#there. i said it and i WILL happily die on that hill alone if i had to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

quaranmine · 6 months

Text

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Nine)

Grian goes looking for answers, for better or worse.

Chapter Nine: 10,266 words

<< Chapter Eight | Masterpost | Chapter Ten >>

arising from the dead nearly two months later with the longest chapter of this fic so far, which was already split in half! Once again I want to preface this chapter saying I have no issues with search and rescue and don’t really want this to come across negatively to them? Grian is just a very bitter pov character because he’s hurt.

No CW for this chapter other than themes I assume you've already signed up for if you made it this far.

July 1989

Grian wakes up to the sound of fireworks. His first thought is just—why? Firstly, it’s not the Fourth of July anymore. It’s several days past, in fact, and therefore everybody should definitely give it up already with the fireworks. Secondly, it is barely even four in the morning. Who does that? Lunatics, that’s who.

Thirdly, he becomes suddenly aware that sound is nearby. It cracks sharply through the hills, with just the faintest edge of an echo. It’s remarkably clear. It’s not like the fireworks he saw days ago, colorful and in a district so far away the sound didn’t carry. These are close.

The whole situation is a bit unusual, to say the least. He wonders who’s setting them off, and where they’re at. Jonesy Lake is the mostly likely spot, given how popular it is with campers and hikers. Most of the hikers he meets or who pass his tower are going there.

The sound of the fireworks dies off, and he lies in bed awake for a moment in the new silence. The darkness in the cabin is complete, but as his eyes start to adjust he can begin picking out things across the room in the dim moonlight. Kitchen, desk, firefinder, backpack on the floor, jug of water.

Nothing else. He’s always a little convinced there might be something else.

In the beginning the total darkness unnerved him a little, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. Grian was, by all means, a city boy—raised in towns and metropolitan areas where there was always just a touch of glow in the sky or a streetlight on the corner. It’s one of the reasons he and Mumbo liked moving out to Colorado. They were at the perfect jumping off point for all kinds of weekend trips and adventures, to places where the sky was always dark and the mountains tall and you didn’t fall asleep to the sound of cars on the street outside.

Of course, Grian learned quite quickly upon taking this job that there’s a difference between camping alone and camping with someone. The darkness in the tower is complete, and there is no civilization around for miles, and there is nothing but you and all the mysterious creatures and things that go bump in the night. Grian got used to it quickly because he had to get used to it quickly, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a bit unnerving for the first week or two.

Tonight, though, the darkness is neither empty nor quiet. It is filled with idiots.

When the firework sounds die off, Grian’s first reaction is to give in and go back to sleep. He can deal with all of this in the morning. When the sun is up, like normal people. His eyes gratefully slip shut without any bargaining at all, still half-asleep to begin with, and then—

Boom!

Great. They’re still setting them off.

Grian sits up in bed with a huff. He can see the colored spray of lights start to fade out his window, confirming that it’s in the vicinity of Jonesy Lake.

“Don’t they know those are banned?” he groans. He checks his watch, squinting in the dim light. “Don’t they know it’s four in the morning?” This is a silly thing to wonder, because the types of people who are worried about whether or not fireworks are banned are not the type of people who set them off in the middle of the night.

It’s too early to wake Scar up, Grian would feel awful about that. Scar’s a bit of a night owl, but not an awake-at-four-am-happily sort of night owl. His tower is dark over on the horizon—in fact, it’s so far away that Grian can’t even pick it out in the night if the light isn’t on. And honestly, what could he do anyway? Commiserate with Grian? No, Grian can handle this on his own.

Handle it? Who said he was handling it?

Grian shakes his head. He’s off tomorrow—well, technically today—and will be for the next four days like usual. He had been hoping to get a good night’s sleep before then. He has big plans for everything, this time. He’s going to get answers, this time.

The backpack on the floor has already been packed for his travels. Grian’s hiking out tomorrow, getting in his old car at the trailhead, driving 19 miles down a bumpy dusty road to the main highway, waltzing into the national forest’s main office in Cody, and getting answers.

He knows now that he doesn’t have the full story. He knows now there’s blame to be placed somewhere, and someone who has more answers than he does. He knows enough now to go and steal those final puzzle pieces for himself. He’s going to ask questions, he’s going to make himself heard, and if all else fails, he’ll just find another method of getting answers.

He’s gonna do that…in the proper morning. Not the middle of the night morning.

Another firework goes off, and anger floods Grian. He kicks the blankets off. “Idiots,” he mutters, reaching for his glasses in their case next to the bed. He’s already wearing a t-shirt, but he tugs on a pair of trousers. He walks across the floor to where his boots are next to the door. “Idiots,” he mutters again, and begins to lace them up.

Boots on, he stands up and scowls in their direction. “Idiots,” he says a third and final time, and snatches his daypack, a single bottle of water, his flashlight, and his radio for good measure.

He steps out onto the catwalk and locks the door behind him. The night air is cold. There’s always a bite to it in these higher elevations, even when the midsummer afternoons are hot.

It’s not really his job to go stop people from setting off fireworks. He’s not a ranger. But at the same time, it definitely still feels like his job. He’s here to protect this forest. Someone trying to set a fire doesn’t just make his job more complicated, but it endangers other people as well. Human-caused fires, other than prescribed burns of course, are always suppressed.

These idiots might start the fire, but they’re not the ones who have to stick around to fight it. They’re not digging fire lines or dropping flame retardant from helicopters. They’re not jumping from helicopters and hiking for hours in hot, heavy gear. But if Grian can catch them, take their fireworks and maybe even identify them, well…maybe they’ll get a fine and he’ll stop them before they do any damage.

He also won’t admit it, but it makes for a great excuse for his trip to the main office later today. He was planning on going anyway, but this time he can say he’s turning in contraband and making a report to the rangers. It gives him plausibility for anything he does next. He now has a reason to be in the office, and perhaps even a reason to go beyond the receptionist’s desk without even lying about it.

Grian’s boots crunch softly in the gravel as he picks his way down the hill in the dark, the wan light of his flashlight illuminating a small circle of ground before him. The moonlight is weak and covered at various points by clouds, leaving the forest gloomy even after his eyes adjust. He’d like to not risk a twisted ankle all the way out here, so he clings to the area his flashlight commands.

When he gets to the meadow before the lake, he stops. “Oh, they’re so dead,” he mutters, stalking closer. There’s a small simmering campfire in a stone ring. A small illegal campfire. There aren’t any flames anymore; it’s clear that it’s been a few hours since someone put new wood on it. It glows far too weakly for him to have been able to see from his tower.

“This could’ve set the whole meadow on fire,” he says. Although it is in a ring, it would only take a stray gust of wind to carry some sparks or an ember. The fire still glows orange. The grass in the meadow isn’t dead by any means, but the recent dry stretch of weather is not doing it any favors.

He pulls the water bottle out of his bag and uses it to douse the embers with a sizzle. Then, he carefully stomps it out into the dirt until it stops glowing. Satisfied, he looks around the people’s makeshift camp. There’s a poorly pitched tent up, that looks like it hasn’t been used all night. Of course it hasn’t—people who set fireworks off at 4 AM are people who did not actually go to bed in the first place. Nobody wakes up at this hour to cause problems. They stay up to this hour to cause problems.

There’s also a bag lying on the ground that most definitely contains food. Grian groans when he sees it. “Bear country,” he mutters, and picks the bag up. Its owners are clearly down by the lake—he can faintly hear their laughter—and that also happens to be where the nearest cache box to this campsite is located. He plans to confiscate any remaining fireworks, but he won’t take their food. He’ll just lock it up like it’s supposed to be.

As he walks closer to the lake, his apprehension spikes. Is this really a good idea? What if this goes badly? People can be weird. He’s not technically being paid to do this. But just as he thinks about turning around—

Crack!

Another one goes off, so close Grian flinches at how loud the noise is. He picks up the pace immediately, running the last several meters and practically bursting out of the bushes onto the lakeshore.

“HEY!” he shouts. “Stop that!”

It’s not the most intimidating of orders, but it garners a reaction.

“What the f-” starts one of the people, at the same time the other says, “Who the hell is that? I thought you said we were alone out here!”

He glares at them. They have a lantern sitting on a log to illuminate their workspace, a somewhat concerning amount of empty beer cans, and a range of other items Grian doesn’t want to examine too closely. Maybe clothing? Like he said, he’s not examining it too closely.

It’s a young woman and a young man. They look to be a few years younger than Grian, but definitely in their 20s. They stare at him in shock. It’s a fair reaction. Grian would be pretty shocked too if he was in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night and a strange man emerged from the shadows to yell at him.

“Hey man, I don’t know what your problem—” the man starts, taking a step forward that instantly frames himself as combative.

He cuts him off anyway. “My problem is your fireworks,” Grian snaps. “They’re banned, idiot. Didn’t you see the burn ban? And your campfire too, it’s like you’re trying to set everything on fire.”

“Oh, come on,” the woman whines. She’s wrapped in some sort of towel or blanket, probably cold from swimming in the lake earlier in the night. “We’re not setting anything on fire, we were just having fun! We’re right by the water anyway.”

“Yeah!” the man says. “Who even are you anyway?”

“I’m a forest ranger,” Grian lies. It sounds a lot more intimidating than “fire lookout,” and he frankly doesn’t want these people to go messing around in his tower when he leaves later today. If he pisses them off enough, he doesn’t exactly want them to know where he lives.

The woman looks at him critically. “You don’t have a uniform,” she says, before turning to the guy, whom Grian is assuming is her boyfriend. She tugs on his arm. “Chris, I think this guy is just crazy, let’s go.”

Grian sighs and rolls his eyes, making completely sure that these people can see how exasperated he is with them. “Dude, it’s 4 AM,” he says. “Of course I don’t have a uniform, I was sleeping. Like you all should be. I put out your ridiculous campfire and I’m taking these fireworks too.”

He marches over to where the box is sitting next to the lantern. It’s depressingly almost empty but, ah, better to have taken the dregs away from them than for them to have used it up.

“Hold on,” the guy says. “Those belong to us, you can’t just take them-”

“Give those back!” the girl cries.

“Do you want to be fined?” Grian says, voice stern. “More than you already will be, of course. You’re violating, um, 7 CFR section 1429. I have to report this, you’re going to get a ticket. And,” he drops the bag he picked up earlier in front of them, with a flourish of his arm, “I can cite you for this too. Really, I can’t believe this. What were you thinking? Leaving food out unattended like this in bear country?” He shakes his head. “You’re lucky it’s only me who found you and not the grizzlies.”

The law Grian just cited was made up off the top of his head, but these people don’t need to know that. He’s sure there is some sort of…regulation, rule, or policy somewhere, he just doesn’t know the specifics. He’s a fire lookout, not enforcement. Hopefully if they do receive a citation, they’ll have forgotten whatever numbers Grian just stated.

“I-I didn’t know-”

“And that is your irresponsibility,” he bites. “Put this bag in the cache box over there, it’s like a bear box. Never leave it unattended again, clean up your trash, and I will be taking these fireworks.”

“You’re just a thief,” the woman says. “You just want to come steal our stuff!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “I’m not stealing anything, I’m confiscating it. Let’s see, did you buy this at some 4th of July sale at a roadside shop? Half off? Well, if your fireworks right here did cause a fire in this backcountry, you’ll be on the hook for thousands of dollars. Let’s call it like I’m doing you a favor.”

With that he scoops the box up, turns around, and disappears back into the shadows. The couple begins to bicker in the background, the sound carrying further than it did earlier as they raise their voices. Grian doesn’t even bother to suppress his self-satisfied smile. That felt good.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian ultimately decides to just hike out after the confrontation. By the time he gets back to his tower, fireworks in tow, it’s nearly 6 AM. There’s a glow to the east; the sun is already about to rise. Considering how far he has to go today, he’d better start now.

He discards the day pack for his larger pack, refills all his water, and consolidates the fireworks into a smaller bag he can carry more easily. The original box they all came in is so unwieldy it’s a wonder the couple even made it all the way down the trail carrying it. In addition to all their booze, he has to begrudgingly give them credit for the amount of weight they must have been carrying.

If everything goes well, Grian’s going to get to his vehicle before the end of the day and make it to the office the next day. He’ll get his information as politely as possible but unpolitely if needed. He’ll check in for a night at the motel down the street and experience the wonders of full electricity and running water again. Then, it’s back on the search.

Most lookouts go back into town on their days off. They don’t spend their days off doing search grids and camping in the backcountry the way Grian has. He’s sort of unique in that way. He suspects that Scar doesn’t go back into civilization as frequently as the others do either, if for no other reason than to save himself the energy.

He waits until it’s closer to 8 AM to call Scar. That’s their official starting time, but it’s an open secret that a lot of them just roll out of bed to answer the radio for their morning reports. Grian’s pretty sure Scar is one of these people, although he’s yet to be able to confirm this since his voice is always annoyingly bright no matter the hour.

“Hey Scar,” he says. “I’m out today. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Good morning, G-man!” Scar says. His voice sounds distant, and a little staticky. The radio’s signal is fading. “Going all the way back to town? It’s a big trip!”

“For a day or two,” Grian says. “I’m on the trail now already.” He hesitates, and debates telling Scar about the fireworks.

Why hesitate, though? What’s there to lose in telling him? He mentally smacks himself. There’s no secret here to hide. It’ll probably even help Scar do his job better, assuming one of the many fireworks they set off did throw a spark.

“I had an adventure this morning,” he starts.

He’s stopped next to a large boulder, taking a break from hiking to talk to Scar. If he goes any further, he’s likely to lose Scar completely until he’s heading back home. The radios don’t like being so far apart, and Grian is already a few miles down the trail. The transmissions are clearest when both Scar and Grian are on top of their towers, each in their respective high spots with no obstructions in between. Right now he’s on the ground with countless hills in between.

“Oh?” Scar says. “What happened?”

“Some idiots down by Jonesy Lake. Woke me up in the middle of the night by setting off fireworks!”

Scar gasps. The static crunches the audio. He’s playing up his horror, but Grian knows some of it is genuine. “How dare they?”

“This might have been stupid,” Grian says, “but I…” He trails off.

“Stupid? I love stupid. Please tell me what stupid thing you did.”

“I went to go tell them off! They also had a campfire and I put it out. And food that wasn’t put up properly! I think I scared them. I confiscated their fireworks. I want to take them back with me to the ranger’s station in town. Maybe they can pull the permit and fine them.”

“You confronted them?” Scar asks.

“Was that bad?”

It’s difficult to hear, but Scar fakes crying and says with a melodramatic sniff, “They just grow up so fast. I’m proud of you, G.” He snaps back into his normal voice. “Man! I wish I could’ve seen their faces when you showed up!”

Grian laughs. “They definitely didn’t expect someone to come running out of the woods at 4 AM to go yell at them, that’s for sure. I also might have pretended to be a ranger? Not like I’ll tell them that at the station, though.”

“Well,” Scar says, “I don’t think you were, uh, supposed to do any of that, but I’ll tell you I wish I’d done that quite a few times over the past eight years. You should ask at the main office for a raise! I’ll even give you a reference: above and beyond,” and Grian imagines a flourish of his hands at the last line.

“Well, that isn’t all I’ll be asking for at the main office,” Grian says softly. “I want more information, Scar. I’m going to get it.”

“Oh,” Scar says, sobered by the turn in the conversation. “What will you ask for?”

“Everything. The case file. The search patterns. The helicopter search routes, letters, and any correspondence about it. His permit. More maps. I want to know what they aren’t telling me.”

“What makes you think they’ll give it to you?”

“I’m the main contact, aren’t I?” Grian says. “My name’s on the missing persons report. They should be giving me all the information anyway.”

“You’re the main civilian contact,” Scar says. “They don’t have to tell you their whole process. They’ll give you updates, and conclusions, but what you’re asking for—” He stops, briefly. “That’s just how they were able to lie to you the first time, G.”

“I work here,” Grian says. “They hired me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I work here too, G, and for longer,” Scar says. “You know how that turned out. We’re seasonal fire lookouts, not law enforcement and investigations. We’re the lowest rung of the need-to-know ladder.”

“Then I’ll get my answers another way.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Scar says. “Please.”

“I thought you said you liked stupid,” Grian replies and then before Scar has any chance to respond again, any chance to dissuade him of his actions, he flips the subject. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you about the fireworks before I’m out of range completely. Keep an eye on Jonesy Lake while I’m gone, alright? Who knows if they set a fire last night or not.”

He takes a deep breath, and steels himself. For what—the hike ahead? Ending his discussion with Scar? What he might do before the day is up?

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he finishes. “See ya, Scar.”

He turns the radio off, and hikes onward.

»»———-　　———-««

It’s bright and early at the District Ranger’s office in Wapiti, an unincorporated community outside of Cody. The District Ranger is in charge of all the activities in this sector of the park: campground maintenance, road and trail maintenance, vegetation and wildlife habitat management, permits, fire lookouts, rangers, and more. Shoshone National Forest has five districts, but both Grian and Scar report to the Wapiti office in the management structure. It’s the oldest Forest Service office in the entire country, built in 1903—before the agency’s official creation—and has been in use continuously since.

It’s also the office that issued Mumbo’s faulty permit. It’s the office in charge of closing, inspecting, and repairing trails. It’s the first line ground support for search and rescue in the park.

If there’s a problem to be found, it’s here.

Grian is sitting in the parking lot in his Chevy Blazer and waiting for the building to open. There's a few other cars in the parking lot and not one person has paid him any mind. He regards the building with distrust.

He made it into town after dark last night and spent the night in the same little motel he’d stayed in that very first night last year. He doesn't even want to admit how nice it was to take a real shower instead of a camp shower. He wishes he slept better—his thoughts instead racing about what he plans to say today—but the experience has been overall refreshing.

Feeling refreshed? Time to tackle the world, then.

He's not sure if going into the office as soon as it opens will be in his favor or not. Maybe, if their day hasn't started yet, everyone will have more time to help him. He hopes this will be the last stop of the day for him, and that he can be on his way back to the lookout this evening. But if the District Ranger’s office can’t help him, or if they don’t have what he needs, he’s going to have no choice but to try and escalate things at the Forest Supervisor’s office.

He waits until the clock hits 8:15 AM. He’s already been in the parking lot for some time now, but he doesn’t want to come in the minute the doors are unlocked, so he forces himself to wait just a little bit longer. He doesn’t have a good reason for waiting, he’s just—he’s nervous.

He’s nervous.

He follows a pair of women into the office. They’re at least a decade older than him, and clearly planning on hiking based on their clothing and tied-back hair. They must be here to pick up a permit. One of them holds the door open and smiles at him, and he nearly forgets to smile back.

He hangs back while they talk to the receptionist. She’s a woman of about 40, with long and unruly curly brown hair. She hands them some paperwork. They hand her some money, just a few dollars, for the permit. They leave a few minutes later, ready to start whatever adventure they have in mind.

He can’t help but wonder if they were issued a correct permit. He can’t help but question her basic skills—has she read the name of the permit right? Has she double checked the dates? The closure status? Does she read all her memos? Even that sticky note on her desk? Is she sure?

If he commits the faces of these women to memory, would he be able to say he knew where it went wrong if they go missing later?

The woman behind the counter beckons him forward. She seems friendly enough. Grian’s locked in his own head. He hopes he’s acting polite enough toward her. He hopes he’s not watching her too intently. He can’t really tell. Every action he takes is distant from the constant background noise of his brain.

This is a different woman than the ranger he interacted with last year when he reported Mumbo missing, but that’s to be expected. When he made the report back then he’d called the supervisory office, not the district one.

“Can I help you?” she says, and he realizes that he probably should have said something by now.

“Um, yes, sorry,” he says. “I’m a fire lookout? My name’s Grian. I work at the Two Forks lookout.”

“Oh!” she says. “You’re the one with the nice accent. Nice to meet you! My name’s Linda. We don’t typically get to see much of you folks down here at the office, you know.”

This time Grian’s smile is real, and it takes him a little off guard. He’s not friendly with this woman. He’s suspicious of her.

“I think some of us choose the job so we don’t have to come into the office,” he says wryly. From what little he’s known about the other fire lookouts besides him and Scar, they’re not the type for traditional structure.

Linda is still looking at him expectantly. “So, what can I do you for?” she asks brightly.

He holds up the bag with the fireworks. “I need to talk to the District Ranger about an incident in my sector,” he says, and then wracks his brain trying to think of the man’s name. It’ll all be no good if he doesn’t even know the man he needs to speak to.

The District Ranger is technically his boss’s boss—the man above the one who reprimanded Scar. To get even more specific, Scar and Grian have the same boss. Scar’s supervisory status is mostly a seniority-based thing looped around an order to train Grian, the new guy. He’d rather think of Scar as his boss though. He never speaks to their real boss, and he doesn’t want to speak to the guy.

That’s already a dead end. They won’t get anywhere with him, he knows that. He told Scar to stop poking around, so why would he let Grian poke around? That’s why he has to escalate.

She narrows her eyes a little at him, nearly imperceptible if he wasn’t scrutinizing her so hard. Is she worried about letting him speak to someone higher on the chain of command? Going over his real supervisor’s head? Is she going to tell him he needs to start there instead? Is she going to make him write the message down for her to pass on at her leisure? Does she trust him? Does she know that he doesn’t trust her?

She probably does deliberate on these things, but the end result is favorable to Grian. Another hiker has just walked in behind him, jangling bells tied to the door’s handle. It’s far busier than he expected it to be right after the office opened, but it’s likely because so many people want to start their hikes in the morning and didn’t manage to get a permit earlier in the week. It’s working in his favor.

She jerks her head over to a door labeled Staff Only. “He’s all the way down the hall to the left,” she says, and then throws in an eye roll at the end of the sentence. “He should be in by now, but he always manages to be about 10 minutes late every mornin’. You can wait if he’s not there.”

Grian takes off through the door without a second thought, and also before she had time for second thoughts. He walks down the hall, and commits the doors to memory. He’s been here a few times before—once in connection with Mumbo’s case, and once when he was being given an orientation for his new job. There’s maps hung up all around the hallway as decoration. Some of them are topo maps, others seem to be maps labeling the extent of previous fires, and others seem to be related to wildlife migration patterns. There’s a few historic photographs from the old days of the agency. He doesn’t stop to peruse them.

He passes the door to the break room, a room with three desks inside labeled administration, a room labeled fire management, a room labeled public outreach and affairs, a room labeled as the Forest engineer’s office, several offices for rangers that are down another corridor, and a room labeled for conservation and watershed management. The district office is not large, but modestly sized.

He passes a storage room with files, and makes a mental note of it.

The District Ranger’s office is the nicest, of course. It has a beautiful wooden door with a frosted glass window in it. The placard by the door says the room belongs to a Larry Copenhagen, and that’s when Grian finally remembers the name of the guy he needs to talk to. He’s not in the office, so it seems like Linda from the front desk was wrong about him already being here. Grian leaves the door half open and sits down in one of the chairs. It's awkward.

Larry walks in a moment later, and hardly seems surprised at all by Grian’s presence. He’s tall and about 50 years old. There’s lines in his forehead, and his skin looks sun-beaten. He might be in a more supervisory position now, but he certainly started his career out in the field. It’s painted all over his features. He’s carrying a cup of coffee with him. Break room, then?

“Good morning,” Grian says. “Linda told me—”

“She said you could wait here, I know. I ran into her in the hall.”

Grian starts speaking right away, because he’s getting a feeling that this man isn’t the highest on patience this morning, although he is being polite right now.

“I just wanted to make a report about something that happened last night in my sector. I’m off right now for the next few days, so I figured I’d just come into the office. Since I was coming into town anyway, of course.” He was not coming into town “anyway, of course,” but Larry does not need to know that.

The man sits down behind his desk, and motions for Grian to continue.

“Some people down by Jonesy Lake were setting off a lot of fireworks,” he starts, and then explains the rest of the story. He leaves out the part where he pretended to be a ranger, but keeps in nearly everything else, including the fireworks he confiscated. He hands those over now.

Larry scribbles down a few notes on a notepad. “Jonesy Lake?” he says. He leans back with a sigh. “Yeah, that’s a popular spot for it, alright. I’ll tell someone to pull their permits so we can issue a fine. Were they camped there?”

“Yes,” Grian says. “They were in that first campsite by the lake, a man and a woman. They had a fire too, but I put it out.” He pauses for just a moment. “Do you keep a lot of records in this office? So you can keep people’s permits and things? What about the Supervisor’s Office in town?”

Larry looks quizzical for a moment. “Yes, we have copies. The Supervisor’s Office does too. After a while we fax things to the regional office for longer term recordkeeping. Why?”

Grian smiles. “Just interested in how it works, that’s all. I want to make sure you'll find them so they can be fined.” He shakes his head slightly, as if to redirect his thought process back on track, but it’s all calculated. He continues, “I also told, uh, Scar over at Thorofare Lookout to keep an eye on my sector while I was off, in case they started something with their fireworks. Since there’s no volunteer lookout taking my place this week, of course.”

Larry nods. “That’s a good idea. Well then!” He claps his hands. “Is that all you came in for? I’ll let you get on with the rest of your day off. I’m plannin’ on taking a half day myself. Going fishing.” He looks at Grian with a specific sort of implication in his eyes. “Which means there’s a lot I gotta get done this morning first before I can leave, you know.”

Grian’s unphased. Out of the office this afternoon, he says? That’s convenient. He files that thought away, and barrels forward.

“Actually,” he says. His voice is steely, completely flipped from his earlier tone. “No, that isn’t all I came in for. I want more information from you on a missing person’s case. My best friend’s case.”

The man sighs. “And what case would that be?”

“I think you know who I’m talking about.”

He cuts his eyes toward Grian. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I remember who you are. I know your case.”

“Well?” Grian prompts.

“Well, what do you want to know?” Larry says back.

He clenches his jaw. The words are too flippant to his ears. “I want to know everything,” he says. “I want to know everything you’re not telling me. Starting with why the search was botched.”

Larry leans back and his seat and furrows his brow. “The search wasn’t botched. We searched for over three weeks before calling it off. I’m really sorry, but I know this was explained to you before. We didn’t abandon the search, we just stopped it because the odds of success were so low.”

“But it wasn’t zero. You abandoned it.”

“You had a discussion with the incident commander about it, Grian. They didn’t suspend the search without your input. You agreed to stop the search.”

Grian looks down. “That was a mistake,” he says quietly. “I knew you wouldn’t keep the operation running no matter what I said.”

Larry looks him in the eyes, gaze soft. Grian’s still looking down though, avoiding his gaze. “I know it’s hard,” Larry says. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news either. But the search and rescue organizations we work with are busy. Our rangers are busy. Our helicopter pilots were needed to go pitch in with the fires in Yellowstone. The survivability statistics—”

“Mumbo isn’t a statistic,” Grian snaps. “He’s a person.”

“You’re right,” Larry says. “I’m sorry though. We can’t spare extra time for cases when it’s been determined there are no longer chances of survival. Our resources are already spread too thin and other people need help, too.”

Grian shakes his head. “No,” he says. His voice wavers just the tiniest amount. “Try again.”

“Try again?”

“That’s not the truth,” he bites. “There’s more to the case than that. I know there is. The worst part? I know there’s more and you didn’t even mention it just now. So, try again.”

He sputters. “I’m sorry? What else do you know that you think I’m not telling you?”

“More than you think,” Grian says. “Try again.”

Larry shakes his head. “I’m sorry that the outcome of your friend’s case was bad. I know that there weren’t perfect conditions for the search and that the fires in the Forest caused some issues, including visibility issues for aerial searches. If you—”

“The bike,” Grian says. “Someone found it earlier this summer. Left it at my tower, actually. They told you something very interesting, I heard. They said they found it on the Pinnacles trail. Why was he over there? That was miles away from where we searched.”

“I don’t know why the bike was found there, that’s true. Your friend’s case remains open until we find him. Just because there isn’t an active search doesn’t mean it’s closed. He deserves that. Since this was new evidence, we arranged a few aerial—”

“Did you think they were going to find anything?” Grian says. “Looking out of those silly helicopters a whole year later? You did that to cover yourself. I did the real looking. What I want to know is why you didn’t look there to start with.”

Larry takes a moment to think. “We searched based on the information you relayed to us,” he starts, and Grian feels something start to rise in him, like a dog bristling its fur. “Your friend’s travel plans were for the Cloud Lake Trail, if I remember correctly. One of my rangers found his car there. He’d been issued a permit for the trail as well. We saw no need to search a trail as far away as Pinnacles. I’m sorry if that was a mistake.”

Grian hits the table, smacking it with his open hand and causing a pen to roll off the side. Larry startles at his outburst. “The permit is exactly the problem,” he hisses. “It was wrong. It shouldn’t have been issued. Did you think I wouldn’t find out that the Cloud Lake Trail was closed for maintenance?”

“It’s—”

“Trail maintenance belongs to the district office, doesn’t it? And the permitting does too. He would’ve stopped here as the first step on his trip. That means the problem lies with you. Was it Linda, over there at the front desk? Is she the one who issued his permit?”

He can’t stop. He leans in. He feels like a lit match, a spark, a firework.

“She seems awfully nice. Would you bet your life on her, though? Bet your life that she did her job? That she didn’t screw up? Bet your life that your rangers did their jobs? I don’t think you would. I wouldn’t. I think that’s why you’re lying to me. I think that’s why you’re having people who talk about this case reprimanded.”

The District Ranger stares at him a moment, and then tightens his mouth into a hard line. “The permit was a mistake,” he says after a moment. “It should not have been issued, but the person who issued it did not realize the trail had not been repaired yet. But we had no other reasons to assume he did not go on the trail he planned. There is no connection between Cloud Lake and Pinnacles.”

Grian shakes his head. “Try again,” he presses. “If there wasn’t a connection, how would he have gotten there? I found the connection. Unmarked trail that goes over the ridge into the valley that meets up with Pinnacles.” He meets Larry’s eyes, gaze hard. “Figured you’d know all about that one, it’s probably popular with the fishermen. Lots of stream crossings..”

Larry says nothing. Grian continues.

“One of your trail crews blocked off the side trail. There’s a log across it now. Seems like they knew about it to me.”

“My trail maintenance crews are doing their job,” Larry responds sharply. “They block all things they think might lead someone off the main route. It was part of the process for reopening the Cloud Lake Trail. I don’t know what side trail you found, but nobody in this office told them to cover anything specific up.”

“Why didn’t you mention the trail was closed?” Grian asks. “Why didn’t you tell me that originally? He must have turned around and decided to go a different way.”

“The permit was our mistake. But your friend still chose to go on a closed trail—”

“He probably ignored the sign because you gave him the permit!”

“—and still chose to deviate from his planned route into an area that nobody knew he was going to. We did not have any additional information about where he was hiking.”

Grian stops short. “So that’s it? You’re the one who lied to me, and you’re just going to blame it on him? Tell me it was all his fault that this happened? That it’s his fault we didn’t search in the right places or find him? It’s his fault because he went off-trail?”

“We did not lie to you, we—”

“Okay, you didn’t lie,” Grian says, only slightly hysterical this time. “You just didn’t tell me everything. That’s just lying with less steps!”

“It wasn’t relevant to how we handled the case.”

“It just should’ve been. You should have known to try looking elsewhere.”

“You didn’t know he was hiking elsewhere either. Our team—”

“Stop!” Grian cries. “Just tell me. Just the two of us in the room. No notes, no copies, nothing on the record officially. Just us talking.” He sucks in a breath. “Why didn’t you find Mumbo?”

Larry hasn’t given up much information the entire time Grian has been grilling him. Maybe it makes him good at his job. Good at being in a government management position. He admitted the permit was a mistake, as he should—Scar noted that the trail closure is documented on paper somewhere in the file system. That’s traceable. But search routes, plans, and investigation? It’s harder to prove the gaps, prove the negligence.

He’s evading everything else Grian has set in front of him by claiming it was either Mumbo’s fault to begin with, or bad luck none of them could have seen coming.

His response to Grian’s question is simple. “We tried our best,” he says.

“I don’t believe you.”

Larry sighs. It’s long-suffering. Grian can’t tell if they’re actual sorrow in it, or if it’s just a placation, a reaction to his extreme emotions. Larry says, “Your friend’s case is a tragedy. I don’t like seeing missing persons cases go unsolved, you know. This is the first case since I started this job where we didn’t find someone.”

Grian scoffs. “You worried it’ll mess up your numbers now? Is that why you won’t admit any fault? You’ll lose your job?”

“No,” he says. “I’m telling you I’m sorry.”

“That isn’t good enough,” Grian says. “I want him found. And I’ll do it myself, if I have to. I’ve already done most of it myself. I want to see his case file.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t give you that,” Larry says.

“If you can’t give me the case file, then you’re not really sorry about what happened,” Grian says. “Why not? Why did you have Scar reprimanded for asking questions?”

“I didn’t reprimand your friend. His manager did, likely because he was pressuring people into giving out sensitive information.” He makes eye contact with Grian directly. “He can’t do that, you know. How would you feel if we gave the same information to anyone on the street? I also cannot give you the files for the same reasons.”

“I don’t get it,” Grian says. “I’m the emergency contact for the case. I’m not any random person on the street. Mumbo’s family is in a different country. That makes me the only family here you have to work with. I have a right to know.”

“We have given you all the information relevant to the case, and you were allowed to make judgement calls throughout the case. But unfortunately, I cannot hand over that information. I can give you conclusions, but not processes. I assure you we are not holding back anything.”

Grian scoffs. He’s getting sick of this conversation moving in circles. It’s pointless now, he sees that. He’s not going to get anything out of this man by playing nice. No matter what he says, the District Ranger has a neat way of wrapping the conversation back up.

“Well, we’ve already established you’re holding back information,” he says. His voice is much calmer than he feels. It’s clipped but steady. He continues, “But that’s fine. I’ll just—I’ll do that, uh, information request thing. You’ll have to give it over then.”

“A FOIA?” Larry says, eyebrow raised. “This information is exempt from mandatory disclosure since it pertains to an investigation. I’m sorry.”

Fine. He’ll just have to take the information himself, then.

Grian has played nicely so far. Yelled at the guy, sure, but he requested information in the proper way. Then he tried to see if he could request information in a way that legally forced them to give it up. Since none of that has worked? It’s just time for step two.

Grian gets up, shoving the chair back abruptly with a harsh squeal. “Well then,” he says. “I guess we’ve come to a non-agreement.” He smiles, throwing every ounce of spite he can into the expression. “It’s the least I could do to let you get on with your work this afternoon. Wouldn’t want you to miss your fishing trip, right?”

As he turns to leave, the District Ranger calls after him. He sounds weary. “I should expect to see you here again soon, shouldn’t I?”

“No,” Grian says over his shoulder after a moment. “If everything goes well, you won’t.”

»»———-　　———-««

Grian thrums his fingers on the car’s steering wheel, deep in thought. It’s the afternoon now, with the clear bright sunlight dappling the road. The area around the ranger’s station is a flurry of activity. There’s cars zipping by back and forth on the road, and the campground parking lot is full. It’s not hard to understand why. It’s a lovely day—warm, but not too hot, and the air is clear and not smoky.

It’s a lovely day to commit a crime.

Grian, who has been known to “borrow” from his friends and sneak into movies without paying with Mumbo, is not otherwise much for criminal activity. He speeds a little on roads, but he never runs a red light. He pays his parking meter, but tries to trick Mumbo into thinking it’s his turn to pay instead when they go places together. He lies about being a ranger, but only for the good of the forest. He does his taxes and pays for insurance. He’s always down for mischief, but only if nobody gets hurt, right?

Today, however, he’s jumping to a big one: theft.

Theft of government documents, that is. Of course, he can rationalize this however he wants. He already has. This is not wrong. What he is doing is not wrong. These documents are only copies. He works there. It doesn’t matter if they’re considered sensitive, or if he isn’t allowed to request the entire file—

There are worse things to do in the name of someone you love. The rules aren’t fair, so he doesn’t have to follow them. Is it even a rationalization if it’s true?

If he’s going to do it, though, he’s going to have to sell the lie, or be fast enough it doesn’t matter.

He turns off his car—backed into a parking space in case he needs to leave quickly—and slides in the door of the District Ranger station as inconspicuous as possible. It’s about an hour before it closes. He won’t need the entire hour, of course, but his timing is calculated: just as it is outside, there is a flurry of activity inside. Afternoons are busy, and this one is no exception. He needs it to be busy because he needs all of the workers to be distracted.

There’s two rangers in the room; one is talking with a child and the other is going over topo maps with a studious-looking young man. Grian waits his turn while some people ahead of him seem to have an extended discussion about the variation in campground rates across the Forest, and gives Linda a big smile when he reaches the front. She’d noticed him the moment he stepped inside, but had quickly turned her attention back on the debate at hand.

“Well, hello again,” she says warmly. “Grian, wasn’t it?”

“That’s me!” he says. “Hey, listen, I’m just gonna go into the office. Larry told me he’d meet with me later in the day.”

She furrows her brows, but then thinks better of it. “Uh, that’s fine,” she says and waves him off towards the door. She immediately turns to the next person in line, a teenager wanting to buy a patch for his jacket.

He gladly accepts the unceremonious dismissal and moves through the door. There’s something in her expression he doesn’t like though. Is it weird for him to ask permission to go into the rest of the office? He works here, after all. He doesn’t have a key for the other employee entrance though. Did he just draw attention to himself by announcing his presence, or did he plausibly explain his presence? Is he thinking too hard or not enough?

He has to wander the halls again for a moment before he can remember where the storage room he saw earlier is. It’s dark inside when he finally finds it. He flips the switch and closes the door behind him. There’s tons of filing cabinets lining the walls, old and brown and metal and alphabetically organized and locked.

He finds the drawer Mumbo’s file should be in easily. He cautiously tries to open the door, but it catches. So, the lock is the next issue. What can he use to pick it?

He feels his pockets, and then glances around the room looking for anything that could help him. An unbent paper clip he could wiggle in the lock, maybe? It can’t be that durable, it’s just factory standard. It’ll be faster than trying to steal a key off someone’s desk. There’s a table in the corner with a lamp, as if for reviewing materials, so he walks over to it to see what he can find. He’s about to open its drawer when—

Someone walks by in the hallway.

Freeze.

His heart rate spikes. He doesn’t dare move.

He barely breathes. Be quiet. Don’t be heard.

And—they don’t walk in, because of course they don’t. They’re just passing through the hall like a normal employee. He’s just a normal guy looking at files.They don’t know he’s out of place. They shouldn’t know he’s out of place. They shouldn’t even know he’s there unless they wonder why the light is on under the door.

This is stupid. It’s stupid, and it’s wasting his time, and if he can’t even hold it together for long enough to execute this task, then what is he even good for? What is even good for when he’s panicking all the time?

He finds a paperclip in the drawer.

He wiggles it in lock and it pops open easily, and the anxiety of the past minute melts away almost instantly. It’s okay, he’s in. He quickly thumbs through the labeled files, trying to find one that matches Mumbo’s name. He’d made a bold assumption that it had been filed under his surname and it’s time to back that up.

The labels are handwritten and not by a skilled penman. He has to squint to read them but he’s narrowing it down fast. He mostly flips through boring things—copies of maps, watershed reports, community meeting minutes, letters about funding, MOUs with local companies, land right-of-ways, and a transcript of official communication about a fire in 1978 that shares the first three letters of Mumbo’s surname.

He flips through all of that, and then he flips through it again. And again. And again. Because there’s nothing—this cabinet contains nothing about Mumbo at all.

“What?” he murmurs. “Why? Do I have the wrong one?”

He shuts the one he has, and then tries another. Mumbo’s first name, then. It’s an unorthodox way to organize official documents, but nothing about this nightmare has felt orthodox so far has it?

There’s nothing there either.

He tries another, trying to see if it was broadly categorized under missing persons.

Nothing.

Another—search and rescue this time.

Nothing.

Another—whatever he can think of.

Nothing.

Grian’s a little hysterical at this point. He’s pulling files out now, replacing them haphazardly. He’s running out of time. He’s running out of time because his guilty conscience weighs heavily on his chest, and there’s only so long he can stay here and make a fuss and pull out files and ruin organizational systems before he’s caught. He’s running out of time because he’s stupid and he can’t figure this out.

It’s here, isn’t it? It should be here, but there’s nothing here. But the District Ranger had told him this morning that they kept copies in this office too and not just the main office, so it should be here. It should be here but it isn’t.

It should be here, but—no. It was here. It just isn’t anymore.

He’d asked the District Ranger about the case that morning. What if he’d gone and pulled the file after Grian left? A charitable reading of the situation suggests maybe he left it in his office. A pessimistic reading says maybe he took it with him so nobody else could view his mistakes. If it’s the former, Grian might have a chance. If it’s the latter, there’s nothing he can do. Grian’ll just have to hope it’s the former for his own sanity, then.

He creeps back out into the hallway.

The District Ranger’s office is at the end of the hall. He strides toward it purposefully, but falters a few steps away from the door. There’s a lock on the handle, unlike some of the other rooms. What if this office is locked all the time? What’s he going to do, break the frosted glass on the door? It’s insane!

Fortunately his brain catches up to the situation before the panic in his chest can grow. Obviously, he should just try the knob first. The door glides open silently—there’s always another crisis on the horizon, but at least this one is resolved.

Grian steps inside and closes the door softly. He doesn’t turn on the light, instead relying on the beams of sunlight that stream through the window blinds in bright lines. The desk is empty, except for a scribbled note and a pen. Grian checks it, but it’s just a nonsense personal memo. Not important. Irrelevant.

He glances around the room. There’s a large shelving unit to the right of the door filled with document containers. Grian winces. Is he going to have to go through that?

“Ugh,” he whines. “I guess I should start. I shouldn’t spend too long poking around in here.”

He pulls one of the boxes down and starts. It’s tedious work, doing one after the other. He skims the labels over and over and over again with no luck. Most of the documents seem to be directly related to the District Ranger’s job, and they go back years. He picks up the next box, and tries again. Still nothing.

He gives up after the third box. There has to be a better way to find something, or a better hiding space. He moves around the desk, and there it is—a drawer attached to the desk. This time the door is locked, but Grian still has his paperclip from earlier that he jiggles in it. It pops open after a few seconds.

Right at the top lies a manila folder, and without even reading the label Grian knows this is it.

He snatches it, and falls back onto the floor. Just sitting there, folder in his hands. He gives it a long stare.

Is this it, after everything? Is there finally an answer here? If there’s answers in here, then there must have been answers all along. Grian doesn’t like that; it burns him from the inside out. This could be the key to finding Mumbo, though. It could be the missing information he needs.

He flips it open with what feels like finality. No cheering, no congratulations, just the faint bustle of the visitor’s center up front and the loud beating of his heart. And—footsteps?

Grian has just enough time to scramble up off the floor when the door swings wide open. Linda stands there, looking critical. “I thought I’d find you in here,” she says. “After you left I remembered that Larry was supposed to be out all afternoon. So why would he be meeting with you again?”

Grian shrugs sheepishly. “Canceled his fishing trip for some important business?” he asks.

She scowls at him.

“Sorry!” he blurts. “I was actually about to leave, sorry, I’ll be gone in a moment.”

He walks around the edge of the desk and oh, that was a mistake. Her gaze shifts to the file in his hand, and then back at him. To the desk, then back at him. He quickly puts his hand behind his back. It’s a ridiculous move, like a toddler trying to hide something they know they’re not supposed to have.

“What’re you doing in here?” she asks. “You’ve been back here an awful long time.”

“Larry left something for me,” Grian says. “I just came to pick it up.”

“By messing around on the floor behind his desk?”

“...Yes.”

“Why don’t you just give me that file,” she says. “I’ll clear it with Larry, sign it out to you, and you can have it then.”

“No!” Grian cries, and then reels his outburst in immediately. “I mean, no, sorry. I need it today. He told me it was fine.”

She gives him a long look. His heart sinks. Isn’t she the one who Scar had called for information a few weeks ago? He’d told Grian he had a friend in the main office who had pulled the records for him to tell him what permit Mumbo had. Did he mean Linda, or someone else working that desk? Did he mean the District office or the Supervisor’s office? If this is the same person Scar knows, then why won’t she just let Grian get away with it?

But Grian isn’t Scar, and he doesn’t really possess the same silver tongue. He’s already asked nicely and failed. This woman has no reason to trust him at all.

Linda turns, angling her body, and calls down the hall. “Sarah?” she shouts. “I know you haven’t left yet, can you come give me a hand? I need your help with something.”

The Sarah in question shouts something back, but Grian doesn’t comprehend it over the way his whole body suddenly feels like a live wire. Linda’s not letting him leave without more questions, and why would she? She just caught the random new guy breaking into the big boss’ desk, taking something, and then lying about it.

But he can’t give up the file in his hands. He clutches it, feeling the paper shift slightly. This is the key, this is what he needs. If he lets her take it, he’ll never get it back since he was never authorized to see it in the first place.

So he has to find a way out.

Linda says something else to him, but he doesn’t hear. Could he push past her, and run down the hall? She’s blocking the doorway, and he’s not a particularly physically intimidating guy. He could get by her if he made a run for it, but what if she tries to stop him? He can’t let this escalate into something worse than it already is.

He contemplates this, and then scraps it immediately. There’s footsteps in the hall, which must be Sarah. He thinks she’s another ranger in their district. He’s heard the name before. She’s supposedly nice, but he’s also attempting to steal sensitive government documents. Nice only goes so far when people are protecting their job.

There’s the window behind him, the one that’s casting little rectangles of light all across the room from the blinds. He steals a glance at it quickly—the sill is worn and without dust. Does the District Ranger frequently open it, when the weather is nice? Was it open this morning? He can’t remember, but he’s confident it won’t get stuck.

“Hey, what file are you holding?” Linda asks. “What are you going to do with it? Why do you want that?”

“It’s my friend’s,” Grian says, voice tinged with desperation. “That’s all it is, it’s my friends!”

“Alright,” she says, drawing out the word. “Will you come with me first?”

No, he thinks. He can’t. She’ll take it away and this is the only way he’s going to be able to find Mumbo. He’s worked too hard for this. Mumbo’s survived too long for this.

He makes his decision.

Back turned. Blinds yanked. Window flung open as fast as possible, with a satisfying creak to its decades old frame. He’s rushing into the sunlit grass on the other side before he can even comprehend it.

“What—Wait, stop!” Linda shouts from behind him, and he hears her cross the room.

He’s already running towards the parking lot.

<< Chapter Eight | Masterpost | Chapter Ten >>

#hermitcraft #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #hc_firewatch_au #hermitcraft fanfic #quara fanfic

18 notes · View notes

mirusx · 4 months

Text

just a little thought about readers ✨ (it's really just very personal thoughts and experience from some orv audience so everyone can just ignore this im sorry 🥹)

my roman empire is that everyone can read orv but only a few percent of them would actually be able to understand- UNDERSTAND what it means or at least what it's trying to convey to its readers... and I will die on this hill probably upset because why can't everyone be aware of orv's love-filled story? (ofc that's not possible, i'm very painfully aware) or at least, if you're not inclined to its message, don't be so vile towards it and to its readers?

let's just look at what our god, han sooyoung, the creator herself said 😗

"However, it is up to you to decide on what you'll get out of reading the novel. If you only find trash within, then it'll simply end as trash. But if it can impart just a tiny little bit of deeper meaning to you, then that alone will improve this work in your eyes. Again, it is up to you to decide which one it will be. But l'd really like you to choose the option where you get to 'appreciate'your time a little bit better."

that should be enough, if it still isn't then maybe it just wasn't meant to be. (ppl who's just looking for thrill, adrenaline rush, and excitement are all good, they're fine. i know you're out there and sometimes i do also want stories like that. what gets me are the ppl who somehow hates on stories that focus more on their characters' development just because it's 'boring'... even when those stories also have hype, great plot, insane story execution, and great worldbuilding)

I could never stress enough that orv's a love letter to ALL readers and not just to its own, but it would depend on what kind of a reader you are to truly appreciate the love for readers that was poured into it and on what level of depth you'll be able to unravel it. (skin-deep readers proved this to me so unkindly, i think i got ptsd from it and it's bcs of them why I'm even writing about this right now)

but if you're in the kdj-scale of being a reader, we should probably seek help and not spend our entirety spending in the comfort our own little snowfields. I say this as I comfortably and happily stays in mine by the way

#sighs #i love orv too much it's unhealthy #my reader heart just got violated too much these days and it's aching okay 🫥#this really just got to me and i needed to slightly vent #this might be very shallow but the takes ive been seeing these past few days prob accumulated 😭#and now it's just overflowing #orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kim dokja #han sooyoung

3 notes · View notes

theremina · 1 year

Text

I fully expect to get shouted at for saying this. I still think it’s worth saying. ❤️‍🩹

The amount of reasonably well-off white people I’ve observed losing their entire shit over crappy AI theft these past couple months is… well, it’s completely understandable, of course.

But let’s unpack the fervor pragmatically.

As a classically trained full-time professional musician who has been honing their own craft since early childhood, and as someone who is used to being taken for granted, undervalued, even exploited, by folks who literally have no idea how much work and expense goes into doing what I do, I keenly relate to frustrations concerning algorithmic AI theft.

That being said, never have I ever observed a single one of the most reactive, aggressively angry white professional artmaking chums lashing out blindly over this problem come anywhere close to the same level of agitation regarding far more brutal atrocities: systemic racism/sexism/transphobia/homophobia, the climate crisis, Roe being overturned, anti-science / antivax rhetoric, etc. Yanno, shit that’s literally, directly killing people and the planet.

Some of the same dudes screaming “unfriend me if you’re going to post that garbage, and btw FUCK YOU” at the world right now are the same men who’ve opined in the past that I shouldn’t “get so worked up” over various systemically violent, directly life-threatening issues faced by millions, even billions of us.

Listen, I’m not saying artists don’t deserve to be concerned or upset. I don’t use any art generating AI myself, in large part bc I’ve seen how much needless pain and stress it’s causing a lot of my loved ones. For me, personally, it’s not remotely worth it.

That said, a lot of the same white, predominantly male artists we’re all watching yell at Cloud right now use Spotify, right? No judgement. I do, too! And a lot of you enjoy music with synths or samples that reproduce piano or string or drum or horn or choral vocal sounds? And you’ve probably watched a bootlegged television show or two in your day, yeah? Or resorted to 12 foot dot io?

Meanwhile, you’re out here literally damning random non-artists to hell for making corny-ass AI selfies? That’s the hill you’ve decided you wanna die on? Okay…

OR! Or, hear me out, what if you allowed your personal frustration over this issue to radicalize you less selectively? Mebbe? Could ya try showing up with a fraction of this passion to support reparations for Black Americans, or the safe and legal reproductive rights for half the population, or combating climate crisis, or disability rights, or universal income, orororrr, etc?

Look, I dunno. We live in an abattoir. Times are only getting tougher. Maybe before you decide to have another Totally Normal One that involves howling directly in the faces of disabled and low-income folks who aren’t in the fine arts or commercial arts industry and probably can’t afford a boardwalk caricature right now, let alone a $1K commission for you, you could try hitting the pause button, take several deep breaths and ask yourself: “am I picking healthy battles?”

(This is the exact same advice I try to give myself every single time I get worked up about something that isn’t literally life-threatening. I do not always succeed, of course. My shit stinks, too!)

Butt. Maybe next time you observe a friend getting excited prompting images for their own personal pleasure by using AI, consider restraining yourself from calling them a “lazy thieving scumbag”? Remember, not everyone can afford decades of training and school. How is your Facebook buddy who’s happily making endless Beksinski/Moebius/Ryden-derivative computer doodles for their own personal satisfaction managing to trigger your biggest, scariest threat response?

There gotta be some middleground between “woo this AI fad is fun and harmless” and “my barista friend sharing Meitu-lookin cybercosmonaut selfies on IG is stealing food directly out of my family’s mouth” worth exploring.

Sincerely, I get why folks are upset. But maybe don’t bring a nuke to a knife fight.

I promise you, this is a lesson I have personally learned the hard way. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard for you? Or —and this is my main concern, tbh— so hard on people who don’t deserve to be your punching bag.

I dunno. I’m just a bit shocked at how emotional some of you are able to get about this specific issue when your chosen line of work is largely run by rapists and racists and robber barrons. (Oh my!)

#maybe baby #ai art discourse #art theft #copyright #outraged white men #pick your battles #don’t bring a nuke to a knife fight

14 notes · View notes

fandomfinnaddict-blog · 8 months

Text

I will die on this hill.

Let's look at the facts:

1. Sirius Black was born into a prestigious pure-blood family (all Slytherins) who put a great deal of importance in the purity of blood, very much like Draco Malfoy. That's all he knew most of his life. He likely never spent time with non-pure blood children prior to going to Hogwarts. He had no reason to assume his parents were wrong. He knew no other way of life. Then he met James who spoke of bravery as the most important attribute. We know the Sorting Hat takes personal choice into account, arguably before any actual personality traits. After a single train ride with James, Sirius chose to be in Gryffindor rather than continue his family's tradition.

2. We have no evidence to suggest Sirius was ever romantically involved with anyone. Sirius was good-looking, wealthy, talented, intelligent, and popular. We know girls noticed him from Snape's memory of their 5th year. The books speak of girls looking at him with admiration and imply that Sirius doesn't seem to notice. He had posters of muggle girls hanging in his room to annoy his parents but no pictures of girls he dated. Sirius is aware of himself and of his friends, especially James (I think James knew of his friend's quiet affection and though he may not have had the same romantic feelings, enjoyed being the object of Sirius' attention).

3. We never really hear Sirius speak much about Lily except as James' crush. We know they developed a friendship once Lily & James were wed because of the letter Lily wrote to him. I think Lily also knew how much Sirius loved James and that's what bound them in friendship, the fact that they both were in love with the same man. Sirius often said to Harry "me & your father." Not "our friend group" or "me, your dad, Moony, & Wormtail" or really even "me & your parents." He spoke of "your parents" when they first met but after it was usually "me & your father" the way a widowed mother might say it. Sirius speaks of how Harry looks like James and reminds him of James. He never mentions that he has Lily's eyes.

4. Sirius panicked when he couldnt find Wormtail & there was no sign of a struggle in his hiding place. He went straight to the Potters to make sure they were safe. He found them dead, house destroyed, and Hagrid there rescuing Harry. Sirius was a brave & wreckless youth whose first instinct upon seeing the destruction must have been vengeance but instead he asks Hagrid to give him Harry, the last piece of James left on the earth. Only when Hagrid refuses did Sirius give him the motorcycle to help transport Harry safely and then leave to seek vengeance. I think if he could have found Voldemort, he would have gladly confronted him as well. I think he would have happily died trying to get revenge for James' death. He wanted to kill or be killed or both for the loss of James.

Sirius loved Harry & Lily because James loved Lily and after they died, Harry was all he had left of James. When he broke out of Azkaban to kill Wormtail, he went to Privet Drive to get a look at Harry first and surely saw young James as he gazed at him. He could have announced himself to Harry or tried to help him. He was alone in the dark and only 13, carrying his baggage clearly running away from home. But he just looked and left. He could have attempted some form of communication with Harry while he was at Hogwarts but his focus was not Harry's safety, it was Wormtail's death. Only after Wormtail fled does Sirius finally turn his attention to protecting Harry.

People ship Lupin & Sirius. Maybe Lupin had feelings for Sirius, maybe not. But Sirius loved James comparably to how Snape loved Lily but in a much purer form. Snape loved Lily selfishly but didn't care about the things or people Lily loved until she was dead. He was jealous of those things and wanted them out of the way, hoping Lily would someday be his. He didnt share her beliefs about dark magic or the unimportance of blood status or anything that made her such a surpassingly impressive woman. Sirius loved James and accepted that their friendship was the most of him he'd ever have. But he loved what James loved, believed for what James believed, and fought beside him for the same.

#marauders #harry potter #sirius black #remus x sirius #james potter #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #lily evans #severus snape

6 notes · View notes

lucienne-thee-librarian · 1 year

Note

Despoe 😏

When I started shipping it: I kind of knew about it in the background as a crack ship for awhile, but in earnest? A few months ago tbh when I sort of rediscovered secondhand the fact that the wonderful Jill Thompson Season of Mists mangas exist, with the help of people like you who also thought the pair was actually really cute so it wasn't just a "is literally ANYONE else thinking about this" situation. :) <3

My thoughts: God. Again it started as a crackship but it's become so real to me, I can't lie. They are unconventional but absolutely wonderful just as a concept. Let them be happy together. Let Despair have her human poet. It's what she deserves, goddammit.

What makes me happy about them: That they have a Gomez and Morticia Addams vibe, the fictional version of this real life poet dude writes morbid shit and Despair is the personification of sadness and yet she gets flustered when she notices him?? He genuinely sees inspiration and creativity in her and makes something where others see only darkness? Like in a weird gothic couple way they make sense. Also as I've said before there is really something genuinely deeply touching to me on a personal level about the idea that everyone has someone who loves them, including Despair. In her case of course she has multiple someone's, platonically in the case of her siblings but also with Despoe she gets romance. And isn't that what many people want, the hope that even at our lowest we'll still be lovable to someone?

What makes me sad about them: That they aren't technically canon anywhere else...but they're canon in my heart.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: So, yeah, there is SO LITTLE FIC of these two or Despair in general, I don't really gave an answer to this. I haven't yet been successful in even finding this pair of A03 yet. So...

Things I look for in fanfic: More. Of. It. This is a canoe of rarepairs.

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: Okay SO yes I know I've said I'm over how a certain ship and character (cough Dr*mling ahem ahem) have taken over the Sandman fandom to the detriment or reduction of so many other characters to the point where it feels totally inescapable without tag filtering out 3/4ths of the entire fandom BUT. But. @softest-punk and their Hobsbandverse au is just. It's so good and everybody is given great dynamics and characterization in it, I will die on this hill. And Despair gets like, the most genuine love and appreciation as a character that I've ever seen outside of this tiny dedicated corner of you me and a very few others. But I haven't really seen any other ships for her period, let alone any that really compel me.

My happily ever after for them: Where Death grants him a similar exemption because she likes to see her sister happy (or as close as she'll ever get to happiness) so Despair gets to keep her boyfriend.

Who is the big spoon/little spoon: They trade off because Poe likes to be held and surrounded by his muse. But also, honestly, Despair doesn't get a lot of people who want to hold her. Basically the only people we ever see get close and physically affectionate with her in any way are her twin and Destruction. So she deserves to be the little spoon and I think she thus tends to get cuddled a little more often.

what is their favorite non-sexual activity: Poe writing as Despair inspires him and admires his work.

#despoe #despair #ship and characters ask meme #thanks bestie any chance to talk about despoe and fill/create their tag is a good one!

4 notes · View notes

ylva-snow-mane · 1 month

Text

Fredas, 22nd day of Last Seed, 4E 201

<- PREVIOUS ENTRY

I had a strange dream last night. A bandit accosting a merchant on the road. I bloodied the bandit and sent him running. And then when I turned to the merchant, it was a man no longer but a dog. Happily wagging its tail at me. Perhaps the Divines are telling me to get a hound? I admit, I could use the companionship.

Speaking of Companions, I decided to hold off on seeking to join them. For now. Just until I have a little bit more experience under my belt. I don't want to go to them as an inexperienced whelp, for I'm sure they have no need for a milk-drinker who's barely functional without her mommy. No, I want to go to them seasoned.

I've decided to approach the missive board, as I had intended last night. Surely one of the jobs posted will be easy enough.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I took a posted job from the bulletin board. Ironically, from Arcadia. She wants me to deliver a potion to Rorikstead. I was a little nervous, never having left Whiterun before. But I needed the coin.

I continued without incident until I got to the Rat Hill Mine. I fought off a skeever and a wolf at the house near there. When I returned to the road, I spotted an orcish woman sitting injured by the roadside. She was in need of a healing potion, but I had none. I tried, instead, to heal her with one of the spells I've learned, Healing Hands. She seemed slightly disgruntled at my use of magic, but thanked me regardless. Her name is Kiva gra-Bol and she said that she would send word to the orc strongholds of what I've done for her, and that I will be considered blood-kin now.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It took all day, but I made it safely to Rorikstead! By the Nine, traveling the roads of Skyrim alone at night is terrifying. I spent the whole time clutching the hilt of my mace for dear life, as though vampires and draugr were to pop out of the shadows at any moment. Luckily, the only danger I faced was a single wolf.

Today alone, I've slain two wolves and a skeever! If mother could see me now, she'd die all over again from worry. Though I was afraid, I walked onward. The rumbling in my belly bade me. Once I delivered the potion to Rorik, he paid me handsomely! Enough to rent a bed at the Frostfruit Inn for the night, and also buy food to fill me for the first time in days. I swear, cabbage soup has never tasted better.

The walk was quite lonesome, though. I would feel better with someone at my side. Even a hound. Perhaps I should save up to hire myself a mercenary? But I've heard their fees can be several hundreds of Septims! I'll have to do much more work before then. But that's a worry for later. For now, I will rest.

NEXT ENTRY ->

0 notes

micronopher · 5 months

Text

OFMD UNPOPULAR HOT TAKE - IN HOPEFUL ANTICIPATION OF SEASON 3 REPOST

Giving full disclosure at the forefront here - anything I say really holds no credence in the long run. I'm a simple person with a simple brain. That being said...

Been seeing some concern about the series ending happily IF we get a third season (and that's a pretty big if at this point), reasons like:

A) Bonnet and Blackbeard's fates in real life.

B) Jenkins seems to concentrate more on the drama than the happiness of romance despite it being a romcom.

C) If they can kill off Izzy Hands, what else could they do?

There are a few others, but I think these are the main ones. Well, C is a huge kettle of fish... what I will say about it is that it is a primary factor in prompting this post, and that it shows that not everyone gets what's perceived as the ideal of a 'happy ending' in this series, no matter how much growth they've gone through...

What I'd like to focus on right now is more of A and B.

Before the end of season 2, the general 'pessimistic vibe' based on A is what seemed to be the most prevalent. There's an air of apprehension regarding the historical fact that Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet had pretty short pirate tenures, which most pirates did really.

Some moments throughout the series have indicated the decline/end of the golden age of piracy, whether with comedic framework or otherwise- Nigel Badminton whining about how many pirate crews he's defeated, the crew talking about how the Republic of Pirates has really gotten lame, the Act of Grace, episodes 7 and 8 of season 2, etc. Does it take a bit of additional research into the Golden Age of Piracy? Sure, but love a show that gets ya interested enough to go looking for historical information.

And we've seen the story isn't too afraid of using a little historical accuracy...

Then there's the end of this TV Insider interview with Rhys Darby that was fairly foreboding (which has promoted this repost)...

Unless he's just kidding, but probably not...

The show is popularly labeled as a romantic comedy (with a ton of dark humor), and yet it seems to embrace many different forms of comedy as well as elements of some other genres. There's probably that discussion going around as well, that maybe one of the major 'problems' is that the show can't decide what it is?

Which brings us to B - if Jenkins is more interested in the drama/tragedy than some of the 'good feelings' stuff. Jenkins has pretty consistently interviewed on how he prefers to concentrate on the struggles of relationships rather than the fluff, the 'how they navigate it' leading into the question 'can they make it work?'

What a lot of people have seemed crave is an episode in which Ed and Stede can just slow down and enjoy their relationship together without some kind of shit going down, like a filler episode. Some episodes (like S2E5) come pretty damn close and have incredible tidbits, but most of the series is them basically figuring stuff out, and sometimes it doesn't always end well.

In fact, some romcoms don't even necessarily have to end happily... Essentially, Jenkins just might answer the question of "Will Stede and Ed make it?" with a resounding "Nope."

So, what would that mean? That either they split up and go it alone (or with another partner(s)) or one or both of them die?

Most of us want them to just live out their lives together happily, but if that's not an option, either of those alternatives is fairly bittersweet. We've see how much they've affected each other's lives and it's beautiful.

So -- and here comes the majorly unpopular part -- for my part, kinda low key expecting this kinda thing to happen, and kinda ok with that.

For one thing, my own pessimistic, cynical ass loves this type of shit. The concept seems pretty Myth of Sisyphus, that dude rolling a rock up the hill only to have if careening back down to retrieve it over and over and over again...

It's absurd, it's tragic, but there's beauty to be found in that.

But, yeah like, if Stede Bonnet and Edward Teach are left hanging from a yardarm, content to die together at each other's side over a rebooted reprise of Frenchie crooning about how a pirate's life is short but nice, how fucking absurd and tragic is that? Highly doubt that's what they have in mind though...

Or maybe it's not even in the least bit in the comedic ballpark - they're killed separately and never see each other again, but their story lives on and they'll always be connected that way.

Regardless of wether they die together, separately, or go off to be alone or end up with others, they got that moment 'to sail the seas happily' and made that brief little time in their lives (possibly at the end of their lives) worth the living. Maybe the treasure is just the day we spent together, even if it only amounted to something cool to some but worthless to others?

Just saying, this is a show that has given us stuff like Edward Teach suffering so damn beautifully.

By seeing how much Stede and Ed long for one another, we know how how deep their respective influences go. These two adore each other so much it's sometimes physically painful to watch. We've watched 'how they navigate,' so whatever the destination, maybe it was worth it.

Beautiful journeys aren't necessarily made less so because there's no ideal reward at the end of it. They (and we) will always have that journey, and their's had the fortune of meeting each other. They develop a deep love and connection, something probably a lot of us wish for. Sometimes we find it, sometime we don't. Sometimes it ends happily, other times it's tragic. But should that mean we don't even try in the first place?

Basically, I guess this show is kinda 3/4 escapism and 1/4 realism, but again a lot of comedies are. So, yeah, honestly might be looking in the wrong place for a consummate happy-feel-good family movie that guarantees --

credit

So, ok, these past two seasons have given us something tragic towards the end, so maybe that's a little bit likely to happen in the third...

OR...

That fuckface Ricky could be the representation of forces fighting against everyone's happiness, therefore they beat the shit out of him and everyone gets their happy ending in one way or another. Would fuckin love (and yeah, honestly prefer) that also.

One certainty though is that if we do see a season three set sail, special attention should probably be paid to the beginning. There's been that pattern of beginning/end reflections featured in both seasons, like season one staring with everyone's flag a sense of sense of togetherness and ending with Blackbeard's solo flag and sense of separation. Season two is even more obvious: the beach stuff -- which y'all know what I mean -- and starting with half-separation while ending with half-togetherness.

Season two also ended on a happy(ish) note, since the showrunners had no guarantee of a third season and pretty much needed to rush the ending on something remotely satisfying since they cared enough not to leave us completely hanging off a cliff, but who knows if that's a good sign or ominous? One constant is that show tends to deliver the unexpected...

Now granted, there are numerous flaws in the series, as many commentators much more eloquent than I have highlighted, but frankly, nothing is perfect, especially a show with a severely cut budget/timeframe and a tight deadline. Anyway, this post isn't really meant to be a concrete dissertation of what anyone should or shouldn't like/hope for. It's a subjective point of view that couldn't hold a candle to the works of others much more educated than I (and I don't say that to be snarky or sardonic).

Looking at a project that's considered utter crap can give me as much joy as looking at a piece lauded as art; I'm the kind of pathetic person who enjoys McHale's Navy -- despite it having nigh every kind of disgusting form of -ism and -phobia under the sun so there goes my credibility out the window but it is fun to deride that shit -- and I will watch Amadeus just as happily.

So if sadder endings in romcoms (which is a genre I usually despise anyway) aren't 'the right way to do things,' or even just one's cup of tea, that's totally ok. I speak as a plebeian trying to enjoy a show that's given so much joy in it's all of it's queer comedic, tragic, romantic, and dramatic aspects with whatever happens, even if the ending turns out tragic.

The show has problems, most things do, but I guess my question is - do the good things outweigh the bad?

And as the answer to that is often in and of itself subjunctive, then really it's anyone's guess.

Or season 2 is the end of the series, and a lot were pretty satisfied with it, so there's nothing to worry about... everyone's seen those hints that a certain other featured actor is satisfied for it to end on that happy note. And one other thing, someone in the last post (before I idiotically deleted it) commented that they read that David Jenkins promised a happy ending. I'm so sorry that got deleted, I wasn't thinking. Please feel free to repost that here!

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd s2 #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #rhys darby

7 notes · View notes

dottielovegood · 2 years

Text

Could Mor and Azriel be mates?

My most controversial(?) head canon (that I thought was canon until I joined this fandom, lol) is probably that Azriel and Mor are mates. And yes, I will die on this hill.

Just hear me out!

I know that most people in this fandom are currently on either sides of the 'shipwar' (elriel or gw*nriel), and I obviously think that elriel will be endgame (hence everything I've ever written on AO3), but that does not mean that I think they are mates. Nor do I want them to be.

I have read many theories about why Gw*n could be Azriel's mate (I don't believe it for a second), and even a few theories about the bond between Elain/Lucien being fake and Azriel being her true mate (though I do find this theory interesting, I am not convinced).

Mor and Azriel though? Yes. I see them being mates. I believe it. I have believed it since ACOMAF, and I have yet to see anything that might dispute this theory.

Does this mean that they will be endgame though?

Absolutely not. (For obvious reasons)

I actually think that their mating bond will be important for Elriel's story further on. Many of us think that a theme in Elain's book will be about "choices", and Elain making an active choice to choose Azriel over Lucien. However, I think that Azriel has to make a decision too.

And also, just imagine this scenario:

Elain decided to break/refuse the mating bond between her and Lucien. Elain and Azriel finally get together. They live happily ever after. UNTIL AZRIEL ACTUALLY MEETS HIS MATE 200 YEARS LATER. Then Azriel has to make a choice. And will he be able to choose Elain? Even when he has a mate?

I think for Elriel to be possible, Azriel will have to have met his mate already. And I happen to think that the mate is Mor.

Am I alone with this theory? Because I almost never see anyone mention this.

If you want to read more about why I think that they might be mates, keep reading:

——————

Some of the things that has made me think that Mor + Azriel = mates.

1. How their relationship is written: ravenous and protective.

The way SJM describes Azriel’s reactions to Mor is very similar to how she describes how males react to their mates. When SJM writes about Feyre and Rhys after they have been mated, she uses the word “ravenous” quite a few times.

- Feyre about Rhys:

“He leaned in, brushing his mouth against my heated cheek. I closed my eyes at the whisper of a kiss, at the hunger that ravaged me in its wake, that might ravage Prythian.” “Rhysand was…ravenous. I got perhaps and hour of sleep that night [...]”

In one scene, when Mor wears a white dress that was “just a little more than a slip of silk, showing off her generous curves”, Feyre describes Azriel’s reaction to her like this:

“for a moment, the ravenous hunger on Azriel’s face made my stomach tighten”

Also, we know that mates are VERY protective of each other (see Nessian and Feysand. I don't think I have to use any particular scenes as proof here).

At the High Lord's meeting, when Feyre is insulted by Tamlin, this happens:

“But it was Azriel who said, his voice like cold death, “Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.“

He doesn't attack Tamlin though. Who does he attack? Eris.

"Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut." One moment, Azriel was seated. The next, he'd blasted through Eris's shield with a flair of blue light and tackled him backwards, wood shattering beneath them."

When Rhys tried to order Azriel to back down, he didn't. But Feyre is finally able to stop him.

"Azriel stopped. Eris gasped for air as those scarred hands loosened. As Azriel turned his face toward me-- The frozen rage there rooted me to the spot. But beneath it, I could almost see the images that haunted him: the hand Mor had yanked away, her weeping, distraught face as she had screamed at Rhys. And now, behind us, Mor was shaking in her chair."

Also, on a few occasions, we see Mor ask Azriel for his opinion, expecting him to agree with her. I don't have an exact quote here (and I don't feel like re-reading the books to find one), but I know that Rhys says something about inviting Keir to Velaris, and Mor asks Azriel what he thinks about it. When he basically says that it's not his business, Mor get's upset.

(There's more, but this is getting long enough already)

2. The 500 year crush/obsession

I can't find a logical explanation as to why Azriel would fall in love with Mor, find out that she slept with his best friend, and then just stay in love with her for 500 years even though she won't give him the time of day. 500 years is a very, very long time.

I am convinced that Mor slept with Cassian because she could feel something between her and Azriel and she didn't want to belong to a male, so she chose Cassian. If she went back to her father, she would have been forced to marry Eris. If she had slept with Azriel, the mating bond might have snapped into place. So she chose the safest option.

3. Azriel's bonus chapter

When Rhys finds Azriel with Elain, this is the conversation that takes place:

R: Are you out of your mind? A: I don't know what you're talking about R: I'm talking about you, about to kiss Elain, in the middle of the hall where anyone could see you. Including her mate. A: What if the cauldron was wrong? R: What of Mor, Az?

Azriel doesn’t answer. He could have just said “I’m over her. I no longer have a crush.” But he doesn’t, because it’s more than a crush. And Rhys probably knows that. And it's interesting that when Azriel mentions the cauldron, Rhys immediately asks him about Mor. He could have said something about Lucien and Elain, but no. He asks about Mor.

Then, Azriel says:

“the cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it’s possible that my two brothers are with two of those sisters, yet the third was given to another?”

This can be read in two ways: Tell me why the third sister was given to another OR Tell me why the third brother was given to another.

And THEN, Rhys and Az talk about the Blood Duel, and it says:

“Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he’d found Mor all those years ago. He’d been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris to Blood Duels and kill them both. Only Mor’s right to claim their heads in vengeance had kept him from doing so.”

So, the Blood Duel is a duel that you can invoke when you want to defend your mating bond, right? Azriel could have just said that he wanted to kill Beron and Eris, but no. He wanted to invoke the Blood Duel.

4. MOVING ON - ACOSF

Cassian looked over at Az. "You think you'll ever be ready for one?" Ever be ready to to confess to Mor what's in your heart? "I don't know," Azriel said. "Do you want a child?" "It doesn't matter what I want." Distant words-- ones that prevented Cassian from prying further. He was still happy to be Mor's buffer with Azriel, but there had been a change lately. In both of them. Mor no longer sat beside Cassian, draped herself over him, and Azriel... those longing glances toward her had become few and far between. As if he'd given up. Cassian couldn't think why.

This scene if very interesting since it's proof that something has changed between Mor and Azriel. I think one of two things might be the reason behind that.

1. Mor and Azriel have finally talked (though this seems unlikely)

2. Distance. Mor is on the continent, which means that it's easier for Azriel to ignore their bond. It's easier for him to feel what his heart wants. I also think that Mor, whose power is truth (whatever that means) might have seen something between Elain and Azriel and is therefore more relaxed around him now.

Also, speaking of the bond: Does Az hate the bond between Elain and Lucien not only because he is in love with Elain, but because he recognizes it for what it is: a mating bond that hasn't been accepted - just like his. Does he hate it so much because even though he doesn't think Lucien deserves Elain, he can still see that he and Lucien has something in common. He understands Lucien's pain, which probably makes this whole thing even more difficult. Just a thought...

But...Elriel?

Don't worry, they're still endgame.

Mor would probably LOVE to see them together :)

#mor acotar #azriel and mor #elriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #mates?

91 notes · View notes

fvrxdrm · 2 years

Note

Hey good evening

Can you do Chamber with a non-agent fem reader who works at the cafeteria? Some fluff pls?

earth 1 report no. 1: the first light

Pairing: Chamber/Vincent Fabron x F!Reader/Existing Character(Jett type of reader)

Warning(s): mentions of reader wearing a dress (I know there are people who aren’t comfortable in wearing dresses, you can ignore that bit), foreshadowing references, Chamber may be a bit OOC but I made him softer in this fic softer than how he usually is, puns

Earth 2 reports (Courtesy of Leon Scott Kennedy):

EARTH 2 - United States Strategic Command Report No. 1: The First Light

*****

EARTH 2 – VALORANT Protocol Report No. 1:

The First Light

A birthday can be sweet without layered cakes or fanfare when you have your own super-fans, when you are confident that you are a darling who does good each day of each year as best you can with the people you think the world of the most. Then you can enjoy your day with an inner glow, the kind that will shine in your eyes. It was a celebration of another year, of another 365 days to cherish in a lifetime.

And as you were here, wearing a f/c dress, letting the smoothness of your skirt flow against the urge of the wind through the open windows of your car, you embraced the notion that such a beloved day could not have been any better when you’ve got the love of your life and your best friend driving you through cities and towns while you sing along to whatever cheesy shit was on the radio. It was like making memories in every city; once you visit each and every one of them again, you for sure wouldn’t but think of you and Vincent.

The smell of coffee shops still whiffed by your nose (passing by them, Vincent kept bragging about how their coffee can never compete with yours!), the tip still feeling a tad bit sticky from the jest of a cupcake icing. Your skin tingled from Vincent’s occasional touch on your skin, and your heart melted once you’ve found your safe haven: alone in the hills beyond the near sunset.

A meal of a couple gourmet sandwiches, wine, and a few appetizers were heaven on your tongue, a claim backed up by the feel of satisfaction in your stomach, and Vincent’s self-manufactured phone was happily shuffling through music of varying styles and genres, a mixture of emotions congregating beneath every step of a beat. When his playlist had hit bingo with a song he was certain you loved with your head and heart, he laid hold of your shy hand in his before spinning you around to the direction of the whispering breeze.

Vincent was left smitten by how one you were with the air; a sophisticated zephyr tiptoeing against the clouds with the intricacy of a gliding leaf and the fidelity of a flitting bird. In his mind perhaps, maybe you were the wind! Though it was a subjective fact, the lightness of you against him was beginning to prove his point a lot more than he thought possible.

As you palliated with the melody, Vincent’s gaze didn’t go by unnoticed by you.

“What’s got you looking at me like that, handsome?” You said as you spun around to face him before smoothly grazing your fingers at the nape of his neck. He replied, “your beauty, mademoiselle,” with a tempting smile pulling at his lips.

“Well, you need to stop at some point or else you’ll end up falling deep for me.”

“Perhaps, I would not mind it, no?” All four walls eventually gave in and everything felt hot all of a sudden. The feeling of your rising heat against his chest gave him a sense of pride knowing that a few prodding here and there could make you crumble in front of him.

“Okay, now you gotta stop. I’ll die right here, right now if you continue.” Vincent placed his chin on the crown of your head as he wrapped his arms around you, still swaying you with the music. ‘Why? Do I fluster you, mademoiselle?”

“Mmm… And you very well know that, you smooth fucker.”

“I feel very honored, my darling, but I doubt I could compete with that very sweet drawing in my coffee that you made!”

The last few hours ran like this, a few words and innuendos swinging back and forth between you two. The moon was beginning to peek in between darkening clouds along with a few evening stars teasing to support the tiny bit of light the moon was providing you with. The last of the sun, flanking right behind you, bid its interim goodbye as it made way for the reigning queen of the night.

Alas, that meant the day has come to an end. It went by too quickly in your opinion, it was like you ran through fast times without ever noticing everything dashing with you. Everything that has happened that day just felt so good it almost made you want to drown in those moments for a given second. Inevitably, you cursed the clock for the mortality of the day.

As you and Vincent were packing your things up, a circle of light began to shadow beneath you and expand to take up the whole kilometers of area. You were addled by the sudden change of brightness and when you and Chamber looked up, white was choking the entirety of the sky.

You became hypnotized by it, pacing thoughts meeting together in a rendezvous at every point in your head. The clarity of the light became a trademark in your eyes. It grew less and less mundane to you and like a strike of a lightning, the heavens pummeled a beam of light to the ground before the fog in your head ebbed away in sight; a tour de force in a far off distance.

“Y/N!”

#chamber valorant #valorant chamber x reader #chamber x reader #valorant x reader #valorant

64 notes · View notes

idkthisisjustforfanfic · 3 years

Text

that makes four.

story page | talk to me + join the tag list

PART 1

Your feet dangled down from the stool, elbows on the granite counter when Jeff turned around. “Alright,” he said, lips in a thin smile when he revealed the plate of reheated lasagna that someone dropped off in the last few days. “Smells good.”

You looked up at him with an unimpressed stare. “It looks a little disgusting.”

“It’s vegan, I think.”

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes. “You start one all natural skincare line and people think you only eat plant-based shit.”

He let out a small laugh, set the plate down and watched as you picked up the fork. One bite--mediocre. Not exactly hot enough, but after all Jeff had done for you the last few days, you didn’t have the heart to demand he put it in for another minute.

“So--do you think it went well?”

You laughed around the food in your mouth, picked up a paper napkin and let your head tilt to the side. “As good as a funeral could be.”

The lights in your kitchen were dim and the sun had already faded behind the trees, the house quiet after people finally filed out. Friends, extended family, strangers you’d never met had flocked to Los Angeles for the funeral of your famous father.

It’d been coming from a mile away. His health declined, an obvious result of the cocaine and the cigarettes and whatever else he’d ingested regularly in the 70s. A heart attack a year ago put him on a fast track to the afterlife, but he always joked that he’d probably end up in hell.

Being in the music industry ruined him, in a way--it ruined your parents’ marriage and it ruined a lot of the relationships your father had. Blow outs and big fights that left him exiled from a lot of social circles, sometimes never speaking to people again after one bad phone call. But it was never like that with Irv.

“Well, I’ve never seen my dad cry so hard,” Jeff smiled. “He really loved him.”

Another bite of the soggy noodles and fake cheese. “I know.”

A comfortable silence, the doors off the kitchen were open, a breeze from the backyard let the southern California warmth blow through the sheer curtains when you sipped at your left over wine.

Jeff was the closest thing you had to a sibling, his family was all you had left at this point. You were tossed in the bathtub with him and his siblings as a baby, shoved into family photos and tagged along for vacations.

Being closest in age to Jeff meant people always hoped it would be the two of you that would end up together. Happily ever after or having babies of your own. But when you saw Jeff wolf down a whole pizza at his bar mitzvah, any hope of a spark between the two of you had been permanently extinguished.

His older sister was the one who told you what it meant to have sex, and after your mom died, his mom helped you pick out a dress for your Sweet Sixteen.

She was the one who talked you off the ledge when you found out you were pregnant only a few years later, she was the one who threw you both baby showers and she was the one who helped you through your divorce only six months earlier.

So now that your dad was gone, too, you wondered where you fit into their family and what your definition of family even was.

Before the thought could cross your mind, the front door was pushed open and the sound of high pitched giggles floated in from the foyer.

CeCe’s tiny voice echoed down the hall. “Uncle Jeff?”

“Is that my CeCe?” He took a few steps forward and she ran straight into his legs, he hoisted her up onto his hip when Maeve rounded the corner with Tristan in tow.

“Hi honey,” you opened an arm so your ten-year-old could fit into the side of you. She leaned her head on her shoulder. “How was ice cream?”

The easiest ploy to get them out of the house while you hosted some kind of awkward afterparty.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But Tristan said that funerals are a selfish attempt by the living to hold on to someone after they’re dead.”

You blinked a few times and looked down at her, shocked by the words and apparently, her ability to understand them. You looked over at Tristan, arched eyebrows to communicate how displeased you were.

His eyes went wide when Jeff choked down a laugh. “I didn’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about Maeve.”

You kissed Maeve on the head. “Well, Tristan is wrong about a lot of things, trust me. But you two should go get ready for bed, it’s been a long day.”

You looked over at him again--younger by two years and easily one of the most important people in your life. You met him only a year after you started your business, he had a knack for brand management and eye for design that you couldn’t pass up. He was way too sarcastic and cynical to be your regular babysitter, but Jeff and his family were basically in the receiving line beside you.

Jeff let CeCe climb down and Maeve took her by the hand as they headed for the kitchen stairs to the second floor, leaving you alone at the island with two of your closest friends.

He waited until he heard the water turn on from their bathroom sink, then whispered in Tristan’s direction. “Great idea to say that to a ten-year-old and a six-year-old after their grandpa dies.”

Tristan rolled his eyes theatrically, “she asked why so many people came and why she’d never met any of them if they loved her grandpa so much.”

“Well, you can expect a bill for their therapy in a few years,” you laughed, forking more lasagna into your mouth.

Tristan made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the glass dish, helping himself to a piece when Jeff took a seat beside you. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” you glanced at him sideways, suspicious about any ulterior motive he might have.

“Okay, Y/N,” Jeff laughed, Tristan eyed you from over his shoulder like he didn’t believe you. “Let me try again. How are you feeling emotionally?”

You cleared your throat and swallowed the most recent bite of dinner. “Oh, you mean cause my husband left me six months ago and my dad just died and now I’m a single mom with two fiesty daughters who just inherited a giant house aaaaaand,” you drew out the word for dramatic effect. “I’m a business owner who barely gets any sleep?”

“That’s what I was getting at, yes,” Jeff nodded and fought a smirk.

“I’m alright,” you sighed. “Tired. Kind of freaked out about what the fuck is going on in my life, but, I’ll survive. I always survive."

You knew you would--in fact, you’d been waiting for this moment for the last few weeks. When Jeff’s mom called to tell you your dad needed to be put in hospice, you prepared. You talked to Maeve and CeCe and explained it all in a way they’d understand. His life on earth is over, but we can still talk to him and visit a pretty garden to remember him.

It was a lot to deal with only a few months after your high school sweetheart turned husband admitted he’d been having an affair and moved out, you saw on Facebook that he’d since bought a motorcycle and was spending most of his time at bars along the coast. That whole fiasco was harder to explain to your children.

And now suddenly everyone wanted to make sure you were okay. Frozen dinners, offers to drive your kids to and from their extracurriculars, a lot of attention was suddenly thrust onto you and your family, as if you hadn’t always hated that growing up.

But you knew the time would come when life would settle back down. Cousins and aunts and uncles would fly home, people would stop asking how you were doing post divorce. Dust would settle and the sun would set on this chapter and frankly, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

So here you were, the funeral was over, the dinner in his honor at Jeff’s parents, the media coverage was starting to die down and life could return to normal. Or, at least, a new normal.

Your dad had been a fixture in your life--weekly dinner dates with grandpa gave you a minute to yourself after working long days and answering endless phone calls. A glass of wine on the couch or even dinner with Tristan and Zoey was a nice escape from breaking up fights or figuring out how to reattach the head of a Barbie doll after someone shoved someone into a closet and tears and screaming ensued.

“You will definitely survive,” Jeff nodded.

Tristan came and sat, forked into the lasagna and made a face when he realized how bad it was. “Is this fake cheese?”

“Unfortunately,” you nodded.

Tristan made a face and then cleared his throat. “I, for one, think this is the start of a new chapter for you. New opportunities, new love,” he smirked.

A quick retort: “Yeah, that’s obviously the first priority right now.”

“He’s right, though,” Jeff said. “You have a fresh start, a totally new chapter.”

You nodded--they were right, but easing into a new chapter felt a lot better than trying to dive right in.

“Speaking of a fresh start, you know, changing things up,” Jeff forced a grin in your direction. “Can we actually talk for a second?”

You eyed him suspiciously, put your fork down to bow out from eating the world’s worst lasagna. “Yeah?”

“I have kind of a weird favor to ask. And--I know it’s kind of bad timing, with everything going on, but--just hear me out, okay?”

Instead of replying, you watched him, lifted your brows to encourage him to continue and tread carefully.

“So I have a client who isn’t from here, he bought a house but it’s in the middle of getting renovated. There’s kind of been a lot going on, it’s a long story.”

“Okay,” you nodded, unsure where he was going with it.

“He needs a place to stay, and I was wondering if maybe he could stay here for a little.”

“Here, like, here here?” You pointed to the floor of your kitchen, an elegant upgrade from the more modest house in Woodland Hills you’d occupied before the divorce.

Along with the death of your father came the inheritance of his Bel Air estate and all of the bedrooms, the four car garage, the manicured lawn and the pool out back. Some people thought you should sell it, use the cash to make trusts for the girls or save for college.

Selling it didn’t feel right, though. It was the house he worked so hard for, the house you called home for the later half of your teen years and the place you always came back to when things got hard. So instead of putting it on the market and closing that chapter, once again, you returned to the safe haven in the hills when you didn’t know where else to turn.

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but you have the room and it might be fun to have someone else around and--”

“I have two daughters, Jeff, I can’t just let a stranger live with us.”

“He’s not a stranger, Y/N, he’s my friend. We’re really close.”

“Who is he?” Tristan asked, waving his fork in the air to remind us that he was still present.

“Harry Styles.”

Tristan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “The kid from the boyband?”

“No way,” you shook your head, dismissing it before you could even let his name register. “I’m not having a pop star boy band kid stay in my house.”

“Okay,” Jeff held up a hand to get Tristan to relax, then moved to point at you. “He’s 24, number one. He’s not a kid, he’s, like, only a few years younger than us.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “exactly. I don’t need a 24-year-old living with my daughters.”

“He’s not like that, though. He’s responsible and he’s a family friendly dude, and--”

“Then why can’t he live with you? Or with your parents?”

“I don’t have the room,” he said. “And my dad hates house guests.”

You rolled your eyes, it was obnoxious, but it was true. Irv hated having people stay over almost as much as he hated it when your dad beat him in golf.

Jeff took your silence as an opportunity to continue selling you on the idea. “He just finished his tour, he’s working on his second album. He’s probably going to be in the studio a lot, Y/N. Do you really think I would let some crazy party animal live with my nieces?”

Another eye roll from both you and Tristan.

“Is this like, just a few nights?” You asked.

“Like, two weeks. Tops.”

“Two weeks?!” You shook your head. “No--I can’t put them through that after all the shit that’s been going on this year. Why can’t he just stay in a hotel?”

“Cause that’s lonely and he’s a people person and--I don’t know, it might be good for you to have someone around.”

You rolled your eyes that, was it a jab at your new status as a single mom or new status as a fatherless daughter? Unsure.

Jeff stood from the counter and grabbed for his phone on the far end of the island. “Just think about it, okay? I’ve gotta run. A few weeks, built in babysitting, maybe--he’s great with kids.”

“I’ve already thought about it,” you told him, resting your chin in your hand and offering a sugary sweet smile. “No fucking way.”

“Mommy!” CeCe’s voice called from upstairs, you hoisted yourself up, ready to tuck them in and forget that Jeff had ever asked such a ludicrous question.

“I would owe you big time--it might be fun! You’ve got the room, he could be a positive male influence on the girls.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the end of his sentence--like that would really sway you.

“And I’m not that?” Tristan pulled his head back, offended.

“You’re the one who told them funerals are stupid,” Jeff said with a sarcastic smirk.

“And you’re the crazy one trying to let a stranger move in here like it’s an AirBnB,” you shot back at Jeff. “So maybe they do need a better male influence than both of you.”

“Mommy!” CeCe called again, more impatient this time.

“I’m coming!” You shouted. “You, let yourself out when you’re finished eating this terrible meal,” you pointed at Tristan and the lasagna. “And you,” you pointed at Jeff with a smirk. “Please never speak to me again.”

He was already heading for the door, keys in hand when he blew you a kiss. “Love you, see you soon!”

“Love you,” you called back, bounding up the stairs, mom mode activated.

A text message the next day when you were at work:

Jeff Azoff (1:43pm): 🙏😇🙏😇

You blew air from your lips, Zoey sat across from you at a conference table when you took a late lunch. She was the first friend you made when you started high school, your long time confidant aside from Tristan and Jeff and a sure bet to tell it like it is.

Now she regularly popped into the Luna offices and she loved nothing more than acting like she was a higher up at your business. She’d rather be doing that than admit she was a new mom with no clue what the next chapter of her life would look like. You had that in common.

Her two-month-old son, Benny, sat in a carrier on the ground, his eyelashes fluttered when Zoey put her feet up on the chair beside her.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“Jeff is being annoying.”

“What’d he do now?”

You looked over at her, nose deep in her phone when you took another bite of the burrito bowl she’d picked up for you. You didn’t know if it was worth it to explain it all. Zoey was excitable, never one to turn down an adventure and her aptly timed identity crisis that came with becoming a mom was sure to make her encourage bad decisions even more.

She looked up at you, suddenly aware of the wheels spinning in your mind.

“Spill it,” she instructed. She put her phone down and let out a breath, clasped her hands and waited for you to fill her in.

“He asked me to let a friend of his stay with us in my dad’s house.”

“Your house,” she corrected. “Deed’s in your name now.”

“My house,” you nodded. “And I feel weird about it.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Some client of his,” you tried to wave it off as if the name didn’t matter.

It didn’t, really. You’d long been exposed to the rich and famous just because of the nature of your father’s work. He was one of the biggest managers in the music industry in partnership with Jeff’s dad, so you were no stranger to beautiful people with beautiful cars and beautiful homes. When Jeff took on the family business, you only grew more accustomed to it.

“So a celebrity?” she shimmied her shoulders in excitement. “Which one?”

“Harry Styles,” you said the name slowly, quietly, even though it was just the two of you in the second floor conference room and even though this was your office that you bought and you owned and you ran.

“He’s hot,” she nodded casually, less impressed than you’d expected.

“He’s also like twenty-something, so it's disgusting for you to say that.”

“Oh relax,” she dismissed your concern. “He could be your pool boy.”

Zoey--who also grew up in Southern California and spent plenty of time at your house as a kid--hadn’t yet grown so accustomed to the coming and going of celebrities. Her parents owned a florist shop in Santa Monica and in high school you had to tell her she could only come to a Britney Spears concert if she didn’t cry when you inevitably met her in the green room thanks to your dad.

“I have children,” you reminded her. “A ten-year-old who might as well be fifteen and a six-year-old who would think I literally bought her a human playmate.”

“But if he’s friends with Jeff I highly doubt he’s a serial killer,” she reasoned.

“Wow, you are completely missing the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“It’s weird--I can’t have a stranger move in with my kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because first their dad left us and now their grandpa died.”

“Sounds like they need a new man in their life.”

You ignored the similarity of her words with Jeff’s from the other night. “I just think it’s crazy.”

“Okay,” she sat up straight and suddenly looked like this was morphing into a business conversation. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh my god,” she turned her palms towards the sky. “Just do it.”

“What? No!”

“It’s two weeks--it’ll take your mind off of all the shit that’s been going on, it’ll be a fun distraction for the girls. You have so much space in that house you will never even know he’s there. And you’re helping a friend.”

She wasn’t wrong: Harry could likely stay in the bedroom all the way on the other end of the hall from where the girls slept. Maeve was thrilled to get her own room in the move and CeCe would occasionally run into your room after a nightmare, so the space was a plus.

He’d have his own room, his own bathroom. Hell, he could even park in the extra garage and enter from the back of the house. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice he existed.

You sighed, tugged at your necklace when you met her gaze. “I just feel really protective over them right now. I feel like Luke ruined their sense of family and now with my dad gone--”

She stuck her tongue out in disgust at the sound of your ex’s name. “I get that--but they have you. They have Jeff and his family and they have me and Shawn and now Benny.”

You offered a small smile at her reassurance. She was right in a lot of ways. The Azoffs were as much a family to your daughters as they had been to you. Shelli and Irv were like grandparents, they offered to babysit plenty of times and they always managed to get the girls the most amazing birthday presents.

But something in you knew it wasn’t the same. You’d dreamed of giving your daughters the sense of family you never had: a mom and a dad who loved each other. One house, not two that had two different beds and sets of books or toys.

Luckily and unluckily, your ex hadn’t made a huge deal about custody. Visits here and there were outlined in your divorce papers, but at this point in time he didn’t seem the most interested in maintaining a relationship with his daughters, even though he promised way back when that he’d never leave.

Getting pregnant with him during college wasn’t planned, but he swore you’d make it work and you tied the knot only a few months before Maeve was born. Things were good at first, you always knew you’d have more than one--if only to combat your own only-child loneliness--and then CeCe came five years later when you felt a little more prepared.

“I don’t think it’s going to traumatize them, Y/N. I mean, the least you could do is meet the guy.”

You watched her for a minute, blew air from your nose in a huff before you picked up your phone.

Y/N L/N (1:56pm): Fine. I’ll meet him.

Three days later you pulled up to a cafe in Brentwood and took a deep breath in the parking lot. If he was creepy, you wouldn’t go for it. If you got even the slightest weird vibe from him, you’d ex-communicate Jeff and only go over to visit his parents with the girls when he wasn’t around.

You’d already been leaning towards just doing it, especially once Tristan got a glass of wine in you and reminded you what your dad would have said: he who helps is one who prospers.

A few sleepless nights left you staring at the ceiling and wondering if you were crazy. You just now had the chance to let life settle down and here you were, mourning the loss of your biggest supporter, trying to piece yourself back together post divorce, and considering letting a stranger move in? Grief really did do strange things to people.

But when you walked in and found them sitting at a table in the back, something clicked.

Your dad was already fond of your possible houseguest, which you only knew from overhearing previous conversations between him and Irv about how proud they were of Jeff for picking up the family business, and now it all made sense.

A small part of you--probably the stupidest part of you--wondered if there was something cosmic about it. Your dad was always one to let his artists stay in the house, if they weren’t creepy, of course. You grew up with bands rehearsing in the backyard and going to shows at the Troubadour before you were old enough to drive, and you turned out fine.

“Hi,” Harry stood, offered a hand and introduced himself after Jeff gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Harry, pleasure to meet you.” Polite, maybe a bit of a kiss ass. Your dad must have loved him.

“Y/N,” you nodded, sat down when Jeff tugged out a chair for you. “Thanks for--uh--meeting with me, I guess.”

“Thanks for maybe letting me stay at your house,” he offered a sheepish smile, held your gaze for a second when Jeff adjusted the sunglasses clipped to his shirt.

“I’m actually surprised you guys haven’t met before,” he said.

“I’ve been a little busy this year,” you reminded him with a nod. “But--nice to finally meet you.”

Harry nodded, a dimple in his left cheek ignited a tiny spark in your chest, but you pushed Zoey’s words out of your mind. Two weeks, it wasn’t a big deal. He’d be in and out and this would be a blip on the radar.

“We can order coffee or something, but Y/N, I’m assuming you have like, a whole interrogation mapped out?”

You pretended to laugh at Jeff’s joke, turned to Harry and offered a no-nonsense smile. “I have two children, I got divorced earlier this year and my dad just died. So I don’t need any drama or anything. This is temporary and I’m doing this to help out a friend. Jeff, that is, not you.”

He laughed at your clarification and nodded. “Right. This is just me living in your house. No drama. Short-term.”

“And obviously my children will be there, so no guests.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay I’m not that much older than you,” you said it quickly, offered a small smile when he looked a little scared.

“Sorry--no, I didn’t mean that in a rude way.”

“No ma’am,” you added a rule, pulling a laugh from both of them when you lifted another finger in the air to count them off. “No drugs or alcohol, unless it’s like a glass of wine at dinner or something,” you shrugged.

“Look,” Jeff leaned forward. “Y/N’s kids are great, she’s got a great skincare company and she’s a kickass human. And you need a place to stay, so don’t fuck this up.”

“You both have my word. No drugs, no alcohol, no guests, no ma’am,” he smirked in your direction. “I’ve lived alone for a while, so, it’ll be nice to have some roommates.”

You nodded slowly and watched him for a second. A hoodie with the name of the management firm your dad and Irv had started, a backwards baseball hat and simple Ray-Bans. You ignored the fluttering in your veins from just looking at him, your own words echoed against the walls of your skull: he’s also like twenty-something, so that’s disgusting.

This was his brand, you were sure. Something Jeff had worked hard on--the looks, the smile, the exact formula that management firms drooled over was playing out in front of you. You sipped your drink once the waiter delivered three cappuccinos. Two weeks, tops.

Los Angeles afternoons were meant for playing outside, which is what your daughters did best if they weren’t busy pulling each other’s hair. You had dinner on the stove--enough for five--and a knot of nerves in your stomach when the wheels of his fancy car crunched atop the gravel.

The girls ran to greet him and Jeff showed him around the house. Now, Harry sat across from you at the table, Maeve to his left with an unimpressed look on her face when you cleared your throat. “Okay, gratitude time.”

Jeff set his fork back down, a guilty look on his face to admit he’d forgotten about your pre-dinner ritual.

CeCe squirmed in her seat, let out a sigh when Maeve protested with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t have anything to be thankful for,” she informed you.

“That feels a little hard to believe,” you nodded, losing patience for her attitude over the last few days. “CeCe, do you want to go?”

Your younger daughter looked up at you, scrunched her mouth and thought about it. “I don’t have anything either.”

You tried not to groan aloud. After the week you’d had and the sudden changes in your life, disciplining your daughters felt like the last thing you wanted to do, if only they’d just behave.

“I can go,” Harry lifted his hand sheepishly as if he was sitting in a classroom and not in your dining room, a dimple on his cheek when he smiled sheepishly.

“Take it away,” you motioned towards him.

“M’thankful for being here, having a place to stay--and what looks like it will be a delicious meal.” By now he had a bit of smug look on his face, maybe proud of the fact that he’d broken the ice and stepped up to the pre-dinner prompt.

“Mom’s cooking is a solid six out of ten on a good day,” Maeve looked over at him, her fork now in her hand as if she was ready to dig in.

“Okay,” you leaned in and caught her gaze. “Drop the attitude or go to your room.”

“I’m thankful for Emma,” she named her friend, her quick submission after she rolled her eyes told you she just wanted to eat and get this over with. “She warned me today that Hayley was wearing a shirt I wore last week so I think she’s copying me.”

“Okay,” you nodded, you’d accept anything at this point. “CeCe? Last chance.”

“I’m grateful for pudding.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, you nodded and said: “Great. I’m thankful for you two,” you smiled at them, hopeful that this nightly tradition would hold some type of meaning, more than just eye rolls and pre-pubescent angst from Maeve.

Jeff looked over at the girls, “I’m thankful for my friend Harry getting to meet my other friends, CeCe and Maeve.”

“Aww,” Harry smiled, a hand clutched to his heart when he looked between them.

“Alright,” you were annoyed by how good your daughters were at turning on their charm for anyone but you. Jeff was often the fun uncle, just like your ex had been the fun dad, which left you forcing them to play this gratitude game every night after they finished their homework.

CeCe wasted no time digging into the spaghetti on her plate, leaving Jeff to ask Maeve: “so what are you going to do about Hayley?”

“I don’t know,” Maeve sighed. “She’ll die when she finds out that you’re sleeping over,” she pointed her fork at Harry.

“He’s not sleeping over,” you corrected. “He’s staying in one of the guest rooms, remember?” You’d already explained it a few times to them. A few weeks, he’s working on more music, he’ll be busy, he’s not here to play with you.

“Whatever,” Maeve said. “Maybe I’ll hold it over her.”

“Maeve,” you looked over, unsure what had gotten into her. “I thought we talked about this stuff with Hayley?”

“I know--but she just keeps annoying me,” Maeve explained.

“Dump pasta on her head,” CeCe suggested with a giggle.

“Don’t do that,” you looked at CeCe and poked her in the stomach.

“I personally am a big fan of that idea,” Jeff smiled over at CeCe. “But it’d probably be better to just forget about it. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Or the sincerest form of annoying,” she retorted.

Harry let out a laugh at that, caught your gaze when you wondered how soon it’d take him to get annoyed with your kids.

They were great--smart, funny, clever, definitely witty and sometimes dramatic. But they were good kids.

You remembered how tough it was to adapt to motherhood, even though they were your own. Something told you that Harry, no matter how short his stay would be, was not in the chapter of his life that entailed finding joy in playdates and pillow fights.

But he made it through dinner, quiet but friendly and as soon as Maeve was finished, she begged him to play squishball outside before sunset.

“Squishball?” his eyebrows dipped together. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s basically just baseball but with a softer bat and a foam ball cause mom doesn’t want us to break our skulls,” Maeve informed.

“I never said break your skulls,” you argued.

“But it’s what you meant,” she shrugged.

“I would love to play,” Harry laughed, unbelievably entertained by the back and forth he’d already witnessed. They yanked him outside and set up their tiny diamond, CeCe pulled on a tutu just for flair and you and Jeff were left to handle the aftermath of a family dinner.

Jeff put the final plate into the dishwasher after a little bit and offered a hesitant smile when he turned around. “So?”

“So what? It’s been like an hour and a half of him being here.”

Their laughter from outside was audible, CeCe shrieked when Maeve made contact with the bat and sent the ball soaring into the air. “The girls clearly love him.”

“Of course they do--they love anyone for the first two hours.”

“I think he’ll be good for you guys.”

You rolled your eyes, wiped the counter with the sponge when he continued.

“And you guys will be good for him.”

This got your attention. “How so?”

“He’s a people-person, never likes being on his own too much. Some structure and responsibility is good for him.”

“So I’m babysitting him?”

“Oh my god,” he laughed. “Relax, will you? This could be a mutually beneficial thing if you let it, that’s all I’m saying.”

You didn’t read too much into it, you figured Jeff was peppering you with reassurance only to calm your nerves or quell your concerns. When he was finished helping you clean, he hugged the girls goodbye and waved over his shoulder, leaving Harry alone in your house with you and your daughters and nothing but good intentions.

You left him downstairs at first, helped CeCe brush her hair and sat on the floor when Maeve picked out her clothes for the next day: hopefully Hayley doesn’t own this dress.

When you headed back downstairs an hour later, the girls were tucked in, the lights were off, and your usual plan would have been to check your work emails if it weren’t for the dimpled guy in your living room.

He stood at the bookcase, hands clasped behind his back when you found him.

“Hi, sorry--bedtime is always a--” you paused, not even knowing the right label. “A shit show. But thanks for playing with them earlier.”

He laughed, turned around and offered a smile. “No worries--they seem like great kids.”

“They are,” you assured. “Maeve’s been a bit snarky lately but I think that’s just the whole beginning of puberty thing.” You cringed a little when the words left your mouth, wondering if it was too much information for someone who likely had cooler things to do than talk about ten-year-olds and training bras.

But he smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets when you said: let me show you around.

He’d arrived at the worst time. Homework, dinner prep, CeCe crying because Maeve finished her homework first. You didn’t have the chance to give him a tour and you figured it would be better coming from you than from Jeff, that way you could remind him of all the rules.

You showed him the ground floor first. The library, the family room, the two offices and the three different remotes that all worked different TVs or speakers or lamps. He marveled at the pictures on the wall in your dad’s old office space, he was a legend, he told you.

He climbed the stairs behind you and whispered in response when you pointed out what was behind each door. Bathroom, Maeve’s room, CeCe’s room, guest room, another bathroom, master suite, guest room, his room.

You pushed the door open and stepped aside to let him in. Gray walls, a wooden four-post king-sized bed. Throw pillows you’d picked out when you moved in a few weeks ago, a dresser to the left. He looked around and nodded. “S’perfect.”

“Good,” you said, walking over to a small linen closet in his attached bath. “Towels are in here, should be soap and stuff in the shower--had our housekeeper stock it.”

“Thanks,” he nodded again.

“I don’t know where you parked, but there’s a garage in the back that my dad used to keep some of his sports cars in--there’s definitely room and that way you don’t have to leave yours out if it rains.”

Were you talking too much? You just wanted him to feel at home or at least welcomed.

“Amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”

A repetitive answer but it didn't stop you from rambling.

“Keurig’s on the counter--creamer in the fridge. Should be plenty of food but obviously feel free to stock what you like. Except like, weed.”

“Weed doesn’t go in the fridge...” he eyed you suspiciously, the same dimple appeared on his cheek and you rolled your eyes.

“I know--I know weed doesn’t go in the fridge.”

“Just the no drug policy,” he nodded.

“Right. Am I forgetting anything?”

He shifted his weight on his feet and shrugged his shoulders, a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” you nodded, one final look around the room to make sure he had what he needed. His duffle bag was already in the corner, you’d told Jeff to put it upstairs and out of the way so CeCe and Maeve didn’t get nosy.

“I just have a question actually, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you move in here?”

“Uh, beginning of August, so like, almost a month ago.”

He nodded, his eyes curious despite the fact that he didn’t ask more.

“We had to put my dad in hospice, I was looking for a place anyway after,” a quick motion over your shoulder to gesture to the girls. “My divorce, so--a lot of change, but it’s been nice to be home.”

He nodded thoughtfully, the quiet of the bedroom suddenly felt heavy. “S’a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” you looked around the room again, if only to put your eyes somewhere other than his face. “I felt shitty about redecorating it at first, but--it was a little too much of a 70s bachelor pad.”

“Leave it to Walt,” he joked.

That piqued your interest. “Did you know my dad? Like, did you spend any time with him?”

He pushed his lips out in thought but shook his head when he sat down on the bed. “Not really--met him a few times at events with Jeff, but I never spent any quality time with him.”

You nodded--he was a busy guy, popular and well respected in his industry. “He was a good person, good grandfather, too.”

Harry smiled at that. “Always heard that Irv was the balls but your dad was the heart.”

You laughed, scrunched your nose at the saying you’d heard a hundred times. The two of them were partners in crime, two peas in a pod, yet they couldn’t be more different. He spoke again before you could reply, voice soft in the sleepy house.

“I mean, if you're his daughter he obviously did something right.”

He held your gaze just long enough for you to feel something, something you pushed out of your mind so quickly that your hand was on the door knob before he could even say goodnight.

Two weeks, tops.

story page | talk to me + join the tag list

tag list: @sunflowerryvol6 @trulymadlykiki @kaybee87 @thurhomish @tpwkhoney @70s-harry @la-cey @sing-me-a-song-harry @morethanamelodyy @theresnooneheretosave @ihearthemcallingforyou @sunfloweratheart @g0bl1nqueen @millennial-teenybopper @rainbowparadiseharry @justsaying20 @andwhenshesays @harryinsweatersandbandanas @harrys-cherriesss @harrys-cherrry @cronias13 @burberryharold @15christyxoxo @dayxoxodreamer @stepping-into-the-light @mvaldez7821 @barnestann @styles217 @fineelineee @ursamajor603 @tayrenea @hayyyayy @mellamolayla @lovelylemonadeaddict @harrystyle-ish @harryspirate @apples2019 @goldeng1rl8 @rainbowbutterflyboy

519 notes · View notes

yeojaa · 3 years

Text

feed me, fight me.

pairing. boxer!jjk x f!reader. rating. explicit. tags. relationship issues, baby angst, comfort, unprotected sex (please be responsible!). wc. 3.5k. beta reader. @hobi-gif, always. 💖 author note. i’m really into comfort fics rn so...

What do you get when you mix a pissed off girlfriend with a neglectful boyfriend? (Aside from trouble, that is.)

The answer is you - throwing punches far harder than you should be, completely disregarding the fact that you’re meant to be playing the part of perfect partner, meeting pads in the sequence he’s laid out. It’s you throwing a hook when you should be swinging an uppercut. It’s you, snapping your leg out with a satisfying thunk! of your shin when you should only be thip kicking. It’s you, not giving a single damn as you take out all your frustrations on someone who’s growing increasingly more irritated by your childishness. It’s you, blatantly disrespecting him in his ring - sending a reminder that there’s more to life than the four corners of this space.

How can he blame you though, when he’s the reason? When you’ve voiced your annoyance more than once - more than twice, more times than you care to count - and each time it’s met with a half-hearted apology (if you could even call it that)? How can he hold it against you when you’ve asked, demanded, pleaded for more?

“Cut it out,” he seethes, quiet, under his breath, irritation igniting his expression, something hot and angry burning in the dark of his stare. A withering wildfire in an empty field, smoldering coals flickering bright. It presents itself in how his mouth curls, the hard line of his jaw as bone threatens to snap in half from the tension.

“Cut what out?” Your retort is punctuated by the smack of leather on leather, the worn edge of your boxing glove meeting the pad that Jungkook raises just in time to avoid a black eye.

“What’s your problem?” How he manages to snipe back - somehow sounding disgruntled by your behaviour - you’re not sure. All you know is it boils your blood, searing heat within your veins when he effortlessly blocks your next jab. He knows you well and knows the sport better, predicting each movement as if you’re telegraphing it all with a giant neon sign on your forehead.

(You probably are. You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions, pinning your heart on your sleeve, your sadness heavy in your mouth. They wear you, rather than you it. A weakness of yours.)

“You’re my problem.”

“Shut up.” It’s not the usual exasperated annoyance he levels you with, meaner and paired with a swat of your gloved hand. He’s not supposed to be countering you, instead only blocking the punches you throw his way.

(But then again - when did he ever listen to you? When did he ever do what he was supposed to?)

(It’s not a fair assertion. You’re just mad. Livid beyond belief, standing atop this hill that you’ll happily die on.)

“Fuck you,” you snap, offering the petulant comeback in the same instance you surge forward. He blocks your jab - sees it coming from a mile away - and goes to block your hook.

Except it never comes, your knee straightening out instead, hard edge of your shin slamming right into the side of his leg.

He crumples more out of surprise than anything, eyes wide, all the anger swept away by something closer to astonishment. It shines impossibly bright in his eyes, turning his entire expression upside down when his knee hits the ground. By how he falls, you’re sure you’ve hit just the right spot, left his nerve endings buzzing uncomfortably as the feeling leaves the limb.

“Are you serious?” You know he’s genuinely baffled then, voice slipping, cracking in a way you’d normally find adorable. (It goes to show how upset you are, the awkward split of his words doing nothing to soothe your temper.) “What’s your issue?” He’s still seated on the floor, rocking back on his heels, brow knit in consternation. It’d take him seconds to jump up - to put you on your ass - but he chooses to remain where he is, staring up at you with that look on his face.

(That look you love. That you hate. That makes your insides turn to goo on his best days and misery on your worst. That you’ve seen every single day for the last three years, as the first thing upon waking up and the last thing before passing out. That makes you hesitate now, peering down into it.)

(Were you being unnecessary? Unbearable? Was this on you?)

“I’m going home.” It’d be nice to tear your gloves off, throw them in his face and storm off in a huff. It’d cause the scene you’re hoping for, push him to where you need. (Because that’s the thing about Jungkook - he doesn’t react otherwise and you’re sick of it.) Instead, you turn on your heel and slink away, silent as a mouse.

You’re tired. Too tired. Why had you started something you couldn’t finish?

It shouldn’t surprise you that you’re home alone for hours that night, curled up in bed and half-asleep when light from the hallway spills into your bedroom. It comes with hardly any noise, a tell-tale sign he’s trying not to wake you (or disturb you or get caught). You almost let it slide when his figure appears in the doorway, broad frame swallowed up by the oversized sweater he wears.

He’s moving near silently, having already deposited his gym bag in the laundry room. He doesn’t even switch the light on, moving around in the muted glow of the hallway, fumbling as he strips his clothes off and tosses them into the hamper against the wall.

You expect him to head directly into the en suite, wash away whatever grime he’s accumulated throughout the day. He’s always been this way, far too concerned with dragging in odour and dirt into your bed to do otherwise.

Except tonight, he doesn’t follow his usual routine. Tonight, he makes a detour.

The bed dips before you realise what’s happening, grip on the pillow under your head tightening. Words fit between your teeth, ready to spill out, lash out, tear out like a bullet deadset on landing a bullseye.

“I’m sorry.” Two words you’ve been waiting to hear, that startle you enough to throw your anger out the window, tossing them out with the wash. “I don’t know why you’re upset but I’m sorry for whatever it is.” He’s speaking into the quiet of your bedroom. You can feel his hand settled on the bed, wrist somewhere over the line of your spine.

Oh - he thinks you’re asleep.

“Things have been crazy. I’ve been stressed.” Here, under cover of night, he’s vulnerable, explanation tumbling forth uncertainly. You can hear it in the way the words form, syllables slipping into each other - a sure sign of his exhaustion. “I know that’s not an excuse, so I’ll be better.” Though he readjusts, weight distributing differently over the bed, he isn’t touching you. You can only imagine how he looks, the posture he’s taken on, arms leant over knees, hands twisting together in that way of his that begs a silent help me. A version of him you’ve seen only a handful of times.

(Jeon Jungkook does not let things get to him. Never has, likely never will. He’s immaculately put together, strung tight by years of growing up too fast, wanting too much and fearing it’ll slip away. He goes and goes until he can’t any more and only then does he still, crashing headlong over a cliff of his own creation.)

It’s then that you realise while you’ve grown irritated with his preoccupation, coming second to the man you’ve only ever put first, he’s been suffering right alongside you. Differently, certainly, but suffering nonetheless. Holding his cards close as he’s always done, shouldering all the things on his own and hoping for the best.

Irritation flares first. Anger at the fact that he hadn’t confided in you. It burns bright, erodes everything else in its path.

And then it dims almost immediately, overshadowed by a tenderness that blooms in the small of your chest. Rosebuds that fill the cavity and swath affection in broad strokes, colouring everything purple - a pretty mosaic made up of equal parts love and sadness.

“You should’ve said something.”

Bambi-eyed baby is your nickname for your boyfriend - one he reluctantly wears, scowls at when you use it in public - and yet you’re still blown away by the glossiness of his stare, how wide it goes when you roll to face him, simultaneously flicking your bedside light on. There’s embarrassment crowding his expression, lighting up every handsome facet of his features in technicolour. He works to hide it almost immediately, moves back on the bed as if he might find himself a home in the shadows.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he mumbles, not quite looking at you, stare focused on your pillow case, the white linen that you’d bought when you’d moved in together. “Did I wake you up?”

Though his concern is real, you know it’s a distraction too. His way of deflecting, shifting the focus back to you.

(Jeon Jungkook doesn’t live in the spotlight. Hates it, in fact. It’s a curious combination - wanting to be praised, to show off, and yet fearing failure so strongly. A worrying mix when he’s down and an endearing one when he’s up.)

You’re still cocooned, still held far enough away that he hasn’t run for the hills, locking himself in the bathroom to put a further physical barrier between you. Should you move too fast, you know he’ll spook. Push too hard, he’ll leave.

“Couldn’t sleep without you.” It’s true enough. Dreams had evaded you for the better part of the evening, held somewhere by hands inked like his, blemished by scars and calluses like his. They’d been kept in his coat pocket, tucked behind his ear. (So maybe it’d been anger, too, that’d kept you up. That doesn’t matter now.)

The disbelief is evident, both in his words and the quirk of his mouth, bathed in dim light. “Really?”

(You sometimes wonder how different the two of you see things. What a day looks like from his point of view - whether he reads all of your interactions in the same way. You’ve always been terribly incompatible in that way, opposites in so many respects that it’d frankly baffled your friends when you’d started dating.

You were intent - sometimes too intent - on resolving problems, never letting up. Forcing conversations you felt you needed to have, demanding answers even before there was one. He, on the other hand, was uncomfortable with conflict, choosing to ignore the things that bothered him until they went away. It’d driven you absolutely insane at first, made you worry that it was you that was the issue, simply being too much.

But over time - three long years, to be exact - you’d found a common ground. Or so you’d thought.)

“Why are you so surprised?”

“You were pissed earlier.” There’s a lightness to his tone, careful consideration poured into each word he offers, as if he’s navigating a minefield. You’ve had these kinds of disagreements too many times for him to believe otherwise, as if his caution is a part of him, stitched lovingly - forcefully - by your hand. “Thought you wouldn’t wait up for me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” you retort before you can help it, still just a little childish, a little hurt. “But you know I hate going to bed angry.” Of course he knows. He’s lost hours of sleep due to your insistence that everything be talked out.

He hums a noncommittal sound - more of a grunt - and you know your window is closing. Now that you’re not out for blood, he’s retreating as he always does. Readying himself to rise from the bed, close this half-read chapter and move onto the next.

You beat him before he can, curling your fingers around his wrist, over the dangling silver chain. (His birthday gift this year, heavy metal that’s cold under your touch.)

“Don’t.”

One blink. Another. Slow and confused - deliberately so. Then he’s looking away, staring down at the ground as if you haven’t just read his next move. The ring might be his domain but home is yours; it’s the one place you hold the upper hand. “What?”

“Don’t leave.” It’s easy to read the meaning in between your words, the unspoken request that might as well be brilliant red ink. It’s far kinder than your usual demands, more pleading than begrudging, more need than want.

“I need to shower.”

It’s not a no - which you suppose is a win.

“Just wait.” Your request comes with an adjustment, whole tired frame rising from the bed only to sink back down - this time against your partner, your other half, your infuriating love. He accepts you readily, dropping his ink-strewn hand over your covered thigh. The weight is comforting over the warmth of the duvet, grounding you in the quiet of your home.

“I’m gross,” he complains, though he doesn’t make to move away. Stays right by your side when you drop your head against his bare shoulder. “Now you’re gross.”

“We can be gross together.” Because you’re not ready for him to leave you, to close the door as he so often does. (And, for once, you’re not quite as angry, not seeking an argument that’ll give you the resolution you hope for. You want communication, open and honest. You want him, vulnerable and soft.)

A little sigh comes, a puff of breath that expands his doughy cheeks and sends wayward strands fluttering. It’s less resigned and more endeared - you know how much it means when his acquiesces like this.

Maybe he wants those same things, you think.

“Do you wanna shower?” You ask in perfect tandem, words folding together. You nod in the same way.

Encased in the small space - it’s different. He’s preoccupied, back turned to you, shielding you from the slow-heating stream. It’s as if his mind is a thousand lightyears away, trapped somewhere with the stars as the water rains down around the two of you, fogging the glass and wetting his hair.

“Babe?”

There’s a delay before he reacts, peering over his shoulder at you, a faraway look in his eyes. You wonder what he’d been thinking of, whether he’s still on the same page as you or if he’s skipped ahead as he tends to do. When he speaks, you have your answer, his words flicking through paper to bring you two where you need to be.

“Can you wash my hair?” An indulgent treat he rarely requests, one he seldom allows. He’s far too on the go, jumping from this to that to spend much time like this with you.

It’s a sign if there ever was one.

You reach for your shampoo bottle wordlessly, popping the cap and depositing sweet peach-scented liquid into your hands. They fold into his strands carefully, tips of your fingers pressing into his scalp, delightful bubbles accumulating between your digits. He doesn’t make a sound but you feel the way he relaxes, practically melting into your touch as you work the cleanser through his roots, careful to keep the suds from descending into his eyes.

When was the last time you’d done this? Weeks ago? Months, maybe? You honestly can’t recall. (Not that it matters now. You’ve found yourselves back here, terribly tender and intimate in the dead of night. Almost as if no time has passed at all.)

Silence stretches between the two of you. You don’t even need to instruct him to rinse, running seamlessly through the routine without hesitation.

Conditioner replaces shampoo, deft fingers combing through the few knots in his feather soft strands. Though there are hardly any, you know he loves when you take extra care, treating him in ways he’d never ask for otherwise. He savours these quiet moments of almost-solitude, spoiled rotten by your familiar touch and comforting affection.

You’d give it every single day if you could. Had, in fact.

That’s what’d brought you here, after all.

“‘m sorry,” he says - mumbles really - surprising you as you’re working your fingers into the nape of his neck, concentrating on the tension that’s carved out a home beneath muscle and sinew, turned bone iron-clad.

“For what?”

Any other time, it might’ve come across demanding, needing an answer that would soothe whatever inadequacy he’d somehow strung your heart up with. Now, it’s genuine, asked more for him than you.

You want to be let in. Need it.

“Being out of it, I guess.” It’s a lot for him - admitting this. “I’ve just been busy and I guess I kind of just—“ The imposing line of his shoulders rise and fall, a mountain range disturbed by the uncertainty in his voice.

“Forgot about me?” You don’t mean it meanly. It’s a simple statement of fact, one the both of you have to face.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

You deliberate accepting the apology and moving on, sweeping it under the rug because he’s already come so much further than you’d thought he would. But that’s not the kind of person you are, so you press just a little more, stand just a little taller.

“I don’t think I ask for the world, Kook.” Maybe more than some people. Maybe less than others. “If I’m being too much, I’d rather you let me know than shut me out.”

A sigh comes, so heavy you wonder whether he might be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“No, I know.”

“Do you?”

(At some point you’d stopped massaging the conditioner in, opting to crowd your hands over his back, working into the knots that run beneath his skin. He hadn’t been lying - he’s stiff as a board, entire broad form twitching any time you press the pads of your thumbs into a particularly sensitive spot.)

“I thought I’d figure it out myself,” he reasons, in that oh-so impossible Jeon Jungkook way of his. “Didn't realise it was taking a toll on you.”

“On us,” you correct, not at all tactful.

“On us,” he agrees with another sigh, smaller this time, tinged blue with something that feels like guilt and fills up the glass space.

“We’re a team, you know.”

(You know he knows. You just have to remind him sometimes, anchor him with the knowledge that it’s not him against the world. That you’re in his corner - always.)

“I know.”

When he turns to look at you - doesn’t even flinch when the sudden movement has you wobbling on your feet, catches you when you stumble - you don’t doubt that. He loves you just as much as you love him, sees the whole world in the small of your stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, two hands coming to cradle your face, palms warm over each cheek. “Just give me some time.” For what, you’re not sure. You don’t mind waiting to find out though - willing to weather the storm just to see him happy.

Jungkook holds you close, threads his fingers through yours and peppers love into the silk of your hair. Dresses your skin in the heat of his affection and sears his signature into the velvet of your skin, teeth dragging, tongue gliding.

“Is this better?” He means how he holds you, how he treats you like porcelain as he fucks you slow and tender, keeps one leg hooked back over his own.

It’s not that this is the kind of lovemaking you prefer but rather the one you need, with him consuming you wholly, sweetly, filling you with each fluid roll of his hips and nothing else. No elaborate dirty talk, no overzealous bouncing, just the two of you together, curled against each other like you might not survive otherwise.

He’s not pushing you to your finish with deft fingers over your clit, not taking his fill with greedy hands. He’s simply there, with you, feeling every curve of your body as he sinks into your aching cunt and sighs as if he’s in heaven. (And maybe he is - because where he is could only ever be where you are and you feel like you’re floating, weightless and lovestruck, anchored only to your bed by the hand that squeezes yours and the mouth that purrs your name.)

“Yes,” you breathe, exhale in a breath that seems to take all of your effort. It’s hard to focus when he splits you open so well, fills your pussy and your heart and makes your chest erupt with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

When he says it like that - folds it like a promise and tucks it into the spot behind your ear - you know it’s true. Even if you don’t always feel it, even if he doesn’t always show it, there’s not a doubt in your mind.

In all the ways he can, he loves you. And whether that means enough from one day to the next, you don’t mind sticking around to find out. Not if it means more of this.

(Of him, of you, of your life together.)

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

1K notes · View notes

evebestt · 3 years

Note

Hi! First I just want to say that I love your work! And secondly I have prompt for you for a Farah Dowling x reader fic, she finds an injured reader in the woods and nurses them back to health? Or something like that I don’t know, sorry for bugging you!

Hi hon! First, you're never bugging me! I love the prompt, so much so that I went... so overboard with it 😂 if you want like, a normal h/c fic just let me know and I'll happily write another one, but in the meantime please take this very long, very dramatic h/c fic 🖤

Read here on AO3 or below

A/N: set after S1 when Rosalind "kills" Farah and she escapes out to a cottage in the mountains. I came up with so much backstory for this fic it could have easily been drawn out into multiple chapters, but I hope this makes sense by itself.

Guardian Fairy

You’d been running, running far away, never to return to that place for as long as you lived

You stood on a small ravine in the woods, trying to find the best place to go down it when the ground underneath you gave way. You grabbed at branches and bushes trying to catch yourself, but nothing held, and you were tumbling down, down, the world a blur of brown and green and dizzying pain.

You remember coming to a stop, the pounding of your heart echoed in your chest, and a stab of paralyzing fear as your vision faded around the edges, your ears going hot and muffled as you began to fade.

I can’t pass out, I can’t die here, had been your last thought before you went under, heart still pounding in your chest like it knew you were injured and alone, with no one to know to look for you.

You only faintly remember the voice, swimming at just the edges of your consciousness before you were pulled back down. Then there was only a feeling of weightlessness, a comforting warmth surrounding you, and then darkness.

~~~~~~~~~

You woke in an unfamiliar bed, startling you, but the sheets were clean and warm and smelled faintly of vanilla. You looked around the room, blinking against the pounding headache that made your eyes water — it was sparse but homey, and whoever lived in it kept it meticulously clean.

Then your eyes fell on the woman sitting next to the bed. She was beautiful, with fine bones but strong features, currently relaxed in sleep, her head resting on the high-backed chair. She was tall, long legs spread out in front of her, and her blonde hair was pulled back in twists and braids, your pain-addled mind thinking she looked like Athena.

Her eyes opened, already sharp and clear, and she sat up in her chair, studying you. “You're awake. How do you feel?”

Shocked at the woman going from still to asking you questions, it took you a few moments to answer her. “I’m… my head hurts,” you said, unsure of what else to say.

The woman smiled wryly. “I would think so.”

“I— what happened? I mean, I don’t really remember getting here.”

She sat back, back straight in the chair. “I’m assuming you fell. I found you at the bottom of a steep hill, unconscious and injured. I couldn’t wake you, and you had a head injury, so I thought it best to take you back here.”

You nodded, remembering brief flashes of the fall, and then winced at the movement, squeezing your eyes shut until the starbursts disappeared. When you opened your eyes the woman was still looking at you, brows furrowed in obvious concern. “How badly does it hurt?”

It was your turn to smile wryly. “I can feel my heartbeat in my temples, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The woman leaned forward and reached towards you, touching your temple with two fingers as her eyes glowed white. You nearly pulled back in shock, but then the sharp pain melted away to a dull ache that you could nearly ignore, and your eyes fluttered closed in relief.

“You’re a fairy,” you said dumbly, feeling foolish about pointing out the obvious.

The woman gave you a small smile and sat back in her chair. “Yes. A mind fairy, in particular.” You wanted to ask another question, but she continued on before you could. “I can’t take away all of the pain from an injury like that, but I can at least lessen it.” She then moved from her chair to sit at the end of the bed. “Now that you’re awake, I’d like to look at your ankle again. I couldn’t tell if it was sprained or broken when you were unconscious.”

Without your headache, you could now feel the throbbing coming from your ankle and the stiffness in the joint. You nodded when she made to pull the blanket back and blanched a little at the sight of your ankle, black and blue and swollen to a size you’d never seen before. The woman gave you a reassuring smile before gingerly cupping your calf, fingers sliding carefully down to your ankle.

She examined the joint in the no-nonsense way that was clearly her style, but with such care and gentleness that you felt yourself relaxing even as your ankle throbbed. How this mysterious woman — for you didn’t even know her name — had found you, rescued you, and was now healing you, you didn’t know, but her kindness and reassuring presence made you feel as though you were looking upon your guardian angel.

Guardian fairy, you thought, giddy at your own joke, and you realized you were dizzier than you realized, the knot on your head still aching.

“What’s your name?” you blurted out, and the woman looked up, surprised, before giving you another small smile.

“Farah Dowling.”

You introduced yourself, and Farah gave you another smile before resuming her exam, murmuring questions and directions to you as she did.

“Where did you learn medicine like this?” you blurted again, too curious to stop yourself.

Farah glanced up at you and smiled again, though there was something hidden in her eyes, a sadness you couldn’t quite place. “I was a soldier. It came with the job.”

You were quiet after that, feeling as though you’d drudged up bad memories for her, though Farah continued just as she had been, finishing with your ankle and tucking the blanket back over you. She sat again at your bedside, holding a finger in front of your eyes. “Can you follow?”

You did as asked, and Farah nodded approvingly, folding her hands in her lap. “I don’t believe you have a concussion, but I’ll keep an eye out. Your ankle isn’t broken, but it’s very swollen. If that doesn’t start to go down in a few days, you might need a doctor.”

You nodded and murmured your thanks, and then bit your lip with a pang of worry. “I assume I can’t travel, and… I don’t have anyone to stay with. I don’t want to inconvenience you or impose, but I’m… not sure where I can go.”

Farah smiled reassuringly, covering one of your hands with hers. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need.”

You sighed, feeling relieved, and suddenly tired from the whirlwind of events. Farah seemed to notice, standing from her spot and making her way towards the door. “I’ll get ice and something to wrap your ankle in, then I’ll let you rest. I’m sure you need it.”

You were half asleep by the time Farah came back and barely noticed as she tended you. As your eyes slipped closed, the last thing you saw was Farah’s small smile, murmuring something kind to you as she slipped out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~

You woke that night to the smell of soup, your head feeling clearer, though your ankle had no intentions of getting out of bed to investigate. Luckily it wasn’t long before Farah came to see you awake, and she brought you a small bowl and some bread on a tray.

“I’m not the best cook,” she admitted with a sheepish look, “but it is edible. I’m sorry I don’t have better food for your recovery.”

You took a sip of the broth, noting it was edible but could stand to have a few things added — like salt. “I’m no chef, but I can cook a few meals. If you’d like, I can do some of the cooking, at least to repay you in some way for all your help.”

Farah smiled, taking a bite from her own bowl. “You don’t need to repay me, however I won’t turn down the offer of someone else cooking. My experience in the kitchen has been limited, to put it lightly.”

And so you settled into your days with Farah. She was a generous host, bringing you fresh clothing and toiletries with a smile, telling you to ask for anything else you needed. She helped you to move around, her hands strong but gentle under your arms, and you began to wonder what they would feel like to hold or to kiss, much to your embarrassment. You still slept in her bed, Farah refusing to let you sleep on the couch. You’d even offered to share the bed, but still she refused, just saying she didn’t want to disturb your rest.

You spent your days on the couch, ankle propped up, helping Farah with what you could from your seat — sewing, prepping vegetables she brought in, cleaning dishes from the night before. In the evenings, Farah would help you to the kitchen where you would prepare your dinner, surprised to find that most of the fresh food was what Farah had caught and harvested herself.

“After weeks of my cooking, your meals are like eating at a five-star restaurant,” Farah had joked one night over a shepherd's pie you’d made.

Most of your meals together were like that, light-hearted and fun, and after dinner Farah would read aloud from the many books she had, helping you to bed once your head started to droop.

You spent much of your free time in the day playing games. You found that Farah was wicked good at poker but a sore loser at games like go fish, and you fell into a domestic bliss that you’d never experienced before — one that you hated to even think of leaving.

~~~~~~~~~

After a week, you still couldn’t put much weight on your ankle, much to your fear and frustration, but Farah was pleased with your healing.

“It really is much better,” she said one day as she examined the joint, gingerly testing your range of motion.

“I wouldn’t call a sickly green color and not being able to walk on it ‘better’,” you grumbled, and Farah gave you a sympathetic look.

“I can imagine this is frustrating, but this was a horrible sprain. Injuries like these can take weeks, even months to fully heal.”

You sighed, a twinge of panic about overstaying your welcome and Farah kicking you out pulling at your chest, but she had only ever made you feel welcome, so you pushed it aside. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, really, but can’t you heal it with magic?”

Farah shook her head, gently re-wrapping your ankle in the bandage. “Not with an injury so deep. Superficial cuts and bruises I can handle, but with something so serious, I would be scared of causing more harm than good. It’s better to give it time.”

You understood, and in part thankful as this meant you could stay with Farah longer. Still, you hated how immobile you were, feeling it like a rock in your stomach every time you wanted to grab something twenty feet away but instead needed to ask Farah for her help.

The next day you were sitting with a bowl of peas in your lap, snapping the ends when Farah came in from outside, looking proud of herself. You raised an eyebrow at her, your eyes widening when she pulled a wooden crutch from behind her back.

“I could see how frustrated you were getting not being able to move,” she said, holding out a hand to help you stand. “And I know I would hate being so housebound. This way, you can be a little more independent, and I can help you on short walks outside.”

You gaped at her in amazement, finding that you could indeed walk by yourself while leaning heavily on the crutch. “Farah, this—this is amazing! Where did you get this?”

She grinned at you, holding out a hand for support as you slowly walked back to her. “I asked the trees to grow it for me.”

You chuckled, leaning heavily on the crutch as you stood before her. “I’d think you were joking if you were anyone but a fairy.” You shook your head then, looking up at her earnestly. “Really, Farah, this is… one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”

Her eyes softened, her smile turning to one of the gentle ones you loved so dearly. “You’re welcome. I was happy to do it.”

You were suddenly aware of how close you were standing. You could feel the warmth from her body, even if she smelled like the chill of the night before, and you could see every detail of her features — so finely sculpted, so beautiful in the morning light, and you wanted to reach out and touch them, to trace them until you knew them better than your own. Most of all, you wanted to kiss her, wanted to feel how she’d feel against you, the way she’d touch your waist and pull you close and melt together until you were one.

You inhaled sharply and took a step back, looking away in hopes that Farah wouldn’t see the blush on your cheeks — though you missed her look of disappointment when you moved away.

~~~~~~~~~

True to her word, Farah did help to take you outside. At times you’d come with her to the small garden she had at the back of the cottage, helping her to weed and harvest what food came ready. If you weren’t too tired, she’d help you on short walks in the forest, her arm linked with yours and her steps slow as you meandered through the trees.

“You said you had nowhere to go, when I first found you — where were you coming from then, when you fell?” Farah asked you one day while on one of these walks.

You bit your lip, not sure what to say. At your silence, Farah looked at you, brows furrowed in concern. “If I’ve crossed a boundary, I apologize. There’s no need to talk of this if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head. “It’s alright, I’m just… it’s complicated.”

She nodded, and you were silent a moment more before you spoke.” “I… was running. From a place that didn’t want me any more than I wanted it.”

Farah stopped, her eyes bright and fierce as she looked at you. “Are you in any danger?”

You shook your head. “No, no, not now. It was just… time to get away.”

Nodding, her features softened, her hair shining gold in the light of the sun and making her look ethereal. Reaching out, she stroked her fingers down your cheek, her thumb gently brushing your lower lip. “You deserve a place that will appreciate you for the wonder you are.”

You swallowed hard, breath caught in your throat, and you surprised yourself by speaking the thought in your mind. “I think I’ve already found that place.”

~~~~~~~~~

Your ankle continued to heal and you relied on the crutch less and less, though you still couldn’t walk for very long on it and needed to rest it often before it became too sore. You and Farah were sitting on the steps of the cottage one day, allowing you to rest after a walk, sitting comfortably together in silence as you watched the birds flit through the trees.

“What do you do?” you asked suddenly, realizing you didn’t know the answer. “I know you said you were a soldier, but after that?”

Her eyes clouded and she looked away from you, and you tensed, worrying you’d said the wrong thing. You were getting ready to apologize when Farah spoke, her voice low and rough. “I was the Headmistress at Alfea. No longer, though.”

“What happened?” you asked after a moment, feeling as though Farah needed someone to listen.

She took a deep breath, and then started. “The previous Headmistress, my mentor, was a zealot and an extremist who didn’t care about the damage she inflicted, as long as she saw results. I didn’t realize that when I worked under her, but once I did, my unit and I were able to imprison her, locking her away so that she would never see the light of day again, and then attempted to repair some of what she’d done.

“That was sixteen years ago. And now, because of… lies and mistruths that I told, she’s escaped, and begun her path of destruction again.”

Farah fell silent, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. You reached out and laid your hand on her arm, desperate to give her some comfort. She looked at it, surprised, and then smiled, her eyes still sad, but she rested her hand on top of yours, staying there a moment before continuing.

“I knew she wouldn’t let me live, not after taking her place, in her eyes. So I made a plan, and when she came to kill me, I transported here while casting an image that allowed her to believe that she’d succeeded. This place had been in my family for years, but it’s not well known, and I’d planned to regroup here, to send messages and find allies and plan until we were ready to take her on again. But the longer I think about it…” she trailed off, pain welling in her eyes.

“It was my faults, my lies that led to her escape. We wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for me, and then when I had the chance to fight, to stand and stop her again, I chose to run, and leave everyone I care about behind. The longer I think about it, the more I realize that perhaps Alfea doesn’t need me.”

You were both silent for a long while, your hand still on Farah, her hand still atop yours. Even the woods around you seemed to be quiet, like they were listening to Farah’s story, the wind sighing softly at her lament.

“Could you have defeated her?” you asked simply. “When she came for you, did you stand a chance in the fight?”

Farah looked at you, surprised, opening her mouth several times before speaking. “I… I don’t know, for sure. We’re closely matched and she had been locked away for sixteen years, but she’s a powerful fairy. It would be deadly to dismiss her. And even if I had won, it wouldn’t have been without its toll.”

“So it made the most sense to run, then, not just for yourself but for the school. Otherwise you and others could have died, right?”

Farah nodded, looking almost reluctant to admit it, but you pushed on. “And your mentor thinks you dead now, right? So you’ve given yourself the advantage of surprise when you return.”

Farah nodded again, a bit more surely. “Rosalind is arrogant enough to think she killed me so easily.”

“Then it sounds like you did the right thing at the time. You did what needed to be done, not just for yourself but for the school, too. I don’t know what lies you told for her to escape, but you still made the right decision in the end, Farah. You put Alfea before yourself and your pride, something not everyone would do. To me, it sounds like you’re exactly what the school needs.”

Farah was still looking at you, smiling softly with a look of amazement on her face, and you couldn’t help but to reach out and touch her cheek. “These are called the Mountains of Madness for a reason, Farah. They’ll do strange things to your mind if you’re not careful. You came here out of love and duty for your school. Don’t lose sight of that goal.”

Farah blinked a few times, her eyes bright, and then she leaned into your hand, her cheek warm against your palm. “I think I was meant to find you,” she said softly, closing her eyes. “So that I could find myself again, too.”

She came to your bed that night, slipping in without a word, and you learned how perfectly you fit in her arms, curled up against every curve of her body. She smelled of the woods and vanilla and cedar, and you hadn’t realized just how cold the bed had been until her warmth pressed against you, making you whole.

You watched her perform her magic the next day, scrying spells to see what had been done at Alfea. You watched the fire build in her eyes as she saw Rosalind’s destruction — one of her best friends in prison, the other blackmailed into inaction; her students being trained with cruelty and hatred, being led by a madwoman and her followers. You watched her mourn what had been lost, and then you watched her steel herself — a soldier preparing for war.

She turned to you after, drained, and laid her head on your shoulder, taking the strength you offered her with your arms.

Before you led her to food and to bed, she performed one last spell: three flowers sent out — one to Ben, one to Saul, and one to Bloom — three she said they would know were from her. A sign of hope, she said, that not all was lost, and a sign to prepare for war — for she would bring one when she came.

And so you took her in your arms, letting her find her place in them, just as you had found yours with her — your soldier, your warrior, your guardian fairy.

#farah dowling x reader #farah dowling #ftws #fate the winx saga #eve best #god I love hc fics #if you ever want to make me really *really* excited for a prompt give me h/c this stuff is my jam

88 notes · View notes