divergence #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy story of the mothers #tua #canon divergent au #tua fanfic #five hargreeves #efa (five's birth mother)

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meadow-roses · 7 months

Text

Meet the Family - part 1

Grace invites Felix out on a date to hopefully pop the question- "would you like to join my team of secret agents?" but she's still not certain he actually has what it takes. Felix, secretly a retired secret agent, is extremely confused when Grace (accidentally) starts speaking in code. Neither of them have any idea what "frogs" stand for in this conversation.

This scene is around three years old, and was written as a character study for Grace back when I first realized she was involved in backstory plot! It's crazy to remember a time when the story didn't include Grace and her pals haha

This is not a scene in the actual story and a lot of the "plot" is not canon, but I thought it would be fun to share with you guys! Enjoy!

Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3 * Part 4

***

Grace considered herself good at reading people. It was a skill that had come in handy more than once in the past, and now she found it more necessary than ever.

In most cases, getting to know someone is something that happens gradually over time. You learn their name and their favorite color, you know them for a month and find out they don't like spicy food. A year and you'll learn their routine for getting going in the morning, that they had an obsession with model trains when they were twelve-years old, or the story behind the odd knick knack in their bedroom. In a general sense Grace was fully content to get to know Felix in this natural way, but the more she learned the more she got the sickening feeling things weren't adding up quite right.

The traffic on the street outside cut patterns of blue and red in the sunlight thrown over the faded linoleum of the diner floor. They had chosen a table tucked into the corner, away from the service desk and where groups of people stood around the doors laughing and hugging goodbye. Grace had observed Felix often seemed anxious close to a lot of activity, and while she didn't understand it, she liked it when he was comfortable enough to converse without distraction.

She fiddled with the straw in her water glass as she watched him carefully study the menu.

A rise in volume of laughter from several tables over broke his concentration and he looked up, catching Grace's stare.

"Do you know what you're going to get?" He asked, a finger left to hold his place on the menu.

Grace realized she had forgotten to even look.

She shrugged. "Mmm I don't know, the second one."

Felix raised one eyebrow and looked back at the menu.

"The second one? I thought you didn't like peanuts."

Grace laughed. Of course her random selection would end up something like that.

"I haven't read the menu, I just picked something," She said between giggles.

"Oh, okay," Felix replied with a chuckle.

Grace sat up in her seat and leaned across the table, resting her chin in one hand.

"What do you think I should have?"

Felix's eye dropped back to the menu again as he traced his finger over the options.

"This one is cheddar and steak," he said after a moment.

"Sounds perfect! What are you getting?"

She slid back into her seat, the red leather squealing in protest. They must have reupholstered the seats recently.

"I hadn't decided yet," he replied, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"No rush, take your time."

Grace watched as he stuck his thumbnail between his front teeth, a strange habit she'd noticed he did when thinking under pressure. This was a perfect way to buy her more time to figure out what to say, even though she had been thinking about this moment for the last few weeks.

She picked up her own menu from the tabletop, gave the dessert menu a quick glance, then began balancing it to stand between the salt and pepper shakers.

How do you ask someone if they have a secret identity?

Asking him to meet her for lunch was one thing, asking him to join her on a secret mission? That sort of thing took trust, and she was still unsure she knew enough of his story to trust him.

Although, she doubted anyone with a truly reprehensible past would be able to put on an act as consistently bizarre and endearing as the man sitting across from her seemed to be. Most people hiding a secret identity would go for a more… normal persona.

But trust was a funny thing. Once you've given it there's no way to take it back, not ever fully. She had an oath to uphold, and she couldn't let her feelings for him endanger that.

"I think I'll just get the same as you," Felix said, breaking her out of her thoughts.

Grace hummed in approval as he picked up his own menu and stood it up to match Grace's among the condiments.

"So uh," Felix said, turning the pepper shaker so it fit better into the fold of the menu. "Is everything okay? You seem really quiet today."

"Oh, yeah?" Grace laughed, trying to not sound nervous.

Felix's eyebrows knit in concern. "Yeah." He paused a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Actually yeah, I just, didn't know how to start." Grace put her fingertip onto her straw and wiggled it back and forth in the glass.

Felix reached out a hand and placed it gently on her arm. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah! It's nothing bad, don't worry," she hurried to assure him.

The concern on his face relaxed and he nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

"I'm leaving on a- research trip, in a couple weeks," she said carefully, avoiding looking him in the face. She found it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie to him when he looked at her with such earnest care, so she settled for a half-truth instead. "I just wanted to let you know."

Felix nodded slowly. "How long will you be gone?" He asked.

"I really don't know," Grace fiddled with her fingers. "It could be weeks, or even a year."

Felix nodded again. He did that when he was trying to think of what words would say what he was thinking. Grace had been taught long ago that a lot of what a person says is not said in only words, that every person has their own unique way of speaking without speaking. Felix, she had found, spoke without words almost more than with. She was still trying to figure out exactly what he meant when his mouth tensed up at the edges when he smiled. Normally she would assume it was just a forced smile, but there was some layer of nuance she knew she was missing.

"That's great!" He said with that tense kind of smile. "What kind of research are you doing?"

"Um," Grace said. Her mind drew up a blank instead of the pre-planned cover story. She blinked rapidly and said the first answer that came to mind other than the truth. "Frogs! The life cycle of frogs. We're researching frogs."

She smiled and nodded her head several times, trying her best to pass it off as normal. She reached for her water glass and sucked up a gulp through the straw.

Felix squinted and drew his head into his neck slightly, an action he did when something didn't make sense to him.

Grace cringed inwardly. That was a, really, dumb cover story. I might have just botched everything.

"Frogs? That's… really cool," Felix said. He was still squinting, but the smile had returned.

"Ye-yeah," Grace said, a little too quickly after swallowing her mouthful of water.

Felix watched the resulting coughing fit, alarmed, as Grace tried to get herself under control again.

"You okay?" He said.

"Sorry," Grace nodded, clearing her throat. "I didn't quite swallow that right."

Felix awkwardly scratched an itch on the side of his face. "Well, I, hope you have a good time," He said with a hint of confusion to the tone.

"Thanks!" Grace said, still coughing a little.

Before she could continue, the waitress interrupted to take their order. After the polite exchange of information she walked back to the service desk, leaving the table quiet.

Felix seemed entirely engrossed in his own thoughts as he squinted intently down at the tabletop.

This was the part where she was supposed to invite him to join her, but who in their right mind would agree to a year long research trip about frogs? She couldn’t tell him the truth, not until she knew he could be trusted with it, but with that kind of a cover story, she was going to have to find another way for the prep team to vet him.

After a moment Felix spoke, breaking the silence. He sounded like he was choosing his words very carefully, but the words themselves didn’t seem to match the level of care he was using.

“I didn’t realize you liked frogs that much. What about them do you find so interesting?”

“Frogs?” Grace said, suddenly feeling like she was missing something very important. “I, uh, you know they are really, uh, important to the ecosystem, and an endangered species and all.”

Felix nodded slowly like he understood something deep. “Endangered, huh.”

“Do you like frogs?” Grace asked, wondering if she’d stumbled on another random interest of his.

“I do.” He replied through his hand placed thoughtfully under his chin. He looked far too serious to be making a joke.

Maybe she hadn’t blown it after all.

“I don’t know if you would, like to join me on the research trip then?”

Felix raised both his eyebrows and regarded her silently for a moment. Very slowly, his eye squinted, and he nodded.

“Yes. I-” His gaze dropped to the tabletop. “I’d like to do that.”

Grace had an increasing feeling that Felix was having a completely different conversation than the one she thought it was.

“Wait, you… actually want to go on a year long research trip about frogs?” She said, relieving the tension in her pose by leaning forward onto her elbows. “Who would want to study frogs for a year?”

“Don’t you?” Felix raised one eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, of course,” Grace hurried to cover her mistake. “I was just surprised someone else would.” She laughed nervously and began stirring her water around with the straw.

The table grew quiet again as the two watched how the ice flashed in many colors as it swirled around the glass. The waitress brought them their food and left the bill, Felix thanking her as she left them alone again.

“So,” He asked, sliding her plate towards her. “When do we leave?”

#I can't believe how long it's been since I wrote this asgjvg #Grace has come so far ;0;#thanks for reading and for all your support!!#also hilarious in retrospect. this was written before I'd really learned about neurodivergency #and apparently what I was trying to communicate is 'Grace is not autistic' lol #text #oc #keepers #keepers written #meadowrosewrites #felix #grace #deleted scene #writblr #salt and light #dauntless wip

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ryehouses · 2 years

Note

ive said this before and I’ll say it again: Boba POV for his and Din’s first scene in the kitchens

this was by FAR one of the most requested boba povs -- seriously, i have like twelve of these in my inbox -- so i figured that it would be as good a POV to start on as any!

set during chapter 3, "sha'kajir." the content warnings relevant to that chapter, including some extremely preliminary kink negotiation, some mild non-sexual choking and some painplay, apply.

if you're like "wait, all of the dialogue is the same!" it is, but the ~inflection is different from a different pov.

enjoy!

in which boba fett makes an educated guess.

If Din Djarin wound himself up any tighter, he was going to snap in half and scatter beskar all over the floor of Ushib’s tidy kitchen, and somehow, Boba didn’t think that Fennec would be very happy with him if he let that happen.

He wouldn’t be very happy with himself either, honestly. Boba liked Djarin. His side still hurt where Djarin’d gone for a gap in Boba’s cuirass – twice – and he was trying his hardest not to limp where Djarin could see. The mean little lyleck had kicked Boba so hard that Boba was going to need to hobble around with a brace in the morning, though he’d be karked if he let Djarin notice.

The whole point of getting him in the sparring ring was to get him to relax, Boba thought, watching Djarin across the quiet, dim kitchen. He’d found Djarin in one of the old pit fighting rooms, where Jabba and his court had bet on gladiators, and had brought Djarin here after their spar to put Djarin more at ease. To get him more comfortable.

Djarin was not comfortable.

He’d been willing enough to spar, when Boba had finally managed to track him down. For a man in bright silver armor – not even a sensible green, a red that would disappear in low light, a blue that would blend into the sky – Djarin’d been karking hard to find. But once Boba’d managed to dig him up, Djarin had agreed to spar, and during the spar he had relaxed. Boba had been able to see Djarin. To learn about who he was underneath the armor.

Any ease that Djarin’d found in the sparring ring was long gone now. He was staring at Boba, one hand curled around a cup of tihaar that he hadn’t yet touched, like he thought that Boba was going to rush him and stick a knife in his belly. His shoulders were pulled tight. His free hand was twitching for a weapon.

I don’t particularly want to get stuck with the darksaber, either, Boba thought. I’ve already been whacked with that spear. Djarin had only used the blunt end to jab Boba – he was polite enough, for a Mandalorian – but still. Sparring was one thing. Sparring was fun. A good way to blow off some steam. Boba’d hoped that the spar had convinced Djarin that while Boba might whack him around a little in the sparring ring, Djarin wasn’t in any danger here at the palace. Boba wasn’t Bo-Katan Kryze. He had no interest in stabbing any of his allies in the back, no matter what they’d accidentally walked in on.

I don’t have enough allies to go around betraying them, or to go around shooting them because I forgot to look my own karking door.

Boba eyed Djarin for another minute, feeling an echo of Djarin’s stress in his own shoulders, behind his teeth, and then turned away, swallowing the tihaar in his own cup. The familiar smell, sharp alcohol and sweet fruit, warmed his mouth. He watched Djarin out of the corner of his eye. Djarin didn’t move, stiff and wary. It was like Boba’d invited a half-starved anooba into his home instead of one of the best fighters Boba’d ever seen.

Boba sighed. “I thought maybe food and drink would put you at ease,” he admitted, apologetic. Boba had vague, old memories of his father passing around a bottle of tihaar with the Cuy’Val Dar, old grudges set aside while the bottle changed hands. He’d thought that sharing food and drink was a way to set a Mandalorian at ease, but the days of the Cuy’Val Dar were long over, and Boba’d never been very good about remembering what few Mandalorian custos he’d learned at his father’s knee anyway. “But we can do this up in my rooms, if that’ll help.”

Boba hadn’t wanted to corner Djarin. He knew well enough how a cornered fighter would react, and Djarin hit pretty hard. But maybe Boba’s room, with its open walls and its starlight, would be better. Boba liked the kitchens, personally. Liked the smell of fresh japoor bread and chuba stew. It reminded him of the simpler days out in the desert, sharing a tent with Ushib.

Boba hadn’t had much to worry about, then. Not getting killed by the Spotted Anooba’s chief, who’d hated outsiders. Not dying of the wounds inflicted by the sarlacc. Life had been easy. Simple.

Then I had to go off and start a syndicate, Boba thought dryly. Though none of this was in the job description.

Boba wasn’t sure what had set Djarin off. What made him so tense and wary here. He had walked in on Boba and Theran, but –

The suggestion – the idea of going up to Boba’s rooms – made Djarin tenser. “Do what,” he said, tone flat.

Kark. Boba poured himself another small measure of tihaar. Looking at Djarin head-on only seemed to put him more on guard. “Talk about what you walked in on,” Boba said. He’d been willing enough to dance around the issue, to use vague terms or euphemisms; most beings preferred it. Boba’d prefer to keep Theran’s privacy, if he could, but he also needed Djarin to be sharp, if he was going to stick around with the outfit, and Djarin couldn’t be sharp if he was fretting over what he’d seen.

Djarin was fretting over it. He was so stiff that Boba was half-worried that Djarin would fall over.

Is it me he’s afraid of? Boba wondered, and the thought tasted sour in his mouth. Respect was one thing. Boba didn’t particularly mind being feared by his enemies either.

But Djarin – Djarin wasn’t an enemy. Not now, at least. Once he got tired of hanging around on Tatooine and karked off back to the other Mandalorians, he might end up on the other side of a battlefield some day, but here and now, he wasn’t Boba’s enemy.

“I’m not Jabba, you know,” said Boba, aiming for a light, unbothered tone. Djarin had said that he’d done a few jobs for Jabba. He probably knew how Jabba’d handled things in his court.

This isn’t Jabba’s court. It’s not going to be Jabba’s court again.

Boba had promised the universe quite a few things, when he’d been sitting in the sarlacc’s belly. He had decided, if he lived, that he was going to be better than Jabba. Better than Boba himself had been.

“I’m not gonna have you dropped down into the rancor pit just because you walked in on me enjoying some of my – ” Boba hesitated for a split second, unsure how to describe what he’d been doing with Theran to someone like Djarin.

For a Mandalorian, Djarin was – different. Boba hadn’t figured out just what it was about him that was different, but Djarin was nothing like the few Mandalorians Boba’d run into over the years. Boba didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t know if Djarin understood what he’d seen, between Boba and Theran.

“ – odder pastimes,” Boba finished, wincing internally as he did it. He wasn’t very good at coming up with words on the spot. Odder pastimes wasn’t the best description of what Boba and Theran did together, but –

“Is that what it was?” Djarin asked, sounding tentative. “I didn’t – ” he paused too, and Boba wondered if he was blushing under his helmet.

Boba paused. Pinned that thought down.

Now where, he thought, did that come from?

“How you punish your people isn’t any of my business,” Djarin continued hastily, pulling Boba back to the matter at hand. “I just heard – through the door, I heard what sounded like someone in pain.”

Boba had to blink for a moment, surprised.

Well, that’ll teach us to play on the main floor, he thought. Theran hated Boba’s rooms. He was as brave as a bladeback, Theran, and had been for as long as Boba’d known him, but Theran was terrified of heights and their old arrangement – renting a room in a cantina somewhere in Mos Eisley – was more dangerous now that Boba was trying to set up an outfit of his own.

And I wasn’t punishing Theran, either. Theran didn’t go for punishment. He preferred regular, quick sessions, a few licks of the flogger to take him out of his own head for a little while. That was all. For anything heavier Boba would have insisted on his own rooms, or on a different suite. The room Theran’d chosen hadn’t had anywhere for Boba to stash any of his medical supplies, any snacks, anything that Theran might need as he came back up once he’d finished letting Boba bring him down.

“Theran and I have an arrangement,” Boba said, watching Djarin to see if Djarin would understand the difference between the two. Punishment and arrangement.

It was harder to guess what Djarin was thinking with all of his beskar on. That helmet was blank. Unchanging. The set of Djarin’s shoulders told Boba that he was uncomfortable, but little else.

“He knew me before, when all of this – ” Boba gestured at the kitchens, which weren’t really much to look at, but meant the palace above them too – “was Jabba’s. We.. have compatible interests.”

Djarin’s confusion was almost palpable. “Compatible… interests?” he asked, still tentative.

Boba tried not to wince. C’mon, Mando, you know what I’m talking about.

Boba’s preferences weren’t necessarily common, but he was hardly the only man in the galaxy who enjoyed wielding a whip. Theran was hardly the only man who liked to be whipped.

“Ni gaa’tayl,” he muttered to himself, hoping it was quiet enough to escape Djarin’s notice. Boba didn’t know enough mando’a to hold a full, complete conversation with a real Mandalorian and didn’t feel much like dealing with Mandalorian ossik tonight anyway, but sometimes the handful of phrases Boba still remembered from his days on Kamino were the only phrases that felt like they fit how he was feeling.

Right now, I need all the help I can get, Boba thought. He studied Djarin, trying to figure out what to do.

Best to just – go for it, Boba thought. Boba had never been very good at being subtle. “Yeah, compatible interests. He likes – to give someone else control over his body,” Boba said, trying to explain his and Theran’s arrangement in vague enough terms that Boba wouldn’t completely run over Theran’s privacy, though Theran himself didn’t much care.

He could tell that Djarin still didn’t understand, though. The Mandalorian had cocked his head a little, listening, like a curious anooba cub. Boba squashed the flicker of amusement and kept going.

“He likes pain,” Boba said. “He likes… someone to look after him, to decide what he feels and when he feels it.”

There, thought Boba. That’s about the gist of it, without digging into the specifics. Djarin should understand. Boba’d seen Djarin fight. Had watched him come up with plans, with strategies. Djarin wasn’t stupid. He could figure it out.

Djarin, if anything, pulled his shoulders up even higher. “And you…” he said, trailing off before he managed to voice an actual question.

Something about the way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba, the way that Boba knew that Djarin wasn’t looking him in the eye, even though Djarin was wearing a helmet – scratched lightly at the edge of Boba’s awareness. Felt almost – familiar.

Boba cocked his head and looked harder at Djarin, trying to see the man underneath the armor. “Like to take control, yeah,” Boba said. In for a peggat, he thought. There was no harm in describing his own preferences. Anybody who’d spent more than five minutes in a room with Boba knew that he liked to be in control. Boba’d accepted that part of himself a long time ago.

“Like to cause pain, too.”

Boba saw the moment that Djarin understood. His shoulders twitched, just a little, like Djarin had brushed a live wire.

Interesting. The feeling of familiarity scratching at the back of Boba’s head itched harder.

“...Oh,” said Djarin. He set his cup of tihaar, still untouched, down on the counter beside him. He didn’t immediately sneer anything derogatory and he didn’t try to bolt, either. Boba watched him carefully for a second, then relaxed.

Djarin understood.

He was still tense, though.

He said that he thought that he heard someone in pain, Boba thought. He came to help.

Before Boba and Fennec had set off after Djarin – after Djarin had left Tatooine with Boba’s armor, not knowing what it was that he was taking away – Boba’d done a bit of research. He hadn’t been able to find the man’s name, not until Djarin’d shared it, but rumors of a Mandalorian in silver armor fighting the Empire, driving off pirates and rescuing towns from Greater karking Krayt Dragons echoed all over the galaxy. Djarin had helped a lot of people. Had killed a lot of people, honestly, but Boba’d done his own share of killing and wasn’t bothered by it, and all of Djarin’s killing had been pretty straightforward and clean, too. He wasn’t a torturer. He wasn’t cruel.

He heard Theran cry out, and he came to help.

“‘S not as bad as you’re worried about, Djarin,” Boba said gently, trying to set the other man more at ease. Theran didn’t notice, and he doesn’t mind an audience anyway. It’s just – it’s a matter of discretion, yeah?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Din said hastily, and Boba could hear him blushing. “I’m not – I don’t share other people’s secrets.”

Boba almost smiled. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, trying not to laugh at Djarin. Boba’d already known that Djarin could be trusted, at least a little. Djarin was the Resol’nare walking. “You’ve got your honor.”

Djarin relaxed a little.

Something in Boba’s gut twinged. Settled. Like Boba had just rounded a corner in Mos Eisley and come face to face with someone in the crowd, like he’ reached for his blaster, but instead of finding an enemy, had found someone that he could trust.

Recognition.

The way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba – Boba recognized it. Had seen it before.

“But that’s not all I wanted to talk to you about,” Boba added on instinct, though he felt a little bad when Djarin immediately froze. Boba paused for a fraction of a second, debating whether he should follow what his instincts were telling him or just let Djarin go, send him off to work through what he’d just learned on his own, but –

But something about the way that Djarin was looking at Boba – something about the way that Djarin had fought in the sparring ring, about the way he carried himself – made Boba say, “Sometimes, pain is good.”

Later, Boba wouldn’t be able to say what it was about Djarin that told him that Djarin was like Theran. Sometimes there were clues. A certain pattern of speech, a certain look, an intake of breath when Boba stood close. Sometimes beings who wanted what Theran wanted just came up to Boba and karking asked. Sometimes it was just a feeling.

With Djarin, it was just a feeling.

“For some it’s a focus,” Boba continued. “Or a reminder, or a reason.”

“Is that why you were.. Was it to help Theran?” Djarin asked. He was still holding himself very still. Boba wondered what Djarin would be doing if he’d let himself move. If he’d pick up his cup of tihaar again, or if he’d try to leave. If he’d put a hand over his thigh, over the plate of armor Boba’d hit with his gaderffii, and try to feel the bruise that Boba was sure was growing there.

A spark of interest licked the back of Boba’s ribs. Trying not to show it – it’d never paid for Boba to play his hand too early, even if he’d had a perfect sabacc – Boba just said, “That’s between me and Theran.”

What Theran got out of a flogging session was Theran’s concern. Boba’s too, of course – Boba tried to make sure that everyone he played with got what they needed – but it was private, even if Djarin would get something similar out of a flogging session himself.

Would he? Boba wondered. He is Mandalorian. He ought to be used to using pain, or at least to fighting through it.

Djarin was a frighteningly competent fighter. Boba knew that the Empire – even the Remnants – had tended to value their own pride over any kind of self-awareness, but if Boba’d been Gideon, he would’ve thought twice before trying to interfere with Djarin’s clan. Djarin had a shriek-hawk’s temper.

Most of the best fighters had a more intimate relationship with pain than the average being. It came with being hit in the head – and the chest, the gut, kicked in the knee, grappled – so karking often. Djarin was one of the better fighters Boba’d seen.

Djarin, fidgeting more obviously now, picked his cup of tihaar again and brought it up almost protectively, though he still didn’t make any move to take his helmet off.

The flicker of amusement in Boba’s chest was brighter now, and it wasn’t as easy to quash.

He tilted his head, considering.

I can just let it go here, he thought. He’d explained himself to Djarin. Djarin’d promised that he wouldn’t go spilling the details of Boba’s arrangement with Theran all over the palace. Their business with each other, at least for the night, was done.

But that instinct – that recognition, searing and bone-deep – wouldn’t let go of Boba, so he said, “Your buy’ce.” He drummed his fingers over his own helmet almost absently. “Can you take it off?”

He wanted to see Djarin’s face. His eyes.

Boba knew that there were some groups of Mandalorians who preferred to show their faces only to their families or their close allies. Djarin and Boba weren’t close. They’d known each other for just a little more than a week, and for part of that week Djarin had been unconscious in a bacta tank after defeating a Remnant Moff and upsetting Bo-Katan Kryze’s plan in one swoop.

But Boba still wanted to see his eyes.

Djarin clearly hadn’t been expecting the question. He startled, which caught Boba by surprise – he hadn’t seen Djarin startle before. Then Djarin sat up straight, chin up, that fierce lylek look plain even through his armor, and put his tihaar cup back down.

Boba watched Djarin flex his fingers a few times.

Interesting, he thought. He wasn’t surprised, though. Just about any being or beast had two reflexes, when surprised; fight or flight. With Mandalorians – with Boba too, either through persistent genetics, training or plain experience – the response was almost always fight.

Djarin managed to master his urge to punch Boba, though. Boba saw him take a deep breath. Djarin sat up straighter. Boba watched him, intrigued.

“Why?” Djarin asked.

That was an easy enough question to answer.

“Because I want to ask you something,” Boba said. “And I’d prefer to see your face while I do it. If that’s alright?”

Djarin started at Boba for a handful of seconds. He’d gone stiff again, wound tight with tension, and all that energy would eventually have to go somewhere – Djarin titled his helmet a little and Boba could tell that Djarin was looking for a way out.

Boba realized that he was between Djarin and the door and tried not to wince.

Don’t corner him, he reminded himself. That’s going just gonna get you punched again, Fett, or worse. Djarin had already kicked Boba in his bad knee once tonight.

But Boba knew how to manage this sort of reaction too. Moving very carefully, slow and deliberate, Boba shifted over to the side, leaving a clear path between Djarin and the door out into the hall, ready to let Djarin go if Djarin wanted to.

Djarin didn’t move.

Boba let him think about it. He could be patient. He hadn’t become the best bounty hunter in Jabba’s outfit by rushing headlong into things. Boba knew how to wait his prey out.

Thinking of Djarin as prey, something to be caught – tamed – made Boba’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. Djarin’d put up a fight. He would. Boba knew that he would. It’d be fun. He squashed that feeling too.

This was about Djarin.

Finally, after several tense, frozen seconds, Djarin obeyed and reached up, curling his fingers around the edges of helmet. Most buc’ye – buckets – were the same, even if the shape and the features were different. Djarin released the seals with a hiss of compressed air and tugged his helmet off in one sharp move, like Djarin thought he’d stop halfway if he tried to pull it off slowly.

Djarin blinked in the light, and Boba hid the frown that wanted to pull at his mouth.

The last time Boba’d seen Din Djarin’s face, the man had been fresh out of a bacta tank. He’d looked terrible. The bacta had kept Djarin’s brain from leaking out of his ears – Boba’d seen the hole in the wall where some kind of new superdroid had done its best to kill Djarin – but even bacta could only do so much, and the last time Boba’d seen his face, Djarin had looked half-dead. Pale, bruised and exhausted, the old, half-visible scars on his face stark in the artificial light of the med bay.

Despite the fact that it had been a few weeks since then, Djarin still looked awful. The bruises had all faded, but he had shadows under his eyes. His hair, a curly, soft-looking brown, stuck up untidily. His face was thinner, more worn, and the scar between his eyes still stood out, even in the low light.

What happened? Boba wondered, alarmed. Djarin’d only been on Tatooine for a few days – he couldn’t have been that badly-injured out on his hunt. Boba knew that Fennec had made sure that Djarin had eaten, the night he’d landed on Tatooine. Djarin hadn’t been with them long enough to get this tired. This worn.

Kryze, Boba thought, darkly. He should’ve known that she’d be too busy with her own karking plans to make sure that her guests – her allies – were well taken care of.

Djarin held Boba’s eyes for a second. His eyes were dark too, like Boba’s. Kryze and her people all had blue or green eyes. Kalevalan Mandalorians were fair-skinned and fair-haired. Boba’d gone to Keldabe once, when he’d been younger and stupider, convinced that he could scratch out a living for himself among his father’s father’s people, and had been shocked to see how few Mandalorians actually looked like Jango Fett.

Then Djarin’s eyes darted away again, anxiety plain in Djarin’s face.

Boba softened. Djarin’d had a long few days, and he was clearly out of his depth.

“Jate,” he said, hoping that the common language would set Djarin more at ease. Djarin started at the word again, his eyes skipping back to Boba’s own for a second, but he did relax some. He rubbed a globed thumb absently over an invisible mark on his bright silver helmet, his eyes finally settling on the side of Boba’s face.

Not a big fan of eye contact? Boba wondered. If Djarin kept his helmet on in front of everybody but his clan, Boba supposed that that made sense, though he didn't like the way Djarin kept looking sideways at Boba, nervous and tense.

“You don’t show your face often, huh?” he asked.

Djarin just shrugged, raising one stiff shoulder and dropping it down. He looked at Boba’s cheek for another second, then met Boba’s eyes again. Djarin’s jaw was tight. He clutched his helmet like he wanted to pull it back down over his ears.

He didn’t, though. He looked Boba in the eye and said, with a bit of a challenge in his voice, “Well?”

Boba blinked at thim.

Right, he thought. We were having a conversation.

Boba let himself hesitate for another second, then pushed on. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and this instinct, this feeling of familiarity –

I think, Boba said to himself, that Djarin is – like me. Like Theran. He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but Djarin has hesitated at the door, when he’d walked in on Boba flogging Theran. He’d stared for a second longer than he should have.

“What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba asked, deciding to take pity on Djarin and cut straight to the point.

It was Djarin’s turn to blink at Boba. “Uh, what?”

He didn’t bolt, which was a good sign. “What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba repeated, keeping his tone friendly and even. “Good, bad, want it, don’t want it? Does it distract you, or does it help you focus?”

“Nobody wants,” Djarin began, tone hot and defensive, but he caught himself before Boba could correct him. He would’ve done it gently, but still. Djarin was wrong. Plenty of people wanted pain. Wanted to take it or to give it.

Djarin chewed his lip, eyes darting up to meet Boba’s again. He was flushed faintly, the tips of his ears red, and that familiar feeling in Boba’s chest hardened into certainty.

Cyar’yc, he couldn’t help but think, amusement uncurling in his belly. Sweet.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Boba asked, gently. Gentleness didn’t come very easy to Boba, but he had learned it, over the years. It took more effort to be gentle than to be cruel, but gentleness had its place, even on Tatooine, and Boba found himself wanting to be gentle with Djarin, at least for now. He didn’t know Djarin well enough to know how to push him, yet. To know how far Djarin was willing to be pushed before he fought back.

“About letting someone hurt you?” he continued.

Boba saw Djarin swallow, and satisfaction flared bright behind his ribs.

“Letting someone – no,” Djarin said. One of his hands twitched towards the bruise that Boba knew was darkening across the top of his thigh, but Djarin didn’t touch it.

“Why?” Boba asked, curious. There must’ve been Mandalorians who enjoyed dominance or submission. Pain and pleasure. Boba’d never been one of them, but Mandalorians were beings just like any other.

Djarin didn’t answer Boba right away. He shook his head a little, fingers tight around his helmet.

“Why not?” Boba said, pushing just a bit. Djarin could take it.

Boba’s persistence got a reaction. Djarin bared his teeth a little and snapped, sharp as a blade, “I shouldn’t need it. The only things a warrior needs are his armor and his courage.”

Boba almost rolled his eyes. Mando ossik, he thought. Djarin wore his armor proudly, though – and took his rules seriously – so Boba didn’t disparage his people to his face.

“Those are important,” Boba agreed. “But a warrior can’t march on just courage, you know.”

Djarin bared his teeth again, studying Boba’s chin intently. “Why are you asking?” he challenged.

Boba rather thought that it was obvious. “You’re Mandalorian,” he said. “A warrior. Warriors have… an interesting relationship with pain. The good ones, anyway,” he said, throwing Djarin the compliment. Anybody who could defeat an Imperial Moff was a good warrior. Boba’d seen Djarin fight on Tython. Kark, he’d seen Djarin fight here. Boba’d be carrying bruises underneath his cuirass for a good few days.

Djarin didn’t soften.

“Not just anyone can push themselves through training,” Boba pointed out. “Some warriors… they get through it because they have to, but others get through it because they like it. Pain helps them focus. Helps them center themselves.”

Djarin’s shoulders went up again, tense and miserable.

In for a peggat, Boba reminded himself. “I think it might help you,” he said, still gentle. He looked at Djarin’s leg. He could almost see the bruise that would be blooming there, underneath his silver beskar. Boba hit hard; he could crush a stormtrooper’s helmet with his gaderffii, if he put enough power behind the swing. He could crack skulls, break rocks. Boba couldn’t break beskar, but underneath the armor was just a man, and men bruised.

Djarin’s flush was spreading. His dark eyes were wide.

“And,” said Boba, laying down the last of his cards, “I think that you want it, though it’s hard to tell when you’ve got your armor on.”

Djarin twitched again, his whole body shivering with the urge to slam his helmet back on. Boba wondered what had made Djarin so defensive. He still wasn’t looking Boba in the eye.

“Just because I want something doesn’t mean that I need it,” Djarin said. It hurt him to speak, Boba could see that it hurt him, but he made himself speak anyway.

Brave, thought Boba. And honest.

“No,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have it, either.”

That won Boba a derisive snort. “I’ve lived this long without it,” Din said. “I’m not – I’m an effective warrior. I provide for the tribe, I haven’t lost a bounty in years, I brought in renown for the Guild – ”

That one sentence had more words in it than Boba thought he’d ever heard Djarin say at one time. Boba wanted to frown again, but managed to avoid it. Djarin was still watching him with wide, wary eyes.

“Yeah,” Boba said, holding up a hand. Djarin was a battle-trained warrior – he knew how to watch for hand signals, how to obey them, and his mouth clicked shut mid-sentence.

“I’ve seen you fight, Djarin,” Boba said, trying to reassure the other man. “I know you’re capable.” His knee throbbed helpfully. Djarin had kicked Boba without a second thought. Without hesitation. “I’m gonna have a few bruises of my own when the suns rise.”

Djarin looked at Boba like he wanted to keep arguing, but managed to hold off.

Jate, Boba wanted to say. “All I meant is that if you want more,” Boba said, deciding to help Djarin out, “if you want to see what pain could do for you, well.” Boba gestured at himself. “You’re in a good place to try it out, is all.”

“With you?” Djarin said.

“If you wanted,” Boba replied, evenly. He was hardly the only man in Mos Eisley who knew how to swing a flogger, though. Djarin didn’t strike Boba as the type of man to trust that kind of vulnerability – his bare back, his submission – to a stranger, but then he really didn’t know Djarin very well, and had only gotten this far with him on instinct. If Djarin wanted to visit some cantina in Mos Eisley and find a stranger to flog him, that was his business, not Boba’s.

“A few of the palace guards, some beings in Mos Eisley,” Boba continued, determined to give Djarin options. “Fennec, even, though she usually doesn’t play with men. She likes you enough she’d be willing to help out.”

It had been Fennec’s idea to contact Djarin, actually. She liked Djarin. Respected him.

Despite that, Djarin made a face, an open, honest expression, and Boba laughed. Djarin flushed again. The curl of amusement in Boba’s belly broadened.

“Fennec’s out, then?” he asked.

Djarin didn’t say anything for a while. Boba let him have his silence. Djarin was obviously thinking, and that was really all that Boba could ask from him. If Djarin really hadn’t thought of this before – had never considered intentional pain as a tool, as a relief – then Boba’d give him the time he needed to think about it.

“What would it… how would I know?” Djarin asked, tentative again. The flush creeping down his neck was distracting. “If I wanted it? If it would… help me?”

Boba could only shrug, spreading his hands. “I can’t answer that for you,” he said, repaying Djarin’s honesty with his own. “You’d just take it slow, and stop it if there was something happening that you didn’t like.”

Djarin blinked at Boba again. “Stop it?”

“Yeah,” said Boba. “In an arrangement – ” which wasn’t the right word, exactly, but was as close as Boba could get without needing to walk Djarin through a thirty-minute lecture – “either party, you or me, if you wanted to try it with me, or you and whoever else you picked, can stop at any time.”

“Oh,” said Djarin. Doubt still flickered across his face, but there was something else in his eyes too. Curiosity, and something deeper than curiosity.

Hunger, Boba thought, excitement beginning to build in his chest.

Technically, he didn’t need to show Djarin anything tonight. Boba’s sessions with Theran were usually pretty short, but Theran was so used to Boba by now – and Boba so used to Theran – that Theran slid to his knees as soon as he walked into the room and gave up control of his body to Boba without a second thought. Boba was satisfied. It had been a good session, despite Djarin walking into it near the end. Boba was comfortable in his own skin. Settled. Between the flogging and the fight, Boba would sleep better tonight than he usually did.

But the hunger in Djarin’s eyes had a similar hunger rising in Boba, an answer to the question Djarin hadn’t yet asked.

Djarin licked his lips, then said, “How would I stop it?”

The faint hunger deepened. “There’s a word, usually,” Boba said. He rattled off a few that he’d used before. “Gev, rahm, luubid, something like that.” A mix of mando’a and tuskra. Djarin ought to know both.

“Gev,” Din repeated. “It’s that easy?”

Boba nodded. “It’s that easy,” he said.

The keen hunger in Djarin’s face shifted. He looked –

Ravenous, Boba thought. Djarin looked starved. Like he hadn’t eaten for a week, lost in the desert, and had stumbled across a full feast.

Pushing Djarin now could backfire. If he hadn’t considered pain a tool before, rushing him headlong into a scene probably was likely a bad idea. Boba didn’t know what Djarin liked. What his limits were. He didn’t know if Djarin just wanted pain or if he wanted more. If he’d like to be held down. If he’d want to get on his knees.

But the look in his eyes, sharp with longing –

Boba decided to risk it. “Here,” he said, taking a cautious, slow step closer. He left his helmet and his cup of tihaar behind. Djarin didn’t bolt. That was good. “Let me show you. Remember your word? Gev to get me to stop, alright?”

Djarin tensed again as Boba got closer to him, but made no move to fight. “Alright,” he agreed, wary as a wraid. He shifted like he was going to stand, but Boba shook his head. He didn’t need Djarin to stand, not for this.

Djarin hesitated as Boba got even closer, but still didn’t pull away.

If he does, I’ll stop, Boba thought. Djarin didn’t really know what a safeword was, not yet. Not like Theran did. If he pulled back, if he tried to leave, Boba’d let him.

Djarin just tilted his chin up. He met Boba’s eyes this time.

Boba grinned. Mando pride, he thought. “Confident,” he said, close enough now for Djarin to touch. Boba got between Djarin and the counter where Djarin had set his cup of tihaar. That way, Djarin could bolt right or left if he had to, and get to the door without Boba blocking his path. Djarin didn't seem like he was going to bolt now, but Boba remembered how tense Djarin'd been when he'd realized that Boba had been between him and the door. “I like that.”

Djarin shivered a little. He was warm. Boba was close enough now to feel the heat of his body. Moving slowly and carefully, Boba took a hand and did what he’d wanted to do since he’d brought his gaderffii down on Djarin in the sparring ring. He set his hand on top of Djarin’s thigh plate. Curled his fingers around the smooth edges of that beskar.

The metal was cold. Djarin wasn’t. He went still when Boba touched him. His eyes went wide. Boba smiled at him, amused again, and pushed.

He did it lightly enough. Boba couldn’t see what Djarin’s leg looked like, not like this, and he didn’t want to cause true pain. He just wanted Djarin to see what Boba’d been talking about. To understand.

As soon as Boba pressed down, Djarin growled and jerked, twisting like he meant to lurch off the stool towards Boba. It was another, easy instinct for Boba to take his free hand and catch Djarin by the throat.

He did that gently too, or at least did it as gently as he could. There wasn’t really a soft way to grab a man by the throat, and the look in Djarin’s eyes, wild and challenging, told Boba that Djarin didn’t want Boba to be soft.

Still, choking Djarin out wasn’t something that Djarin’d agreed to and it wasn’t the kind of thing that Boba wanted to do without talking to Djarin first – without knowing for sure that Djarin would understand just what it was that he was agreeing to – so Boba was careful to keep his grip loose.

He set his thumb at the corner of Djarin’s jaw. Even through his gloves, Boba could feel Djarin’s pulse hammering wildly. Djarin was still for another fraction of a second, and then his own instincts kicked in and he reached up to try to pry Boba’s hand away from his throat. His helmet fell from his hands, clattering against the floor.

“None of that, now,” said Boba firmly, keeping his grip steady. If Djarin struggled, he’d hurt himself. Djarin stared at Boba, eyes wild, but obeyed. His immediate obedience made Boba want to smile.

“Relax,” Boba added, as Djarin’s heart beat hard against Boba’s thumb. “You can still breathe, yeah?”

Djarin took a few shallow breaths, his throat working against Boba’s palm. Boba didn’t loosen his grip, but he gave Djarin a few more seconds to realize that he was alright.

“I need to hear you say it,” Boba said. “Can you breathe?”

Djarin finally blinked, swallowing. “Yes,” he said. His voice had changed. Without his vocorder, Djarin sounded – uncertain. There was a hesitance to him that his helmet usually hid. He finally looked Boba in the eyes, too, and Boba could see Djarin’s shock. His confusion.

“Jate,” said Boba warmly, immediately rewarding Din’s obedience. Djarin’s eyes widened at the praise. Boba couldn’t help but soften, instinctively adjusting his approach. He didn’t know what Djarin wanted just yet, but praise was usually well-received. “Very good,” Boba said. He didn’t have enough mando’a to tell Djarin to let go of his hand.

Both of Djarin’s hands were wrapped around Boba’s. Djarin had a good grip. A warrior’s grip. He could break Boba’s hold, if he wanted to.

“I want you to let go of my hand, alright?” Boba said, speaking slowly so that Djarin could hear him over the adrenaline, the confusion, that must be crashing through him now.

Djarin blinked. His grip didn’t loosen.

“Grip the edge of the counter, if you have to,” Boba said. Theran didn’t need anything to hold onto during a session, but it was alright if Djarin did. “But I need you to let go. I can make you, if you need me to.”

Boba’d have to let go of Djarin’s leg to break his grip, but that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Djarin had given Boba a hell of a fight in the sparring ring, but here, now, Djarin was off-balance. Unsteady.

Djarin swallowed again, looking a bit like Boba’d punched him between the eyes, and finally obeyed. His fingers loosened, one by one, and Djarin let go of Din’s hand.

He did grab the counter, one hand on either side of Boba, clutching the wood so hard that Boba heard his gloves creak, but he let go of Boba’s hand.

“Good,” Boba praised again, watching as Djarin swayed towards him like he’d been caught in a gravity well. Like he couldn’t stay away.

Boba liked this part. His own heartbeat picked up, not as fast as Djarin’s, but fast enough.

“Very good,” Boba repeated. “Don’t let go.”

Djarin didn’t say anything. He’d heard Boba, Boba knew that he had. He applied just a bit of pressure to Djarin’s throat. Djarin’s breath caught again, a sweet little sound and a dark sort of satisfaction preened in Boba’s chest.

Maybe I didn’t burn as much off with Theran as I thought.

“I need to tell you that you understand,” Boba said.

Djarin stirred again, heart hammering, but managed to say, voice thick, “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

Boba made a pleased noise. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. He made sure that his grip on Djarin’s throat was loose, so that Djarin could breathe without trouble, and then returned his attention to the plate of armor across the top of Djarin’s thigh.

Slowly and deliberately, Boba began to push.

Djarin lasted three or four seconds before he made a sound, a low, thin noise of pain. It was as sweet as music. Djarin’s eyes met Boba’s again and his pupils were almost entirely blown, his eyes black in the dim light of the kitchen. Djarin’s mouth parted.

He wanted to collapse against Boba’s body, but he wasn’t letting himself. Djarin stayed straight as his spear, shoulders back, chin still tilted defiantly. That was alright. Boba had some time.

He kept pushing. Pressure bruises weren’t really Boba’s specialty, but he understood the theory, and it’d be a good demonstration for Djarin, one that would show him what Boba meant about pain without scaring him or putting Djarin on his knees.

I do want to put him on his knees, Boba thought, the desire flashing through him. He’d look good on his knees.

This wasn’t about what Boba wanted, though. Djarin caught another thin sound of pain, gritting his teeth, and tried to pull away from Boba again, though he didn’t let go of the counter, so Boba was fairly confident that Djarin wasn’t really trying to get away. He watched Djarin’s mouth closely, ready to let go at the first sign of gev, but Djarin didn’t say it.

“Easy,” Boba soothed, resisting the urge to lean in and nose at Djarin’s temple. Djarin kept fighting. Boba sighed. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

Djarin flashed his teeth again, snarling at Boba, and another wave of amusement rose and fell behind Boba’s ribs.

He did like Djarin. Djarin was a fighter.

“Easy, Djar’ika,” Boba said, the name falling off of his tongue before Boba could snatch it back. It wasn’t a conventional nickname, as far as Mandalorian nicknames went, but Boba liked the sound of it better than Din’ika, and he hadn’t yet called Djarin by his first name anyway.

Djarin evidently felt otherwise, because he jerked again at the nickname and made a sound like an angry anooba.

Boba couldn’t help but laugh. “Easy,” he said again, trying to help Djarin understand. He didn’t ease up on Djarin’s leg and he didn’t let go of Djarin’s throat, either. “Don’t fight me so hard. Lean into it. Let it happen.”

Djarin showed no sign of listening, so Boba tried something else. For Theran, it was mostly about the pain. Theran didn’t care much for restraints, for being held down, for being made to take a flogging.

But Djarin was Mandalorian, and Mandalorians were peculiar. Proud. Mando ossik, Boba thought. Maybe Djarin would only let himself enjoy this once he realized that he couldn’t get out of it.

“It’s not like you have any other choice, yeah?” Boba asked, following the instinct. He’d made pretty good guesses so far, anyway, and decided that he might as well keep following his luck. “Unless you have something you want to say?” Boba loosened his grip, reminding Din that he could speak, if he wanted to. If Djarin didn’t like this – if he was really struggling, and not just putting up a token fight because he thought that he had to – he could stop it with a word.

Uncertainty flickered across those dark eyes of Djarin’s. He panted against Boba’s hand. He was tense again, wound taut, and his breath came short with fear.

But he didn’t say gev. He didn’t say gev. He looked Boba in the eye, his teeth half-bared in pain, and didn’t ask Boba to stop.

Boba smiled at him. Stroked a thumb against the corner of Djarin’s jaw.

Djar’ika, he thought. “I think,” Boba said. “That I can help.”

#i'm not going to post all of the asks for this pov like i usually do #because for once the formatting on tumblr does not make me want to die #but here ya go!#boba: what's up with that guy's vibe #also boba: oh. i see.#ast asks #ast 'verse pov tag

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elizaditton · 1 year

Text

Too Small To Be Afraid (Chapter 2)

Links:

Cover / Master Post / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

- - - - - - - - - -

My lungs cry out for more air than I can give them with each step of my quickening pace. I clutch the strap on my overnight bag to keep it from falling off my shoulder.

"3:57," Dad says, glancing at his watch as we run through the undercity railway entrance. "We can make it!"

"What?!" I holler to him, nearly losing my footing as we move up the stairs. "We're not going to make it, are you crazy?!"

We dart across the station, weaving through crowds and passing numerous trains. I lose count of how many times I've had to say 'excuse me' after bumping into so many people along the way.

"Don't tell me you've already given up hope!" Dad's gaze shifts upward. "Now, which platform was it again?"

"It's platform 16B, and I gave up hope when the movers arrived while we were still packing! We're lucky they were willing to wait the extra fifteen minutes for us to finish!"

"There it is, platform 16B! And with one minute to spare! Hah!" Dad laughs triumphantly and glances down at his watch. "Uh-oh."

"No uh-ohs!" I sprint through the crowd to catch up with him and look down at his watch. "4:02?!"

Dad and I turn our gazes to platform 16B and behold its trainless track.

"Well... I guess we can wait for the next one," Dad says, scratching his chin.

"That's three hours away," I say, pressing my fingers to my temple.

"How do you know that?" Dad starts looking around. "Did you see it somewhere?"

"I looked it up earlier in case... well, this happened again."

"Again? What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters," I say, folding my arms. "When we visited Grandma two years ago? We missed the train and made her wait up late for us."

Dad shrugs. "Okay, but that was just one time."

"Alright, then what about the time we went to North Eris to visit Uncle Lewis?"

"That was ages ago! You were only twelve!"

"Okay, what about when we wanted to take a day trip to Ashani last year? Or when we nearly missed the train home from the university this morning?"

Dad raises his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay," he says. "So I'm not that great at catching trains."

A voice overhead interrupts our conversation, "The four o'clock train from Maedri to Chancelor is now approaching platform 16B. We apologize for the delay."

Dad turns to me with a big grin and finger guns ablazing. "Made it just in time!"

I roll my eyes and smile. I guess he wins this round.

Shortly after boarding the train and sitting in the old, worn leather seats, we begin to move away from the only city I've ever called home. I set down the bag I was holding onto so tightly and rub my legs in an attempt to relieve myself of goosebumps.

"Hey," Dad says, pointing upward. "This train has a series of real skylights along the track. Maybe you can get some good nature pictures."

I look up and see a window. Through the window is the dull, lifeless sea of gray that is the ceiling to the undercity. It stares back at me, almost taunting me as it selfishly conceals the beauty of the world hidden above the surface. I pull out my phone, my heart racing at the opportunity to see the nature scenes the skylights have to offer. I've grown tired of the same old videos that play on the artificial skylights in town and have been longing for something real. I sit and wait in restless anticipation for the skylights to appear.

All at once, the melancholy of the undercity is stripped away as I'm nearly blinded by a bright blue sky. Fallen blossoms adorn the glass above, in beautiful shades of pastel pink and white. Big, wide, sturdy trees reach high up into the heavens with no end in sight. The sight leaves me in such awe that I forget to take any pictures.

And then I see two pertheans tower over the glass.

Everything stops. I let out a gasp, my phone slipping through my fingers and onto the train floor. My insides flip completely upside-down, and my entire being trembles as I turn my widened eyes to the ground.

Something touches my left shoulder, causing me to flinch. I turn and see Dad's hand resting there.

"Breathe," Dad whispers. "It's okay."

I take in a shuddery breath and hold it in for a few seconds before letting it go. Shaking, I lean over and pick up my phone from the train floor. That's enough surface world for one day.

#tstba #too small to be afraid #perthea #g/t #giant/tiny

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anders-hawke · 1 year

Note

mulder being a stay at home dad and actually raising william would have healed him

Literally! The heart of The X-Files was always family. Mulder’s whole journey in the show was accepting that Sam’s disappearance wasn’t his fault. Not that he ever believed that Sam being abducted was his fault, but he believed that he was guilty of not doing his duty as her older brother to protect her. He does the same thing with Scully’s abduction and the painful events thereafter, blaming himself for not saving her from Duane Barry, for not preventing her cancer, for not finding a cure for Emily.

Scully becomes his family, and he protects her with the same zeal as he does Sam: “Nothing else matters to me,” from the pilot when he’s saying it about uncovering government secrets to find Sam; and then, “Nothing else matters to me now,” from that deleted scene from “The Red and the Black” when he’s telling Scully that his priority is figuring out why abductees are being summoned places by their chips—to protect Scully.

He intended to spend his whole life looking for what happened to Sam, would martyr himself for the cause if he had to because the only thing that ever mattered to him after her abduction was being an older brother. He shifts his commitments to be tied between Sam and Scully, because they’re partners in the professional, platonic, and romantic sense of the word.

Becoming a father was the most natural conclusion of his character arc. I believe that’s why it works so well for Scully to end up wanting kids, too. In Mulder’s quest to “make up” for failing as an older brother, he punished himself with shallow relationships like with Diana, Phoebe, and Kristen. His parents were already wallowing in their own misery and self-pity/self-flagellation, so they were of no help. Scully was the first person to tell him that his wants and desires mattered, that he deserved happiness—getting out of the car. She doesn’t just say that because it’s what she wants, of course; she wouldn’t keep begging him if she didn’t understand that Mulder wanted it, too.

And when he finally accepts that he needs to let Sam go, stop focusing on walking into that room every day—let Scully hold his hand as she goes there with him and guide him back out—he’s free to enjoy the bond he’s forged with her. Free to want a family and want an end to their work, which by necessity requires self-sacrifice. Mulder was never really married to the work, he was sacrificing himself on the blade of it, waiting either for the truth to come to him through all the pain or to die first.

He doesn’t want a kid to come between them, doesn’t want them to forget each other and stop caring enough about each other, because he knows what it’s like to have a dysfunctional family—to have a mother that’s not there for you like you need them to be and a father that’s not there for you like you need them to be. He doesn’t want a baby to be the thing that finally breaks them, makes her leave him behind so he’s all alone again like he was at twelve in the room he spent so much of his life walking into over and over.

He would’ve loved to be a stay-at-home dad, reveling in the normalcy of domestic life. Staying up with Will to feed him at two in the morning with the TV on low, knowing that it wasn’t all in vain—that better things will come if you have the strength to believe in them. Strapping Will to his chest to surprise Scully at work, dressing him up as Spock for his first Halloween, celebrating New Year’s at the volume of a mouse with the TV all the way down so they don’t wake him up…

It’s so painful to watch him lose people over and over again because what is he if not a brother? A son? A father? A partner? Scully made him whole because she tells him that no matter how his life changes—no matter the people that he loses and the relationships that fall apart—he will always be his sister’s brother and his parents’ son and their son’s father and her partner. He will always matter. He doesn’t have to prove himself, he can just be.

When all the dressings of the show are stripped away, Fox Mulder is a family man. He would’ve been so happy to stay home with William and live a fulfilling life that way. Really fucking sucks that the show never so much as acknowledged that. But that’s what the fic is for!

#txf #txf meta #ask

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tetsunabouquet · 2 months

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Heir To The Lands Chapter 45

Glitters and Splinters of Hope Masterpost

As Thais grew more calm, they discussed things out further. Dru decided to go for everyone's safety and to tell them Ash knew where Kit lived and that it should be safe to assume the entire Seelie Court and the Princes of Hell did. She promised to Thais not to treat Laura any differently, Laura had simply been under the influence just like Thais and hadn't meant to do what she did. It was frightening and scary to be honest to everyone, and whilst Dru had nearly succumbed to another panic attack, she managed to pull through and tell everyone the truth. Tessa had been horrified especially, and Kit with a heavy heart had pulled a gun out that belonged to James Herondale. Apparantly it was effective even to Princes of Hell as it had worked on Tessa's father. That gun seemed to be a glitter of hope, resting in Kit's hands.

Livvy and Jeroen walked through Brocelind Forrest. His face seemed even paler then it usually did and his wavy black hair drifted along his shoulders like threads of ink. "So you lived here for the past couple of years, right? How did the Cohort evolve?" Livvy asked, thinking asking for a bit more inside information and what the Cohort had been planning would be good before they would spy on what had happened to them after the massacre. Jeroen pursed his lips. "Not well, I suppose? The famine made many turn their backs on Zara. The people who stayed in Idris for their pride like my family still aren't loyal to their causes and have only been putting up with their rules to maintain the peace. Whereas most of those who are loyal to the cause do not equate it to loyalty for Zara. Most think she doesn't had her father's scheming abilities and blame the famine on Zara's bad planning." Livvy nodded, secretly glad to hear Zara wasn't a good leader in their eyes. She honestly hated her and wouldn't be sad to find out Zara had been killed. She stopped in her ghostly tracks as Jeroen placed his hand on her shoulder and she looked up with a frown. "Is something wrong?" "No, I just wanted to do a comforting gesture, you know, considering we're about to walk into the place we've both been killed." Jeroen fumled, retracting his hand. Livvy blinked in surprise, but it was true that they were both killed in the same spot. She nodded at his act of empathy and walked onwards. Jeroen seemed to be a very kind and thoughtful gentleman. When she left Ty and Kit after discussing her departure that morning, he was waiting outside for her in the trees, saying he had been patrolling around the home just to be certain they were safe. Livvy, if she were to be honest, actually rather liked having a friend all to herself that she didn't have to share with Ty or Kit. She had been so cut off from the group's conversations with most not being able to see or hear her that she felt it had been driving her insane. This was nice. The two of them snuck their way to the street where the Boomkikker family held residence, planning to check on wether there was anyone of the family left alive first. Livvy thought that Jeroen deserved to know wether they were alive before they would spy on the Cohort itself. Jeroen halted as they came across a scene, various Shadowhunters were walking out of a home, carrying two crates, filled mosrtly with tomatoes and apples. There were also a few carrying what looked like old antiques out of the house. As Jeroen crumbled onto the street, Livvy knew what she was looking at. None of the Boomkikkers had survived the massacre, and their home was getting ransacked by the people who did survive. Jeroen sobbed for his parents but most of all his sweet younger sister. "Ellie was twelve!" He roared at the people, tears falling down his face as he hiccuped, looking as if he wanted to snatch all the belongings away from their arms. But Jeroen could only watch, and Livvy sank down next to him. Thankful ghosts could touch each other, Livvy embraced him as the boy weeped out of helplessness in her arms.

#shadowhunters #the shadowhunter chronicles #shadowhunter chronicles #twp #the wicked powers #livvy blackthorn #dru blackthorn #thais pedroso #kit herondale #kit herongraystairs

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magicalrocketships · 11 months

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I was tagged by @junkshop-disco! Thanks, pal.

Name: Mog

Sign: Capricorn

Time: 12:00

Last movie: From my position of horizontal under a blanket on the sofa yesterday, I watched Blake Lively be extremely hot in A Simple Favor. Big shout out to Freevee for cutting off the final scene half way through (when everything was being summed up), covering the entire screen with the next up options, and then automatically starting some other film so I missed the end and it wouldn't let me go back. Thanks to Wikipedia for telling me what happens in the final scene and the titles. Jazz hands.

Last show: Caught up on last week's Bake Off and Taskmaster yesterday (again from under a blanket). Love this Taskmaster group.

When I created this blog: 2010 I think 💀💀💀💀💀💀

Other blogs: feraldaniel, but only if you want the chaos of many untagged f1 pictures, which no one wants but me

Do I get asks/may you ask me something: ask me anything! I have some small!Max asks that are waiting for me to have a bit of energy to reply to (some of them are old, I'm sorry).

Average hours of sleep: if I could sleep through the night 95% of my life would better, I swear. I woke up at 3:50 this morning and barely got any more sleep. Trust me when I say the whole chronic illness/disability experience would be vastly improved by being able to fucking sleep through.

Instruments: I used to play cello and clarinet and I taught myself the piano, but not in years.

What I’m wearing: a Daniel hoodie and extremely warm cosy trousers (of the sort that do not leave the confines of the house). Hope the endless work meetings I'm in today are enjoying the Daniel show (I'm cold and nobody minds)

Dream job: I'm stealing JD's here: eccentric writer who also owns a secondhand record/book/knickknack shop.

But actually, I like my actual job. In general I get to do interesting data things, it does not steal any of my free time, and I just get to turn off my computer and not worry about it at the end of the day. Also they've been really good with the fucking abysmal state of my health over the last twelve months.

Tagging: @astorytotellyourfriends and @allwaswell16.

#waffling on about me

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fizzigigsimmer · 2 years

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Harringrove Hannibal AU Prt 3

I was thinking about my favorite scene in Hannibal, the night he turns himself in, and more about Steve... I think it goes something like this for Billy and Steve.

When The Ripper is caught it doesn’t happen with a bang but with a whimper. There’s no stake out and no grand showdown between law enforcement and the most dangerous serial murderer of the last twenty years like Steve had always expected. There’s just a call to Special Agent Jim Hopper’s cell phone in the dead of night and a raw voice on the other end rasping ‘He’s here. Hurry.’

Every cop in the entire state descends upon Steve’s little cabin on the lake, which before Billy had been Steve’s solitary retreat. During the three years that Steve and Billy have been playing cat and mouse Billy has been to the cabin numerous times, a few of them even as the rare invited guest. That says a lot to Hopper, who even on the night of Hargrove’s arrest pauses before he reaches the bottom step with his gun raised to point center at Billy’s chest, subconsciously unwilling to stain Steve’s sanctuary with blood. Billy has never had the same reluctance.

He showed up at the cabin three years ago in a shiny red sports car, striding right over the lines Steve has drawn around himself to keep the world at a distance. Invading Steve’s solitude like he invades Steve’s space whenever they are in the same proximity. He’d stood there in his GQ ready suit, looking around the rustic log cabin, corrupting the air of Steve’s intimate sanctum with the scent of his cologne. Occasionally over the years Steve will catch wisps of Billy here or there in the house or around the grounds, making him feel as if he is always watched and that Billy is always just a step out of sight. Can't tell if that is what his therapist describes as paranoia or what the heart would call wishful thinking.

That morning, Billy’s eyes took in the pictures tacked to his fridge of Steve’s partner Robin, along with Dustin and Mike from forensics. He’d lingered on the one photo Steve keeps of Will Byers and El, fellow members of the world’s most exclusive club.

They’d found the bodies of dozens of stollen kids, but only twelve survivors after the brutal massacre at Hawkins National Laboratory in the summer of 1978. The papers coined them the Hawkins Twelve.

Steve remembers the way he’d tensed when Billy had touched the faded polaroid, ready to snap and push until he drove Hargrove out of his space, because he doesn’t invite people here to the place Chief Hopper raised El and gave him and Will refuge from the ravenous curiosity of the public, for exactly this reason. But Billy just looked at the picture and then looked at Steve with those eyes that make Steve think of black holes and asked, “These your siblings?”

He’s the first one who sees it without having to be told.

Thinking of Will and El still brings a bitter pain to Steve’s chest. If Steve had known then what he knows now… he’s not sure he wouldn’t still do it the same way. That he wouldn’t have invited Billy to sit down at his table and offered to get him a drink. That Billy wouldn’t still be here with him now. He’s never met anyone with the kind of pull that Billy has. ‘Look at me’ those eyes demand, right before his hands tear you asunder.

Asunder. That’s a Robin word. Robin had this thing with words, this ongoing love affair with their rhyme and their origin; but mostly she just liked teaching Steve new ones by way of adding them to a whiteboard in the breakroom and tallying the ones he knows, and giving him shit for the ones he doesn’t. It’s an odd little game, but they were always an odd little pair – before Billy.

“I think we’re stuck in a zero sum game Harrington.” Billy says from where he kneels between Steve’s parted knees in the cabins single bedroom, ten minutes before the call. About thirty minutes before the police and the FBI have the place surrounded. In the darkness of the unlit room he looks like Steve’s lover, shirtless, hair matted on one side and sticking up in tufts in the back, but there’s enough moonlight shining through the window to highlight the flaws in the illusion. The bruising of his knuckles and the deep scratches on his chest. His hands cradle Steve’s thighs, his flesh mottled and cut up to match Billy’s, and settle on his hips, the pad of one thumb stroking over a protruding hip bone. His brow furrowing ever so slightly in displeasure a the thinness he finds there – the product of lengthy periods of sleeplessness and low appetite.

It’s so ridiculous, that concern in the face of the carnage of the last three years – what Billy has put his his mind and his body through. His heart through. Steve huffs a small laugh. Mostly at himself. Because there’s blood in his teeth and he can still taste Brenner’s flesh in his mouth, from when he bit the man like a cornered animal in a cage. He’d been drugged at the time but he still hazily recalls it, along with the heat in Billy’s eyes and the proud slash of his smile. Love is a zero sum game. Or at least that’s what people say.

“Baby?” Billy’s tone is seeking but the hot hands at Steve’s side are demanding as they squeeze. Always have been, always will be, and Steve sighs. He raises a hand to tuck the hair fallen in front of Billy’s face behind his ears and look his fill at the beautiful face beneath. Billy turns into the palm of his hand but sharp eyes devoid of empathy stay locked on Steve. Those eyes burn, full of hunger and carefully controlled desperation. They are past the stage in the game when they can hide from one another.

Billy wants to start a new chapter. To build on the ashes of their burned bridges and crumbled cities. Steve wants to burn. But even more so, he wants Billy to burn.

Hopper thinks Billy is a sociopath but Steve knows he’s not. Steve’s the numb one. Steve’s the one who went cold and struggles to feel things or know the difference between dreams and waking. Billy feels everything. He overflows with feeling. Burns bright with them like a dying star and even now… even now Steve just wants to curl up in the center of his heat and let Billy flow through his veins until he burns like a sun.

“You had to take her too. You can’t help herself.” Steve says, grounding himself for this one last play. This final shot aimed right at the heart, he has held back through all the death and all the loss. But Billy has finally gone too far. He needs to know and there is only one way to show him.

“Buckley made her own choices Steve. I’m sorry that it wasn’t you.” Billy says, soft with the cruelty of care. The unspoken implication being that Robin may have chosen to distance herself, Billy wants to be closer. As if Steve would reward him for ruining the closest thing that he has had to a friend since before the lab, that wasn’t of the lab and smothering the last little bit of light in his dark world.

“You don’t want me to have anything if it’s not you. You want me to look at you and never look away because it’s the only thing that will make you finally feel seen. You call me baby not because it gets under my skin but because I’m under yours.” Steve cradles the sides of Billy’s face tenderly with the hands that Billy has taped, memorizing the supple feel of his skin and the softness of the hair on the back of his head.

Steeling himself Steve pulls away, letting his hands drop as he pulls the trigger and shoots dead what has lived between them for three long, vibrant, years.

“But I don’t want to be there anymore Hargrove. I’m letting you go. I’m not going to look for you and I don’t want to know if Hop ever catches you. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. You’ve won.You killed who I was and you left nothing to salvage. I’m dead to me. And now you’re dead to me too.”

Billy doesn’t say anything. Steve knows that Billy can see the lies in it, as well as the truth. The truth is always the most effective weapon, and the truth is after this latest brush with death and the loss of his best friend Steve is done. He won’t let Billy matter to him anymore. That’s what matters.

Billy’s fingers dig into his sides as he takes a slow breath, nostrils flared. Billy could kill him for this. Probably wants to. But Billy could always kill him and will probably always want to, just a little.

The night that Billy Hargrove is arrested he leaves Steve’s bedroom without a word. He makes a single call from the kitchen on the landline this place is old enough to have, and grabs a packet of smokes and a lighter from the junk drawer and goes to the porch to smoke and contemplate what Hopper should find when he gets here.

Steve’s body will be the thing that finally breaks Hopper. Not the dead daughter or the crazy surrogate one, but the golden boy.The child he turned into a weapon to hunt his own demons with. There’s more than one way Steve’s body can put an end to Billy’s pain, to the raw ache in his chest and the hunger that gnaws at his belly with unfulfilled desires for closeness and understanding. He knows better than this. Despises that he let himself get so tangled up and wrapped up in a useless dream he shouldn’t even want.

The thing is this whole thing started with a game. Hopper dangling Steve in front of Billy’s nose, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist the honey trap. Billy playing Hopper and Steve against each other, trying to wiggle his way inside Steve’s head under the guise of turning Hops golden boy into his tragic downfall; but truthfully, he’d really wanted to get inside of Steve because he was just plain fascinated. Enthralled. Steve’s a survivor like him. Different cage and different murder at the end, but like recognizes like.

And now he can’t imagine a better friend or partner to shape the rest of his days around. That’s what gives life meaning, he has realized.

Maybe a little too late. Billy’s never been good with going slow or taking time to nurture things. Hasn’t had a single good reason to practice or anyone to practice on even if he did. Harrington’s punishing him. Killing his darlings just to spite him the same way Billy has killed all of his. And when he views it like that, Billy can’t help but smile around his cigarette.

If Harrington wants to see him suffer, he supposes that’s fair. All considered.

“Your move Pretty Boy.” He says to the darkened dwelling behind him as he hears the first wail of a siren in the distance.

#harringrove #steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #serial killer au #hannibal au #murder boyfriends #short fics #don't kill me #Robin isn't dead #she's just the Alana to Steve's Will #She's happily smooching with Heather #Just hates her besties boyfriend #it's like that sometimes

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