#this is too crudely drawn to tag as art but
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thinking about supervillain donnie again and i cant decide which of these scenarios is funnier
#this is too crudely drawn to tag as art but#rottmnt#i will actually design a henchman mikey later im too lazy rn ZZZZZZZZ
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first love of late spring - ot7 x reader
chapter four
table of contents
masterlist
join the taglist
discord
summary: falling, falling, falling- that's what you shouldn't be doing as a young intern at hybe. falling in love with your supervisor is frowned upon, especially all seven of them. you'll never learn, will you? guess you’ll just have to be their dark secret.
tags/warnings: intern!reader, poly relationships, stockholm syndrome, age regression, spanking, drug use, sugar daddy au, dubcon, body dysmorphia
taglist: @frieschan
February 1st was your first day starting as a social media manager for BTS. Scratch that- not a manager, but the social media manager. Your new position came with many amazing benefits, and you liked working from home when you weren't with the band. It felt like you were amongst the popular kids at school for once. You followed them around all day, taking pictures and videos for their socials. It almost felt like a dream- your job was to be their friend and photographer. They treated you more as a friend than a staff member.
Then there was dealing with the fans. Being sneaky and having a secret fan account on multiple platforms allowed you to see what the fans were liking and into, giving you more ideas for the official pages. That meant you were in on all the inside jokes, leaked information, as well as what was trending amongst the fandom.
Back in your youth, you ran a fan Twitter account for One Direction. You understood the fans better than anyone else because you were in their positions at one time. Times have changed over the past decade (you didn't even want to think about how long it's been), but getting back into the groove of things was easy enough.
"y/n, you don't have to be so formal with us," Jimin would tease you all the time. While your job was fun, you were still a staff member. The boys would call you out constantly on you referring to them as 'sir', complaining about feeling old, and whatnot. They saw you as an equal and awaited the day you felt like one too.
Today was the filming for a Run BTS episode. You didn't entirely understand the concept of the game- all you knew was that they were painting something and whenever they asked you to take a photo, you would. It was adorable- they would hold up their paintings like proud little kids. The photos would be posted to their individual Instagram accounts, so you would send each member a copy on KakaoTalk.
"I think y/n should be the judge!" Taehyung said, standing up from his chair and pointing in your direction. You looked up from your phone in confusion, only having heard your name and 'judge'. The boys noticed your deer-in-headlights look and let out an endearing laugh.
"Just tell us who you think has the better painting. We'll film a male staff member saying your answer so you don't have to." Yoongi said. You appreciated not having to have your voice in the recording.
You gave each painting a very good look. Namjoon painted what appeared to be the Han River. Seokjin painted a rainbow that had been destroyed by brown paint, most likely by Jungkook that sat next to him. Jungkook didn't have much on his paper, obviously focusing more on disrupting the other members. Taehyung had an all-black abstract drawing that almost looked like it belonged in a modern art museum. Jimin's painting was of a variety of flowers in a bouquet, also destroyed by Jungkook by a brown marking of 'JK' right in the middle. Yoongi and Jimin seemed to have a combined painting that illustrated the seven members of BTS as crudely drawn stick figures when placed side by side. You chuckled at Yoongi's portion of the picture where he drew Seokjin with comically large shoulders.
"Yoongi wins solely for how he drew Jin," you said, smiling at the excessive cheering from the normally calm member.
It really was days like this when you enjoyed your job.
You sat in one of the production lounges on your laptop, editing some promotional photos for Instagram. Stretched out across the length of what had to be the building’s comfiest couch, you let out a long yawn before checking the time.
A text alert is shown as you checked your phone. An unknown number had called you before sending a simple text.
‘Hey y/n it’s Jin, are you busy?’
You smiled as you responded ‘No’ with a smiley face. You had no idea where or how Seokjin got your personal number, but you didn’t let that thought bother you much. Once you felt your phone buzz with an incoming phone call did you sit up straight on the couch.
“Hello? Seokjin?” You asked. The line was quiet for a moment before you heard Jin’s voice through the phone.
“Hey, could you come to our dorm? It’s not urgent or anything.”
“Sure! Just text me the address and I’ll be right over,” You replied, standing up and starting to exit the building. There were the sounds of shuffling and muffled voices through the phone, making you wonder just what was going on over there.
“Actually,” Jin suddenly said, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to.” You stopped in your tracks, now very curious and concerned about what was happening.
“No, no. Come over. I lied,” Seokjin said quickly after, correcting himself. “We want you to come over.”
————
Jimin roughly nudged Jin with his elbow once the phone was hung up. There was no way he didn’t sound suspicious during the call- stumbling on his words and even backtracking on what he said. They were lucky you just followed along.
“Fuck,” Yoongi said, holding his head in his hands, “Now we need to think of a real reason why we needed her here. Jungkook missing her isn’t a good enough answer.”
“I think it’s fine…” Jungkook mumbled to himself.
Namjoon looked across the room and into the kitchen, coming up with an idea upon seeing the state of it. “We could tell her we needed help putting the cabinet knobs back on.”
“We need our social media manager to help us with home renovations?” Yoongi questioned Namjoon’s idea.
“We wanted to film a TikTok?” Taehyung suggested.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go with that one!” Seokjin said.
————
By the time the bus had arrived, the sun was close to setting. You kind of started to regret agreeing to come- it was late and you were quite tired. Finally, you had regulated your sleep schedule to be like a normal adult’s, and the members of BTS had to screw with it. What else did you expect from them?
Within seconds you were buzzed in and headed to their shared penthouse. All seven of them had their own apartments by now, but they all chose to live together still for the majority of the time. You often questioned how they were able to do it for so long- you had two roommates back in college that made you question your sanity at any given moment.
You barely even knocked on the door before Jimin opened it with a smile. He ushered you inside, and you stood in the entryway in awe. The dorm was beautiful and big. Much, much bigger than your tiny apartment that probably couldn’t even fit seven people in it. The ceiling was high up and the doorways were arched, making everything feel so much bigger and fancier.
“y/n! Thank God you’re here!” Taehyung said, running up to you and hugging you. You awkwardly stood there, allowing him to hug you. Never once had you had any physical affection or contact with them, and it felt like a weird time to break the boundary. You laughed slightly as he let go of you.
After taking off your shoes, you were led into the living room where the other members sat. It was odd- everyone acted as if you weren’t needed and that there was nothing you needed to do. The sitting members all smiled and waved at you, remaining in their spots on the couch.
“So,” you clasped your hands together behind your back, swaying slightly on your feet. “What do you guys need?”
“We just-” Jungkook started to talk, only to be interrupted by Namjoon.
“We wanted help filming a TikTok!”
You stared at him confused. Filming a TikTok was something they were more than capable of doing by themselves. You had directed some and given them ideas, but for the most part, they would just film it themselves. It felt more natural and created more of a connection with the fan base.
“You could’ve just done it yourself, you know,” You let out a chuckle.
“We couldn’t think of any ideas for one,” Hoseok said. He stood up from his spot on the couch and motioned for you to take his seat. You pretended to ignore him at first, but he only kept insisting you take a seat.
“I mean, there’s a trend of AI face filters right now. You each could do that.”
“Yeah! Let’s just play around with filters,” Taehyung said, pulling out his phone. “Wait, y/n has an iPhone. Can we use your phone instead?”
Without hesitation, you handed your phone over to Taehyung. The seven of them took turns playing around with silly filters, doing their best to keep you out of the shot. You happened to glance over at one that turned Jungkook’s face into a creepy unicorn.
Hours passed by eventually, and you took your leave. You stood up from the couch, trying to locate your phone. A chorus of disappointed ‘aww’s filled the room at your sudden insistence on leaving.
“It’s already 22:00 and the buses have stopped running. It’ll be a long walk.” You claimed. Jungkook stood up and walked over to the windows, observing the dark skies and falling rain.
“It’s pouring rain out there. We can’t let you leave in this- you’ll catch a cold.” He said. The others agreed with him excitedly.
“Or I could just drive-”
“No! It’s too dangerous. We’ll fix the couch up for you tonight.” Taehyung interrupted Seokjin and his logical solution. Everyone soon began to hunt for spare pillows and blankets for you.
“It’s fine, guys. I really don’t need to stay here.” You slowly began to approach the front door, hoping no one would notice you leave. Hoseok snuck up behind you, blocking your path to the exit.
“Nope, no way. We’re older and know what’s best,” he said, guiding you back to the couch. A crack of lightning struck and illuminated the dorm, making you jump at the sudden strike.
“Awh, you’re afraid of storms,” Jimin said, placing the last of the blankets on the couch. “Now we’re definitely not going to let you outside in this weather.”
The couch had a plethora of blankets and pillows piled high on it. It seemed like each member brought at least two of each for you to sleep on. When you pointed out the hilarious amount of blankets and pillows, you were told that it got cold at night. You looked over towards the thermostat on the wall that read 23°C. The members pretended to ignore your questioning stare.
You gave in eventually and got settled in on the couch. They made sure you were tucked underneath each of the six blankets and placed some pillows on the floor next to you.
“Just in case you roll off in the middle of the night,” Namjoon said, seeming like he was speaking from experience.
Within minutes of the lights turning off and the boys going to bed, you were out like a light.
Yoongi, Jungkook, and Hoseok snuck out of their rooms at one point, standing in the hallway and watching as the city lights illuminated your sleeping body. They watched as each breath caused the blankets to move up and down, and as you softly snored.
“You’re crazy for having this idea, Hobi,” Yoongi said with his arms crossed.
“I mean, it sounds like a pretty good plan,” Hoseok tried to defend himself. “Jungkookie really wants her, and I figured it would be fun for us, too.”
“We do really want her, hyung.” Jungkook said to Yoongi.
“We? What part of this involves ‘we’?” Yoongi asked, before letting out a sigh.
“Yeah, I guess it is we.”
#bts fanfic#bts x reader#kim namjoon#kim seokjin#min yoongi#jung hoseok#park jimin#kim taehyung#jeon jungkook#bts#jungkook x reader#taehyung x reader#jimin x reader#namjoon x reader#hoseok x reader#yoongi x reader#seokjin x reader#bts little space#first love of late spring
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what is your favorite Disney/pixar movie?
Oooh, good question and a tough one too. Let's see...
My favorite Disney movie has to be The Lion King, with Hercules and Mary Poppins being close runner-ups.
I was one of those die-hard Lion King fans when it came out. I had to rewatch it almost every day after school and collect everything I could get my mittens on. But I was a poor young teen living on a very small allowance so I had to do with magazine cutouts and crudely drawn (and traced over) art. I could quote it all from start to finish.
Nowadays, the movie isn't really on my mind anymore and I haven't seen it in a long time, but it still holds a special place in my heart.
Also, The Lion King 2 and 1½ are good too! The live-action version can die in a ditch somewhere...
Then there's Hercules, a funny and well-animated movie that felt different from all its predecessors with the type of comedy and parody it possessed... at least to me. I also love how Hercules was stylized with its animation and designs. I had a weak spot for mythical stuff back then (Egyptian and Greek gods) then so that movie just hit right, no matter inaccurate.
Also Hades. Bada-bing bada-boom.
Mary Poppins is on my list because it was the only live-action Disney movie that I really enjoyed as a kid. There were others but I think Mary Poppins (that beautiful woman who made me wish I was just as pretty as her and possessed magic) tickled the "going to another world for adventure" trope that I love so much since childhood. It helped that one of these little adventures was animated.
I wanted to be like Mary Poppins when I'd grown up; kind, helpful, stern and honest in the kindest way, and pretty. I can't say I managed xD but I still love young me for dreaming of it.
When it comes to Pixar, I love Turning Red. Yep, I do. I love the animation, color palettes, and the 90's/early 2000 (anime) aesthetics because I was an early teen during that time and well, the Turning Red setting resonates with that.
I was never into boybands but my lady friends and classmates were and I recognize so much of that "early teen fan girl" behavior shown in the movie (especially before the internet was even a thing). Yeah, I remember your walls and ceiling completely filled with cutouts of various boyband members, Jeffica! And when you ran out of space, you used the inside of your closet. Now that's commitment! <3
The message Turning Red tries to convey didn't hit me in the personal(!) feels until certain things that were said towards the ending reminded me of past family matters and had me bawling.
What is y'all's favorite Disney/Pixar movie? Let me know in the tags or replies!
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY @fictional!!!
warning: eat some broccoli before reading this bc it is so sugar-sweet sappy that u will get a stomach ache if not.
LYNN! where the FUCK to begin? I wish I could even begin to articulate how much you mean to me, and how much brighter my life feels since we’ve become friends. I wish I could explain how much you inspire me on a daily basis, or all the ways that you’ve cheered me up, or even properly describe how excited I get every single time I see your icon pop up on discord.
i think all the time about when i first got into drarry and used to scroll through your art tag all of the time, completely bespelled by the incredible wealth of talent your art showcases - the bright colors and adventurous and fun styles you use, the way it’s clear that you’re always trying something new and challenging yourself, the humanity and love that’s present in every single one of your pieces - the way it’s so obvious everything you create is done with so much love and care. your art inspired me so much before we even met, so when i finally worked up the courage to slide into your dms and textwall you about how much i stan you actually got to know you, i was amazed to find out how humble and loving and clever and absolutely brilliant you are as a person. i remember always thinking “there’s NO way she is THIS incredibly talented AND this beautiful of a person cuz that has to be too good to be true,” but the truth is a lot more simple: you are fucking incredible, and i am insanely fucking lucky to be able to call you a friend.
if i tried to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, we’d be here all fucking day - giving me pep when i’m feeling discouraged about fics and life, listening to all of my insane rambles, sharing your brilliant and creative thoughts on our two favorite idiots, being patient and generous with your art advice (and brushes!), encouraging me to be brave in all things the way that you are.
i hope your birthday is as peaceful and bright and sweet as you are. i hope this next year of your life brings you excitement and hope and all of the rewards you deserve. i can’t wait to see where it takes you, and i’m constantly in awe of how lucky i am to have a front row seat.
happy birthday lynnlove ... pls accept my humble offering of crudely drawn drarry. u have another gift... coming soon.
#did i just write an essay abt how much i love lynn#MAYBE#and the thing is#this is the abridged version#it would be a lot longer if i didnt have restraint#lynn is one of the absolute sweetest people ive ever met in my life#she gives me hope#and restores my faith in humanity on a regular basis#i feel like a better person for knowing her#and thats not even to speak on her sick fucking art.#op
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Hey, I just went through your entire blog in two days only and I wanna say, your writing is astounding! I haven't had a chance to watch the show yet as I can't afford Netflix right now, but you're fics were a truly fine introduction to the fandom Much love and keep being awesome! ~M
It’s you!!! I watched you blast through my blog with likes and reblogs and was absolutely in awe of you. Thank you so much for being such an avid reader and supporter. You single-handedly made me smile so much. And because words of thanks never feel like enough, I give the only thing I can, a ficlet of gratitude!
Education at Kaer Morhen involved a lot of things. Different weapons, physical fitness, hunting, foraging, identifying poisons by scent, even sewing to mend clothes. However, there were a lot of things it didn’t involve. Things that a witcher couldn’t possibly need. Music was definitely one of those things, Jaskier mused because Geralt obviously had zero appreciation of the art. But other things too which were less about being cultured and more about basic skills.
There were moments where Jaskier suspected things but didn’t want to believe them, Put them down to Geralt being Geralt. He obviously preferred information first hand, always seeking out the alderman or asking locals where to find the poster of the contract. Sometimes Jaskier just watched Geralt in front of a board like it was the world’s greatest word search. At times, he’d skip over a contract and Jaskier couldn’t figure out why. But pointing it out usually had Geralt frowning at the piece of parchment and huff out something about it not striking his fancy (as if witchers could ever pick and choose amongst contracts) or it not being valuable enough (as if that had ever stopped Geralt before - the man seemed to thrive on helping the poor). A pattern emerged after a while though and Jaskier didn’t want to think about the implications. The contracts Geralt skipped over didn’t contain the words ‘contract’, ‘monster’, or ‘witcher’. Which led to some alarming implications.
It wasn’t something Jaskier could delicately raise, lead Geralt to realising he knew and wanted to help. Also, Jaskier couldn’t very well corner the man and accuse him of being unable to read. Because if he was wrong, Geralt’s allegedly nonexistent emotions would be very hurt. So, Jaskier did the simplest thing he could. Whenever Geralt went to look at a village noticeboard, he tagged along and pointed at random papers, reading them out loud. Once or twice he fudged up words but Geralt never seemed to realise that the advert Jaskier was pointing at was for a laundry service rather than for a tailoring service he was describing.
“Why are you pointing out such useless adverts?” Geralt snapped.
“Just thought you’d be interested.” Jaskier shrugged and plucked the contract Geralt was looking for from the board. “Here. This is the one you want.” It didn’t have any of the key words Geralt tended to look for. There was no thanks thrown his way and Geralt stomped off, the parchment clutched in a tighter grip than usual.
It went on like that, each time Jaskier got more and more certain he was right, Geralt couldn’t read.
“What do you think of this one?” Jaskier plucked a random advert and pushed it into Geralt’s hand who stared at it with contempt. It was advertising a littler of puppies from a good guard dog lineage.
“What about it?” Vague, carefully eyeing the advert but not acknowledging any of it. Jaskier’s heart broke a little. Given how often he had shoved the necessary contract into Geralt’s hand, it was obvious Geralt was trying to figure out whether it was a contract or not. The price in the corner suggested it wasn’t but the poor couldn’t always pay in coin. Sometimes other goods or services were written down which he would negotiate verbally.
“You’re not tempted?” It was cruel but Jaskier had enough of the song and dance.
“For so little?” Geralt scoffed, hedging his bets on Jaskier not screwing him over by putting something other than a contract in his hands all of a sudden.
Ever so gently, Jaskier took the advert and pinned it back up to try and hide the sound of his heart breaking. “You’re right. I don’t think there’s much for us in the village. Come on.”
They turned away but Jaskier saw Geralt turn back, a small frown on his face as he looked at the advert Jaskier had put back, clearly not understanding. Returning to their room at the inn, Jaskier knew he had to end the farce. He pulled a book from his bag and passed it to Geralt who stared at it, more disgusted by it than any kind of head or guts he’s waded through on a hunt.
“What’s this?”
“A book.”
“I know that. But why are you handing it to me?” Geralt set it to the side, not even glancing at it.
“Given we’ve got a bit of downtime, you’ve tended to your swords last night, I thought you might fancy a bit of a change. Does the title not intrigue you?”
A gruff “no” had Jaskier’s eyebrow raising as he sat down on the bed with a small smile. “You mean, a monster compendium is not something of interest?” He had picked it up a little while ago, intent on learning more about Geralt’s potential enemies, even if the book didn’t have all the facts correct, it was a good starting place. “Or maybe you’d want to go through it with me and correct the mistakes?”
Watching Geralt try and find a way out of it was painful. He frowned, frowned harder and ended up growling in his throat, turning away from the book with a moody “no”.
“I could teach you,” Jaskier offered quietly. “If you’d like to read.”
Silence stretched and Geralt’s back was stiff obviously coiled tight and ready to either fight or flee. “Since when has a witcher ever read a monster to death?” That sounded far too much like something Geralt had learned from someone else and all Jaskier could think of was a young Geralt being denied the chance to learn to read over and over again with such cruel and mocking words. However, it wasn’t a no.
Moving quietly, Jaskier grabbed the book and settled on the bed with enough room next to him for Geralt to join if he so wished. Cracking the book open, he began to read out loud. It took a minute but Geralt eventually joined him, looking angry and disinterested but Jaskier knew better. He was scared, terrified even, of being mocked, of being found wanting. Not breaking his reading, Jaskier adjusted his grip on the book so he could pull his finger under the words as he read them, letting Geralt follow.
They spent a few days like that, Jaskier reading aloud and Geralt watching, listening to how the words sounded compared to how they looked. Jaskier even picked up a few other books, much simpler, suited for children really. He swapped out to one of those books as they sat in a clearing in a forest, away from everyone and everything. Shoulder to shoulder, Jaskier got Geralt to haltingly grit out the sentence “the cat lost his hat”. It was perhaps the proudest Jaskier had ever been and the small, satisfied look on Geralt’s face was worth it.
Months down the line, when Geralt was able to sit next to Jaskier and read aloud from the book of monsters and laugh together about the inaccuracies, there was a soft lull. In fact, Geralt looked nervous as he pushed to book into Jaskier’s hands.
“I’ve got something for you.” Eager, Jaskier sat up, smile wide. He was expecting a kiss, maybe some oil for his lute or, if Geralt was feeling especially romantic, some jewellery. “It’s something I’ve been working on in secret.”
Reaching into his pack, Geralt pulled out a bit of parchment folded in half. On the front of it was a crudely drawn heart, obviously done by someone who wasn’t artistically inclined. It was shoved gruffly into Jaskier’s hands and he opened up what was a handmade card.
To Jaskier,
Thahk Thank yuo.
I lov yuo.
Geratt Geralt.
It was, without a doubt, the most precious thing Jaskier had ever been gifted, spelling mistakes and all. Because while he had gotten Geralt reading, it never even occurred to him that writing would be another skill to teach. All the education at Oxenfurt was something Jaskier had taken for granted until now. With Geralt by his side, he realised it was a gift, one that he was delighted to share with his beloved.
#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#the witcher#illiterate geralt#tldr: geralt can't read and jaskier puts his education to good use
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I was speaking to @ask-a-rathalos mod a while ago and they asked offhandedly what the meaning behind the “lines in the sand” tag that I use a lot is. In addition to raking parallel lines into sand for no real reason, Surah likes to (attempt to) draw monsters she’s seen. Her drawings appear to be crude glyphs scratched into walls and hard ground, which could possibly be mistaken for grimalkyne/felyne doodles to an untrained eye. Below are a few more examples (+ a self-portrait), and you can spot some in this old post too! Surah is actually secretly proud of her uh,, “art”.
[I would put a read more line here but Tungle kept destroying and glitching out my post whenever I did, so just,, pretend one is here ;<;]
Funny enough, the other day I ran into something similar in-game that I forgot about! Who is this mystery doodler... (I don’t have the observation camera yet leaf me alone)
And if you want to dig deeper, this was actually inspired by the poorly drawn monsters on my beach in Animal Crossing lol
#long post is long#surah#lines in the sand#literally#today I will overshare info no one asked for#(besides you rathmod; of course you are not a no one)
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Pigeon!Linda ACTIVATED!
For context: I have a regular OC named Linda that I have drawn in crossover art with Sly Cooper stuff before (including my completed fanfic Birds of a Feather). THAT Linda and THIS Linda are completely different and THIS Linda was created specifically for my Survived!Arpeggio AU. This Linda will be referred to as Pigeon!Linda in tags.
TW: Some minor sexual references mentioned below the cut! Skip if that makes you uncomfy!
Full (Real) Name: Linda Givington
Alias: none
Age: 35 (2020) Born 1985
Gender: Female
Height: 6 foot 5 inches
Bio: Linda’s childhood was an odd mix of loving and troubled. Everything went exceptionally well until the death of her mother caused her father to fall into a deep, neglectful depression that spanned through her teen and adolescent years. She was forced to put on a positive attitude to keep herself motivated and distract herself by focusing on anyone else but her and her own problems. Although her primary goal was always to help others, somewhere along the line her morality of what was and wasn’t “the right thing to do” became muddled and it drove her into the deep, dark crime world. She traveled the world being contracted to commit acts she believed was to better society. Disposing of evil criminals can only be good, right? While she still believes many of them were for the greater good, in the end she realized she was falling down a path committing crimes for the betterment of her bosses and their personal motivations, and she refused to be used in such a manner. After wrapping up her agenda, she retired back to the US where she continued travelling around, seeing the sights, and helping in any way she could. She ultimately ended up in the life of Arpeggio n co. where she is currently staying to “relax for a change”. This is not the first time the two have crossed paths, however…
Personality:
• Crude, loud, and assertive, you will know when Linda enters a room. She has absolutely no filter and vocalizes whatever is on her mind even if it isn’t the least bit appropriate. Cursing? Yes. Sexual references? All the time. Flirting? Every Second of Every Day. The only time she quells her words is when in the presence of children or the elderly. No, Arpeggio doesn’t count. Sometimes she goes Extra just to bother him.
• She is incredibly loving and desires physical affection. She’s the type to unconsciously touch your arm when she’s talking to you or touch your hair without asking first. She will immediately stop the moment you tell her to, but as a general bad habit she doesn’t think about it first. She also loves hugs and cuddling if you’re open to it.
• You remember that “Lemme Smash” bird meme? That’s pretty much Linda.
• Linda is incredibly feminine. She likes to be cute and girly and is always looking fine as hell. At the same time, she isn’t afraid to get dirty and pull her weight and doesn’t much care what others think of her.
Likes:
• Clothing and cute outfits. Every day she wears a new outfit and you will rarely see the same one twice.
• Music, singing, and dancing (especially pop and rap)
• Fuckin’. Sorry, but it’s true.
Dislikes:
• People assuming she’s stupid or a ditz (even if it’s sometimes kiiiinda true).
• Being alone for too long. She has a deep fear of isolation and loneliness.
• Bright lights (it hurts her fair albino eyes) plus being in the sun too long.
Other:
• She has absolutely zero fears of ever being caught for her crimes, which is why she doesn’t bother using an alias. She feels she hid herself/her identity so well that even if anyone knew the truth, it would be too difficult to prove anything. Whether or not this is true is unknown.
• Having scary stabby bird teeth runs in her mother’s side of the family. Some theorize they are traits remaining from her prehistoric ancestors. That being said, her teeth are her prime, intimate weapon of choice. She packs a fierce, scarily accurate and devastating bite, and her teeth can bizarrely grow back if she loses them.
• She can speak so many different languages and dialects she can’t list them all. Throw her somewhere in the world and she’ll somehow be able to communicate, even if poorly.
• She is pansexual/panromantic and polysexual/polyromantic.
• If Linda had a playlist it would be nothing but Kesha (with some Cardi B, Ashnikko, Megan Thee Stallion, and Nicki Minaj for added flavor).
• It’s okay, you can stare at her boobs. She’s perfectly fine with that. P.S. they are natural.
Relationships
Arpeggio: The tiny angry birdman is a spectacle in her eyes. How can so much rage fit into such a small package? And why is it so cute? How far can she go with this? Let’s find out. All amusements she has towards him aside, she does genuinely respect him for his efforts in leading a better life (even with immense struggle) and raising the child he never intended on having. She also feels pity for him and hopes, in some way, she can help him and his situation. Having another ex-criminal in her life also selfishly eases her own soul, and she would be lying if she said it was not one of the motives for sticking around. Birds of a Feather flock together. Also, she legit wants to bang him.
Neyla: Motherhood is something Linda is not good at, but still desires. Often her solutions to Neyla’s problems only make the situations worse, and she never seems to learn from it. Her and Neyla get along exceptionally well, though, and Linda takes pride in being the sort of “cool and hip” role-model type. She also just loves being childish and goofing off without needing an excuse.
Jeremy: Linda and Jeremy are super great buds and can be gay together. Gay bird party. It was through her friendship with Jeremy that they ended up in their current living situation together and it was him who vouched for her trustworthiness. The two are typical best friends who do all the usual things together, and often the two work together to accomplish tasks to make Arpeggio’s life a little easier. Or more difficult, ya know… depending on the mood.
#pigeon!Linda#Survived!AU#Sly Cooper#fan character#Linda#I love her#my beautiful tiddy bird#survived!dad!AU#Filly's OCs#Filly's Art
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2020 Fanart Highlights
Thanks for tagging me @une-amie!! Love your art btw!
Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your favourite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!
Yay, nothing like a little artistic self-reflection! I’ll stick to linking to my comics and art (I have some rotten fic festering on the distant regions of the internet that we won’t mention here lol)
I think I drew more comics in 2020 than I did the previous two years? While my style has gotten less cute and I’m using almost no color, I actually don’t feel too bad about it. The art always served the punchline/gag anyway. If I got you to chuckle/smile with my comic then it’s mission accomplished for me. Also, around when quarantine started is when I got a drawing tablet and basically everything I’ve posted since then has been drawn digitally. I’ll go chronologically over my faves:
Pining Keith in 2020 [VLD | Klance] It seems like I optimistically start every year ranting that this will be the year of klance (now years after the actual show ended.) My favorite thing to do is cut corners so repeating panels and just changing expressions/dialogue is the absolute BEST and I encourage everyone to do it! No one will notice or care! :D This one was still pencil on paper, which I kind of miss because it carries a certain energy that digital misses.
RA Comix: ONE FEAR [Richard Armitage] Okay, this one has like NO notes but I died laughing making it. We could have had a really epic closing chapter to the whole RA/LP thing but I guess now we’ll never know? (is the con even being rescheduled??) Also any RA fan is free to reuse this for whatever RA’s current fear is lmao.
Michigan J. Frog! [Looney Tunes] I worked full-time during quarantine. But on a random day off I thought, you know what, I should really draw Michigan J. Frog on this tablet I’m still getting used to. I think he turned out alright. It’s still my aim to animate him once I have like a year off :P
RA turns 49 [Richard Armitage] This one is very special to me because I spent 5 minutes drawing it and then like an hour just playing around with cut and paste and warping his face. The real satisfaction here was making myself cackle. Also I love that his doll friend is the only thing worthy of being put in color. Did I mention how much I HATE coloring comics???? Which leads me to coloring art...
Leatherface’s Quarantine Advice [Horror | Texas Chainsaw Massacre] This was the first one of my horror/artober challenge. Drawing/coloring is hard! He came out okay, if a bit smudgy but I’m still perplexed over how I did that real cool-looking sky and background.
You’ll Float Too! [Horror | It Movie | Pennywise] Stylistically I went for something that looked like a kid drew it and I think I really nailed it! 😆
ANNABEL/LE’S [Horror | Annabelle | RA’s friend lol] Probably the art piece I spent the most time on this year? Aka more than an hour. Had a lot of fun painting her, I was in the Zone. Really like how her creepy face plays with light and shadow. That blood tear is pretty spot-on 👌 Also nothing like the juxtaposition between Annabelle’s realistic creepiness and the cartoony Annabel 🤡
(audio scream warning!->) Thrandy Scream [LOTR/Hobbit | Thranduil | Legolas] Including this one because it’s one of three animations I did last year along with Thorin’s McRib and Artie Fufkin. I was all set to do a bunch more and then I realized CSPaint has me stuck on a time limit of just a few seconds??? So that kind of sucks. But I like merging audio with crudely moving art. Definitely want to try more of it. Also amused myself by drawing Thrandy after a long hiatus.
That’s all folks! Lmk if there’s something you want to see more of this year :3 (I fell off the RA train because I don’t do audiobooks but I can always make shit up 🤪)
Tagging @heyholmesletsgo @oldfarmerbillswife @sillymarillion-comics @aninomori @atanes-universe @monkeyscomics @thejerseydevile @evankart and any other artist/writer/creator who wants to do this!
#2020 fanart highlights#tag game#damn i spent longer writing this post than drawing some of these comics i mentioned#🥴
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Passing Notes
Day 13 of @tsshipmonth2020 Fluffuary
Ship: Intrulogical
AU: High School
Word Count: 3312
Summary: Logan takes an elective science course his senior year, and ends up sitting next to his friend’s crude, immature brother who insists on passing him notes every class period. Eventually, Logan realizes the hidden message he’d been missing.
(Like listening to podfics? You can listen to this oneshot on my YT channel here!)
“I still can’t believe you took a science class instead of a free period! You’re such an overachieving nerd!” Roman exclaimed as they stood around Logan’s locker. Patton elbowed him in the side as Logan rolled his eyes.
“He’s allowed to do whatever he wants with his schedule!” Patton defended.
“I know, but we could have all had free time together! And now we’re split!” Roman whined. Logan wasn’t fazed, all too used to his dramatics at this point.
“We already spend hours together after school for drama, I think you’ll survive an hour and a half free period without me.” Logan said, checking his written schedule once more for the room number before slamming his locker shut. “But if you truly want to see me more, I’m sure you could go get your schedule changed.”
Roman shook his head a little too quickly while making a face, and the other two snickered at him. Patton glanced at the clock hanging in the hall and frowned. “You’d better get going Lo, you’re gonna be late!”
Logan checked and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll see you two after school.” They waved as he headed off towards the science hallway, thankfully arriving with a few minutes to spare.
Every spot at the lab tables had a small slip of paper folded into a tent on it, and looking closer he saw they were name tags. Right, he’d heard that this teacher was a fan of arranged seating charts, especially at the beginning of a new semester. He found his name and was thankful that it was at the front of the room. Sitting in the back made it harder to focus, mostly because the students sitting back there didn’t usually care to be in class.
He took his seat and set down his notebook and pencil case, as well as the script for the spring musical that he still needed to read through. As other students came into the room, he flipped it open and skimmed the first few pages.
A minute later, the bell rang and the teacher walked into the room, welcoming them and introducing himself. Then, as he was passing out copies of the syllabus, the door opened and a disheveled, very familiar face waltzed in.
“Sorry I’m late!” He announced, and the teacher just sighed, shaking his head.
“Just... take your seat, please.” He told him, pointing at the only open seat... right next to Logan. The young man grinned, happily bouncing over to him and slamming his stuff down on the table. “Quietly, Remus.”
“My bad!” Remus sung, not at all apologetic. He then turned to Logan, still with that wide, slightly unhinged grin. “Hi Logan! Didn’t know you were taking this class!”
“Hello, Remus.” Logan greeted neutrally, suddenly feeling a small pang of regret at not taking that free period after all.
He wasn’t exactly strangers with Remus, but he wasn’t close to him either. Their interactions boiled down to the few times he and Patton hung out at Roman’s house and Remus was there. Roman didn’t exactly get along well with his twin, so he tended to spend time with his friends elsewhere.
As such, Logan didn’t know much about Remus. He knew he was loud and crude, disruptive in class, extremely creative with his language, and he was friends with Virgil and Ernest, two other seniors who were part of the drama department.
Logan wondered if the teacher had possibly placed them at the same table for a reason, since Logan was an “overachieving teacher’s pet”, according to Roman. Perhaps he thought he might be able to encourage Remus to focus.
Unlikely, considering the other kid had already pulled out his notebook and started doodling. Logan shrugged. If he was drawing, he would at least be quiet. He opened his own notebook, making notes of anything important the teacher said about assignment deadlines or test dates, ignoring the loud scratching of Remus’s pencil beside him.
That is, until there was a loud rip of paper and a moment later, something hit Logan’s elbow. He stared at it curiously, then up at Remus who had gone back to his doodling, a corner of his notebook paper conspicuously missing.
Logan grabbed it and put it in front of him, debating whether or not to open it or just throw it away. Either way, he would save it for the end of class. He wouldn’t let Remus distract him.
Two more folded paper pieces hit him over the course of the class period, and each time Logan took it and placed it carefully in the pile in front of him. He could feel Remus getting frustrated at him, but he didn’t let that bother him.
Once the bell finally rang and class was over, Logan stuffed the notes in his pocket to deal with at a later time. He grabbed his things and left the classroom while Remus was called aside by the teacher, heading to his locker.
Roman and Patton met him there, having already gotten their stuff from their own lockers.
“So!” Roman said, leaning against the neighboring locker smugly. “How was your class?”
“...Interesting. Were you aware that Remus was taking the same class?” Logan asked, and Roman blinked.
“Huh? No? Wait, he is? Are you sure it wasn’t someone who just looked like him?”
Logan rolled his eyes. “You two are identical twins, Roman. I’m very familiar with what you look like, and I had a very close view because the teacher put him next to me.”
“Aww shit, that sucks! I’m so sorry Lo, was he annoying?”
“Well, he was quiet, for the most part. He did keep passing me these notes, though.”
Patton tilted his head, curious. “Notes? What do they say?”
“Probably something gross.” Roman grumbled.
Logan pulled the ripped pieces out of his pocket, holding them in his palm. “I didn’t read them during class, so I’m not sure what they say.”
His friends each grabbed one, unfolding them as Logan finished packing his backpack. When he pulled it out of his locker and turned back, they both had odd looks on their faces. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, well... there’s nothing written on them!” Patton said, trying to be chipper. Roman rolled his eyes, showing Logan the paper.
On it was a pencil sketch of... something. Logan couldn’t actually tell what it was supposed to be - some kind of catlike creature, maybe? But it also had fins like a fish, and horns...
“Hmm.” Logan hummed, and Roman crumpled the piece in his hand, huffing.
“What the hell?! He’s so weird, you should just toss ‘em Lo, don’t encourage him by taking them.”
“Maybe you could just tell him to keep them? They are well drawn, he should draw them in a sketchbook so he can look back at them!” Patton suggested.
Logan shrugged, shoving his own shred of paper back into his pocket while Roman wasn’t looking. Sure, the drawings were strange, and they didn’t seem to be based in any kind of reality, but they were fascinating all the same. It was clear Remus had a talent for drawing - the shading on the horned cat/fish creature made it look almost real.
“We should be going - Mr. Sanders wanted us to be there early today.” Logan changed the topic, and thankfully his friends allowed it. The three of them walked down to the auditorium together, quickly forgetting about Remus and his strange behavior.
All of them except for Logan, who couldn’t quite push from his mind the excited, child-like glee in Remus’s eyes when he had passed that first note across the table.
~
It became a routine after a while. Logan would go to his fourth hour class, Remus would come in late and immediately start drawing in his notebook, occasionally passing the notes to Logan, who would stash them in his pocket. He didn’t throw them away - as disturbing as some of the sketches could be, Logan could tell that Remus wasn’t trying to gross him out. What he did want though, he wasn’t entirely sure.
He wasn’t sure, that is, until Logan was sitting backstage one day watching the actors run through the show and he pulled out one of the notes to examine it. It was some kind of tentacled monster, most likely inspired by their recent lectures about deep sea life. Again, Logan had to marvel at the technical skill behind it. Both of the Prince twins were incredibly talented, apparently, because Roman had his art hanging up all over his room and had been displayed in the school several times as well.
Something shifted behind him, and a voice spoke beside his head. “Is that Remus’s?”
Logan jumped, folding the note quickly and turning to look at who had snuck up on him. Ernest, the head of costume design, who had a knowing smile on his face.
“What did you say?” Logan asked, playing dumb. He was a little embarrassed to be caught staring at the note, even though logically he knew he had no reason to be. Ernest rolled his eyes, pointing at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
“That note. It’s from Remus, right?”
The stage manager quickly glanced out on stage, gauging where his friends were. He really didn’t want either of them to walk in on this conversation, especially since they had advised him to simply get rid of the sketches. Thankfully, neither of them would be on his side of the stage for a while. Logan sighed.
“Yes, it is. He’s been giving them to me during class. I’m not certain why, though.”
The costume designer snickered. “Maybe he wants to impress you with his incredible drawing skills.” He said sarcastically.
Logan slipped the note back into his pocket. “Well, they are incredible, in a technical sense. He has a very impressive grasp of anatomy and shading.” He tried to speak neutral about it, lest Ernest get the wrong idea.
The other hummed. “I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t show his drawings to anyone.”
At that, Logan furrowed his eyebrows. “What? But he’s been doing this for nearly a month now... and I never asked for him to show me his drawings.”
Ernest pressed his lips together tightly, but it wasn’t out of anger. There was something else behind it... “I dunno, Logan... you’re smart, I’m sure you can figure out what’s going on in his weird little head.”
“But you’re his friend, aren’t you?”
He laughed, walking away. “You think he tells me anything?”
Logan huffed, turning back to what was happening on stage. He did know - he had to know. Ernest was acting too suspicious to not know what was going on in his friend’s head. But clearly, he wasn’t going to tell him.
He tried to put it out of his head, but something was bothering him. Ernest had known the sketch was Remus’s, which told him that he must have seen Remus’s drawings at least a few times in order to recognize it. But if Remus was as secretive as he sounded with his sketches, then that would be difficult.
So maybe he wasn’t that secretive. Even so, there was something weird about what had been happening every time they were in class. He wasn’t an artist, but he knew Roman, and he knew that Roman was protective of his sketchbook, and almost never ripped anything out of it. If he did draw something for someone else, it was on a dedicated page that he tore out.
He threaded his fingers through his hair, frustrated. It didn’t make any sense, but then again, Remus had never made much sense to him.
Tomorrow he had science. He vowed that he would watch Remus a little closer, to try and figure out why he was exhibiting this extremely odd behavior.
~
Logan got to class early, pulling out a book and skimming it as he watched other students filter into the classroom. Then, for the first time since the beginning of the semester, Remus actually arrived three minutes before the bell rang.
As always, the other student shot a wide, toothy smile his way before cracking open his notebook, noticeably thinner than it had been a month ago, and sketching immediately.
Logan watched him out of the corner of his eye, just in case Remus noticed what he was doing, and what he was seeing didn’t make any sense.
For his sketch, Remus didn’t start with any kind of skeleton or outline, which Logan would have expected. Instead, he drew a distinct shape, and was working out from there. But it wasn’t a circle or square, like he would have thought..
It was a heart?
Logan eventually abandoned his facade of reading as he watched Remus draw, expanding the heart into a head shape, adding too many eyes and a wild mane that masked the starting shape.
By the time he was done and tearing out the drawing, it was fifteen minutes into class and Logan had done nothing but stare at Remus’s hand as he drew. He had to force himself to look forward as Remus folded it and tossed it his way, immediately starting another. Once again, he began with a heart, but this time it was much smaller and ended up turning into a nose.
Why was he drawing hearts? Was that just a part of his drawing process, or was there something more to it? Did it have to do with how he would tear out every drawing and give it to him?
Should Logan respond, now that he knew this? Remus had been giving him these notes for over a month now, and he’d never said a word. Would it be rude to mention it now, especially since he’d only noticed it because he was watching over his shoulder?
He couldn’t tell his friends. Roman didn’t like his brother and Patton was wary of him as well. And he didn’t know Virgil or Ernest well enough to approach them with something as big as this, although he had a feeling they were both in on whatever game Remus was playing.
While he was pondering, the bell rang and he broke out of his trance to see Remus bouncing out of the classroom, with three more folded notes sitting in front of him. Logan shook his head, blinking rapidly to wake himself up. As he was gathering his things, he heard the teacher call his name. “Hm? Y-Yes?”
The teacher’s eyes were concerned. “I noticed you didn’t open your notebook today. Do you need me to move you to a different spot?”
“Huh? No, why would you?”
“I saw you watching Remus this class. You’re a very bright student and I want to make sure you’re not being distracted.”
Logan shook his head quickly. “No, no, I’m not. I’m just not feeling very well today, I’ll be better next week, I promise.” He couldn’t get moved now - not when he was so close to figuring out this puzzle!
The teacher hummed, accepting his answer. “Alright then. Don’t hesitate to tell me if you think you’d benefit from a seat change.”
“I won’t, thank you.” Logan agreed, rushing out of the classroom and towards his locker where Roman and Patton were waiting. He made up an excuse of needing to ask a question about an assignment, shoving the notes deeper into his pockets. They didn’t question him, letting him know that Mr. Sanders had gotten sick and that rehearsal was canceled.
Never had he been so thankful that their director had a penchant for getting sick often. Logan ran up to his room as soon as he got home and pulled the notes from his pocket, throwing them onto his desk onto the sizable pile already sitting there. He took a seat and grabbed a permanent marker, then began opening them up one by one. In each one, he looked for any heart shapes. And as he went through, he found at least one in every single drawing he had been given by Remus. In one, a drawing of a two headed dragon, the creature had heart shapes spines trailing down its back.
A heart on every single one. No two drawings were the same besides that simple fact. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before - with them traced in marker, they looked so obvious.
He wanted to ask what it meant, but he knew the answer was obvious. Now the only question was what he should do now.
Logan pushed the handdrawn notes away, reaching for his own notebook and cracking it open. It was time to plan, something he did best.
~
Tuesday, he was ready. His heart was racing the entire day, he was both excited and nervous for what he was going to do. Once he did it, he knew things would change. But after hours of planning over the weekend, he was certain it would be for the best.
Finally, it was fourth hour. Again, Remus came to class on time, and again, he started drawing for Logan. It was difficult for Logan to pay attention, but he managed to take decent notes and avoid looking over at Remus. Instead, he kept his eyes on the clock in the corner.
A minute before the bell would ring, he put his plan into action. Logan turned to a fresh page at the back of his notebook and he did his best to tear out a piece discreetly so Remus wouldn’t notice. He jotted something down quickly, and just before the bell rang he nudged it over to Remus, making sure he saw it.
The other student blinked, grabbing it slowly as if it was some kind of illusion, and unfolded it carefully. Then he got an odd look on his face, and he glanced up to see Logan smiling at him as the bell rang.
“Logan?” Remus spoke, the first thing he’d actually said to him all semester since that first day.
“Meet me outside?” Logan asked, holding his things with one arm. Remus nodded vigorously, slamming his notebook closed and swiping all of his pencils into his bag in one swoop.
“Do you mean it?” Remus exclaimed as they stepped outside and stood to the side.
“I want to understand you, Remus.” Logan clarified, looking quickly at the crumpled note in the other’s hand. “You’ve been giving me these notes all semester, and it took until last Friday to understand why.”
“You took forever!” Remus complained playfully. Logan pursed his lips.
“Why didn’t you simply tell me, if you were so impatient? That would have been much faster, and you’ve never struck me as shy.” Remus huffed at the suggestion, crossing his arms.
“Roman told me he didn’t want me ‘messing with’ his friends, so I decided that as long as you talked to me first, he can’t get mad at me!”
Logan opened his mouth to argue that flawed logic, then decided against it. “I see.”
“So, do you mean it?”
“Do I mean what?”
“Don’t mess with me! You gave me a note with a heart drawn on it Logan, I obviously mean do you like me?! Do you have a crush on me like I’ve had one on you for literally years?!”
That took Logan aback for a moment. Years? Really? “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to say I do, Remus.”
Remus’s face fell, but Logan wasn’t done. “I believe now is the time you offer to spend some time with me so I can learn more about you.”
“Are you... asking me to ask you on a date?”
Logan raised an eyebrow, and Remus laughed.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you! Ok, well then, will you go out on a date with me Logan?”
“Why, of course. It’s about time!”
#intrulogical#remus sanders#logan sanders#roman sanders#patton sanders#deceit sanders#tsshipmonth2020#saphira writes#saphira writes ts
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if you looked at me right - chapter 1: going under
fandom: fire emblem
rating: M
characters: yuri/claude
words (total): 6.1k
words (this chapter): 6.1k
additional tags: canon compliant, verdant wind route, canon-typical violence, slow burn, mutual pining, light angst, implied sexual content, implied sexual abuse (wrt yuri’s backstory), some exploration of trauma, rivals to lovers, eventual happy ending
description: claude von riegan likes knowing things. he’s been poking around archives and eavesdropping on church officials from the moment he arrived at garreg mach. so when he hears of a mysterious underground hub called abyss, led by the equally mysterious yuri leclerc, he all but jumps at the chance to investigate. what starts as mutual neutrality and precarious trust soon transforms into a game of pulling each other’s secrets like teeth. claude’s always been in it for the long haul, and yuri never plays if he knows he can’t win, but the feelings that grow between them in dark, empty libraries and over old chess boards are more than either of them bargained for.
a/n: HELLO HELLO!!!! i'm so excited to present this fic, which was written for the fe3h ultra rarepair big bang on twitter!! thank you to the fantastic birds @hausofthestars on twitter, who was my partner, for creating such a wonderful piece of art for it!!! (link to it in the replies bc tumblr is a pos) this pairing has taken over my life and i am Ready to convert everyone i know to my yuriclaude agenda >:3 fic title comes from “direct address” by lucy dacus which really reminds me of them. chapter title from “going under” by evanescence lmao
read it on ao3
—
Every time Claude starts to think he might be getting the hang of life at Garreg Mach, the world goes and throws another wrench into it, as if the gods themselves are watching him and have concluded—more than once, he might add—that his situation still isn’t interesting enough.
The wrench this time comes in the form of a small group of students who call themselves the Ashen Wolves. All Claude knows about them is what their characteristically taciturn professor said about them—so, not much. He knows that they hail from a place called Abyss, located beneath the monastery, and that Byleth asked them to accompany the Golden Deer on their first real mission at the Red Canyon. And that’s about it.
Of course, after the battle Claude intends to find out more. An entire hub of people living underground is certainly worth investigating, and he’s never been one to leave well enough alone.
They’re an odd bunch, though not much more so than his own Deer. There’s the large, loud man who claims to be the “Exalted” King of Grappling (or was it the “Renowned” King of Grappling?), despite none of them, save Hilda, having ever heard of him before. There’s the apathetic young woman who looks like she’s always stifling a sigh. There’s the colorful girl who spoke highly of herself indoors, but grew quiet and self-deprecating the moment she stepped into the sunlight.
And then there’s their leader, a man with a pretty face and a crude tongue. Claude can tell just by the way he speaks that Yuri works hard to maintain an air of mystery, and he only knows this because he’s spent years learning how to do the same. His smile is charming, almost inviting, but his eyes are sharp as daggers that warn against getting too close.
Claude knows this game well, and now he’s found another player.
One thing is for certain: the Wolves know how to fight. Their individual situations might be different, but they’ve all clearly struggled. They’ve all had to beg and claw and even kill to save themselves; Claude can see it in their skillful movements, their battle-hardened faces. Byleth was smart to bring them along.
Out of everyone, though, Claude finds his attention most often drawn to Yuri, to his quick swordplay and clever tactics. He knows, like Claude, how to find his opponents’ weaknesses and use them to his advantage. He heals too, which Claude wouldn’t have expected, casting spells in between kills as if to make up for the life he’s taking.
Very intriguing, indeed.
After the battle (a fairly straightforward one, though it does raise a few questions), as they start to make their way back down the mountains to the monastery, Claude falls in step beside Yuri, who turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “Ah,” he says. “Claude, right? Heir to House Riegan?”
Standing next to each other, they look to be about the same height, but Yuri’s boots have a noticeable heel; in actuality, he’s probably an inch or two shorter than Claude, who is only about average height to begin with. Maybe one day he’ll tease Yuri about it, after he’s deduced whether doing so would earn him a knife in the back (one can never be too careful, especially with a guy who lives in a place called Abyss).
“That’s me,” Claude says. “Nice fighting out there.”
Yuri shrugs. “It’s nothing. You know, you weren’t so bad yourself.”
“Oh, a flatterer, are we?”
“If that’s how you see it,” Yuri replies. “Personally, I’d consider myself less a flatterer and more an opportunist. I mean it, though. I was pleasantly surprised, watching the way you handled yourself. I expected a noble like you to be a bit...squishier.”
Claude chuckles. He’s still not entirely used to being referred to as a noble. “Well, I didn’t exactly have your typical ‘noble’ upbringing,” he says vaguely. It only takes him a second to register that Yuri just admitted to having watched him. That makes two of them, he supposes. They’d each stolen glances when the other wasn’t looking, but only now do they have the chance to actually make eye contact. In the moment their gazes meet, their masks both firmly in place, thoughts practically unreadable, something passes in between them—something like understanding, as though they’d seen one another and immediately said, I know what you are. You’re just like me.
Claude’s not sure if it’s comforting or terrifying.
“Interesting,” Yuri hums. Whether it’s a reaction to Claude’s statement about his upbringing or simply a reaction to Claude in general, he’s not sure.
“Speaking of interesting,” Claude says, “what’s the deal with this Abyss I’ve been hearing about?” It’s not the smoothest of segues, but it’ll have to do.
“Depends on what you’ve been hearing about it,” Yuri says, seemingly unfazed. Of course he’d dodge the question.
“All I know is that it’s underground, accessible through tunnels beneath the monastery. And from what I’ve gathered, most people up here don’t like to talk about it, if they even know what it is.”
Yuri turns his gaze to the peaks of the Oghma Mountains. “Seems to me like you know just about everything you need to.”
Claude shakes his head. “I’m not so sure about that. I’m the future leader of the Alliance, remember? I could end up working with you guys someday.”
“Only with approval from the Church, most likely,” Yuri snorts.
Claude raises an eyebrow. “They really don’t want people to know you exist, do they?”
“Nope. Suits me just fine, for the most part. The less people who know about us, the less outsiders we have to deal with.”
At the word outsiders, the muscles in Claude’s jaw twitch reflexively.
It’s almost imperceptible, but Yuri must still notice, because then he adds, “It’s nothing personal, really. It’s just that there’s a certain measure of trust that comes with letting people into Abyss. It doesn’t mean you can’t earn it. It’s just our way of keeping ourselves and our people safe. Most of the surfacers who come to visit Abyss these days aren’t exactly there to have tea and cookies with us.” There’s an edge of bitterness to his voice.
Claude nods. He can understand that; from the sound of it, the people of Abyss are pretty much on their own. No wonder they don’t trust outsiders, if their only experiences with them are in the form of being attacked or looted. Of course, in a better world, a place like Abyss wouldn’t even need to exist, because there would be no need for these people to hide—but this isn’t a better world. Not yet.
Yuri clears his throat. “Anyway. I’m sure you have more important things to worry about than what a ragtag group of outcasts and commoners is up to. Don’t let me catch you snooping around later, got it?”
“Got it,” Claude says as Yuri hurries to catch up to the rest of the Wolves.
He’s definitely going to snoop around later, but Yuri doesn’t need to know that.
—
It’s simple enough to just ask Byleth how to get to Abyss, but a bit harder to actually find it himself. He figures he’s less likely to get caught if he sneaks around at night, but that also means searching for tunnels in the dark. The entrances, he finds, are inconspicuous enough that they’d be easy to miss if one wasn’t actively looking for them. As he makes his way down, though, the passages slowly become more developed, with a solid stone pathway and torches hanging from the walls. They’re clearly still used; all he has to do now is follow the signs of human habitation.
Several things signal to him that he’s reached his destination. First, there’s the faint din of many people talking, similar to what would be found in a market, that increases in volume the deeper he goes. Then, there’s the windows with metal grates on one wall; if he peers through the bars, he can faintly see some structures made of wood and stone, silhouetted by yellow light. Finally, when he turns the last corner, he’s greeted (or perhaps “interrogated” would be a better word) by a man who calls himself the Abysskeeper, apparently guarding the entrance to Abyss. He’s made it.
The first thing Claude notices, directly to his right, is a library shrouded in shadow, and it takes everything in him to not immediately dive into its collection. He knows himself. Once he gets started, he’ll never leave, and he’d like to see the rest of the place first.
When Claude heard about people living underground, he pictured a few small groups crawling through basic dirt tunnels and eating whatever scraps of food they could salvage. He didn’t expect to find a bustling marketplace, an inn with a fully-stocked bar, and entire buildings beneath the monastery. It looks more to him like one of the poorer sections of any large city, complete with dark alleyways, stray animals, and piles of debris.
Save for the occasional rogue or small gang, most of the people living in Abyss are relatively defenseless civilians—orphans, unlucky merchants, the poor, the elderly, the disabled. For them, Claude quickly realizes, Abyss is a safe haven where they won’t be bothered by soldiers, bandits, mercenaries, or the Church. If Yuri really is its leader, then he must put a lot of work into providing for these people. It’s certainly respectable to want to help those whose lives are filled with hardship.
Still, there’s something disturbing about the whole place, when he really thinks about it. The Church already takes in orphans and refugees and gives them somewhere in the monastery to stay. Why wouldn’t they take in some of these Abyssians? Why have they all been shunned, banned even from being talked about? Why does the Church hide this place? What goes on down here?
Unfortunately, none of the Ashen Wolves are to be found, so he can’t ask them any questions. Their makeshift classroom is empty; they’re probably asleep in their quarters by now. Claude makes conversation with a few locals, but none of them give him much information, so once he’s familiarized himself with Abyss’s layout, he heads back up the stairs and makes for the library. He’s got some reading to do.
—
“Hey, boss,” an Abyssian says as Yuri walks through Burrow Street the next morning, “thought I’d let you know, there was a guy here late last night, askin’ questions about Abyss.”
Yuri stops in his tracks and whirls around to look at the man. “What? Who?”
The man wrings his hands. “Didn’t catch his name. I dunno if he was dangerous or nothin’, but he was wearin’ an Officers Academy uniform with a yellow cape.” He gestures to the right side of his face. “And he had a, uh, braid on one side?”
Claude.
Yuri holds a hand up. “Say no more. I know who he is.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the stairs. If Claude is still here, there’s only one place he could be.
“Wait, boss!” the man calls. “So is he dangerous to us or not?”
Yuri pauses and shoots a glance over his shoulder. With a shrug, he says, “Jury’s still out on that one, I’m afraid.”
Claude von Riegan. What’s his deal, anyway? Yuri’s heard the rumors, mostly from Balthus, about the next sovereign duke, who showed up out of nowhere claiming to be from an “offshoot” of House Riegan. There’s certainly more to that story. The real question, though, is why would a guy like that take such an interest in Abyss? What sort of game is he playing? And more importantly, is it a game Yuri can win?
When he swings open the door to the Abyss library, Yuri spots his culprit immediately, sitting slumped over the desk near one of the ledges on the main floor. Claude’s head rests in his arms; around him, several books are open, and there are even more in stacks on the desk and floor, as well as a nearly burnt-out candle.
Yuri takes a few steps closer and crosses his arms over his chest. He can hear a faint snoring sound coming from Claude, can see his chest slowly rising and falling. Yuri almost feels bad for interrupting—almost.
He gives a few kicks to the nearest chair leg. Luckily, it’s enough to make Claude flinch and lift up his head. With a groan, he turns around in his chair to face the perpetrator of this rude awakening.
“Yuri,” he says, resting his arms against the back of the chair. “I was having a really good dream, you know.”
“I thought I told you not to come poking around down here.”
“No, you told me not to let you catch me poking around down here.”
Yuri narrows his eyes. It’s the sort of answer he’d respect if he weren’t already in a sour mood due to an issue with his gang the night prior. “Well, I caught you, so either way, you didn’t listen. Next time, don’t fall asleep while you’re snooping.”
Claude’s mouth curls up into a smirk. “So you acknowledge that there will be a next time.”
Why’s he so damn chipper, anyway? Is he really that excited at the prospect of returning to Abyss? Maybe he’s just a morning person.
Yuri sighs and covers his face with his hand. “Look, we don’t get a lot of tourists, so let me ask you this: what are you doing down here? What do you want with us?”
“Nothing,” Claude says. “I was just fulfilling my curiosity, that’s all. I’d like to learn as much as I can while I’m at Garreg Mach. And, well, how could I not be curious upon hearing that there’s a bunch of people living under the ground beneath the monastery?” He shakes his head in apparent awe. “Of course I wanted to see what that was all about. And then I found this library, filled to the brim with books banned by the Church, and the rest is history.”
He sounds sincere, and Yuri supposes the existence of Abyss would pique most people’s interest—that’s why Byleth ventured down here, after all—but he’s still reluctant to completely place his trust in this mysterious young man who appeared in Fódlan seemingly out of thin air.
“Look, I get it,” Claude continues, likely sensing his hesitation. “You don’t trust outsiders? Believe me, you’re not the only ones. But I explored all of Abyss last night, and I have nothing but respect for it. I have no reason to want anything bad to happen to you guys, and I’m certainly not gonna tip off the Church to whatever you do down here. All I ask is that you let me continue to visit.”
“It’s dangerous down here,” Yuri warns. He’s mostly just looking for an excuse at this point, but it’s also true. “Especially if you’re traveling alone, and especially for a high-profile noble like yourself. I know you said you weren’t brought up that way, but you’ve got a hell of a status now. Bandits will salivate whenever you walk by.”
“I’m aware,” Claude says, leaning back against the desk. “The Abysskeeper already gave me that whole spiel. But Yuri, you’ve seen me in battle. You know I can handle myself. Believe it or not, I spent years keeping my head low and learning how to protect myself.” His eyes twinkle. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about me.”
Yuri sighs again. Losing an argument is not how he wanted to start his day, but Claude makes a good case, unfortunately. Besides, even if Yuri forbade him from visiting Abyss, something tells him that Claude would continue to sneak down here anyway.
“You know what? Fine,” he says. “You have your wish. As long as you don’t go around announcing our secrets to the whole world, I won’t stop you from frequenting Abyss. Just remember that I won’t hesitate to cut you down if you threaten any of my people. Understood?”
“Loud and clear,” Claude says, standing up from the desk. He quirks an eyebrow. “Would you really kill the next sovereign duke, though? You’d have a whole country at your doorstep within a week, and I know you wouldn’t want to endanger your people like that.”
He’s a smart one; Yuri will give him that.
“Bold of you to assume they’d be able to trace it back to me,” he replies with a razor-sharp half-smile. “Give me enough of a reason, and I can kill you and make it look like an accident.”
Claude doesn’t even blink. “I’ll make sure not to give you a reason, then. You can count on that.”
Yuri chuckles. “I should hope so.”
Suddenly, Claude seems to remember something and grabs a book from one of the piles on the desk. “Hey,” he says, “before I go…” He presses the book into Yuri’s hands. “Have you ever read this? It’s a gem, really. Very...descriptive. Let me know what you think.” Then, with a smirk and a wink, he saunters out the door, his braid swinging gently back and forth as he walks.
Yuri glances down at the book. The cover image has mostly worn away, but he can just make out the title: The Throes of Passion. Flipping through the pages confirms his suspicions: it’s a trashy erotic romance novel, and Claude just used it to flirt with him.
Despite himself, Yuri laughs. “So, he wants to play, does he?” he murmurs under his breath. “Very well, Claude von Riegan. Challenge accepted.”
—
For the next month or so, Claude spends much of his free time in either the Garreg Mach library or the Abyss library, poring over Crest research and historical accounts of famous Fódlan battles and writing down any particularly interesting details in a little notebook. Some of the information in the Abyss library contradicts the Church-approved version, but as for which source is more reliable, he sometimes can’t quite tell.
One of the most stunning things he finds is a log detailing advanced technology banned by the archbishop. Claude had learned very quickly of the Church’s grip on Fódlan and its citizens, but this is probably the most damning evidence he’s found so far of just how powerful they are—and just how much they want to keep the people firmly under their yoke.
He gets a firsthand look at how the Church delivers “divine punishment” when they go to confront Lord Lonato. It’s the first time he gets to see a Hero’s Relic in action, and to his surprise, the accounts he’s read of their power are no exaggeration. Catherine’s Thunderbrand is a force to be reckoned with, and with it she acts as Rhea’s executioner.
A few nights after the battle, Claude finds himself visiting the Abyss library again. After setting yet another stack of books on the desk, he grabs the one on top and starts reading.
He only gets about ten pages in when he hears whispering just outside the library. Normally he’d leave it alone—people whisper all the time down here about things that aren’t particularly relevant—but then he hears his name.
With narrowed eyes, Claude carefully lifts himself up from his chair and tiptoes over to the closed door, then presses his ear against it.
“I’m tellin’ ya, he ain’t the one leavin’ feathers everywhere,” a man says. “Yuri said so himself. It’s them Cobra bastards. That’s why we’re meetin’ ‘em tonight.”
“Then why is it that as soon as he started coming down here, those bodies started piling up on the surface?” another man says. “He wants us dead, and he’s using his connections with the Church to make it happen. I heard he’s some sorta schemer. I bet the Cobras are just scapegoats.”
What the hell are they talking about?
“Yuri saw one of the Cobras leavin’ a feather, dumbass,” the first man says. “The kid’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
“They could be working together, then. You never know.”
The first man snorts. “You’re pullin’ conspiracy theories outta yer ass. Admit it. You’re just lookin’ for an excuse to get rid of him.”
“Fine. Maybe I am. I just...don’t like the way he looks, okay? He’s suspicious. He always looks like he’s up to something.”
“So does Yuri.”
“Yeah, but Yuri’s one of us.”
Their voices fade as they walk away, their footsteps echoing down the hall. Once he’s certain that they’re gone, Claude opens the door and steps outside.
The Abysskeeper, standing nearby, is pretending to be extremely interested in the tiles on the ceiling. “Hey,” Claude calls. “What was that all about?”
The Abysskeeper shifts his feet. “You heard all that, huh?” he says sheepishly. He scratches the back of his head. “Frankly, I’m not sure I should be telling you.”
“Oh, come on,” Claude groans. “You know I’m just gonna keep bugging you or snooping around until I figure it out. Besides, those guys were talking about me. I think I deserve to know why, especially if it’s about something I didn’t do.”
The Abysskeeper sighs. “Alright, fine. But if you speak about this to anyone outside Abyss, you’re toast, got it?”
“Got it,” Claude says with a roll of his eyes. He’s already heard this spiel more than once. How hard is it to understand? He doesn’t want to spread their secrets; he just wants to know them.
“Well,” the Abysskeeper says, “long story short, for about a month now there have been dead civilians turning up on the surface near the monastery. Murdered. And every single one has had a mockingbird feather with it, clipped to the person’s clothes or in between their fingers or whatnot.”
Claude frowns. “What’s the significance of that?”
The Abysskeeper lowers his voice. “Have you ever heard of the Savage Mockingbird?”
Claude shakes his head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
The Abysskeeper raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s Yuri. Though not everyone knows that. Many established members of the nobility have heard of his penchant for blackmail and other such criminal activities—that is, if they haven’t already experienced it themselves. Thing is, Yuri’s not responsible for these murders. He’d never harm civilians on purpose, and he’d never be so obvious as to leave some kind of signature behind. Someone’s trying to pin them on him—on us—likely in the hopes that the Church will come and purge us as punishment. Yesterday, Yuri traced them back to a gang called the Cobras, so he and his pals are planning on confronting them tonight.” He glances down the hall in the direction the two men went. “Apparently some believe you’re involved somehow, but I don’t think the sentiment is widespread. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re involved.”
Claude’s head is spinning, but he thanks the Abysskeeper for the information and heads down the stairs to find Yuri.
The door to the men’s quarters is open. Stepping inside, Claude finds Yuri sitting at a desk and applying eyeshadow in the mirror. Without looking at him, Yuri says, “Problem, Claudester?”
Claude snorts. “Claudester?”
“That’s what Hapi calls you. She has nicknames for everybody.” He sets his makeup brush down and turns in his chair. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah.” Claude pats the bow on his back. “I’d like to join you and your gang tonight.”
Yuri’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “You what?”
“I heard it all from the Abysskeeper,” Claude explains, leaning against the doorframe. “And just before that, I overheard some guys talking about me. One of them thinks I’m involved in the whole thing, that I’m working with the Cobras or something. I’d like to help you out. I think it’d help clear my name.” He winks. “I’ve been wanting to see the kind of dirty work you do anyway.”
Yuri shakes his head. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s a private matter, and I still don’t know you all that well. Besides, I don’t think I need to tell you again how much danger you’d be putting yourself in.”
Claude folds his arms over his chest. “You’ll also be in danger, but you don’t seem so concerned about that.”
Yuri’s eyes flicker with something indecipherable. “That’s because, unlike you, I have experience with the underground. A lot of it.”
Claude rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s one extra person. I could act as backup—you know, snipe your enemies from the shadows. I’ve hardly seen any other archers down here.”
“You just don’t give up, do you?” Yuri says, but it’s clear that he’s wearing down. “Look, I don’t have time to argue. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a job to do. I’m supposed to be meeting up with some of my gang right about now. If you really want to come along, be my guest. For tonight, I’m going to choose to trust you.”
“Choose?” That’s an interesting word to use.
Yuri nods. “That’s right. Trust is a choice, you see, and I’ve chosen to put my trust in you—for now, at least. Don’t make me regret it.”
Claude’s never thought about it that way. He’s always seen trust as something that develops over time, not an active choice a person makes.
Yuri stands up and heads for the doorway. As he brushes past Claude, he mutters, “First the professor, now you, huh?”
Claude turns to follow him out, but not before he glimpses a book on one of the beds. He recognizes it immediately—The Throes of Passion—and smirks. So he’s gotten to his crass companion after all, then.
“What do you mean?” he calls as he hurries to catch up with Yuri.
“Byleth insisted on accompanying me on a similar mission about a month ago,” Yuri says without slowing down. “You two are too curious for your own good.”
Claude chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The rest of the group is gathered right at the edge of the bridge on the very end of Burrow Street. There are about seven people—far from the full might of Yuri’s gang, he says, but enough to get the job done. Beyond the bridge lies an unidentified stone structure, shrouded in darkness and surrounded on all sides by rocky cave walls.
“Sorry for the delay,” Yuri says, and the others all stop talking to listen to him. “We can leave now.”
“Hey, boss?” says one of the rogues—Claude recognizes his voice as belonging to the man who disparaged him earlier. “You know I trust your decisions, but what is he doing here?” He gestures in Claude’s direction.
Claude turns to Yuri with a frown that he hopes accurately communicates I told you so.
“Claude has generously offered us his services this evening,” Yuri says smoothly, his lips curled into a half-smile. “He’ll act as our sniper. If anyone has any objections, you can take it up with me.”
Predictably, no one says anything.
“That’s what I thought,” Yuri says as he makes his way across the bridge. “Let’s move.”
As they head down the dimly-lit path, Claude once again finds himself walking side-by-side with Yuri. “So,” he says, “how’d you figure out it was the Cobras who were doing this?”
“I caught one of them in the act,” Yuri replies. “He’d just killed a young woman and was in the process of leaving a feather behind. I cornered him and told him to let his leader know they’d been found out, or I’d track him down and kill him myself. Before he left, I saw the cobra tattoo on his neck.”
“So I’m assuming all the members of this Cobra gang have cobra tattoos to identify them?”
“Bingo,” Yuri says. “A lot of gangs do it. The gang Byleth and I confronted the other week does the same thing, but with scorpion tattoos.”
Claude glances over his shoulder at the other gang members. A few of them have tattoos, but none of them match, and there are some that don’t seem to have any ink at all. “So,” he says, “does your gang do anything like that? It doesn’t look like you have any tattoos.”
Yuri stops in his tracks for the briefest of moments, brief enough that he’s able to pass it off as having simply stumbled on a loose stone. Claude sees it, though; he must have hit a sore spot.
His gaze trails up and down Yuri’s body, searching for any sign of a tattoo, noting his lithe frame and narrow hips. Yuri’s eyes meet his, and a moment of recognition passes between them.
“Oh, Claude,” Yuri says with a playful smirk, any signs of unease now gone, “I know I’m irresistible, but you need to contain yourself.”
Claude can feel his cheeks heating up, and he looks away. He can dish out the charm without a problem, but he’s never had anyone use the same tactics on him. So what if his eyes lingered a little longer on Yuri’s hips, anyway?
“Anyway,” Yuri adds, “the answer is no. I don’t want to give our enemies an easy way to recognize us. Unlike some, I don’t do this for the glory; I do it to survive and to help my people, and it certainly doesn’t do any good to put a target on our backs.”
Judging by his initial reaction to the question, Claude would guess that Yuri probably isn’t telling him everything, but he doesn’t push the issue. There are more important things to worry about right now.
When they start to get close, Yuri gives Claude the signal to slip into the shadows, trailing the rest of the gang as they enter the odd structure he saw in the distance earlier. It’s made up of only one large, open area with high ceilings and giant statues staggered around the room. It looks like some sort of arena. Claude darts behind the raised base of one of the statues and watches from his vantage point as a squad of about ten tough-looking thugs with matching cobra tattoos emerges from the other side of the arena and saunters toward Yuri’s group.
“So you’ve been trying to frame us for murder,” Yuri says, crossing his arms over his chest.
The man in front, presumably the leader, chuckles darkly. “Suppose it’s too late to deny it, huh?”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes,” Yuri says. “I don’t take these kinds of things lightly. You were trying to get us purged. Probably so you could swoop in and take Abyss for yourselves. But you knew your gang wasn’t strong enough to fight mine head-on, so you hoped the Church would do the job for you. Am I right?”
“Well, well, aren’t you a clever little kitten?” the Cobra leader sneers. “Alright, you caught me. What are you gonna do about it, punk?”
From behind the statue, Claude nocks an arrow and takes aim.
Yuri says, “This.”
And Claude lets it fly.
At the same time, Yuri brandishes his sword and leaps toward the leader. The man blocks the blow with his axe just as Claude’s arrow pierces his shoulder.
In a flash, the arena explodes into a battlefield. Claude jumps on top of the base of the statue and starts shooting from above. Though they can be difficult to see from afar, the cobra tattoos make it a lot easier for him to tell friend from foe. Yuri’s right about them being like targets.
Most of the Cobras are melee fighters, but one of them breaks away from the thick of battle to toss his hand axe at Claude, who jumps deftly out of the way as it flies past, then launches an arrow into the man’s chest.
In the center of it all, Yuri and the Cobra leader lunge and parry, slash and swing. The leader has muscle and raw strength on his side, but Yuri is fast, dodging every attack and delivering one of his own before his opponent can recover. Before long, Yuri’s pushing him back, back, back, several cuts on his torso bleeding from Yuri’s sword.
Claude releases another arrow, and it lands just shy of the leader’s heart. He flinches, and in that moment, Yuri strikes, knocking him off balance and pushing him to the floor. Before he can pull himself back up, Yuri steps on his chest and forces him to stare down his blood-soaked blade.
Almost in unison, everyone else stops fighting and turns to watch the scene taking place. Claude jumps down from the statue to get a closer look, and they all wait for the outcome with bated breath.
Yuri leans in close, his sword only inches from the Cobra’s throat. “Not laughing now, are ya?” he hisses.
The man rapidly shakes his head.
“You’re a nuisance and a coward,” Yuri says, “and the only reason you’re not dead right now is because I’m too busy to deal with the repercussions. If you value your life at all, you and your goons will slither back into the hole you came from, because I won’t be so merciful next time.”
He steps off of the leader’s body, and everyone watches as the man scrambles to his feet and gestures for his underlings to follow him out. Bloody and limping, the Cobras retreat, and then Yuri sheathes his sword and turns back to the group.
“Well,” he says curtly, “that’s settled, then.”
“Hey, boss,” a woman says grimly, pointing across the room, “you might want to take a look at this.”
Following the direction of the woman’s finger, Claude and Yuri see it at the same time: a body.
“Allister!” Yuri says, and rushes over to the motionless figure. Claude and the rest of the gang trail behind.
Yuri falls to his knees next to the body, a young man probably around the same age as Claude. He has several injuries, but by far the most severe is a deep slash across his throat. The blood spilling from the wound puddles on the ground, and there’s even some blood dripping out the sides of his mouth. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing.
Yuri gets to work immediately, the white magic flowing bright and warm from his fingers, and while it quickly sews the gash shut, it does nothing to restore life to the boy’s lungs. Behind him, a man says, “One of them swordsmen got him. I think he was dead as soon as he hit the floor. Poor lad.”
Claude can only see the back of Yuri’s head, but he notices the way his shoulders slump, and he can hear the deep breath that rattles around in his chest before he speaks.
“You guys go,” he says solemnly. “I’ll catch up with you. But I’d better give him some sort of burial first.”
Reluctantly, the rest of the gang departs, but Claude stays behind, staring in silence at the somber scene in front of him. Without looking up, Yuri says, “That includes you, Claude.”
When Claude doesn’t say anything, Yuri sighs. “I was going to bring someone else instead of him,” he admits. “Someone older, more experienced. But he insisted.” He looks up at Claude and sets his mouth into a hard, thin line. “Do you understand now why I didn’t want you to come along?”
“I—” Claude says, then pauses. “How well did you know him?”
“Not very,” Yuri replies. “I only met him a few months ago. But it doesn’t matter. He was a good person. He deserved better than this. And it’s my fault he’s dead.”
Claude opens his mouth to tell him that it’s not, but Yuri holds up a hand. “Save it. Just go.” His gaze softens, just slightly. “Your assistance was appreciated. Really. But your job here is done.”
He doesn’t say it, but Claude can hear what he really wants to tell him: Just leave me alone.
Claude’s never been good at doing what he’s told, but tonight, he’s willing to make an exception.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “See you later.”
It’s all he can do just to turn around and leave his companion grieving on the floor.
This isn’t quite what he expected when he first ventured down to Abyss. He’s in deep—he can feel it—but he supposes that’s what he gets for always pushing, always prodding. He’s caught a glimpse of the underworld, of Yuri’s world, and he can’t go back from that, even if he wanted to.
One thing is for certain: whatever game they’re playing, Claude’s in it for the long haul now.
#fe3h#fire emblem three houses#yuriclaude#claude von riegan#yuri leclerc#fe3h fanfic#my fics#ITS HERE AND ITS HOMOEROTIC
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I remember - recently enough to be a vivid memory but much longer than I’d think - I remember a time when the Internet was a place where we all collectively laughed at “those assholes who get mad over nothing”. You know, the self-centered pricks with no perspective, whether it was about politics, friendships, fandom, you name it; the people that had some kind of Problem and just wouldn’t shut up about it until you made them.
I was never one to go after people, to seek out insecure folks on the internet for thrills - doing that just makes you the asshole, after all! - but seeing those people throw a fit only to get mocked into obscurity always came with a sense of morbid satisfaction. It was cathartic to encounter a bad actor, someone whose only motivation was to control or overpower others, and to collectively disarm them and put them to the side.
As you get older, you get better at spotting these people. You start to learn their playbooks, the tactics they’ll use, the words they’ll hide behind, desperate to get you to take them seriously. And you learn how to twist these deceptions inside-out and to reveal their true natures. This was, I feel, the true artform of trolling - a sort of emotional judo, taking someone’s incoming self-righteous ego and deftly flipping it on them, demonstrating the futility of that ego, forcing them to choose between embarrassing themselves further or publicly admitting defeat. Some tried to use this power only in self-defense; others, blinded to its true potential and its dangers, used it to entertain themselves, and gave the rest of us a bad name. But that was fine. That was the way of things, sometimes; it didn’t need to bother us.
But it’s been a good few years since the golden age. Things have changed. On the one hand, “trolls” have regressed. What was once an elegant, if also crude, form of verbal combat has now just turned into outright violence. Social media has turned small communities into huge shouting matches, and it’s become so incredibly easy to just ignore voices that don’t agree with you... which is sometimes good, and often very bad. The old ways have lost refinement; there’s rarely any need for a one-to-one argument, so trolling has lost its purpose, and the cultural identity of the internet has been reduced to its hateful vocal few and a bunch of people who either don’t know better, or are too desperate to belong, or both.
On the other, though, trolling served a very important purpose online: it was a social trial by fire. If you wanted to make friends on the internet, you needed to learn how to engage with other people, and if you didn’t learn quickly, you’d be ripped apart - forced to find a new community, or at the very least, to start over with a new name (and hope you aren’t seen through). With the old arts being lost to the sands of time, it’s become easier and easier to simply assert your presence online, refuse to acknowledge your own interpersonal flaws, and to just... be here, because no one can tell you no.
There are so many people I’ve encountered on tumblr that would be bullied out of their communities entirely about a decade or so ago - not because they’re weak, not because their communities are cruel, but because they themselves are assholes. Because we had quickly realized that the only sure way to deal with an idiot is to openly humiliate them, no tip-toeing, no sugarcoating. Because you were entitled to no one’s attention - no one was obligated to host you or to tolerate your bad manners. You could do anything you wanted on the internet... but so could everyone else. If you weren’t the sort of person other people liked having around, then you would find yourself alone, and you would either learn... or you wouldn’t.
Things are different now, but I don’t think it’s as different as it seems. Culturally, sure, we’re a bit different. A lot of us, even the younger ones, are more responsible. We’ve learned a lot as an online culture, and grown more tolerant. And a lot of us want to put the warring behind us; it was petty and childish and we’d like to be remembered as better than that, or at the very least just to be left alone. And I think that’s all well and good. But I don’t think these people by themselves have dissolved the Internet-as-a-crucible. I think it’s largely the way sites are designed now. Online communities used to be user-driven, which meant that even large sites were run by people whose primary focus was building and serving that community; it was in their best interests, as hosts, to enforce a certain amount of order, and to curate people who weren’t willing to play by the rules, for one reason or another.
But then Web 2.0 happened, and now all that really matters is that people are talking. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about, or whether two people in a conversation are even talking about the same thing, or why those two people are talking to each other in the first place; all that matters is getting as many people talking as possible, as often as possible, and it turns out that contriving conflict and making resolution difficult makes conversation happen a lot.
We - or at least I - like to call the old days of the internet the “Wild West”, in that we were self-governing, that there was no sense of law and order except the rules we agreed to abide by on our own. But the Internet back then was so civil by comparison. Nowadays it really is “everyone for themselves”. If some asshole comes into your tag and starts spreading hate, what options do you even have? There’s no moderators or administrators to turn to, to say “hey, this person’s making our experience miserable, please remove them”; god forbid you try to actually report them to Tumblr, as if Tumblr gives a shit. Your only form of collective action is having everybody block that person, and that’s the best you’ve got - hoping that they can’t find anybody else to harass, and feeling powerless to actually... y’know... stop them from being an asshole. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re brave, you can try to help other people understand what’s going on...
...But it’s so easy to misunderstand or misinterpret a wayward message, especially on Web 2.0 sites that are designed to remove you from context as much as possible. Even this post, as I read it with older and wiser eyes, has its flaws. What’s the difference between “trolling” and “hazing”? Where’s the line supposed to be drawn? Ironically, because we have to fend for ourselves so openly now, we’re so acutely aware of how the vulnerable can be affected when people aren’t careful. Depending on how old a person is, a scolding and mocking tone may be exactly appropriate, or completely uncalled for; depending on their background it maybe proper to rip into them for a misleading or unrealistic portrayal of a group’s struggle, or it might turn out you’re the asshole for policing someone’s way of coping. And even if you are in the right, what happens when the other person cries foul, finds or fabricates some kind of offense you’ve made, and passes it around to bystanders with no other stakes in the conversation? Now what? Do you just decide you don’t care what the general public thinks? It’s much harder than it used to be to just ignore people, after all. The only way you can protect yourself is not to play, but you can’t call it a winning move. There are no winning moves anymore.
It’s just so funny to me to look at all of the snobbish, entitled white adults in American society - and worldwide, I’m sure - and to draw connections between them, and the bratty upstart children on the internet that, anymore, we’re powerless to do anything about and just have to ignore and hope they grow up. Because they probably won’t. They will probably grow up to be the assholes we’re seeing on TV, protesting masks during a pandemic, demanding other people take them seriously, without a trace of self-awareness. Just a good few years ago, just for a little while, we as an online society were empowered to deal with those people; we couldn’t fix them, but we could prevent them from harming us, and a lot of the time we could even reform them and help them grow.
And then the big money came along and Capitalized the internet, and wouldn’t you know it, those people have gone back to being protected and enabled by the system.
#long post#feyranting#mid-witch anon#good news: MWA has not sent me any new asks since the last one lmao
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Kindness and Remorse Part 3
“Have a good first day of school darling!” Petunia calls once more from the doorway. She dapped her eye with a handkerchief, but she was beaming at him none the less. Around her various adults were doing the same, waving and smiling at the classroom of little people.
She’s one of the few who can get away quickly. One little boy was crying and holding onto his mother's leg with dear life, another little girl demanded her father to sit at the small tables and refuse to allow him to get up.
If Dudley wasn’t an adult trapped in a human body he’s pretty sure he be one of the wailing ones too.
“Bye-bye Mommy.” He calls back waving the hand that wasn’t holding Harry’s in a death grip. He didn’t want the boy to wander off, seeing as his little cousin had the curiosity of monkey and tended sniff out trouble if left alone for too long.
Just the other day Dudley had seen him walk into the street after seeing a stray dog he just had to pet. Thankfully there hadn’t been any traffic and he was able to successfully get him back into the front yard without a trip to the hospital.
Since they had turned four just a few months ago, both were officially starting schooling. Harry had been a little nervous but seem to be happy he would be staying with Dudley. He hadn’t gotten fussy, but Dudley did see his lower lip quiver when Petunia started for the door.
“I love you!” Petunia’s voice shook a little as she presses her hand on her chest dramatically, as if though he was going off to war. His mother was reacting to him not being around the house all day rather hard it seems.
“I love you too,” He says not nearly as dramatic but just as genuine. It hurts to still love them after everything he’s been though but he can’t help it. He loves his parents, had when he cut them out of his life and he thinks he’ll still love them till the day he died.
But loving someone doesn’t mean you are willing to forgive them.
Petunia’s whole face soften, glowing in warmth. “Listen to your teacher, behave and I’ll pick up later alright pumpkin? Once you get out, we can go get ice cream!”
“We really getting ice-cream, Aunt Petunia?” Harry cuts in, excited at the idea of a frozen treat. At once his mother’s face tenses but with the crowd around she doesn’t yell at him. She can’t even sneer since it will ruin the kind heart image she been building up.
She waves at her son as if though her nephew hadn’t spoken before turning on her heels and walking away.
Dudley is quick to reassure Harry before his face could do so much as fall. Swinging their linked hands he leads his cousin to one of the empty round blue tables. “Did you hear Harry? Mommy said we can have ice cream!”
“Ice-cream!” Harry cheers. The little boys take a sit just as the teacher rushes over to give them each a long piece of paper and a bucket of crayons. She’s got warm light brown curls that end just around her shoulder with equally brown eyes.
Dudley stares at her, usually not one to take notice of someone’s looks, but she bares a heartbreaking resemblance to Tiffiny at first glance. She’s got the same shape of lips, but they are a bright red, something that snaps him out of his daze.
His wife was many things, but a wearer of bright lipstick wasn’t one of them. Looking away, he rubs at his chest willing it to stop aching. It’s been four years now (counting the one year he spent with Harry’s house in the future) but he still feels her absence every once in and a while.
“Hello, boys. I’m Ms.Williams and I’ll be your teacher this year.” Ms. Williams says. “We’re going to start the year off by drawing our houses. All the people and pets that live there too. Can you two do that for me?”
“Uh-huh!” Harry bounces in his chair. Picking up one of the blue crayons he quirks a shy smile upwards to the teacher “Me and Dudley color all the time Ms. Williams.”
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Potter. While you two draw, we’re going to wait for more boys and girls and then we’re all going to show each other our drawings” Ms. Williams says reading the name tag on Harry’s uniform. Dudley had pinned it to his shirt after neither of his parents attempted to do so.
It’s a good thing he did, he had a faint memory that Harry was always getting in trouble with losing his name tag in primary school. He’ll have to keep an eye on the pesky thing. It wouldn’t due for Harry to develop a habit of misplacing his things.
Harry is quick to start filling up his paper with lines of various colors. He’s got the basic shape of a square done, even if it is lopsided and he is happy to add a triangle. He bites down on his lower lip just slightly- a sign that Harry was in deep concentration.
Dudley watches him work for a moment before turning to his own paper.
Over the last two years, he’s been able to successfully turn his cousin’s attention to the way of drawings and doodles. Harry still had a blast when playing with his toys, but he seems to be extra excited that Dudley decorated his room’s walls with his pictures.
Sure, they were just random squiggles with lines all over them and quite frankly didn’t resemble much of anything, but they were made with lots of love. His parents weren’t going to praise Harry for his art, nor would they ever hang on the fridge like Dudley’s but the pieces of random color swirls were appreciated by someone.
Petunia and Vernon didn’t quite like it. Often times they would tear down the papers. It didn’t matter since Harry was always quick to replace them with new pieces. Dudley lies about storing them somewhere in the attic for the future since he loved them so much to not hurt Harry’s feelings.
At age four, Harry’s drawing abilities while not wonderful works of art were pretty advanced for his age and if his skill was cultivated more, Dudley had no doubt he quite gifted. Not that he wants to force Harry into any field but a slight nudge here or there wouldn’t do no harm.
Josh Sr. did say drawing could be a good coping mechanism once when Dudley was still just beginning to date his daughter. He’s not overly sure if it can do anything for Harry but giving the boy some mind health tools now would do him some good in the long run.
He hopes.
“What wrong Dudley?” Harry asks while gesturing at his blank paper. “You not having fun?”
Smiling at his cousin Dudley picks up the black crayon “Nothing wrong Harry. I’m just thinking.”
“What about?”
“How to draw mommy.”
“I can show you!” The little boy pushes his paper over allowing the time traveler to get a glance at his work. So far he’s gotten the house done, and three figures floating above a green line- the lawn maybe?- that could be humans.
Dudley inwardly frowns that only one of the figures has a smile. The smallest one, with bright yellow hair.
“Wow, Harry you did a good job!” He gushes dramatically. It takes all his will power not to baby-talk, but he manages. Tapping his finger against the smiling figure he asks “Is that me?”
“Thank you, Dudley,” Harry smiles bashfully, a please blush on his face. “Uh-huh, that’s you. This is Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.”
The child’s finger points at a large circle with a mustache, then a talk nearly stick figure, holding a purse. Both have large frowns and angry slanted eyebrows. More worrying, however, is upon closer examination he can’t spot Harry.
“Where are you?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you in the picture? Or are you not done?”
“Silly I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Harry points to the house window, where a little figure with wild black lines at its head has been added, half-hidden behind the-um curtains?. The figure is smiling at least.
It doesn’t stop his stomach from turning over. Despite how hard he’s tried to make things better seems Harry is still being affected by his monster of guardians.
Of course, he is, you dumb oaf. A nasty voice snickers mockingly in his head. It sounds awful like his father. Kids repeat what they hear. Kids draw what they feel.
Inhaling deeply, while mentally counting backward from ten, Dudley manages a smile at his cousin. It hurts somewhere deep inside that Harry thinks this is normal or that maybe, for the first time around, the drawing of the first day of school was the exact smile with the slight change that only drawing-Harry was smiling. “ It looks nice.”
Harry beams back at him. He then launches into his explanation of how to draw Petunia. Dudley listens to every word, making the appropriate sounds to prove he’s is, but remains mostly silent.
“You want to add more to your picture Harry?”
“Yeah, the flowers Aunt Petunia had me put in the garden.”
A strain grin. “Put them in then.”
“Okay, Dudley.”
Later, the class presents their drawings. Harry’s is one of the best ones, he notes with a smile. Dudley holds a crudely drawn house with only two figures on the outside of it. Both with large smiles, holding hands. One of the figures has a lighting mark above it’s dotted eyes.
Harry loves it.
The rest of the day passes in a slow blur of singing kid songs, drawing pictures and little kid’s laughter. The rules are explained to them all, the kids eager to either do as they told right away or run about without a care in the world. About twenty kids are ranging from the ages of four and five. All of them were allowed to pick different colored tables with no more than six.
There is chatter, squealing and giggles all throughout the day, some kids choose to scream their thoughts instead of talking. Ms. Williams is quick to remind everyone what an inside voice is.
Dudley is honestly surprised Ms. Williams can keep up with them all and not drop from exhaustion. He’s all for nap time, the moment it arrives, and he’s not even in charge.
Dudley didn’t really approach the other kids in the classroom but he did respond if any of them talk to him. Preferring to stay in the background he watches them go about their lives contently. Harry, on the other hand, had been invited to a playground game of kickball and had struck up a friendship with Piers Polkiss, the two almost attached at the hip afterward.
Piers had even moved over to their little blue table away from the overflowing green table just to keep talking to Harry. Apparently, the two enjoy coloring just as much and this meant they were now best friends.
Funny how life works sometimes.
Petunia had kept her word taking the boys to get ice-cream after picking them up. She nearly didn’t buy Harry a cone, but Dudley started to cause a scene in the ice-cream polar, and she was finally forced to give in.
Not wanting her to do something like forcing Harry to throw his cone out the car window, Dudley had requested they stay to eat in the booths so he could show off all his drawings. Vernon wasn’t to be home for another three hours, and Petunia could get dinner done by then, meaning she didn’t see the trouble of staying.
The family got home and Petunia was quick to order Harry into the kitchen. “Come, freak. Dinner needs to be done. Get in here to cook. Now.”
Dudley's face darkens but he followed after them silently. He’s forgotten that his mother had started her ridiculous chore list around the time Harry was four. He never really thought about how awful that truly was until he had grown. It was sickening she expected Harry to be anywhere near the stove as a four-year-old, never mind the forced labor he had to do the following years.
Well, she’s not going to get away with it this time. Not while he was around.
Harry had been forced to work in the garden most of yesterday afternoon with his mother giving sharp instructions. Against his best efforts, it seems he couldn’t spare Harry of his chores. Not while his mother lived with the jealousy and rotting ideas of normal.
He knew this was a problem he couldn’t just scream at until it went away. Resistances in some cases just weren’t the answer. Much like swimming against the rip currents, he needs to find a way around the problem.
It took him all of last night and today to think about it but Dudley may have figured something out.
“ We’re making dinner Mommy?” He asks following the pair. Petunia turns around with a warm smile.
“Oh, not you darling. Why don’t you go watch the telly while we work?”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Popkins, please-”
“I want to cook.” He says stubbornly. He hugs his upper arms, in an ill imitation of crossing his arms. Its something he quite remembered Daisy doing at this age, where she just couldn’t get her arms to cross over her tiny chest and he uses it whenever he’s throwing a tantrum. “Why can Harry cook but not me? Do you love him more?”
Petunia splutters “Popkins of course not! I just don’t want you getting hurt, is all!”
Dudley hugged his arms harder, pouting up a storm. Harry was watching everything with wide eyes. He glances at Dudley’s poster before quickly coping it and turning to his mother with his own pout.
Yes, Harry, join the resistance.
“Mommy I want to cook!”
“Popkins, wouldn’t you rather-”
“I want to cook! I want to cook! I want to cook! I want to COOK!” He shouts the last word stomping one of his feet. He then starts huffing and puffing, right before letting out a loud and long scream.
His tantrum on full force.
Petunia fretts in front of him. This must be tough for her, seeing as she never had to choose between letting her son get his way over not putting a child in danger.
Serves you right. He thinks viciously. Either she gives in and Dudley helps cook, which lessens the load on Harry or she doesn’t which makes Dudley upset that Harry is enjoying something he isn’t. This could lead to her not making Harry cook at all even.
“A-alright,” She says eventually. “You can help. Just listen to everything I say alright?”
“Yes, mommy! Thank you, mommy!”
As Petunia chops the vegetables she has the boys mixing one bowl together, doing most of the work herself while explaining why she does what she does. In a rare moment of affection, she answers every question Harry has, even biting back a smile when the little boy claps his hands and tells her how smart she is.
It seems Harry really taken to the idea of being a little helper, and his mother loves positive attention. She preens under it, as she carefully crafts them up something to eat.
At one point she even offers to teach the boys how to bake cookies this weekend, when she buys the groceries. Harry is beside himself.
She then hands them both some vegetables to wash, which really she had already done so, and made various points to not going anywhere near the stove to Dudley. By proxy, Harry had received the same warning.
Dudley watches the pair throughout the whole thing and wonders if his mother wasn’t a lost cause as he originally thought. She then tried to get Harry to wash the dishes, large cutting knives and all. He imminently stood beside his cousin at the sink fighting back the disappointment.
Petunia just took one step forward and two steps back.
Sometimes the ones that hurt us the most are the ones who should love us the most. Tiffiny’s voice echos into his ears as he helps Harry dry the dishes. Petunia had taken to the actual washing once she realizes Dudley wasn’t going to let Harry touch the soapy water before him. You have to remind yourself not to let those people back in once you kick them out. It’ll only cause you more pain.
When Vernon got home that night, Dudley had planted himself next to Harry at the kitchen counter refusing to take a seat at the table until his cousin was allowed to. This was something that had become a tradition over the last two years and like the nights before Harry was eventually seating at dinner time.
“How was school, Dudley?” Vernon asks his son halfway through the meatloaf and steam vegetables, Petunia had put together with their help.
“Fun! Harry and me, got to take naps and Harry made a friend!” He answers with fake excitement. Moving his green beans and baby carrots from his plate onto Harry’s, with a pointed look at how little he’s been serve- They are not starving him this time!- before he asks. “What is his name again?”
“It’s Piers. He likes to draw too! He made this really big fire truck!” Harry chirps. He happily starts feasting upon the green beans, one of his favorites. He doesn’t speak with his mouth full since Petunia hates it- only when Harry does it apparently. Swallowing his food, the green eye boy is quick to describe his day. “Ms. Williams let us draw twice! We got to sing songs, and play kickball and-”
“I was asking Dudley.” Vernon cuts in a cold voice “Not you boy.”
“Let him finish Daddy,” Dudley says just a notch away from the stern, but only barely able to keep his disdain out of his tone. He pouts his lips and makes his eyes wide at his father. The man takes one look at him before grumbling into his meal.
“Fine. Keep going, boy.”
Harry hesitates for only a minute before he’s back into talking about his new best friend. Dudley makes sure to respond, and for a while, it’s only the kids speaking. He starts to talk about his day, his parents now joining the conversation.
Towards the end of the dinner, Dudley launches into his other plan of attack. Without changing his outer behavior he casually slips in “I told Ms. Williams Harry sleeps in the cupboard sometimes and she made a funny face.”
Both adults freeze. Acting like he doesn’t notice, Dudley and his cousin share a laugh. “She’s so silly to not know you can sleep under the stairways right Harry?”
“Uh-huh. Ms. Williams kept asking me funny questions too.”
“Questions?” Petunia chokes. “What kind of questions?”
“She asked if you hit me, isn’t she is funny? She didn’t even believe Dudley when he said where my room was until we showed her the pictures.”
“Pictures!? What pictures!?” Vernon demands jumping up.
“From my camera Daddy,” Dudley says unable to hide his wide grin. His parents had given him an old polaroid a few months ago. Dudley had made an effort to be seen taking pictures all around the house, using Harry as a model, as to not raise suspicion when he took pictures of Harry’s room.
No one had known what went on in at 4 Privet Drive which is why they were able to get away with most of their abuse on Harry but Dudley remembered how quick his parents were to make things look better the day they thought someone was watching Harry.
True, it had been someone magical, but the point still stands that it was the sense of thinking no one cared enough to look let them act as they wished.
They could do nothing now that another adult had evidence.
“She really liked them! She said I took the best pictures ever mommy!”
“Popkins, where are these pictures of Harry’s room?” Petunia asks, her face pale like milk.
“Ms. Williams has them.”
The adults trade some looks before they have them go up to Dudley’s room. Later that same night, they sit the boys down to explain that Harry’s room is no longer going to be under the stairway. He will now be living in the extra bedroom they kept Dudley's toys.
He would be sleeping with his cousin tonight and while his mother tucked him in, and by extension Harry, Petunia took much a very long time to explain that Harry’s old room wasn’t a bedroom but a playhouse.
If Ms. Williams asks again they were to tell her that’s where they played make belief but it was considered Harry’s since he was the one that found it. Dudley seeing his chance asked if they could have a treehouse or a playhouse in the yard as a secret base for more make-belief games.
Petunia's whole face brightens as if an idea struck. “Why we could get you both a playhouse couldn’t we? Harry’s old room was just a practice one until your Daddy made enough money to get you these ones. Tomorrow, we’ll all go to the store and pick something out.”
“Wow! We’re going to have a secret base!” Dudley says to Harry who is laying next to him. His cousin is all but vibrating in child adrenalin ecstasy, his hands gripping his half of the blanket tightly. “Wait till we tell Ms. Williams!”
“Oh, I bet your teacher would just love to hear all about your secret bases boys. Maybe sure to let her know. Both of you.” Petunia orders as she flickers out the lights. The room is bathed in the soft brightness of his night light, the color-changing built making the stares that it shoots extra lovely. “Goodnight Popkins. Sleep tight. Mommy loves you.”
“Night Mommy, I love you too.”
Once she leaves, closing the door behind her, Dudley turns to Harry, tucking him in a bit better and whispers “Goodnight Harry. I love you.”
“Night Dudley. I love you too”
There is a moment of quiet before Harry whispers “I got a room now like you.”
Dudley can’t help the rush of triumph sing through his body. Yes he doubts this will last, and there is still much more to do to make sure Harry has a happier life but this is his first real sign of progress. His first two real victories in a roundabout way. “Yeah, you do.”
“This is the best day ever!” Harry whisper-shouts.
“It really is.”
A rush of warmth surrounds the boys as they drift off to sleep, Harry pressing his face into his cousin’s hair while Dudley had an arm secured around him in a hug. Neither realizing the warmth was unnaturally comforting or the slight silver shine of the air surrounding the bed, blessing their dreams with happiness.
#hpdabbles#Harry Potter#Kindness and Remorse Au#Part 3#mentions of child abuse#Wizard!Dudley#Dudley is starting to inflict change#He's also working on making sure Harry is told I love you every day#Time skip of two years.#Harry copies almost everyhting Dudley does#Dudley uses his own privlage bubble to fight for Harry
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LFRP: Cyri Lockwood
The Basics ––– –
Age: On the younger side, she’s not totally sure
Race: Lordaeronian-Human and half-elf
Gender: Cis Female
Sexuality: nervous laughter
Marital Status: Single
Physical Appearance ––– –
Hair: Pitch-black, usually a mess of brains and a ponytail, often with bone-charms dangling from the ties that keep her braids together.
Eyes: Steely-Blue
Height: 6’2”
Build: Gaunt, Slim, Lanky
Distinguishing Marks: A mess of crack-like scars around her lips that spread out across her cheeks.
Common Accessories: A crudely-painted insignia of the Kirin Tor drawn onto a thin wooden disc that’s pinned to her robes, her family heirlooms; a staff with a little stub at the top to place something (in Cyri’s case, a glued together skull of a crow) and a ceremonial headset made out of the skull of a stag.
Personal ––– –
Profession: Incompetent farm-girl, junior-assistant investigator for the Kirin Tor.
Hobbies: ‘Finding’ things, Finding things, trying new foods, trying old foods, exploring and getting into situations she has no business in, being a nuisance, getting stuck in her Crow-form
Languages: Common! Just Common!
Residence: Her family’s farm in former Lordaeron on the border of Alterac
Birthplace: Her family’s farm
Religion: She doesn’t get religion, too many things to keep track of
Fears: Getting stuck as Crow for a long period of time again, being forgotten, being alone, cats, things that eat birds, cats
Relationships ––– -
Spouse: None.
Children: None.
Parents: Aela Lockwood (Mother (Deceased)), Gareth Lockwood (Father(Absentee, assumed Deceased))
Siblings: Cyril Lockwood (Elder Brother (deceased)).
Other Relatives: Every one that gives her the time of day! Mel Silentsky (Adoptive Big Brother), Irielle Firine (Adoptive Big Sister), Taoln Gloamtracer (Adoptive Dad), Ilyssae Starspire (Victim), Amalea Molly Ainsley (Victim, Boss)
Pets: Crow, her once living pet crow whose skull is now used as a catalyst to turn into a bird and whose spirit is still around to haunt her and fight her for control of her Crow form.
Traits ––– -
Extroverted / In Between / Introverted
Disorganized / In Between / Organized
Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded
Calm / In Between / Anxious
Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable
Cautious / In Between / Reckless
Patient / In Between / Impatient
Outspoken / In Between / Reserved
Leader / In Between / Follower
Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic
Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic
Traditional / In Between / Modern
Hard-working / In Between / Lazy
Cultured / In Between / Uncultured
Loyal / In Between / Disloyal
Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful
Additional information ––– –
Smoking Habit: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.
Drugs: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.
Alcohol: (almost) never (has no tolerance) / sometimes / frequently / to excess.
RP Hooks ––– –
Pretend Kirin Tor Detective: Cyri is a junior assistant agent of an agent of the Kirin Tor, with her trailing behind her boss on investigations.
You’ve been nice to an unusually large bird: You’ve been nice to her while she’s in the form of Crow and, whether or not you were in contact with her or with the original owner of the body she borrows, you now have a cartoonish bird that will harass you and steal your snacks.
Sticky Fingers: With Cyri around, it’s only a matter of time before something goes missing and she’s acting inconspicuous, the most conspicuous thing she could do.
Contact Information ––– –
In-game name: Aelfweard, on Wyrmrest Accord.
You can send me a message or ask anytime on Tumblr! If you’d like my discord ask away. If you just reblog this with a tag or something saying you’d like to meet her, I’ll probably miss that and never meet you. So please, if she sounds fun to you, reach out!
Art #1 by @ybeedraws, Art #2 by @littleperyton, Art #3 by @hartestrings
Mentions in order: @voidbeer, @irielle-firine, @hinahinagray, @star-spire, @detect-magic
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A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 39)
Country Pursuits
Reader’s art dealer job has some unfortunate (but is it really unfortunate..? You’ll see) results. Arthur starts making plans. The bank job is looming on the horizon, y’all... Enjoy!
(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)
-
The men were out doing the art dealer job. My art dealer job. I felt full of nervous energy, sitting by the campfire with my sketchbook and pencil, tapping the end of it against the page as I looked around for something to draw that'd take my mind off of it.
The day had been pretty uneventful until then. Arthur and I had returned to camp with a pair of pronghorns for Pearson and the gang, so nobody commented on the fact that we'd spent the evening away from camp. I thought that was a nice trade. Food for their silence. Not even Dutch had anything to say, only stopping to tell Arthur that he had been thinking of how to deal with Bronte, and that he'd need to talk to him once he, John and Lenny returned from stealing those paintings.
That was so long ago, it felt like. The boys had only been gone a couple of hours and realistically it was going to take a few with how far they'd be travelling to Valentine, then Emerald Ranch provided everything went correctly (Hosea had spoken to a friend of his over there, Seamus, who'd be taking the art off our hands). Even so, I was restless the entire time.
I focused my attention on Javier's guitar where it was leaning up against a barrel, and started drawing it. I sketched it to fill up a page, giving it plenty of detail in a bid to stretch out the process, have it consume more time before the boys got back. I could only pray that the job went well, considering I'd brought it to them. If anything went wrong, I wouldn't be able to stomach it.
"You, uh, you ever drawn me in that book o' yours?" The log I was sitting on shifted unsteadily as someone dropped in beside me. Micah. I froze for a moment, eyes going wide with shock.
Micah hadn't been particularly friendly with me as of late, given our quarrels and the whole Arthur kicking his front teeth in thing. He either didn't speak to me at all or he barked some order at me, got me to do something for him. A lot of which, I simply didn't do. I wanted to be useful, not a damn servant.
"Why, you gonna demand that I do so if I say no?" I asked, not taking my eyes from the guitar, carrying on sketching. Micah chuckled, and my throat itched from cigarette smoke as he exhaled it, not bothering to direct it away from me.
"Well, would be nice if you did. Show a little friendliness, make out like you might just be able to stand me," it was all spoken in jest. I finally looked at him.
"I stood you for a long time, remember? More than that, thought you were a decent feller if you tried."
"Well, I told you you was wrong, that this is just who I am."
"Yeah and I never believed you. Though, that was 'bout the only thing that came out of your mouth that's true, so I should've."
"You saying I'm a liar, princess?" He questioned and my mood withered further, eyelids lowering in irritation.
"I ain't gonna waste my breath asking you again, Micah. You know I don't like you calling me that," I deadpanned, and I heard him exhale a drawn out breath. "And lying might not be the right word for it. Twisting things, though, that you do plenty of."
"Still think I was going 'round trying to convince people I'd fucked you? That's all rather conceited of you, don't you think?"
"Perhaps. Not half as conceited as you thinking me showing you the barest of kindnesses means I must want you to kiss me," I quipped back, and there was a pause before he made an unconvincing chuckle.
"Whatever," he breathed, sucking on his cigarette hard enough to hollow his cheeks, the end glowing bright before ebbing again when he exhaled the smoke; once again in my direction. It made my eyes water.
"I don't wish to be unfriendly with you, Micah. I never was one for conflict."
"Then I guess you chose the wrong business, this ain't a life that comes free of conflict. That pretty gash in your neck's some pretty solid evidence of that," he muttered, gesturing to my throat.
Every time someone mentioned it, it burned.
"I can't argue with that. I guess I could be more clear; conflict with people that once upon a time I got along with, dare I say liked," I replied, snapping my sketchbook closed when I became too distracted to carry on.
"You liked me?" He smiled and spoke in a sickly tone that was completely condescending and not in the least bit pleasant or sincere. "First time I've ever been told that. Truly, I am touched."
"Maybe it'd happen more often if you didn't go 'round treating people like crap."
"I've never treated you like crap," he told me in all seriousness, brow forming a heavy line above his eyes. I cocked a brow at him and snorted.
"You ain't? How about dumping all your shit on me, telling me to wash this, fix that, I stood in horse shit, scrub my boots? And saying all those dirty things to Arthur right in front of me?" I provoked and he laughed, shaking his head. Anger fizzed up and over inside. "And telling me that all I'm worth is my unsullied body, and you only wanted to fuck me 'cause I'm a virgin?"
Micah's eyes snapped to me at that, and it was a fair bit of time before he responded.
"If I'd've buttered you up real good, would you have been up for it? If I whispered sweet nothings in your ear and called you beautiful and scattered rose petals on the bedroll? Would you have fucked me then?" He levelled his gaze to me, looking directly at me after flicking his spent cigarette away.
"No!"
"Then what's your problem? So what if that's all I wanted you for, if I weren't gonna get you anyway?"
"Well, I suppose you would look at it that way."
"What way do you look at it? Educate me."
"It just weren't nice having that spat at me like I was nothing, like I was completely useless to you since I weren't gonna give you what you wanted. Especially with how well we worked together, how we got along whenever you weren't in one of your moods."
"Well, I guess I figured I owed you the truth. Otherwise you'd be walking 'round thinking you'd hurt my feelings, feelin' guilty, and we can't have that," he shrugged and I rolled my eyes, looking away. "You got an attitude somewhere in you," he added at that. He was smirking.
I didn't respond, opening up my sketchbook again and flicking through it absentmindedly, opening it to a blank page.
"Well, you should know," he began, "I ain't got no hard feelings. It's pretty clear the ship has sailed, anyway."
"I'm sorry?" I questioned, looking at him.
"You think nobody notices when you walk in here with Morgan, acting like he ain't been pokin' you all night? The bags under your eyes are as tellin' as they are unflattering, my dear," his tone was low and dirty and I screwed my face up in distaste. "You ain't no virgin no more."
"Whatever," I hissed, though my face felt hot.
"Those marks on your neck, too, you didn't get those from that O'Driscoll's knife, did you, sugar plum? Likes doing that, does he? Marking what's his," he added, and I stared at him, mouth agape. He was unbearably audacious!
"I don't know. But he sure liked kicking your teeth in," I reminded him, narrowing my eyes. His lip curled up, revealing the gap in his teeth, and he wriggled his tongue between them crudely. I wrinkled my nose. "Just leave me alone," I eventually sighed.
His nasty little laugh petered off as he surprisingly did as he was told.
-
I must have dozed off at some point when I was supposed to be darning a pair of socks, leaned up against the large tree by the fire. I woke with a start when something tapped my arm; for a moment I was ready to receive a lecture from Miss Grimshaw for sleeping on the job, but instead a hand holding a bundle of cash was in front of my face. My eyes travelled up the arm it was attached to and settled on John.
"Here's your share, sleepy head. Get up before someone sees you, I know Hosea don't take kindly to people doing what you're doing," he advised me, and I took the cash from him, my brows raising.
"Wow, this is my cut? Just for setting it up? You must've got a lot."
"Yeah, we didn't do too badly at all," John nodded.
"Did it go okay?"
Amusement twisted his features.
"Yeah, went off without a hitch. We all rode off without having to fire a single bullet, no one was hurt on the job," he began, and I was about to voice my relief when he continued, "didn't stop Lenny from fucking his leg up somehow on the way back."
"What?" I balked, sitting up. John stepped aside and gestured to where Arthur was helping Lenny down off his horse. Well, dragging him off of it with control while Lenny clung to him, wincing at every jostle of his leg.
I bolted up and raced over there, John hot behind me.
"Lenny! What happened? Are you alright?" I asked uselessly holding my arms out towards him and Arthur in some vague attempt at offering to help. Arthur managed to get him on the ground, balancing on one foot.
"Sure," Lenny said, face frozen in a grimace, "don't worry, ain't nothing to worry about."
"The kid's horse threw him," Arthur informed me, mild amusement on his face too. Neither Arthur or John seemed too concerned, which brought me some relief.
I looked at the horse in question. Little, tiny Maggie.
"She threw you?" I murmured.
"She saw a snake and got spooked, that's all."
"Was pretty impressive, the way he landed on his feet," Arthur mused.
"Till he hit the floor, screaming bloody murder," John added and they both chuckled.
"Glad it's so amusing," Lenny sighed, looking nothing short of mortified.
"We just robbed a whole bunch of valuable artwork from a serious collector without a single problem, but you can't manage to ride home? Yeah, it's a little amusing. Don't worry, it don't look broken, you probably just sprained it," John said. Lenny shook his head, leaning heavily on both Arthur and John as they helped him towards the house. Arthur called Hosea over, who immediately joined us.
They set Lenny down on a chair inside, and Hosea kneeled down in front of him. He inspected the injured ankle, asking him about the pain; where it was, how bad it was, if he felt anything snap. Hosea seemed satisfied after some investigation that no bones were broken, but he needed to rest it. He sent me off to fetch some medical supplies, and when I returned he bandaged up the ankle firmly to support the joint, and Arthur gave Lenny some whiskey for the pain, patting him on the shoulder.
"Now, you just take it easy for a few days, keep your foot up. You keep moving around on it, you'll make it worse," Hosea explained, tying off the bandage before pushing up to his feet, leaning on Lenny's good knee for support as he did.
"What about the bank?" Lenny queried, and Hosea went quiet for a moment. Arthur and John looked to him for his response.
Bank?
"Well, I'm sure we can manage without you, son," Hosea started, and Lenny sighed and leaned his head back, face a picture of disappointment. "Hey, don't be like that. How irresponsible would it be of us to have you along on a bank job when you can barely walk?"
"I know," Lenny grumbled, "I just wanted to be along for that. Show you fellers I can do a good job."
"I trust you would. Don't worry, there'll be other opportunities, I'm sure."
"'cept Dutch keeps saying this'll be the last big score," John noted with a humourless chuckle. Hosea looked at him, unamused and with a certain look in his eye.
"Well, I ain't got much to say about that," Hosea replied, his tone abrupt. It was clear he believed as much as they did that their scores were numbered. "Anyway, you stay here, Lenny. Rest up. Can we bring you anything?"
"If I'm gonna be sat here on my ass for the foreseeable future, some books would be nice," Lenny snorted, slumping glumly in the chair as Hosea dragged over a crate and had him rest his foot on it.
"Books," Hosea repeated with a nod, "certainly."
With that, he headed off. John left too, with a parting sympathetic pat on Lenny's shoulder, leaving just the three of us behind. I immediately turned to Lenny, fiddling with my own fingers, chewing on my lip a moment before speaking. I felt Arthur's eyes on me the whole time.
"Lenny, I'm so sorry," I began, and Arthur laughed.
"I was waiting for that," Arthur said, and I frowned at him in confusion.
"Huh?" Lenny simply grunted, looking at me cluelessly.
"I'm sorry about your ankle, I was praying all day that none of you'd get hurt, but…"
Lenny looked at Arthur, a hint of a smile curling his lips.
"Is she for real?" Lenny shook his head and I flushed a little, feeling foolish. Was I missing something?
"Just tell her it's okay," Arthur put an arm around my waist and carefully began leading me away.
"You think this is your fault?" Lenny called to me, then laughed, "hey, don't worry about it. I forgive you for making Maggie throw me, I don't appreciate it, but at least you're sorry," he teased.
I stopped in my tracks and turned back to him, resisting Arthur's tugging.
"It was my job you got hurt on, that's what I meant. I mean, obviously, right?"
"Listen, somethin' I came to learn real quick. Shit happens. Sometimes it's somebody's fault, but most of the time? It's just shit," Lenny snickered, shaking his head and grinning at me.
"You're speaking to the lady who felt bad over killin' an O'Driscoll who was about to slit her throat, just let her say what she's gotta say," Arthur explained and I frowned deeper.
"Hey, don't tease me for having… morals and– and guilt. You were the one blaming yourself for that O'Driscoll ordeal just 'cause you didn't make me leave the gang, Arthur, so you're one to talk," I snapped.
"That was a whole different thing," Arthur frowned, going serious, "I still think about that, you know."
"Well, don't!"
"How long you two been married?" Lenny asked and we swivelled our heads to look at him, observing his mischievous grin. Hosea walked back in then, a bundle of books in his hands.
"Here you go, son. These were by your tent, but I can ask around, see if anyone can lend you something different?" He began, putting the books down next to his foot on the crate.
Arthur took the opportunity to lead me off again, with that marriage comment ringing in my ears I didn't try to resist. Oh, to be married to Arthur Morgan… I stopped myself before I got carried away.
He led me outside and we took a seat at the front of the house, on the edge of the fountain. He groaned as he sat down, sighing in exhaustion. He looked about as tired as I'd felt all day.
"You alright?" I asked. Arthur nodded, yawning. "Wow. I hope last night was worth it," I said light-heartedly, smirking.
"Oh, it definitely was. Much better than a restful night, princess," he chuckled. "That job went well, John give you your cut?"
I nodded. "It's a lot."
"Yeah, we did real well. I'll tell Dutch… I gotta speak to him at some point. Wants to talk about Angelo Bronte. Dutch is on about robbing a bank in town, so something's gotta be done about him; the man who seems to run the whole damn city."
"You're gonna rob a bank in the middle of the city?" I balked, eyes going wide and bile rising uneasily in my throat.
"Apparently. Hosea thinks we can do it, couple of the girls have been out scoping the place. Doesn't look too heavily guarded," he explained, though it didn't quell my fears at all.
"Yeah, but what about after? Fleeing through the city? It ain't like Valentine, where you run for thirty seconds and you're out on open plains," I exclaimed and Arthur shook his head, agreeing with me.
"It's a risk. I know. But Hosea says the place is full of cash and gold, so if we get away…" he trailed off, looked up towards the house. Hosea and Dutch were sitting up on the balcony above us, talking.
With a sigh, Arthur took my hand and led me away, over towards the edge of the water, out of earshot from any of the camp. I went along with him wearing a concerned frown. He turned to me, then, taking both of my hands and looking down at them.
"If we get away," he continued, not yet meeting my eye, "we should have a lot of money. Enough for the whole gang to get out."
I stared for a moment, wondering why he needed to tell me that in secret. "That's great, but–"
"Not only that, my cut… my cut would be big enough that – put together with what I have saved – you and I might just be able to– to– we could get away," he finally met my eyes at that. "You and me, princess. We could leave, we'd have enough to support ourselves. I could keep you safe."
My lips parted. I had to admit, that all sounded rather wonderful. A totally fresh start, far away from Dutch and the Pinkertons and the O'Driscolls… with Arthur. Just him and me. I must've started smiling a little because Arthur smiled too, pulled me into a hug.
"We could do it. We'd see that the others made it out alright; Charles, John, Mary-Beth, all those people you've grown close to. We'd have peace of mind and then we could leave, be done with all this getting shot at and knives held to our necks. Start leading a proper life," he whispered against the top of my head, swaying me from side to side in his arms.
"You gotta do the bank, first," I reminded him, "oh, please be careful, Arthur."
"I'm always as careful as I can be," he told me, then pulled back to look at me, "I want this. I'm so certain of that."
"Me too," I nodded, cupping his cheeks.
"All that's holding me back is not knowing what'll happen to these people. I want to make sure they're gonna be okay," he whispered and I nodded in understanding. "This bank could be it, princess."
"Arthur!" Dutch yelled across the camp. I looked over Arthur's shoulder to see him leaning over the edge of the balcony, waving him over. Arthur held a hand up in acknowledgement, then let out a soft breath.
"I'll see you later," he said, kissing my forehead and squeezing my hands. I watched him walk back to the house, a feeling in my stomach a bittersweet combination of hope and dread.
-
I awoke the next morning in my bedroll, laying on the floor of Arthur's room. I knew he'd be returning at some point in the night after heading out with Dutch, so I'd left his bed free. I had to smile to myself, then, when I felt his presence behind me, a hand softly resting on my hip.
The next thing I registered was the smell. Wet, stagnant, musky… unpleasant. I shifted, looking over my shoulder at Arthur to see him lying asleep in just his union suit. His clothes were in a pile nearby, and I realised they were the source of the smell; his jeans and shirt sodden with filthy water, his boots caked in mud. What on Earth had he been doing last night?
I laid back down, lacing my fingers with his on my hip, lifting his hand from me as I rolled to face him, replacing it on my other hip. Arthur woke up a moment later, either stirred by my movement or sensing my eyes on him. His eyes creased with a smile when he saw me, but before he could say anything, I couldn't help but ask;
"Have you been swimming around in the swamp?"
Arthur only paused for a moment before answering. "Yes."
I quirked a brow, utterly perplexed.
"Dutch had us helping out some feller with a boat, reckons he'll get us to Bronte's house so we won't have to go in through the city," he told me sleepily. He started to appear more alert until it all seemed to come back to him in a rush and his face shifted to urgency. "You should'a seen the goddamn alligator out there. Big as a damn bison, I swear."
I nodded in understanding. "Yeah, some big ones out there. You couldn't pay me to set foot in the water, and I grew up there, what on Earth were you doing out there?"
"It's a long story. Ended with me in the water saving some kid, almost had his leg torn off. This alligator… there's big, and then there's big,” he shook his head in disbelief.
I stared at him, a little bit horrified. "You were in the water with a bloodthirsty gator?"
"I still got all my fingers and toes, don't worry," he chuckled, but it quickly faded off, "this kid weren't so lucky. Well, everything's still attached, I just hope he don't get gangrene. Could be pretty bad…"
"Goodness. And where was Dutch during all of this? It was his thing, getting the boat, right?"
"He was in the boat, yelling, but otherwise being unhelpful," he said drily, moving to sit up with a groan. He stretched out his back and I watched the muscles work through the clingy material of his union suit, my head propped up with my arm. "Still, I reckon he was shittin' himself. Course he weren't getting in to help."
"Course," I tutted. "I'm so glad nothing happened to you. Gators, they can be real vicious."
"You're telling me," he snorted.
"When I was a kid, my closest neighbour's son met his end that way," I started, Arthur looking to me with widened eyes, "was out there fishing, waded in too deep and didn't see this big guy in the water."
"Shit…"
"Yeah… all I know is, his dad started firing his gun at the gator, but ended up aiming at his son just to– well, it was the kindest thing to do, apparently," I murmured solemnly.
"Jesus. This ain't filling me with confidence about getting back in that boat, heading out into the swamps again tonight," Arthur breathed, shaking his head.
"Just make sure everyone keeps their limbs inside the boat this time. You'll be fine," I offered him my most comforting smile.
"Noted. I don't particularly feel like watching someone get torn limb from limb by some dinosaur-looking bastard," he sighed. "Anyway, I best get dressed."
"Me too. And I'll wash those nasty clothes of yours. They stink," I laughed, sitting up and reaching for my suitcase, pulling it over to me and retrieving my corset.
"They do? I'm sorry. I can't smell it, must be used to it. Either that or I stink too," he snorted.
I leaned over and sniffed him, amusement worming its way onto my face. I held my thumb and index finger an inch or so apart and gave him a sheepish smirk. He dropped the clean shirt he was about to put on before nodding.
"I'll wash up first."
#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan#fanfiction#arthur morgan x reader#atink#arthur morgan x female reader#reader insert#rdr2 fanfic
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Jude Teaches Cardan to Fight (pt 3)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Summary: The High King’s Senechal decides that it’s important for him to learn how to defend himself. During their first training session, things go about as well as could be expected when Jude and Cardan are in a room with pointed weapons.
AN: L O L. Okay. I lied a little. I think there will be a part four but I’m not sure yet. I like the way this one ended but there is always space for another piece. As of now, this is the end.
Cardan’s muscles burned from training. His lungs were fighting against the pounding of his heart to gulp down mouthfuls of fresh air. Sweat trickled down his back and stuck his shirt to his heated skin. Fatigue wore down his limbs and made the sword tilt downward.
Jude would have none of it. She gave him barely enough time to breathe before swinging towards him. She moved fast and strategically, placing bruises along his body with her practice sword. Sometimes she would use the hilt of her sword to hit a nerve or just annoy him. She was ruthless and cunning but beyond that, she was a genius.
Cardan’s only example of training was Balekin’s vicious abuse. Each stab of the sword was followed by a stab of his words. If Cardan faltered, it was because he was a half-wit. If he couldn’t block one of Balekin’s attacks, it was because he was weak. If he missed a blow, it was because he was too weak to inflict any real damage. There was no learning with Balekin. Only vain attempts at pleasing him.
Training with Jude was nothing like that. The first lesson had started poorly thanks to his inability to stay calm but it had ended peacefully. They went over basic skills that he’d forgotten. She even taught him a few new ones. The whole time Jude was stern but never cruel.
He hadn’t enjoyed the training session yet he hadn’t walked out of it with any physical or mental scars. His whole body had ached the next day. His muscles were crying loud enough that he tried to skip their second session. Jude came into his room and naturally refused to let that stand.
“If you’re in too much pain to hold a sword then we will go over the parts of the body to aim at. Mental instruction is just as important as physical.” She proceeded to ask a servant to bring in a desk and chairs for them.
That day was spent with her hideously drawn diagram of the body accompanied by thorough explanations of the best ways to attack each.
“Give me back the pen,” she tried to yank it from his grasp when she saw his crude addition to her diagram. “Use your own time to practice your erotic art.”
Cardan had laughed harder than ever. Jude’s cheeks flushed as if only then having realized what she had said.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
Their third day of training was back in the weapons room. Cardan was surprised to see that he wasn’t entirely dreading it. Day three was a review of novice skills followed by a mock sword fight.
“Good,” Jude's mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile but it was enough to make one breakout on his face. “You’re not terrible when you aren’t whining in between attacks.”
It turns out, Jude was quite right. There was an elegance to swordplay that Cardan hadn’t noticed before. As long as he focused on his own body it was easy to fall into it. Swordplay was almost intimate. His eyes stayed entirely focused on her while they trained. He was learning to read her cues, anticipate her attack, and find her weak points. It made it easier to stay focused on her that when he made a mistake, she corrected him objectively.
“Stop twisting your upper body so much. You shift too much of your weight like that and unbalance yourself. We’re supposed to be fighting, not doing the cha-cha-slide.”
“The what?” Cardan asked dumbfounded.
His confused look actually made her smile. “It’s a human dance. I learned it my old school assemblies but they do it at almost every party.”
That did intrigue him. “A dance? Could you teach it to me? Maybe we could ask the musicians at court to learn it.”
Jude had laughed so hard that her knees went out from under her.
Two months into training with her and Cardan finally stopped fearing it. Jude was so easy to train with. She never asked him to slit the throat of a human servant or called him a coward. She had kept her word. She was not asking him to become a fighter or killer. He was relieved every time she would quiz him on the best ways to disarm an opponent and not decapitate them.
“If I’m ever caught without a weapon I can always use my good looks and brilliant charm to disarm them,” Cardan joked through labored breaths.
“Maybe. That would only work if they were blind and deaf, though, so let's not count on that happening.”
He wasn’t the only one that was being changed by the training sessions. Jude tried her best to be understanding of his previous experiences. She was usually patient. After the first session, if he had ever angered her during training, she never showed it. Even their spiteful arguing had smoothed into playful bickering.
“I can’t do this,” he had spat angrily one day. She was trying to show him how to quickly switch from one weapon to another. Cardan kept dropping the sword and the dagger mid-switch.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you have a heartbeat?” He crossed his arms and glowered. “Do you have arms?”
“Yes.” At that moment he wished that he could use her dishonest sarcasm.
“Do you have all ten fingers?”
“Yes!”
“Then I’m not seeing why you can’t do it. I see why you aren’t doing it but not why you can’t,” she challenged his defeated attitude. You are afraid of making a mistake. I don’t need perfection. I care that you are able to execute the maneuver. I can nitpick the technique later. Just breathe and try it again.”
Madoc was a bloodcap. He reveled in war and bloodshed just as Balekin did. Yet here was his ward, a master liar, gently instructing the High King on how to properly throw daggers and dodge a punch. Jude was entirely different in the training room. He wasn’t sure when it had happened but he could see it now.
Cardan’s sword swung and collided with hers again. They had been going back and forth for ages now. Jude nodding when he did something right and giving him words of approval. He was trying to keep his head on the sharpness of her blade and not of the kindness of her words.
Somehow he had developed an appreciation for her constructive feedback. It no longer prickled him to hear her critique him. In fact, Cardan was excited to hear what she had to say. If it was good then he ignored the way heat flooded through his body. If it was bad then he worked harder to please her.
Her foot snuck out from under her while her blade had distracted him. Cardan head hit the floor painfully but he curled forward and yanked her body down with him.
Jude landed beside him, sword clattering away from her. He was reaching for his dagger but she recovered before he could. She twisted and was on top of him immediately. The cold steel of a dagger was pressed to his pulse.
“Not too bad for a lazy King, huh?” Cardan’s breathing was ragged. A smile was pasted on his face despite the blade at his neck.
Jude own chest heaved above him. Her body was like liquid fire moving over him. It was an effort not to press her to him.
“Not bad at all. You got a little over enthusiastic near the end. I’ll take that over whining.” A spark danced in her eyes.
The knife reminded him of a time long ago. The smell of fear in a dark room hidden under the castle. Jude’s pointed crossbow. Shame and desire mixing to create his own personal hell. Jude kissing him and he wanted to drown in her.
“Believe me,” Cardan’s hands found her waist, “I’m not complaining.”
Jude tensed for a moment. Her body was rigid but her eyes were on his lips. She seemed to have been thinking about the same night as him.
“I could stay in this position forever,” he teased, finding the heated skin under her shirt.
She shuttered, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s a shame, then.” Her words were uneven.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because unlike you...I do not have forever.” Jude’s sentenced punched a hole through him. Her opened long enough to read the sorrow in his. Her own were full of an odd unnerved look. The reminder of her mortality was for him, not her. She could see that for a moment there, he had forgotten who she was. What she was. She stood and took all of the warmth in Elfhame with her.
“Same time tomorrow,” she spoke as if the last minute had vanished from existence. “I have meetings to attend so the Bomb will be training you in my place.”
“Wait-” Carda foolishly rose to his feet.
“Rest up,” she turned away from his plea. “I don’t suggest having any court gatherings or night guests. If you thought that I was a strict trainer, the Bomb is a whole other story. You’ll need all your energy for her tomorrow.”
She was out of the room before he could fully process the way her voice faltered when she mentioned night guest. Cardan was relieved and disappointed about tomorrow. On one hand, it would give him time to forget how Jude had felt pressed against him. On the other, it would only prolong how long he would have to wait until he could see her again.
Tags: @ourbooksuniverse @notyourclassicshadowhunter @fangirlinghard-spoilerson @afexiss @cute898 @mintyvina @andromeddea (let me know if you would like to be added to the list and/or if I forgot to add you!)
#booklovingturtle writes#holly black#the cruel prince#the wicked king#queen of nothing#tcp#twk#qon#jurdan#jurdan fic#jude duarte#prince cardan#king cardan#jude#cardan#cardan greenbriar#jude x cardan#cardan x jude
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1. Indonesia, summer
Summary: She writes for magazines about luxurious resorts in exotic places and five-star hotels in glamorous cities. He’s photographed devastated war zones, refugee camps and child soldiers. For both of them travel is an escape, but he’s had enough of this grim reality, and she’s had enough of this disconnected fantasy. Perhaps together they can find something in between, something real, and stop running from themselves.
Each season, a new destination and a chance to grow closer.
Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter
Rating: Mature~ish (for now)
Word count: 3.9k
A/N: Thank you to @onthedriftinthetardis for sharing her insights on being a photographer.
Chapters are named after airport codes.
Prologue | Ao3 | Gifset
The large, multi-level pool stops just short of a rocky cliff that dips into the Indian ocean, but the turquoise shade of the chlorinated water creates a nearly seamless continuity. Only the white froth of the waves breaks the illusion. Soak up the sun and let your mind wander beyond the horizon.
Hannah dotted her sentence and flipped back through her notebook. She placed a check mark next to “pool” in her list of resort services and amenities to review.
Soaking up the sun and letting her mind wander wasn’t something she had time to do. This was actually her first time lounging by the pool and even now she couldn’t let herself go, couldn’t just close her eyes and enjoy the warmth on her skin. Her brain noticed every detail and translated them into sentences for her article.
In her job, she often did in one day what others did in three. In the last four days, she had tested the Aquatonic seawater therapeutic pool, four of the five restaurants, the art gallery and shopping arcade, the yoga class, the Canang Ketupat demonstration, the Balinese dancing course, the cycling tour, the sailboat tour and the Segway tour. All the while looking into the eco-tourism aspect of things, she’d noticed the solar panels and the reusable straws in drink, but she wanted to dig deeper. She still had to check on the botanical garden, the activities for kids, the cooking school, the gym, the martini bar, ballrooms and, worse of all, the golf course. Only three days left to do all that.
Perhaps it was time to check out the rooftop bar as well.
A young man worked under the hut-like awning of the bar. He spoke basic English. As he prepared her cocktail, she chatted with him, asking about the band on his t-shirt and his hobbies. But soon, her gaze drifted away from the bartender and the beautiful beach vista, to the island itself, beyond the resort. Too far off for details, it appeared as a chaotic array of colourful houses under palm trees, quivering in the heat like a mirage. The Mahal Kita resort was nothing short of paradise, but her feet itched to explore the rest of the island.
She asked the bartender for recommendations, but he only mentioned activities offered by the resort. When Hannah insisted she wanted to see the town, he laughed, something she’d learned meant “no” here. She questioned him further and found out he wasn’t even from Pulau Kesuma and neither were his nearest coworkers. The employees lived in a dormitory on the premise and left the island on their days off.
As nicely as possible, Hannah insisted to speak to a local person to answer her questions. At last, a maid was waved over. She drew a crude map of the town with indications to the market and a beach. When she expanded her drawing to the west side of the island, the bartender stopped her with such vehemence that both Hannah and the maid started.
“No, no. No west. Dangerous,” he said.
The two Indonesian exchanged a cold glance Hannah couldn’t decipher.
“Okay, then I’ll be careful. Thank you…” She eyed their name tags. “Budi and Alya.” She tipped them both generously.
The hotel’s main entrance opened directly on the jetty where the ferry from Jakarta docked. With water on either side, there was nowhere else to go, so Hannah spent a good twenty minutes looking for another exit leading to the town.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself.
All the service doors required I.D. cards. Finally, she spotted a kitchen helper and asked him for a light for her cigarette, she offered him one in exchange. She’d found it was always a good way to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a foreign country. Or, in this case, to ask for a favour. The kitchen helper opened a service door and they sneaked out of the hotel.
Hannah felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass. Out of the conditioned and, she now realized, perfumed air of the resort, heat and a hundred scents assailed her: dusty earth, petrol from the old motorbikes used by the locals, and the sweet green fragrance of flowers that gave the island its name, Kesuma. A goat bleated. A bike zoomed past her. And wanderlust stirred butterflies in her stomach.
She donned a large, floppy sun hat and set out to explore new grounds.
*
“Let me the hell out of here,” Hardy said to a security guard.
Five minutes and he had already run out of patience with this place. Jet lag stretched like a tight rubber band around his head. He had a meeting in town with Ellie and her partner, but couldn’t figure out how to get out of the hotel.
He’d arrived late last night, and the ferry took him straight to the resort. Aware of the scam, he hated giving the resort his money, but he had to be inside to investigate.
The security guard let him out a service door and vaguely indicated the direction of the market.
Hardy walked fast. His previous trips to other parts of Indonesia and Ellie’s instructions helped him navigate the unknown town.
The messenger bag holding his camera equipment bumped against his hip with every step, a sensation he’d grown accustomed to. Camera in hands, he was on the lookout for signs of the tourism industry already affecting the local population. On a street corner, a young woman, barely able to meet his eyes, lowered her dress and bra strap. Anger boiled in his stomach. He averted his eyes.
Along the way, he snapped pictures, almost aimlessly: crumbling houses, drunk men, working children. None of it exactly what he needed.
He knew he’d found what he he’d been looking for when he saw it: fishing gear propped against a wall. The composition was perfect: the sun shone on the shiny reels and the hooks dug into dry, cracked soil. The contrast between the fairly new equipment and the dust and spider webs covering it told a story of wasted potential. He took many pictures from different angles.
*
Hannah made her way toward the market as best as she could given the lack of street signs. She turned onto an unpaved narrow street. Small wooden houses crouched between tall palm trees and laundry hung to dry above her head. Women squatted in front of small brick fire places, cooking on a grill set directly over the flames. Chicken pecked around them. Bare-feet children, with dry snot under their noses, played with rusty bottle caps.
It reminded her of a trip to Thailand four years ago. She was no less shocked, and yet fascinated, that people still lived like that. But this time, the nearness of a luxurious resort accentuated her discomfort. And Hannah thought she’d rather be in Europe or North America where poverty wasn’t so confronting.
She felt the eyes of every local on her, they weren’t used to tourists yet. She had only seen one other white person, a weird bloke taking multiple pictures of fishing rods. Some children hid behind their mothers, others called her “Bule!” a slang word for white foreigner. But she never felt threatened or shunned, most people she came across smiled at her in the friendliest manner. She returned the greetings but didn’t engage further. There was always that push and pull within her, between keeping her distance from people and yet wanting to know them.
A girl of about nine with fierce dark eyes and braids approached her and touched her arm. Hannah smiled though she was ambivalent. She wasn’t naturally drawn to children but it would make cute pictures and a good story for her blog. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Hannah resented it.
“Where can I eat?” Hannah asked the child, miming the action.
Instantly, other children came to her, five of them, with dimpled cheeks and second-hand superhero t-shirts. They all giggled. The eldest little girl, the one who had approached her first, whistled loudly and they all followed her. Hannah had no idea where they were taking her.
Shrubs lined the street and a little boy picked a fruit and handed it to her. It was a small, pinkish ball with green hair. She scrunched up her nose at it and waited until the children had eaten theirs to make sure it wasn’t a joke. A boy, no more than seven, took a knife out of his pocket and expertly sliced open the fruit for her. Inside was a milky white ball, similar to lychees. As she tasted the fruit, her brain looked for the right words to describe the refreshing, mild sweetness of it to her readers.
The children gave her more fruits, and she thanked them in Indonesian, “Terima kasih.”
“Rambutan,” he said.
“Rambutan?” she repeated.
He pulled on his black hair, “rambut,” he said. Then on the hair of the fruits, “rambutan.”
She snapped some photos of them and the fruits with her mobile phone. They all pressed around her, wanting to see the result on the screen. The photoshoot lasted longer than she’d intended. An adult passing by yelled something along the line of “stop pestering her”, and the kids scampered away. All of them except the little girl that had first approached her. In fact, she looked unimpressed by the adult. Hannah felt she’d found a kindred spirit in this kid.
They reached a sort of town square, with a mosque and a park where a group of men had gathered. A tin roof held up by hand-carved columns housed the market place. Hannah marveled at… everything. Behind makeshift stalls, men shouted prices for rice noodles and fruits. On the ground, large, shallow baskets displayed grains and legumes. An eyeless pig face, hung like a mask above a meat stand. Underneath, a bored woman wearing a headscarf chased flies away with a palm leaf.
The whole place was alive with chatter but a tension brewed underneath. Something was amiss.
Hannah wanted to go inside the market, but the little girl guided her elsewhere.
On a street corner, many local people queued. Before them, an old woman, at least eighty years old, hunched-back and sun-spotted, served food to them. Old, misshapen pans and plastic buckets surrounded her. Her knobbly hands efficiently wielded a string to slice through a green, cylindrical fruit. She then dropped handfuls of shredded coconut, balls of sesame seeds, and what looked like tiny pancakes onto a folded banana leaf. She covered carelessly the whole thing with a ladleful of brown syrup. It looked nothing like the “authentic and locally-sourced” food served at the hotel. And it was certainly less hygienic. But the scents— and her own sense of adventure— were too enticing to resist. She’ll try anything once.
*
Hardy spotted Ellie across the road, waving at him to come over. Her youngest son was with her.
“Hiya! Sorry for making you walk all the way here, we’re not allowed near the resort anymore.”
She gave him that grin of hers, with her small upper teeth pushing forward.
They’d first worked closely together in Bangladesh, after a sweatshop collapsed and killed over one thousand workers. She was a journalist for BBC World. It was her first time covering such a tragedy. Despite a rocky start, they’d developed something like a friendship, but it was hard to keep in touch when they both worked around the world. Last he’d heard of her, her husband had been arrested for murder
“You look well,” Hardy said.
It was an understatement. Her hair had grown, and her loose white linen shirt accentuated the healthy bronze glow of her skin. She seemed happier than he expected given the circumstances.
Beside Ellie stood a short man with a young, russet face, smooth skin safe for a little patch of hair under his bottom lip. He wore a suit despite the heat. He shook Hardy’s hand with nervous enthusiasm and introduced himself as Kadek Suardika Rahi.
They sat on the terrace of a restaurant. An outsider wouldn’t know this was a place of business: a dozen makeshift stools under an awning made from old vinyl advertising banners. In the heat, a rubber-y scent emanated from it.
Hardy was eager to learn more about the scandalous practices of the Mahal Kita Resort, but cultural norms demanded a beverage and small talk first. He opted for a cold drink made with coconut milk rather than the local variation on Java coffee.
“I met Kadek when I was covering the tsunami,” Ellie explained. “He was a doctor in England, but when he saw what was happening in his country, he decided to come back and help his people.”
“And Ellie helped make sure the natural disaster was not forgotten by the international community.”
They shared a smile and so much seemed to pass between them, reminiscence and adoration. And Hardy was surprised to feel a pinch in his heart, a longing for that kind of intimate language without words.
Hardy cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “So you live here now?”
“Not on Pulau Kesuma, no, not all the time. We live in Jakarta. Tom attends an international school there. Kadek’s whole family is here, though.”
She’d quit her job and now taught journalism at the university on top of helping local newspapers and free speech organizations.
“How’s your daughter?” Ellie asked.
“She’ll start uni next fall.”
He skimmed over the strained relationship with Daisy. He’d taken all the blame for the divorce, and rightly so, he had been away too often. His daughter had once accused him of caring more about children in Africa than about her.
A flash of blond hair and pale skin caught his eye. He scoffed at a young woman in too short shorts and a large hat. She didn’t even notice her selfie stick was in the way of a man and his cow. “Parasite,” he muttered. As far as he was concerned, these tourists were as guilty as the corporation who owned the resort. They should educate themselves and stop encouraging unethical tourism.
Kadek related to him what he’d heard from his family and other local residents. While the people were still struggling with the physical and psychological damage of the tsunami, foreign investors took advantage of the chaos to seize the land. Masked men, armed with machine guns, forcefully evicted the families. They built an electric fence around 400 acres of land. The land acquisition extended into adjoining bodies of water thus denying access to fishing grounds.
“It’s not just about the loss of income,” Kadek insisted, “we are a fishing people. This is our traditional way of life. Now we can be charged with illegal trespassing! On our own land!”
“What about the government?” Hardy asked though he had little illusion as to their role in this.
“The Navy helped the foreign investors,” Ellie answered. “At first we thought it was just a small part of the Navy gone rogue for profit. But when we petitioned the authorities for help we were shut down. They’re bloody shareholders.”
“Ellie received threats after she wrote about it in the Jakarta Post,” Kadek added, putting a protective arm around her shoulders.
The blatant abuse of power made Hardy’s skin crawl.
“Do you have any proof of all this?” he asked.
“Only what people told us. The security guards at the resort know us. We can’t go anywhere near. They don’t like us sniffing around. That’s why we need you.”
Hardy, Ellie and Kadek spent the afternoon touring the island. They talked to evicted families and angry fishermen. Hardy documented the destruction, but the resort people were good at covering their tracks, most of it could be chalked up to the tsunami.
One thing that kept coming back was talk of discolored water that poisoned the mangrove, dead fish drifted to the village like bad omens. No one knew where it was coming from, but a portion of the west side was completely off limits, enclosed by an electric fence and guarded by armed men. Hardy couldn’t risk antagonizing them. Not yet, at least.
He ate supper with Kadek’s parents who welcomed him like a member of the family. He admired how Ellie had adapted and built a new life, a new family, for herself.
When the sun started to set, he left the Rahi family with a promise to help. Wherever he went, he met people who had almost nothing yet demonstrated such generosity. It both soothed him and stoked his drive for justice. And so, he headed back to the hotel to investigate under the cover of darkness.
*
Hannah stepped out of the shower and grabbed the complimentary bathrobe. She noticed its softness. One look at the tag informed her it was made of organic bamboo fibers. She made a mental note to mention it in her article along with the nice mango shower gel that now perfumed the steamy bathroom. These were important details. Her readers expected to learn everything about a hotel, including the quality of the clientele which is why there was a German man in her bedroom. Presently, she caught him hastily pulling up his trousers to sneak out. Shame passed quickly over his handsome face.
“Maybe we can get a drink tomorrow night?” he said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
She was relieved he was leaving on his own so she wouldn’t have to get rid of him with increasingly unsubtle hints. It occurred to her after that he might be here with his wife and family.
She closed the door behind him and fell back on the bed. The room had a high, peaked ceiling made of dark wood and the dim light didn’t reach all the way up it. It looked like a void opening above her, growing as the evening turned darker.
Hannah reached for her phone. She sent Ben a text message, but doubted he would answer; he was sulking. She turned to social media. She posted a picture of the food bought in the market asking “what is this?”. She added a line about the cooking class she would take tomorrow and tagged the resort. Notifications popped up, but somehow only added to the oppressing emptiness growing in her chest. She dismissed the feeling as nothing more than her unsatisfactory hook up. The man had a nice body that promised more pleasure than it had delivered, leaving her keyed up.
Her hand ventured between her thighs. There was nothing but the sea outside her open windows, so she discarded the bathrobe, let the warm night air caress her body and set out to finish what that man had started.
“Hmm, much better,” she sighed after.
She cleaned up and wrapped a long sarong under her arms. Time to get back to work.
With her trusty Moleskin notebook in hand, she sat on the doorstep. A couple of rooms to her left, people were laughing and splashing around, but the sound of the surf, just a few meters ahead, interested her more.
Her pen moved fluidly across the paper, and she found herself writing about that little girl and the old woman serving food. She wondered about their paths in life, about one’s past and the other’s future. How different they were from her own life. She knew none of it would make it into her article, Elite Travelers wasn’t interested in that, but she felt compelled to put her complex feelings into words.
A flash of light disturbed her focus, followed by shutter sounds. She jerked up and squinted through the darkness.
In the bushes, a man was taking pictures of her. How long had he been there? Had he seen her masturbate?
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The man ignored her and kept taking pictures.
“Oi! Stop that, you perv!”
“Wha’? Get back in your room, ma’am.”
She hadn’t expected to hear a Scottish accent. He stepped closer, into the pool of light from her room. She recognized him from earlier in the village.
“Are you stalking me?” He looked at her like she was nuts. “Go away or I’ll call security.”
“Just get back inside. I’m a photojournalist.”
“What? For Playboy? Go. Away.”
“I can’t, I need—”
“That’s it, I’m calling security.” She turned to head back inside her room.
“For god’s sake. Wait!” He climbed the steps up to her. “The hotel management can’t know about this… I’m investigating the resort. Look.”
He showed her the pictures he’d taken: foundations and more brick work, the beach and swamps, portraits of local people. None of her. It was a relief (although having a stalker would be kind of flattering).
She took a good look at him: with his canvas shirt, sleeves rolled up, and scruffy cheeks, he looked overworked rather like a relaxed tourist. There was something about his stance, the hands on his hips, the unwavering gaze on her, an air of detached authority that made her trust him.
“Alright.”
“Good. So, you get back in there and let me do my work,” he said.
“Hold on, I’m a journalist too.”
He quirked an eyebrow, skeptically.
“I am. What are you investigating?”
With more probing—and threatening— he revealed, in vague terms, he was interested in the environmental impacts of the resort.
“What about what’s going on the west side of the island?” she asked.
He perked up at this— as much as this man could perk up. “You’ve seen something?”
“Well, I went sailboating— ”
He scoffed.
“What’s wrong with sailboats?”
“Local fishermen were banned from their own ancestral fishing grounds so you could go on a bloody sailboat. That’s what’s wrong with it.”
The accusation stung. Hannah took a step back. “And that’s my fault, is it? You know, sharks almost went extinct here because of the fishermen.”
He didn’t reply, though she had the feeling it wasn’t because she’d won the argument. He obviously knew more than he let on. As annoying as he was, she wanted to know more too.
She invited him in her room, to show him something she’d discovered on her photos. During the sailing excursion, Hannah had spotted what seemed like a lovely secluded beach. However, when she asked about it to the captain, he immediately veered the boat away. That beach was on the west side of the island, the one she’d been warned against this morning.
She handed him her phone, but he frowned at the selfie displayed.
“No, look closer, you muppet, in the background.”
She zoomed in. There was a high fence, partly covered with vegetation, and what looked almost like a bunker.
“Maybe there’s another way in,” the photographer mumbled. “There are rumors about— oh...”
He’d swiped too far and reached a picture of Hannah in a rather revealing bikini. She tittered at his blush. He shoved the phone back in her hands with a scowl. He considered her for a moment. His sharp gaze openly scanned her, and Hannah became very aware that she was wearing only a sarong.
“Alright,” he said, having come to some conclusion. “Could you take me there?”
“Yes,” she replied with more confidence than she felt.
Hannah went to the bathroom to put on a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. She felt like she’d drank too much coffee. She was excited by the secretive nature of the investigation and the shared complicity with this photographer.
She slipped her phone and keycard in her back pockets, and they headed out through the patio door.
“I’m Hannah Baxter, by the way.”
“Hardy.” They shook hands. “C’mon, Baxter, stop withering.”
#
Chapter 2: Indonesia, summer (cont’d)
A/N: Pulau Kesuma is a fictional place but what happened there after the tsunami is based on real events that took place in Sri Lanka.
#Hardy x Hannah#teninchfic#Broadchurch#secret diary of a call girl#Did I mention this is a slow burn?#lostinfic writes stuff#travelers AU
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