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immajustvibehere · 8 months

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Spark (8/8)

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader - Enemies to Lovers

Chapter 8 summary: Found and taken in by the Natives, Arthur is walking a fine line of living and dying. In the grip of illness and fever, he often imagines seeing you by his side.

This is a long chapter, so I gave it sub-headings. Easier to manage if you can't read it in one go :)

link to my masterlist

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

7500 words, +30 minutes reading time

I. The Downfall of the Gang

A prevailing notion circulated in the gang that you and Molly shared culpability for the Pinkertons’ decent upon Lagras. They nearly razed the settlement to the ground, and the frustration about the new location of camp being found out so soon certainly didn’t help to improve the general mood. With you gone, there was no way you could justify yourself and nobody was keen on defending you either, though some people were convinced of your innocence either way. Notably, Abigail, though somewhat resenting you for having left, given Jack’s affinity for you and John’s confinement, was sure you wouldn't send the agency to shoot at them. Artur knew that you wouldn't do such a thing, as you had absolutely no reason to. Many people in the gang knew that it was way likelier that the Pinkertons picked up the trail from some of the boys coming back from Guarma, considering the gang was worth almost nothing without its leader anyway.

Dutch readily agreed that it must have been you, his main intention probably being to silence Micah, whose ceaseless prattle on the matter had grown unbearable. Micah spit phrases like: "She probably thought that she could get rid of us so we wouldn't go after her for the betrayal."

This went too far, even for Dutch’s taste, who was aware that they had other battles to fight. It was useless to hunt either you or Molly down and just a waste of resources and guns that were scare to begin with.

Arthur was distraught that you were gone. When he rode out with Charles, to search for a new camping spot up North, Charles handed Arthur the gun that he had borrowed you. The gesture resonated with a finality surpassing all preceding farewells…though there hadn’t even been proper good-byes.

"She uhm...she said anything? 'bout where she's headed?", Arthur asked as he let the gun slip into his saddle bag.

"I'm sorry", Charles shook his head, "She was a great help when we moved camp, but she disappeared soon after. She gave me the gun and told me to hand it back to you if I get the chance. You know, we weren't even sure if you had survived."

And the topic was left at that. The gang moved to Beaver's Hollow and Arthur felt a sickness nagging on his body. He started boiling with rage, every time your name was mentioned in a negative sense. Mostly by Dutch and Micah. Soon after, Bill started to complain about you too. Arthur would be lying if he told someone that he wasn't looking for you. It wasn't an active search, but whenever he was in town, he'd ask a few men at the bar if they had seen a woman of your description. Though the answers were barely trustworthy most of the time.

At the saloon in Annesburg, he spoke to a drunk man, who, as answer to your description mumbled a "fierce little creature" before he fell asleep on the table. This was the best lead Arthur had, and it wasn't nearly enough. He was roaming the country, avoiding collecting the debts, suffering under how sluggish his body was willing to comply to what he wanted it to do.

The first time Arthur was happy you had left, is when the doctor had told him, that he had tuberculosis. Until then, Arthur had mixed feelings. He appreciated that you left the gang to save yourself, because it took no genius to understand that whatever had bound the gang together was a thin thread that threatened to snap any moment. When he saw how Molly ended, however miserable he felt for her, he had been glad it wasn't you that had come back to die in the dirt. And still he had harboured feelings of resentment for you. Leaving without a word, without showing yourself ever again, when on that ride back from Guarma to Shady Bell he had hoped for you to be there, for some hug or any sort of gentle sign that would have soothed his aching soul and body. He realized soon that he was foolish to hope for that. And that Micah was right to accuse him of having become soft, if your gentle hands was all he could think of, despite your hands being mostly anything but gentle.

But as he sat outside camp, wheezing and wiping the blood off his lips that he had coughed up, he was glad you weren't here. Whatever urges he had to be comforted, to see something else but a bitter and angry face, the feelings of having failed and paying for his sins was the stronger force. He deserved it, after all. And he shouldn’t wish for comfort.

He, as many others, tried to avoid camp as often as possible. In those two weeks, when the hostility between him and Dutch was especially high, because he and Sadie had rescued John from prison, he spent most of the days roaming the country and helping strangers. It wasn't that those trips took his mind off you, quite the contrary.

It was when he was out fishing with Hamish, a veteran with an impulsive horse, that he mentioned you for the first time to anyone that wasn't Charles or Mary-Beth (not counting Jack, who regularly asked where you where and why you had gone).

"Ya know. There's this girl...we went fishing a while ago and she couldn't deal with the waiting."

Hamish felt that it was dangerous territory, so he considered Arthur's pondering face for a while before he finally said: "You should take her here sometime. While we wait for the fish to bite, I can tell her stories so interesting, she' gonna hope that nothing bites."

Arthur chuckled sadly and shook his head: "She left, 'm afraid. She was right to do so. Ain't especially lucky to be around me."

As if the universe heard those words, Hamish was pulled into the water only moments after by the gigantic Pike they were after. It gave him and Arthur something to laugh in the aftermath.

"I'll draw them away from you! Go!", Arthur yelled, desperate pulling the reigns of his horse as John dismounted his.

"Come with me", John implored, "We can make it out of here!"

But Arthur understood he couldn't. The train heist only hours before and Abigail’s rescue had drained his strength. His body was tired, no, it was surrendering. He knew he couldn’t keep up the pace. His horse was his only support now, if he abandoned it, his legs would betray him. It wasn't just the tiredness of his limbs, he felt nauseous, sick, the sweat was on his forehead, causing his hat to cling uncomfortably.

"No. I pushed all I can”, Arthur’s voice was strained, “I'll buy ya some time, keep them off your back a while longer, you run and join Abigail and Jack."

"You're my brother!"

"I know", and with those words said, the brothers turned their backs to each other, John fleeing up the mountain, Arthur desperate circling the small area with his horse, firing round after round until he had shot himself a path of escape. The horse’s pained bucking under the impact of a bullet seared through Arthur’s heart, yet he urged it on. The loyal animal complied, carrying its master through thicket and woods as bullets whizzed past. Finally, it collapsed, half of its heavy body falling on Arthur who had ungraciously been thrown off.

The head of the horse was weirdly twisted, but Arthur still heard its heavy breaths. That aside, it was silent in the forest. Killing it would be the noble thing to do. But his vision was already blurred when his hands crept to his gun that was long out of bullets. And before he realized that it was silent in the forest and he had managed to shake the Pinkerton’s, Arthur closed his eyes, not being able to fight the exhaustion any longer.

He was dead. Or dying, at least, because every time he gained consciousness, his whole body felt like it was on fire. With immense effort, he pried his eyes open, only to be greeted by a hazy image, his pounding headache blurring his surroundings. Arthur struggled against his own lethargy, he wanted to gain control of his body again. Neither of his limbs moved, no matter the effort he was putting into it. His eyes wouldn’t focus, his chest no rise enough for a proper breath. Every time however, without failure, weariness washed over him and unconsciousness reclaimed him before he could even form a thought about the state he was in. It was a cruel cycle.

When Arthur woke up for the third, maybe fourth time – there was no way of keeping count of those seconds of consciousness – he thought only one thing: Namely, that if that was dying, he hoped it would go a little quicker.

At some point, Arthur stirred awake. He felt stronger than before and finally had enough wits to take in some of his surroundings. It was nighttime, he perceived the nocturnal chorus of crickets. His attempt to open his eyes was met with a revelation, his vision, though fatigued, offered him a somewhat clear image. It was exhausting to look; he barely blinked a few times. He was in a tent, or something of that sort, he noticed. And it rocked around, like a boat or a waggon…or maybe he was just feeling dizzy. And when he managed to move his head just a little, to glared to the side, there were you. For a second, Arthur thought nothing. Then he concluded that he must be dreaming or was indeed dead and this was some funny way to pay for his sins. He closed his eyes. His arms felt too heavy, he wouldn't be able to rub his eyes or pinch his nose in concentration. But he simply opened them again. And the image of you was gone. So was Arthur's consciousness, a few moments later.

II. The Recovery

Over the next couple of days, Arthur would wake up from time to time. Sometimes seeing you, sometimes faces of women he didn't recognize. Dark skin and dark hair, Indians, he thought. Then he'd have nightmares that sometimes took his breath away and he'd wake up, feeling like a heavy weight was crushing his chest. And there would be someone - you, another woman, some strange man - pressing wet rags to his face and he wasn't strong enough to complain about it. To tell them to stop because it kept waking him up from dying, from sleeping, from unconsciousness. Whatever that black void was he'd fall in, but he much preferred it because then his body didn't hurt so much.

"You're going to be alright, mister."

Arthur opened his eye to look into the face of a dark-skinned woman. Braids falling from her head that was dangling right onto his face. There was the wet rag again, but it didn't feel so crushing this time.

Finally, his vision was…almost clear.

It was she who explained that he had collapsed and now was with Rains Fall’s people, as they were heading North to escape. The women that took care of him, Arthur caught glimpses of three different faces and though his headache was mostly gone, a persistent cloudiness lingered over his senses. Maybe it was because he sometimes seemed so confused or because he still lacked some control over when he fell asleep out of exhaustion, but when they talked to him, it was always very vague.

"Your friend will return soon. He's securing the perimeter, but he'll be back in a day or two", one of the women explained to him. They must mean Charles, he was certain. But when he wanted to ask, he found that it was hard forming words. His throat was parched and the attempt to speak yielded only a hoarse croak. A sympathetic smile from the woman conveyed understanding, at least.

….

You had sat at his side for four hours. It was late at night, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave his side. You had been running errands the last couple of days and had missed him waking up. Well, waking up without fever and therefore capable of forming thoughts. Tonight, he was restless, dreaming maybe.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and grabbed your wrist. His hand was clammy, still remnants of his sickness and probably his latest nightmare, but this time – for the first time ever – he was fully awake.

"It's okay, I'm right here", you reassured him.

Arthur simply stared at you like you were a ghost. Then his eyes narrowed to one of his signature contemptuous stares. It was a terrifying expression that you had seen a couple of times before. His nose would scrunch in disdain and his facial muscles were coiled with tension – a sign of irritation. In a firefight, it marked the precipice of drawing his gun; in a brawl, it forewarned of the impending launch of his first punch.

"Yer real" Arthur stated, his assertion hung in the air. His voice was low and quiet. It sounded like he needed something to drink, something to oil up his throat that has dried up from weeks of not using it.

"Unfortunately so, yeah", you said. Your heart sped up. He was awake. Finally. After all those days of not knowing if he'd make it, he was okay. Far from fit or fully recovered, but he wasn't dying no more. The thought made your eyes wet and forget about Arthur's sceptical glance.

Arthur blinked slowly. Those weren't dreams. They never had been. You had been there all this time.

Arthur closed his eyes again without saying something. His hand slipped from your wrist and onto his chest. He didn't want to talk, no, he didn't even want to see you right now. A swell of emotions came over him and he wasn't sure how to feel about your presence. For his inner turmoil, he kept silent on the outside, giving you the impression that he had dozed off again.

Eventually, he really fell asleep. Though when he awoke and pled for water before even opening his eyes, it was you who led a bowl to his lips. Whenever he woke up, you would be there, ready to jump at his commands. You didn't speak about why you were here or where you had been. Nothing of that matter. Nothing about Dutch or Micah or little Jack. It was always just handing him water or soup or helping him change his clothes.

Two days later, Charles showed up with a warm: "Welcome back, brother." It was he who explained what had happened. That two Indians had found him unconscious, buried under his horse. That his leg had been bruised from the impact, and he was weak, feverish and on the brink of death. It was an intricate matter, caring for him while heading North with the tribe and he admitted that only after one day with him under their care, Charles had seriously considered staying behind and caring for him. It had slowed down the group that much. Then they ran into you, simply sitting on your horse and watching the caravan of people go, before catching Charles' eye.

Arthur remained conflicted when Charles broached the topic of you. This inner struggle was not lost on Charles, keen observer that he has always been.

"She took good care of you. Without her, your recovery might have been in doubt."

And as this didn't seem to do the trick, he added…

"She sat with you every night. Washed you, made sure you had everything you needed. Even though Rains Fall disagreed, she stole a waggon so you had a comfortable place to get better.”

“She had left, Charles…”, Arthur croaked. You leaving the gang behind had left him with mixed feelings. He had worked through them before and had arrived at the conclusion that it was better for you, and still…seeing you here, healthy and restless, he regretted not having you there at the end. You could have been of great assistance. Could have prevented Abigail from being taken or made John’s prison break easier. Hell, he might have had more fun killing the last of the O’Driscoll’s if you had been by his side. The prospect of your sudden absence when he might have required your presence left a bitter aftertaste in his mind.

“Don’t blame her for that. She had no obligation to stay, she was only with us for little more than a month at this time and she could tell that it was coming to an end”, Charles said.

Arthur thought what might have happened if you had been there at the stand-off. The notion of having another ally by his side, countering the overpowering presence of Bill, Javier, Micah and his two traitorous cronies, weighed heavily on his mind Yet, this reverie crumbled upon realization – there was the cruel possibility that instead of Miss Grimshaw, you would have found your demise. Or considering your proclivity for action over passivity, you might have opened fire earlier and would have caused an even worse outcome. Yes, maybe your absence had been the better.

“She rode hours through rain to fetch you a doctor”, Charles went on as he saw Arthur’s thoughts wander, “She found a nice man with a waggon. The doctor said he knew you and that you helped him one time in Rhodes.”

That put a little smile on Arthur’s lips, because he remembered the Doctor well. He was talking all funny and had had his waggon stolen. “Yeah”, Arthur answered as a sign of recognition.

Even Charles didn’t know what more to say, so he put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, before he left him alone.

The group had settled down near a creek. You had been on the move for a while now, and food supplies were running low, so they had decided to camp here for a couple of days, until hunting and gathering had provided enough resources to continue the travel. It was then that Arthur left his little nest that had been made for him. A simple waggon really, with some linen span across it to shield him from the weather. Sitting up was exhausting, but he managed to more or less crawl to the opening, sitting there and letting his legs dangle from the waggon. Everyone was working. The horses were grazing, a couple of kids were running around. It wasn’t difficult to spot you, chopping some wood and carrying it to the fire. That’s when you caught Arthur’s eye and approached him.

Seeing him out of “bed” put a big smile on your face.

“Why even bother?”, Arthur asked when you had reached him, jumping up the waggon to sit next to him. “Should’ve shot me when they found me. Tuberculosis can’t be healed, as far as I’ve heard.”

“Tuberculosis? What are you talking about?”, you looked at Arthur curiously. He stared back in silence, furrowing his eyebrows.

"It's what I've got", Arthur explained, a little sceptical as if your gaze alone had made him unsure of the diagnosis.

"You don't have tuberculosis. At least, the doctor we consulted said so", a smile played on your lips. A knowledgeable smile, as if you knew more than him. It was a cheeky smile.

Arthur didn't believe you.

"Y/n, I was on the brink of death when you found me. I cough up more blood than I ever lost through bullets…taking a deep breath was almost impossible.”

"How's it now though? The breathing...", you asked.

Arthur halted and for the first time since he had regained consciousness, he drew in a deep breath. Then another, and another. It was slightly uncomfortable, as though something was constricting his lungs and made it harder for him to let air in, but it didn't hurt. It was only after the fourth big breath that a slight cough stirred from within. But it didn't ripple his airpipe, bringing red fluid onto his lips. It almost tickled. It reminded him of the sensation of pressing upon a spot where a bruise had once been, recently faded. It wouldn’t hurt, but it would tickle, and the skin would be terribly sensitive.

"It's...okay I guess", Arthur concluded.

You smiled, satisfied: "You don't have TB. I mean...maybe you do, but Doctor said if you had, it wouldn't have shown so soon and with such vigour. But he did say you had the worst case of pneumonia he had ever seen. We weren't sure you'd make it. But now that you have pulled through the worse", you shrugged, "I'm afraid you'll have to see my ugly face still."

Arthur didn't know what to say. Was he relieved? Happy, even? He didn't know. He was just speechless.

"Doctor said that in case you recover, you'll have to rest a lot. He knew you, by the way. Black fella with a nice-looking waggon. Weird grinder thing on top. Had to help him fix a wheel when I brought him up here. He said you had helped him some time ago, fighting the people who had stolen his waggon. And then he said you wouldn't be fighting anyone for a while, even when you are back on your feet. You need to rest for months, fresh air,...and especially, seeing that you have lost about half your weight, lots of good food. No smoking, of course."

Arthur’s chuckle rippled through the air as he started to grasp the situation. “That’s quite the relief”, he murmured, chuckled lightly as he finally started to grasp the whole situation: “That’s good news.”

“What? That you look like skin and bones?”, you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

“No. That I’ll get to see your ugly face for some time longer”, he bumped back, stronger than you had and almost knocking you into the edge of the waggon. You hadn’t been so relieved for a long time. You felt something thick in your throat and tears gathered at the corners of your eyes.

“Missed ya, ya know”, you said quickly before a sob could work its way up.

“I missed ya too”, Arthur looked at you. He noticed the wet eyes and scrunched his nose immediately: “You gone soft while I was out? You crying ‘cause of me?”

The teasing tone alone was so friendly and welcome, it cheered you up even more.

“You ain’t worth crying over, Mr. Morgan”, you lied.

“Damn right I’m not”, he said. He let his eyes roam around the camp again. It felt familiar. The image or Horseshoe Overlook came to him, but this was different, of course. Or was it?

“You hungry?”, you asked.

“Starving. If ya can offer something else but soup”, Arthur quickly added. He only had eaten soup the last days. It was the only meal which didn’t require chewing and wouldn’t immediately choke him in his half-conscious state. This time, you brought him a small portion of stew. Not comparable to the stew Mr. Pearson had cooked. The small pieces of meat that you had granted him in his portion were as soft as they possibly could be, almost melting in his mouth.

“Slow down, god damn it”, you warned him.

“Yes, ma’am”, Arthur quietly mumbled. It was hard to slow down, but he knew he had to, since this was the first time he ate properly in – he later was being told – 13 days.

In the evening, you approached him again. Arthur was lying in his bed, half-recumbent with his journal on his lap. It was closed, Arthur was merely thinking. He had flipped through some entries before, but now he enjoyed being idle and watching everyone getting ready for the night.

“Arthur”, you knocked at the wood before appearing in his field of vision, “got something for you. I almost forgot, I had it stored away.”

You climbed on the waggon and put down a gunnysack. You carefully spilled its contents onto the floor. Arthur recognizes the round glass with the flower first. Then the picture of his mother. The picture of him and Mary. The shot of his father, though big chunks of the little picture were charcoaled and burnt, he only recognized it because he had looked at it so often. Two shirts, one pair of pants and an old belt that he hadn’t used in a while.

“That’s all that was really left, I’m afraid”, you said. He didn’t need to ask, he understood. You had gone back to where they had last camped and had rummaged through what was left after the fire to store it for him.

“Why did you…?”, Arthur started, picking up the picture of his mother.

“I…don’t know. I never had many belongings to my name, but those I had, meant much to me. Figured you feel the same”, you shrugged. Then a cheeky smile appeared on your lips: “Thought it would be nice to bury you with them if you didn’t make it.”

Arthur clicked his tongue. “It was stupid to go there. Might have been dangerous.”

“Felt worth it for me, I guess”, you said.

After a pause, Arthur thanked you. You wished him a good night at let him be. As soon as your frame vanished from the little field of view that the open canvas space granted him, he opened his journal again. He pulled out Mary’s last letter to him. Not reading the neatly written words again, he simply turned the envelope upside down, until the ring fell into his hand.

…

It took two more days before Arthur was strong enough to walk around and be on his feet for more than ten minutes at a time. But he felt fine enough to take a bath in the creek and shave. It was shocking to see his cheeks that have sunken quite a bit due to the weight loss, but Arthur’s appetite was as good as ever, so you didn’t worry about it too much.

Most of the day he spent by sitting in the shade and observing the people. Mostly you, if he was being honest. You played with the kids, helped wherever another hand was needed.

He was trying to get up from his little patch under a tree when Rains Fall approached him. Arthur hadn’t encountered him yet, he had been busy with arranging and managing the move. The last time Arthur had seen him, he had delivered him his dying son.

“How are you, Mr. Morgan?”, Rains Fall’s voice was as gentle as ever.

“Feeling much better now. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in”, Arthur said.

“After all you have done for us, it is I who must thank you”, Rain Falls smiled slightly. Silence ensued between the two men before Rains Fall spoke again, “I recall our conversation when you were my company on the ride up the mountain. You said that some people in your gang still had a chance for a good live and that you wanted to give them that.”

“Yeah”, Arthur said, his eyes fixed on you. You were brushing some horse in the distance.

“What’s with her?”, Rains Fall asked, following Arthur’s gaze, “I heard she took excellent care of you. Charles told me she’s a fierce spirit when cornered, but she seems tame and gentle. I can see that you care for her deeply too.”

“Suppose I do”, Arthur answered, “I’m not sure if that’s what she wants.”

“There are always some uncertainties in life, don’t waste too much thought on those that can be resolved with one simple question”, the chief answered. Arthur nodded, as if he understood, though he wasn’t so sure how much of the situation he had actually grasped. The ring that Arthur had picked out of the letter was in his pocket, and he felt it, when Rains Fall spoke those words. When nothing more was said on that matter, Rains Falls sighed: “Tomorrow, we’ll be on the move again. We haven’t covered much ground yet, but I’m certain we’ll make it.”

It was a statement that needed no comment and Arthur watched as the old man walked away.

The group barely covered ten miles a day. It was a good pace, nevertheless, for Arthur was on his feet again and tried to make himself useful. He tended to the horses, seeing they are well cared for and rested for the journey. All this time, you were pretty much at his side non-stop.

“You used to say ya don’t need me to do babysitting…but now yer the one watching me like I’m gonna do something stupid the second you lay your eyes off me”, Arthur teased.

“I don’t trust you to do no heavy lifting”, you said with a smile. It was a good opportunity to be close to him and help.

All of a sudden, you had started sleeping in the same waggon as he. Because the one you had used was “needed otherwise”. You sat next to him at night, watching him draw in his journal and often fell asleep way before him. Arthur was unsure if this was a sign that everything was like before, that you still liked him, but he was glad about the closeness again. The second night, he held you. The third night, you fell asleep with your head resting on his chest.

“I’m going to leave”, you said. You sat next to Arthur and watched his pencil strokes. They had been shading the horse he had just sketched. The pencil halted and Arthur looked at you.

“What?”

“Day after tomorrow, I’m leaving. I want to head south again. Then west, maybe”, you looked Arthur in the eye. His blue eyes which were warmly illuminated by the oil lamp in the waggon darted around your face. You weren’t teasing or joking, he could tell as much.

“You know I’m not someone who sticks with a group. If this thing goes bad, I’ll feel like I’m responsible”, you offered further explanation.

“Yer gonna head out there alone?”, Arthur asked, his voice strained.

“Was hoping you’d join me, actually”, you swallowed. You had dragged the question out for a while now. You knew that Arthur needed to be somewhat recovered if he was to travel with you, so you had had a good excuse for not asking for a long while. But the last couple of days the anxiety had been eating you from the inside.

Arthur didn’t answer. He watched you; you watched your own hands. As he remained silent, you unwillingly lifted your head to look at him. This was all that Arthur needed. His hand found your chin and lifted it even more, turning it towards him. In the blink of an eye, your lips met. Arthur tasted the tobacco on your lips and figured he missed smoking. Or at least, he missed sharing a cigarette with you.

“I thought you might not like me no more”, Arthur said as the kiss had ended. Both of your faces remained so close, your foreheads touched, and Arthur only needed to whisper the words to make you understand.

“Well, there’s always been lot of nonsense in your brain”, you grinned. You were relieved, because frankly, you had feared the same.

You kissed him again before asking: “Can I take that as a yes?”

“You better”, Arthur breathed, now snaking his hands around you and pulling you into yet another kiss.

III. The Life After

The parting with the Rains Fall and his people unfolded smoothly. Farewells were exchanged without any pressure of time and in good spirits. Charles and Arthur, in particular, enjoyed a more extended exchange of goodbyes compared to their previous parting. Both could go smiling, knowing that the other one would be fine.

Arthur got a spare horse, a young, not entirely tamed one, though Arthur was more than capable of handling it. Your travels back South progressed fast. It took a toll on Arthur, traveling on horseback after he had only been on his feet for a week, but you took care of that with long breaks and early nights. Sometimes, you’d rest for an entire day, also giving the horses some time to recover. You’d take care of food in a nearby town or go hunting, while Arthur watched the little possessions you travelled with. By the time you reached Ambarino, the leaves on the trees had assumed hues of red and brown and the nights were getting colder.

“Shouldn’t we head West?”, Arthur halted his horse. You had just crossed the Grizzlies and had travelled along the Dakota River for a while, before you stirred your horse East. The air was fresh, and Arthur was wrapped in a coat you had bought in a town before crossing the Grizzlies. The sun was still strong enough that the buttons could remain open, but sometimes a strong gush of wind would send a shiver through your spine and remind you that winter would be here soon.

“We can’t continue traveling”, you said. Arthur was exhausted, and so were you.

“So, what do you suggest?”, Arthur rode next to you, stirring his horse into a slow trod next to yours.

“I know a place where we can lay low for the winter”, you said, not explaining further, even though you felt Arthur’s curious gaze. Only when you arrived at O’Creagh’s Run later that day and headed so decidedly for Hamish Sinclair’s cabin, Arthur understood.

“That’s where you wanna live?”, he asked amusedly.

“Nice man lives there. I’m sure he’ll let us stay with him for a while”, you explained. Arthur smiled, but didn’t want to spoil that he knew the old veteran. Hamish was already outside doing repairs on his little boat when he saw you approach.

“Ain’t that a nice surprise!”, Hamish raised his arms, “A visit by two friends at once!”

Now it was your turn to be surprised: “You know each other?!”

“Of course. Arthur Morgan!”, Hamish shook the hand of Arthur as soon as he had dismounted, “You’ve lost some weight my friend, but you look as fine as ever.”

Over hot coffee, Hamish was filled in on the happenings of the last month. When you asked to stay at his place for a while, Hamish was delighted. Almost immediately, you started to build another bed, because it was agreed upon that Arthur would need something more comfortable to sleep on. You would be fine with the floor in front of the fireplace for now and Hamish would continue to sleep in his bed.

It worked remarkably well. The three of you were rather quiet and when something needed to be done, it was done sooner rather than later. Arthur fished most of the time, you were out hunting with Hamish. Hamish would teach you to cook some meals, because, as he put it “A man that has lived alone for such a long time, knows his cooking spoon”, and you’d run errands in town, if something needed to be fetched. The fall of the Van der Linde Gang was still comparably recent, so the posters were still all about and to risk Arthur being seen, wasn’t a risk anyone was willing to take.

As idyllic as most of the days passed, one would think that there weren’t any struggles or that you spent your days hunting and selling pelts. But you would have never been able to sell enough pelts to support three adults, so sometimes, you’d go out and rob a stage or some rich looking traveller. You told Arthur but kept quiet in front of Hamish.

The days became shorter and the chill of winter settled in, Arthur’s recovery progressed steadily. He started to put on some more weight and longer walks or chopping wood didn’t leave him struggling for air any longer. Hamish would sometimes go out for a whole day, granting the two of you precious moments of solitude and intimacy.

In December, Hamish announced he’d be gone for a few days, visiting a cousin in Valentine. He’d be back for Christmas Day, he promised. Arthur and you considered the possibility that Hamish’ cousin was a fabrication, a ruse to give the two of you some more time alone. Nevertheless, you appreciated the gesture wholeheartedly.

Snow had fallen and the fireplace had been ceaselessly crackling in the past few days. So, the hut remained comfortably warm. In Hamish’ absence, you shared Arthur’s bed. Nestled against his chest, you traced circles through the dark patch of hair just below his navel. The only sounds to be heard were the steady crackling of the fire and the hoot of an owl nestled in a nearby tree.

“Ya mean a lot to me, y/n”, Arthur’s words slipped out so unexpectedly that you sat up and looked at him with surprise and suspicion. You were well aware of his feelings. After all, he had demonstrated as much just half an hour ago, in that very bed.

“Yer talking strange”, you remarked and raised an eyebrow.

“I love you”, Arthur said, his tone carrying an unusual weight.

“And…I love you too”, you replied slowly. This wasn’t the first time you had said that to each other, but the manner in which Arthur said it felt different. Arthur gave you a look that was so full of uncertainty and self-depreciation for himself, you lightly slapped him on his bare shoulder.

“What is going on? Did I do something wrong?”, you asked. You even raised the blanket to check if this was a new sort of foreplay that he was trying because he was ready for the second round. It was also an attempt to lift the mood, because the tension of the situation started to prickle your skin.

“Ain’t nothing wrong. I just gotta ask ya something and it ain’t easy”, Arthur complained. sitting up straight.

“Yes. I’m sorry Arthur, but the Gingerbread you baked yesterday is inedible”, you joked. You and Arthur had tried to make some gingerbread yesterday and because you hadn’t felt like baking, he had taken control of the matter. The result was…lacking, to say the least. You had lied that it looked and tasted alright, but you had been sure that by the disgusted face you had made it was clear that it had to disappear before Hamish came back and threw them out for dishonouring his kitchen.

“That’s not it and…”, Arthur looked at you funny, “It wasn’t that bad.” You smiled at him sympathetically.

“I just…god damn it, woman”, Arthur rearranged his sitting position. The he got up and slipped into his pants and shirt. He was somewhat angry, irritated maybe. Or nervous? You watched him confused.

Arthur was still fastening his pants when his voice, low and hesitant, reached your ears: “I just wanted you to know that I love ya…”

You nodded as if it was silly to suggest otherwise. With Arthur’s warmth now absent from your side, your body was cooling down and you pulled the blanked further up. And then Arthur caught you completely off guard because he knelt down besides the bed. His fingers swiftly plunged into his pockets and retrieved a ring.

“I was wondering if ya might wanna marry me”, Arthur voice was firm. He didn’t want to give the impression that he was in any doubt that he wants to spend the rest of the time with you. He was fully aware that he wasn’t the youngest anymore and that the sickness had marked him significantly. Since recovering, he had gained back most of the weight, yet ther were times when his muscles reminded him of their limitations, failing him when he attempted tasks that were once effortless.

You stared at him in disbelief, a thousand thoughts running through your head. When Arthur opened his mouth again, you were afraid that you had taken too long to answer.

“I thought it was too late for me to marry someone. I’m old. And unlovable, mostly”, Arthur chuckled warmly, “If two people ain’t too big of a group for you…” Arthur added mumbling ‘maybe three or four at some point’ before continuing, “I’d want ya to know that I plan to stick with you. Yer still young, so I understand if yer don’t want to-“

“Yes.”

Arthur shut up at looked at you. Was that a yes to “not wanting to marry”? Arthur looked like a kicked puppy for a moment, before you cleared his confusion: “Yes, I want to marry you, you dumbass.”

The ring slipped on seamlessly. The Arthur picked you up, naked as you were and hugged you lovingly. You squealed because of the cold air.

“Are we telling Hamish?”

Arthur mumbled the response into the crook of your neck which he was peppering with kisses: “If ya want. That enough of a Christmas present for him?”

You hit Arthur’s back: “Hell no! The man lets us live in his home. I was thinking about getting him a new rifle.”

Arthur set you down and you gathered your clothes, putting them on slowly, as Arthur was taking his time admiring you.

“Put some money back”, you grinned mischievously, “It was also meant for buying you a present. But I suppose that being my husband is good enough.”

“Oh you!”, Arthur growled and scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder. For all the strength he had lost, he was still strong enough to do that. Barefooted, Arthur stamped out of the cabin. “Give me one reason to not throw you into the lake!”, he teased and approached the jetty. It wasn’t frozen yet entirely, but the water was icy cold and black.

“I’m your wife!”

“Not yet you ain’t!”, Arthur made a motion that made you shriek, but he only feinted to throw you in, “besides, that is no valid reason.”

“I’ll kill you, if you do!”, now you tried to break free, but Arthur’s grip was firm.

“Ohh. That’s more like it. Though I think you love me too much for that.”

“Many wives kill their husbands!”, you screamed.

“I could drown ya first, ya know”, Arthur teased and swirled around, so you faced the black water.

“You’ll never find out where I stashed the money and won’t afford a present for Hamish!”, you finally said.

“That’s true”, with that, Arthur let you down. As soon as your bare feet touched the snow, you darted inside, shivering violently in front of the fireplace.

Arthur soon followed, having more of a quieter complexion. He closed the door behind him, and the warm and loving atmosphere of the cabin was restored. In many ways, Arthur saw you as an equal. You were just as good as a shot as he was, just as fast when it came to running or riding. There was no need to escape his old live, because you were an outlaw just like him. You didn’t mind if life meant running away from the law. He didn’t need to tread lightly with you. You could take criticism; a discussion or whatever life threw at you. And yet, he found your movements graceful, gentle. Most of the time, at least. Arthur smiled at the thought. When your opponent was a bigger man and it would come to close ranged fighting, you became sloppy and angry, but with a gun you were the definition of accuracy and grace.

“Hello?”, you looked at Arthur wit tilted head, drawing his attention back from his reverie, “Where have you wandered off to?” His daydreams had lasted so long, he had barely noticed that you had dressed yourself.

“Jus’ dreamin’ about my future wife, ‘s all”, Arthur grinned sheepishly. He extended his arms invitingly, and you moved closer, nestling into his embrace.

“Don’t start expecting things I’m not capable”, you said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know?! Maybe I want my husband to be capable of baking proper gingerbread for Christmas and then you come along and-“, Arthur interrupted you by poking you into the side and making you squeal.

“You do it better then!”, he challenged.

“I suppose I will!”, you grinned back, heading for the little stove, “I bet mine are at least two times more…edible than your sorry experiment.”

“What are we betting? A kiss, Mrs. Morgan?”, Arthur said slimily, his arms crossed and watching you. The name made you feel warm and happy. For all the times you’d been mistaken as a Bell, you like that name way more. But for old time’s sake, you turned around and looked at the man you love.

“Your life, Morgan!”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @xclovers @photo1030 @cowboydisaster @stilinskiwitch @globetrotter28 @unbotheredbeeeee @eyelovie @ashjbu @lovrgirlsstuff @how-the-heck-would-i-know @j4llyf7sh @urfavjanalein @thatonestrangebird @nirvanaaaonly

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr #rdr fanfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months

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Podcasting "Let the Platforms Burn"

This week on my podcast, I read “Let the Platforms Burn,” a recent Medium column making the case that we should focus more on making it easier for people to leave platforms, rather than making the platforms less terrible places to be:

https://doctorow.medium.com/let-the-platforms-burn-6fb3e6c0d980

The platforms used to be source of online stability, and many argued that by consolidating the wide and wooly web into a few “curated” silos, the platforms were replacing chaos with good stewardship. If we wanted to make the internet hospitable to normies, we were told, we had to accept that Apple and Facebook’s tightly managed “simplicity” were the only way to get there.

But today, all the platforms are on fire, all the time. They are rocked by scandals every bit as awful as the failures of the smaller sites of yesteryear, but while harms of a Geocities or Livejournal moderation failure were confined to a small group of specialized users, failures in the big silos reach hundreds of millions or even billions of people.

What should we do about the rolling crisis of the platforms? The default response — beloved of Big Tech’s boosters and critics alike — is to impose rules on the platforms to make them more hospitable places for the billions they’ve engulfed. But I think that will fail. Instead, I think we should make the platforms less important places by freeing those billions.

That’s the argument of the column.

Think of California’s wildfires. While climate change has increased the intensity and frequency of our fires, climate (and neglect by PG&E) is merely part of the story. The other part of the story is fire-debt.

For millennia, the original people of California practiced controlled burns of the forests they lived, hunted, and played in. These burns cleared out sick and dying trees, scoured the forest floor of tinder, and opened spaces in the canopy that gave rise to new growth. Forests need fire — literally: the California redwood can’t reproduce without it:

https://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/giant-sequoia-needs-fire-grow/15094/

But this ended centuries ago, when settlers stole the land and declared an end to “cultural burning” by the indigenous people they expropriated, imprisoned, and killed. They established permanent settlements within the fire zone, and embarked on a journey of escalating measures to keep that smouldering fire zone from igniting.

These heroic measures continue today, and they’ve set up a vicious cycle: fire suppression creates the illusion that it’s safe to live at the wildlife urban interface. Taken in by this illusion, more people move to the fire zone — and their presence creates political pressure for even more heroic measures.

The thing is, fire suppression doesn’t mean no fires — it means wildfires. The fire debt mounts and mounts, and without an orderly bankruptcy — controlled burns — we get chaotic defaults, the kind of fire that wipes out whole towns.

Eventually, we will have to change tacks: rather than making it safe to stay in the fire zone, we’re going to have to make it easy to leave, so that we can return to those controlled burns and pay down those fire-debts.

And that’s what we need to do with the platforms.

For most of the history of consumer tech and digital networks, fire was the norm. New platforms — PC companies, operating systems, online services — would spring up and grow with incredible speed, only to collapse, seemingly without warning.

To get to the bottom of this phenomenon, you need to understand two concepts: network effects and switching costs.

Network effects: A service enjoys network effects if it increases in value as more people use it. AOL Instant Messenger grows in usefulness every time someone signs up for it, and so does Facebook. The more users, the more reasons to join. The more people who join, the more people will join.

Switching costs: The things you have to give up when you leave a product or service. When you quit Audible, you have to throw away all your audiobooks (they will only play on Audible-approved players). When you leave Facebook, you have to say goodbye to all the friends, family, communities and customers that brought you there.

Tech has historically enjoyed enormous network effects, which propelled explosive growth. But it also enjoyed low switching costs, which underpinned implosive contraction. Because digital systems are universal (all computers can run all programs; all nodes on the network can connect to one another), it was historically very easy to switch from one service to another.

Someone building a new messenger service or social media platform could import your list of contacts, or even use bots to fetch the messages left for you on the old service and put them in the inbox on the new one, and then push your replies back to the people you left behind. Likewise, when Apple made its iWork office suite, it could reverse-engineer the Microsoft Office file formats so you could take all your data with you if you quit Windows and switched to MacOS:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

This dynamic — network effects growth and low switching costs contraction — is why we think of tech as so dynamic. It’s companies like DEC were able to turn out minicomputers that shattered the dominance of mainframes. But it’s also why DEC was brought so low that a PC company, Compaq — was able to buy it for pennies on the dollar. Compaq — a company that built an empire by making interoperable IBM PC clones — was itself “disrupted” a few years later, and HP bought it for spare change found in the sofa cushions.

But HP didn’t fall to Compaq’s fate. It survived — as did IBM, Microsoft, Apple, Google and Facebook. Somehow, the cycle of “good fire” that kept any company from growing too powerful was interrupted.

Today’s tech giants run “walled gardens” that are actually walled prisons that entrap their billions of users by imposing high switching costs on them. How did that happen? How did tech become “five giant websites filled with screenshots from the other four?”

https://twitter.com/tveastman/status/1069674780826071040

The answer lies in the fact that tech was born as antitrust was dying. Reagan hit the campaign trail the same year the Apple ][+ hit shelves. With every presidency since, tech has grown more powerful and antitrust has grown weaker (the Biden administration has halted this decay, but it must repair 40 years’ worth of sabotage).

This allowed tech to “merge to monopoly.” Google built a single successful product — a search engine — and then conquered the web by buying other peoples’ companies, even as their own internal product development process produced a nearly unbroken string of flops. Apple buys 90 companies a year — Tim Cook brings home a new company more often than you bring home a bag of groceries:

https://www.theverge.com/2019/5/6/18531570/apple-company-purchases-startups-tim-cook-buy-rate

When Facebook was threatened by an upstart called Instagram, Mark Zuckerberg sent a middle-of-the-night email to his CFO defending his plan to pay $1b for the then-tiny company, insisting that the only way to secure eternal dominance was to eliminate competitors — by buying them out, not by being better than them. As Zuckerberg says, “It is better to buy than compete”:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/7/29/21345723/facebook-instagram-documents-emails-mark-zuckerberg-kevin-systrom-hearing

As tech consolidated into a cozy oligopoly whose execs hopped from one company to another, they rigged the game. They colluded on a criminal “no-poach” deal to suppress their workers’ wages:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-Tech_Employee_Antitrust_Litigation

And they colluded to illegally rig the ad-market:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

This collusion is the inevitable result of market concentration. 100 squabbling tech companies will be at each others’ throats, unable to agree on catering for their annual meeting much less a common lobbying agenda. But boil those companies down to a bare handful and they’ll quickly converge on a single hymn and twine their voices in eerie harmony:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/16/compulsive-cheaters/#rigged

Eliminating antitrust enforcement — letting companies buy and merge with competitors, permitting predatory pricing and other exclusionary tactics — was the first step towards unsustainable fire suppression. But, as on the California wildland-urban interface, this measure quickly gave way to ever-more-extreme ones as the fire debt mounted.

The tech’s oligarchs have spent decades both suppressing laws that would limit their extractive profits (there’s a reason there’s no US federal privacy law!), and, crucially, getting new law made to limit anyone from “disrupting” them as they disrupted their forebears.

Today, a thicket of laws and rules — patent, copyright, anti-circumvention, tortious interference, trade secrecy, noncompete, etc — have been fashioned into a legal superweapon that tech companies can use to control the conduct of their competitors, critics and customers, and prevent them from making or using interoperable tools to reduce their switching costs and leave their walled gardens:

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

Today, these laws are being bolstered with new ones that make it even more difficult for users to leave the platforms. These new laws purport to protect users from each other, but they leave them even more at the platforms’ mercy.

So we get rules requiring platforms to spy on their users in the name of preventing harassment, rather than laws requiring platforms to stand up APIs that let users leave the platform and seek out a new online home that values their wellbeing:

https://cyber.fsi.stanford.edu/publication/lawful-awful-control-over-legal-speech-platforms-governments-and-internet-users

We get laws requiring platforms to “balance” the ideology of their content moderation:

https://www.texastribune.org/2022/09/16/texas-social-media-law/

But not laws that require platforms to make it easy to seek out a new server whose moderation policies are more hospitable to your ideas:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/07/right-or-left-you-should-be-worried-about-big-tech-censorship

The platforms insist — with some justification — that we can’t ask them to both control their users and give their users more freedom. If we want a platform to detect and block “bad content,” we can’t also require the platform to let third party interoperators plug into the system and exchange messages with it.

They’re right — but that doesn’t mean we should defend them. The problem with the platforms isn’t merely that they’re bad at defending their users’ interests. The problem is that they can’t defend those interests. Mark Zuckerberg isn’t merely monumentally, personally unsuited to serving as the unelected, unaacountable social media czar for billions of people in hundreds of countries, speaking thousands of languages. No one should have that job.

We don’t need a better Mark Zuckerberg. We need no Mark Zuckerbergs. We don’t need to perfect Zuck — we need to abolish Zuck.

Rather than pouring our resources into making life in the smoldering wildlife-urban interface safe, we should help people leave that combustible zone, with policies that make migration easy.

This month, we got an example of how just easy that migration could be. Meta launched Threads, a social media platform that used your list of Instagram followers and followees to get you set up. Those low switching costs made it easy for Instagram users to become Threads users — and the network effects meant it happened fast, with 30m signups in the first morning:

https://www.techdirt.com/2023/07/06/meta-launches-threads-and-its-important-for-reasons-that-most-people-wont-care-about/

Meta says it was able to do this because it owns both Insta and Threads. But Meta doesn’t own the list of accounts that you trust and value enough to follow, or the people who feel the same way about you. That’s yours. We could and should force Meta to let you have it.

But that’s not enough. Meta claims that it will someday integrate Threads into the Fediverse, the collection of services based on the ActivityPub standard, whose most popular app is Mastodon. On Mastodon, you not only get to export your list of followers and followees with one click, but you can import those followers and followees to a new server with one click.

Threads looks incredibly stupid, a “Twitter alternative you would order from Brookstone,” but there are already tens of millions of people establishing relationships with each other there:

https://jogblog.substack.com/p/facebooks-threads-is-so-depressing

When they get tired of “brand-safe vaporposting,” they’ll have to either give up those relationships, or resign themselves to being trapped inside another walled-garden-cum-prison operated by a mediocre tech warlord:

https://www.garbageday.email/p/the-algorithmic-anti-culture-of-scale

But what if, instead of trying to force Zuck to be a better emperor-for-life, we passed rules requiring him to let his subjects flee his tyrannical reign? We could require Threads to stand up a Fediverse gateway that let users leave the service and set up on any other Fediverse servers (we could apply this rule to all Fediverse servers, preventing petty dictators from tormenting their users, too):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/platforms-decay-lets-put-users-first

Zuck founded an empire of oily rags, and so of course it’s always on fire. We can’t make it safe to stay, but we can make it easy to leave:

https://locusmag.com/2018/07/cory-doctorow-zucks-empire-of-oily-rags/

This is the thing platforms fear the most. Network effects work in both directions: if your service grows quickly because people value one another, then it will shrink quickly when the people your users care about leave. As @zephoria-blog recounts, this is what happened when Myspace imploded:

http://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2022/12/05/what-if-failure-is-the-plan.html

When I started seeing the disappearance of emotionally sticky nodes, I reached out to members of the MySpace team to share my concerns and they told me that their numbers looked fine. Active uniques were high, the amount of time people spent on the site was continuing to grow, and new accounts were being created at a rate faster than accounts were being closed. I shook my head; I didn’t think that was enough. A few months later, the site started to unravel.

Platforms collapse “slowly, then all at once.” The only way to prevent sudden platform collapse syndrome is to block interoperability so users can’t escape the harms of your walled garden without giving up the benefits they give to each other.

We should stop trying to make the platforms good. We should make them gone. We should restore the “good fire” that ended with the growth of financialized Big Tech empires. We should aim for soft landings for users, and stop pretending that there’s any safe way to life in the fire zone.

We should let the platforms burn.

Here’s the podcast:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/07/16/let-the-platforms-burn-the-opposite-of-good-fires-is-wildfires/

And here’s a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the @internetarchive; they’ll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_446/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_446_-_Let_the_Platforms_Burn.mp3

And here’s my podcast feed:

https://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

Tonight (July 18), I’m hosting the first Clarion Summer Write-In Series, an hour-long, free drop-in group writing and discussion session. It’s in support of the Clarion SF/F writing workshop’s fundraiser to offer tuition support to students:

https://mailchi.mp/theclarionfoundation/clarion-write-ins

[Image ID: A forest wildfire. Peeking through the darks in the stark image are hints of the green Matrix "waterfall" effect.]

Image: Cameron Strandberg (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fire-Forest.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #mp3s #saving the news from big tech #platform decay #enshittification #fire debt #good fire #big tech #lawful but awful #content moderation #content moderation at scale #antitrust #trustbusting #podcasts

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ririya-translates · 1 month

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Domina

For Neji's birthday (a day late), Ishida posted a backstory for Domina on Twitter. It comes with a drawing and a BGM link as usual. The BGM song this time has English lyrics too. I'd really recommend checking it out, especially for those familiar with Neji's backstory.

This is also the only story we've gotten so far that requires reading the one prior for more context so please read Jire's story before this one. No winter play spoilers. I've done my best to keep formatting consistent with the original. Thanks to @himehikoshrine for looking over this for me.

While there was no status of nobility in Havenna, After forceful seizure Of the former Vena family territory, The rebel clan who overthrew them were the closest to this title.

The ones who stole away the Vena family lands, Welcomed in those with hidden wounds of guilt. They attacked merchants and settlements in the area, amassing considerable wealth.

Among them, were deserting soldiers who fled from the southern country.

After suffering defeat by the northern country, Some remnants of the southern army arrived on Havenna's shores. As a part of the rebel clan, they gained power and influence.

These army remnants gave themselves the name of Quatle. They gained power then fought relentlessly against the other clan members. In the end, both sides inflicted wounds on each other to the point of self-destruction.

***

The Quatle Litus family, descendants of the Quatle line, Was the one family in particular That was unable to maintain their wealth and influence through the conflicts.

After being burdened with a tremendous sum of debt, The head of the household sold all 13 children And used the money to flee Havenna, Disappearing far into the southern lands.

Liz, youngest child of the Quatle Litus family, was sold to a struggling mugwort den. She readily tossed aside family pride and lived the life of a Havenna woman.

Years later, the owner of Pontartia fell for her on sight. She flattered him, started using the name Domina, And eventually took over the greatest mugwort den in Havenna.

I don't get Domina. (From the notebook of Kokuto Neji "Liz Quatle Litus")

Ishida's note: This is fanfiction by an original creator. What is written in the game itself is always canon. Towada reblogged the post as well.

(TL note: It once again uses the idiom 'wounds on one's shins'/すねに傷のある which typically means a guilty conscience but also might reference Sissia.)

#jack jeanne #jackjeanne #kokuto neji #jjwinterplay #translation #otome game #otome

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leadkart · 2 years

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Welcome To Live Lead Kart If your interest rate has dropped significantly or if you have a significant amount of equity accrued in your home, then refinancing your mortgage is probably a good idea. Refinancing improves your cash flow and reduces the payment you make each month. These two factors will help you to grow your wealth even faster. Visit Us: https://liveleadkart.com/services/reverse-mortgage

#Mortgage refinance live transfers #Debt settlement live transfers #Reverse mortgage live transfers #Reverse mortgage #Mortgage refinance #Debt settlement #live transfers

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collapsedsquid · 9 months

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Once upon a time, it was decided that many public sector pay settlements would be decided by an independent pay review body. This seemed reasonably sensible at the time; it de-politicised the question and allowed for the possibility of unpopular decisions being made without being subject to too much public pressure. Once upon a time, it was decided that anti-inflation policy would be assigned wholly to the independent central bank. This seemed reasonably sensible at the time; there was pretty good economic theory in support of the idea that we’d get better outcomes if things were handed over to a body that could commit to policy over extended periods and wasn’t subject to the electoral cycle. Once upon a time, it was decided that the overall level of tax and spending should be subject to a fiscal rule. This seemed sensible to a lot of people at the time. To be honest pissed me off mightily and I have been complaining about it ever since, but the idea was that nobody trusted politicians and it was better to tie their hands and maintain confidence of the markets so that they wouldn’t sneakily run up the national debt. You can see that all of these things are, at some level or another, excuses. In the forthcoming book I call them “accountability sinks” – they are ways to avoid the unpleasant aspects of having to make a decision, by creating a system to which undesirable public feedback can be directed and dissipated. [...] It's sort of an aristocracy of excuses. You can sort of see how people get alienated from politics and inclined to vote for populists. To be honest, a dictatorship by ChatGPT no longer seems like it would be so much worse. The overpowering political theme of my adult life has been a retreat, on the part of those with power, from any idea of making a decision and living with it.

#more and more people are saying it

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wangxianficrecs · 2 months

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💙 What are the debts of hurt? by leafyleak

💙 What are the debts of hurt?

by leafyleak

G, 14k, Wangxian

Summary: Wen Qing wants to give Wei Wuxian his life back and she knows no better way than to learn gui dao and reduce the burden felt by Wei Wuxian. To give him choice. It's difficult to see how much her actions can change, if anything at all, because the cultivational clans are rotten to the core? Kay's comments: A very realistic (in my opinion) canon divergence story, which means that despite the divergence, it's not a fix-it and there's still a lot of pain. I absolutely love it though. I loved Wen Qing's and Wei Wuxian's relationship in this story, how Wen Qing slowly came to know Wei Wuxian better and how the Wens eventually became Wei Wuxian's true family. And of course I am living for demonic cultivator Wen Qing. Happy ending for Wangxian and A-Yuan, but it's bittersweet as well. Excerpt: Wen Qing wonders sometimes if he comes because he is unsure whether she can take care of the defences of the burial mounds. It is popo who prevents her from telling Wei Wuxian to stay away for longer - to do what makes him happy. Because what is freedom but choice and if Wei Wuxian chooses to come back, popo says she should consider it a blessing. An opportunity for her to repay her debts by taking care of his health. To provide him perhaps with the community he is missing - for she should not forget he is hardly better than a pariah in the cultivation world. Wen Qing advances his healing - but Wei Wuxian is the prickliest patient she has ever met. It takes consistent badgering from her, A-Yuan’s doe eyes, and Wen Ning’s quiet pleading for Wei Wuxian to sit still and let her check him. It was a visceral shock the first time she checked him.

pov alternating, canon divergence, demonic cultivator wen qing, burial mounds settlement days, burial mounds family as an esemble, families of choice, ghost general wen ning, angst with a happy ending, bittersweet ending, wei wuxian lives, jiang yanli lives, jin zixuan lives, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, yiling laozu wei wuxian, wei wuxian in wei wuxian's body, not jiang cheng friendly, cultivation sect politics, jiang family dyanamics, first siege of the burial mounds

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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saradika · 10 months

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— WASTELAND, BABY

iv. like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass

[masterlist] | [part iii]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 5.1k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, mentions of blood/violence/death, alcohol and drugs

a/n: ahh this was one was one of my faves to write - hope you like it! 💕

As you start to settle into your new life, more pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together.

You awaken feeling well rested.

No longer marking each passing day into the wall, no longer wandering without purpose.

There's ups and downs, but with each cycle of the sun, things feel just a little bit easier. The busy bustle of the city no longer makes your feel overwhelmed.

Though you've definitely gotten lost a few times - showing up late to meet Fennec, feeling stupid and sheepish.

There's a sort of comfort in knowing that in time - you will learn it.

Filling in a sort of errand girl. Picking up packages, running them from one part of the city to another. Helping mark shipments of food and supplies, noting what's running low.

It's a blessing, in a way. Keeping you mind busy. Getting you out, meeting new people.

You're actually a part of running conversations now, ones that are deeper than just ‘hello', and trickle from each day into the next. Faces that smile back when you wave, names starting to collect in your mind like small, hoarded treasures.

Learning more about this new world, things gleaned from those conversations. About how hard life was, before these settlements started being established. Months spent on the run from Raiders and worse - always on the move.

That some of that terror still lived on.

In cults that worshiped the radiation that still lingers, after the bombs.

In groups of mercenaries banding together, calling themselves Gunners. Taking pleasure in attacking the weak, leaving no prisoners.

In the strong that were stolen away from their families to fight in never-ending gladiatorial battles, working off debts they could never repay.

It has you feeling thankful, that you have a place here.

It's hard work.

Today, you're getting ready to head to the east wing of the building. The side that had taken the brunt of the blast, with crumbling walls and ripped apart floorboards. It's been a work in progress for years - repairing it would mean room for business, for people to live and stay.

You’ve spent months in the Vault mourning and bargaining and wishing. It had changed nothing. There was no turning back time. Instead - you try to pick out the small, good things in your day.

So yes, even though you often go to bed late and exhausted - you tell yourself that there is a sort of freedom in this new life. A simplicity, even though you know that this place is like a bubble, shielding you in. That the outside is still treacherous.

Here’s, there's no loans hanging over your head. No desk jobs. No long hours stuck in traffic.

What you're doing is making a difference - helping the town and the people. Earning your keep for a room that's started to grow on you, started to fill out.

A tidy collection of clothes.

An actual table and a second chair - set around a small hot plate.

An old leather bag with tools and supplies that join your trusty crowbar, so that you can repair things yourself. Bring them on your errands.

All still worn, but carefully repaired, and more importantly - yours.

Those tools are with you now, as you clear what looks to be an old hearing room. The lock on the door blasted off, anything good already looted some time ago.

A ring of toppled-over chairs sit among a dark-blue sea of scorched carpet. The chairs are useless - the fabric melted against the charred wooden frame, and you push them all up against one of the long walls.

Slowly making piles of things to toss and burn, things that can be repaired and salvaged or sold.

There's success in the few small things you find. Some bobby pins in the bottom of one of the desks, tucked into your bag. An old desk fan, one that the Mandalorian can show you how to break down into useable parts.

A success in knowing that the area you cleared out might become someone's home - a place for a family, who might have been spit up, otherwise.

It's not much.

But it helps you sleep a little better at night.

In the gaps of free time between those odd jobs, you often find yourself tucked into one of the nooks at the Palace.

There was always a swirl of activity, scores being settled, the occasional brawl. Some of those parts you could do without, but there was a certain attraction to the place that was hard to ignore.

It certainly didn't have anything to do with the man holding court.

For someone who had gunned down the Raiders so stoically and efficiently, it had been fascinating to see him in this new element.

The aura he held when he had been in the power armor - intimidating and commanding - still radiated off him in waves. Flanked by Fennec on his right side, eyes sharp in spite of her lounging, there was no doubt who held the power in the vast, circular room.

Your hands cup around a chipped mug, filled with a bitter, sludgy tea. Far from the best you've tasted - but it's warm and it was on the house, after you had helped reset their terminal the day before.

It had been a small triumph, something you had been able to bring to the table, other than manual labor. Crouched under the counter - as to not draw unwanted attention.

Fiddling with the wires that were so similar to the ones from the Vault. Until the screen flickered back to life, and the barista was clapping her hands with relief.

Now watching from under your eyelashes at the quarter-full room - most of the usual tenants preferring to spend time under the sun, making trades while the shop are open.

The meeting held openly with the man you had caught a glimpse of during your first day there.

He had been hard to miss, after all.

Despite the range of clothing worn in Mos Espa - everything from suits of armor, to close to nothing - someone in full historical garb, complete with a tattered, crimson frock coat and tricorn leather hat still stood out.

You think you even saw the flash of a flag knotted around his waist, but it had been hard to see from a distance. And from what you heard, his name matched his style.

John Hancock.

He was mid-discussion with Boba Fett - from what you picked up from whispers throughout the week, he was the Mayor of a town that was about a day's journey from here.

A place called Goodneighbor, the name at odds with the sordid history - founded by criminals, exiles from some bigger place called Diamond City.

"And what," Hancock is asking, "Could you offer us in exchange for a supply line? We've certainly been in business longer than you have, with no complaints that I've listened to."

He makes a show of looking around the room. When his eyes meet yours, they crinkle - beetle-black in the light, his fingers lifting to tip his hat as he winks. The swish of his cloak as he turns back, his hands bracing on lithe hips.

Boba shifts on the throne, an arm stretching out, fingers curling over the flat stone, "As I understand, there is not a lot of farmland in your area of the Commonwealth. Soon, we will be self-sufficient. We could supply your town with food, in exchange for things we need from the city."

Hancock shrugs, "Plenty of places to get food if you're not worried about rads, friend. Never been an issue for us Ghouls."

"Protection, then. Should you find yourself in that situation." Boba counters, fingers tapping twice.

The man's head tilts, shifting as a hand rests on his hip. The back-and-forth negotiations has you captivated.

Neither man has their voices raised - not like some of the others you've watched. A sort of easy-going smoothness to the rasp of the Mayor's voice - enough of an edge that warns you not to cross him.

"We heard all about your takeover, over in Goodneighbor." It's not a question, but it hangs heavy like one, a pause stretching a second too long.

One of Boba's eyebrows raises fractionally, "A necessary change."

"Something I can certainly understand. Also heard how you did all the dirty work yourself." Hancock grins at that - a crooked slash of a smile, "You don't delegate. I like that about you."

There's a slight curve to Boba's lips, his head cocking as he asks, "Do we have an agreement, then?"

"You know, a while ago I didn't think Goodneighbor needed a patron saint in power armor." Hancock's arms cross, fingers tapping on the sleeves of his frock coat, "But recently, there's been some... stirring. Somethin' digging at me. Makes me rethink a few things about my tenure."

A long beat, before he's stepping forward - hand extended, "So yes. You've got yourself a deal.”

"Excellent." Triumph looks good on Boba - the curve of a satisfied smirk, the pleased look in his eyes.

An easy way he relaxes back into place, the perfect way to begin wrapping up the busy evening, "You're welcome to visit as long as you'd like. I trust you've been enjoying your stay here."

"You bet your ass I have." The Mayor grins, and after everything - that has you smiling as well. The way that few would think to voice something like that, how Hancock doesn't bother the filter.

Something you're still getting used to.

The changes in social norms, how so many people cut to the chase. Respect and fear pushing over things you had been used to, not wanting to hurt feelings, hedging words and keeping things in.

Your eyes linger like your thoughts - watching as Boba fixes the helmet back in place. Disappearing behind the mask, as their conversation concludes.

"And if you'll excuse me," Hancock sweeps his hat off his head in a low mock-bow, "All these negotiations have made me thirsty."

Excusing himself, as he heads towards the bar.

Despite the open stools that curve around the counter, he takes the spot next to you. Up close, it's hard to not stare - which would be rude - even if you're motivated by pure curiosity rather than anything unpleasant.

Still getting used to all the physical changes to the world as well, and there weren't too many Ghouls in Mos Espa that you had talked to. Humans who has taken the brunt of the radiation. Ravaging their skin as they mutated, while extending their life spans and their constitution to the elements.

His face is a rough, peachy-pale. Pulled tight over pitted, scarred skin, a smooth crater where the cartilage from his nose is missing.

Handsome, when he smiles - like he's doing now. Ordering a drink, the flash of a sheathed knife as he pulls out some caps reminding you to still stay alert, even if he is charming.

You shift in your seat - trying not to pay too much attention. Concentrating on your own as he fishes a tin out of his pocket - a sharp crunch as he bites down on two chalky tablets from inside.

A sigh then, a drawn out ‘fuck’, before an elbow knocks into yours - you turn just in time to see he's offering it out to you.

"Want one? They're grape." He offers, and you're shaking your head.

Not too keen on taking anything from a stranger, much less something like mentats. He's unoffended, tucking it back with a shrug and a “thanks, doll” for the waitress as she sets a bottle and a glowing green shot in front of him.

"How long you been out?" He asks, before he drinks - a long, gulping swallow.

It takes you a second to realize he's talking to you.

"Excuse me?"

"The vault." His head cocks, "How long?"

His question makes you go still, an alarm ringing in your head. An unconscious glance back to Boba - wrapped up in another conversation.

Your new companion picks up on your worry quickly, his hands raising, palms facing you, "Sorry, friend. I know someone like you, a good pal of mine. Just wondering how you were taking it, I saw him bring you in from the wastes a while back."

Some of the panic eases. You do remember this man, when you were in the marketplace with Din on that first day. One of the figures in the crowd, his red coat a beacon in all the browns and greys.

"I didn't think anyone would notice."

"Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't." He shrugs, "The blue stands out, at least to someone like me. Probably a good thing you ditched it. People might try to take advantage."

"So I've heard," You begin to relax, then. In spite of his words, the warning in them. Fascination taking over, a curiosity at meeting someone from outside these walls, "Is this uh, your first time staying here?"

"Sure is." He leans back in the stool, "A guy like me's got plenty of reasons to avoid a place like this."

The shot gets tipped back next. The short glass clutched between three fingers as his head dips, the heavy bob of his throat as he swallows. A dark blink of those black eyes, letting loose a deep sigh - his shoulders as he leans against the backrest.

"But, now… I never thought I'd be on the same side as Boba Fett, I'll tell you that much." He smiles conspiratorially, a flash of teeth as you're left just looking at him with puzzlement.

"I forgot, you're still so green. Sorry, sister." Hancock's elbow bumps yours, as he leans closer, "He used to be a bounty hunter. Did you know that? The worst of the worst."

Your head shakes minutely, just barely resisting the urge to peek over his shoulder.

"And listen, I've done some bad things. Some really fucked up stuff, but not like that." He gives you a look, and there's something about it that sends a shiver up your spine.

Your voice comes out like a squeak, "Like what?"

His head tilts, eyes shifting your way, "You asking about me or him?"

"Either.” You squeak - before amending, “Both.”

"Let's just say I've done a little political re-arranging of my own." He comments darkly, "Bounty hunting though, that's a whole different animal. Not all the targets are criminals, doll. And bodies are paid for, dead or alive."

A small grin, as he does look - the sweep of his pointed hat as he glances over his shoulder, as if unable to help the double-check, "Thought I might have been on someone’s list, when I got the message that he wanted to meet."

It feels like things have changed so much. Yes, there were bounty hunters in your time, but they seemed to be a myth more than anything.

And this marks the second time you've talked so casually with someone who's uspured a position of power, but somehow - neither confirmed detail makes you want to flee the Palace.

For some reason, if anything - it intrigues you. Wondering again, why a man like him would treat you with such kindness.

It pushes you to prod, to ask more.

"Why did you come here, then? If you thought it might be a trap?"

“Curiosity, in the end.” He grins again, "You tell me you'd miss the chance to see the man that rode a deathclaw through Mos Espa? Not a chance, sister."

A deathclaw - it feels like a joke. You've never seen one, only heard about them in your holotapes. In fact, they don't feel real - had never existed in your time.

Apex predators, genetically engineered. Tall, with grey, leathered skin - a reptilian snout, and curling horns.

And claws - long and sharp enough to kill a man with one strike.

He sees your awed expression, fingers making an 'x' over his chest, "Cross my heart. But I'm sure you could get a better story out of someone here."

You make a mental note to do just that.

Knowing that out of anyone, you'd be able to get the truth out of Fennec or the Mandalorian - not one to weave stories, the way you feel this stranger might.

"Anyways, I’ve spent some time here. He does an awful lot for the city, for someone who was hired muscle." There's a tone of respect in his voice, the slow nod of his head, "Heard he was even on the front lines, when shit went down. I respect that. That’s Goodneighbor material."

You remember what he's talking about - what Mando had told you, when you had walked through the marketplace together.

"Yeah?" You ask - realizing you have the chance to ask about the outside world, "What's Goodneighbor like?"

"Sort of like this one. Smaller, for sure. More ghouls.", There's a fondness in his expression, "We got a saying there. Of the people, for the people."

The phrase has your eyes dipping down, to peek at his coat. So curious about his name, his clothes. So used to people wearing things scavenged from anywhere they could find it. It has you wondering just where his had came from.

"It's a good place. A place like that can change a man," His eyes drift over the row of bottles, unseeing. "It has me thinking, maybe this place has changed him, too."

There's a silence that settles - you don't know enough about him to fill it. The last dregs of the spotchka are drained from his bottle, as he downs it like water.

You're not sure how he can do it - you can smell the sharp bite of alcohol from here. His hand clapping your shoulder as he stands, staggering to his feet.

"You're not bad, vault girl. If you're ever in Goodneighbor, give me a holler. I'll make sure you have a good time."

There's a moment then, a question lingering on your tongue.

"Hancock," You ask, surprising yourself. "Your friend, who's... like me. How did they take it?"

"Nora." The way he says the name, the private smile, tells a story, "She's just fine. A real spitfire, really took to things right away."

He considers you then, with a tilt of his head.

"And something tells me you're gonna be just fine, too."

Hancock winks again, before sauntering off into the crowds.

You're left to think - turning over everything you've learned, pieces just starting to fit together in your mind. Getting a better understanding of the man who saved you, the enigma of one Boba Fett.

He sees much from his throne.

The location is not from a point of vanity, despite the occasional sharp barb from Fennec.

That, he has none of.

Instead, it's a place of power - a place to be seen.

It is also a place to watch. There's much he has gleaned, from behind his visor. The appearance of attention from those speaking to him - allowing his eyes to wander.

To catch things. People to keep an eye on.

Deals behind his back, to be swiftly dealt with. Disloyalty had no place in the balance of something that was already so tenuous, in spite of their growth and efforts.

But today, he was watching for something else. Relief at the agreement of the alliance, even as the Mayor sweeps low in a bow. His own jaw twitching in annoyance at the showmanship - all of his vague and winding questions, the pointed references.

Better to get to the point, and be done with it.

That annoyance morphing into a barbed stab of unease as the Mayor had wandered. Finding the seat next to you in spite of all the open ones, scattered across the hall.

Because in spite of his self-assurance on that first day, his mind had become a place where you had taken up residence.

No more than the whisper of a thought. A quiet wondering, when he catches you slipping in the room to watch him.

A curiosity.

His eyes narrow.

Even from here he can see the too-casual lounge, could already imagine the overly-friendly greetings.

The rumors of Hancock's proclivity for chems and warm company was wide-spread, even in Mos Espa. The former had no bearing on him or his opinion, but the latter flashes in his mind as the man leans against the bartop, and you smile.

He doesn't even realize he's clenching his teeth until his jaw aches.

Never giving the sharp throb that follows a name, even as the eyes that he tears away continue to drift back. Just in time to catch the way the man looks over his shoulder, how their eyes meet for just a second.

A smirk, before his head turns back, and he's leaning closer. Your head dips to hear him - he sees the arch of your brow as your face turns. Fingers itching, as the man's arm slings across the back of your barstool.

He's broken alliances before.

He has for less.

It's a pretty thing to think about, even if unlikely.

Better than thinking about what he might be asking you. Or worse - what your answer might be. If he's managed to charm you in these measured minutes. If you might be lonely, and he hadn't noticed.

It's none of his damn business, but the location of his throne haunts him now.

Leaving would be the only way to rid you of his presence. And he knows, not even that would keep his mind from wandering.

Better he keep you safe, from here. With a watchful eye, even as his fingers curl into fists.

A small huff of breath - because he thinks he has a name for that sharp feeling, now.

Minutes continue to pass, and relief only comes when he sees the Mayor leave.

An ache comes as his muscles relax - his irritation not helping the stone-hard structure of his throne. That split attention finally focusing back on the matters at hand, as he wills the evening to pass more quickly.

There's several more hours ahead before he can leave. And then a bit longer, until the day is over.

Because there's one more stop he needs to make tonight.

It's late, when there's a knock on your doorframe.

You're lounging in your bed, deeply engrossed in your reading. Not really registering the sound - you so rarely get visitors in your own space - until there's the shuffle of boots, and you're looking up.

He fills the doorway, where the door was cracked - left open to bring some fresh air into the room, stuffy and humid after the hot day.

Boba’s presence is unexpected, your book dropping down to the mattress as you spring up - smoothing down your sleepwear. A long tunic, the pattern worn and faded. Legs and feet bare, beneath.

Hardly appropriate for a visit from the Daimyo, but too late to amend.

"Apologies. I've interrupted you." His voice is low and smooth - helmet tucked under his arm.

Giving you a view of his face, the crease on his forehead, downward turn to his lips, "Your door was open, I had not realized."

"No!" You hasten to reply, "I'm not busy. It's uh, just warm in here. That's why my door was open."

Realizing you're rambling, you gesture to the chairs, "Would you like to come in?"

Boba moves inside - seeming too large in your small space.

It feels strange to see him here, when you're so used to seeing him in open areas. It feels... intimate, which sends a thrill down your spine.

A moment as his eyes take in your room - sweeping across the space you've made your own.

Over the shelf and the painted-shut windows, the little string of lights hung above your mattress. A lantern flickering on the end table, just off to the side.

"I came to see how you are getting along." He finally says, turning back your way. Making no move to sit, so neither do you, “I was harsh, at our first meeting.”

The words surprise you. It’s not an apology, but an admittance. Perhaps not changing what he would have done or said, but even the small acknowledgment feels like something important.

“We don’t meet a lot of vault dwellers. Not anymore. I am sure there’s been much on your mind lately.”

You realize he’s checking on you, in his own way. There’s a lot you’ve learned since waking.

"Thank you. I've been doing fine," A smile is paired with your words - before they are running off without thought, as your hand waves in the air, "Sometimes it’s just, this place. Everything. It's..."

Concern lines at his face, "Have things not been to your liking here?"

“Oh, No, that’s not what I meant.” You blink at that, "It's just... very different than what I was used to. But I am very grateful to be here. You've been so generous."

Guilt twists at you then - you've thanked Fennec, and even the Mandalorian. But had not spoken to Boba directly since that first day, a little over three weeks ago - too nervous to approach him yourself.

"I am sorry I haven't thanked you in person already. I should have."

Your fingers twist, but his head shakes, dismissing the apology, "That's not why I'm here. I know you are. I've seen how hard you've been working."

His words stun you - that he'd noticed you, at all. Assuming he was far too busy to pay attention to someone as ordinary as you, when there were so many more important people in the city.

There's the briefest hesitance, as he moves around the room with slow steps. A question still weighing on his mind, as fingers seem to brush your things unconsciously - dragging the tips against the tabletop.

Head turning as his eyes sweep slowly along the book spines that line the shelf, the bottlecap from home, the spoon that rests in front.

That old, rusted crowbar that hangs off the edge - a reminder of your first meeting. Something you could have easily replaced by now, but… you had kept it.

A small moment, before he re-words, "And you've been treated well?"

You think about that, a crease forming between your brows as you think. There haven't been disagreements per say, but on some of the errands for Fennec you've had to be firm. Had to use her name, or his, to ensure you weren't getting ripped off.

But you came out unscratched. No worse for wear, other than the slight thickening of some newly-found skin.

"Nothing I can't handle, I suppose."

He's looking at you now - warm brown eyes beneath heavy, dark brows.

"Even by our guests?" He pushes, "Perhaps earlier today?"

That catches you off-guard. A moment of hesitation, before you carefully voice, "Are you asking about Hancock?"

"Yes," His voice is short and clipped, "The Mayor."

You hadn't realized he'd noticed that either, with your back turned the way it had been.

"He has a... certain reputation." Boba continues, thick arms folding across his chest, "An ally, for now. But if he was untoward, I would need to reconsider our arrangement."

Your stomach flips at his tone. A sharp edge to it, that was not directed towards you. Sounding almost... protective.

"No, he was nice. We talked about-" You rush to explain, before the words are dying on your tongue. As you remember exactly what you had discussed.

Embarrassed at the idea of confessing that you had been talking about him - trying to scramble for an answer, "We... uh, just talked about Goodneighbor."

His lips press into a line, the slight frown deepening, "Did you, now?"

"He said I could come see it sometime, if I wanted," Guilt swirls at the omission, tasting sour on your tongue.

"Is that all you talked about?"

There's a pause, as you eye each other. You're sure he knows - you're not a good enough liar to hold the contact - your gaze darting away.

Not even wanting to lie - just feeling that you would look so stupid and obvious, with this little crush of yours. That he would see right through you, think that you were foolish for even dreaming about it.

"No." You finally sigh - unable to help the offering, "We… talked about you, too."

"I see." He answers, and with each shift you've noticed he's moved closer - until he's right in front of you. If your hand raised, it would be pressing against the diamond-shaped cut in his armor.

His next question is breathed out, "And will you be running off to Goodneighbor?"

Gazing at you, as if he’s trying to read your mind. Crowding you into your already small space, as the butterflies in your stomach seem to flutter their wings even faster.

"No! Of course not," The question startles you, your words coming quickly. Your hand starts to reach for him, before you catch yourself, "I wouldn't want to. I like it here."

There's the smallest pull to his lips, curling at the edges. Still a serious look in his eyes, "If you change your mind, I will take you there myself."

Your hand moves then, on its own accord.

Reaching for his arm, resting on the gauntlet - fingers brushing the rough canvas of the flight suit between the gaps.

You own words quiet, but firm in their own way.

"I won't."

His own hand raises, a finger curling under your chin. Tipping your face fully up to his. That few inches of space between you almost closing.

"Good." He husks.

There's the flicker of a smile, the slightest linger - before he steps away. Eyes still on yours, as he adds, “It would be a pity, to lose our little bluebird.”

You're certain it's a tease, but the name reverberates through you like a plucked string. Thrumming deeper than when you had first heard it, stealing your breath.

The helmet raises then, and his face disappears behind the mask once more. Breaking the spell, as he turns for the open doorway.

You don’t want him to leave. Clinging to the moment a little longer, as you grasp at anything - managing to pull something from earlier that evening.

"Boba.” You're unable to help calling after him - a moment, as he pauses in the doorway, “Did… did you really ride a deathclaw?"

His head turns, giving you the profile of his helmet. All those sharp angles and the green that floats through your dreams.

"I did." The vocoder masks his voice, making it low and crackling. Doing something to you, with his words - still managing to sound amused, "You can meet her sometime, if you'd like."

The prospect leaves you frozen into place, as he tugs the door shut behind him.

The room feels empty, now. Giving you ample to think over the conversation - to wonder if it really happened, before going to bed with even more questions than before he arrived.

There’s a small cardboard box outside your door, the next morning.

Curious, you open it up. Unable to help biting back the smile, recognizing the contents inside. Because you had seen it before, just yesterday.

The desk fan you had recovered from the hearing room.

Carefully restored and cleaned - just for you.

(just a tiny bit of context - Nora is the default name for the female player in Fallout 4, Hancock is one of the romanceable NPCs!) And thank you for reading! 💚 part v will be out thursday, the 29th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!

(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @ri-a-rose, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce , @monada43, @rescuethewretched, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ray-rook, @dumfanting, @bedky, @thirsty-boba-fett-posts, @dukeoftheblackstar)

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x f!reader #boba fett imagine #fallout au

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