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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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93. I hire your matchmaking services but all the people you set me up with are horrible and I’m demanding a refund and you’re asking me for one more chance??? what are you going to do? be my date?

Indruck, nsfw, please!

Here you go! I was inspired by @kriskukko's incredible art for the orc designs in this, and I highly recommend checking them out!

“Indrid? Some from Kepler House is here to speak with you.” Ned pokes his head into Indrid’s rooms.

“Drat” Indrid hisses, dressing gown whipping about him as he scrambles to put the apartment in order while also dragging his notes on the man in question to the forefront, “I didn’t forsee anyone coming by today, goodness, he had his first engagement with Lady Austens daughter last night, what on earth could they need to see me for?” He tosses his spare pens aside, landing them in his second set of house slippers.

“Well, dear boy, given the luck you’ve had with them lately-”

“It’s not luck, it’s simply very unlikely futures. Please just, just stall whoever it is a moment, Leo is usually patient and-”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that my friend.”

“Why not? I watched you once talk an entire flock of constables away from your door. Praytell, why can Ned “Silver Tongue” Chicane not get rid of a single attendant?”

“Because the attendant ain’t here this time.”

Indrid slams the drawer of his desk, looking up as an orc in a deep brown suit steps into the room, tossing his hat onto the table. He’s shorter than Indrid and Ned (stout and strong, according to the notes Indrid received), wavy black hair streaked with grey at the front. One eye is blue, the other brown, and both regard the harried matchmaker with casual annoyance.

“Mr. Newton, I, ah, I was not expecting you to visit me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be on a date where she found me so damn dull she hailed a cab as soon as dinner was done. I was already in town on some business for Minerva, so I decided to come tell you I ain’t in need of your services anymore.”

“I beg your pardon? Your benefactor employed me to find you a suitable match and I intend to do just that. I know there have been missteps, but such things are to be expected when searching for one’s lifelong partner.”

“Uh huh. And the fact I’m Lady Minerva’s chosen heir, which means there are a bunch of folks waitin to mimic my style and choices, has got nothin to do with it.”

“I, ah, I can’t say that I’m ignorant of the potential repercussions of being the one assigned to locate a spouse for you.”

“Which is the long way of sayin you know damn well that if I decide to stop askin you for help, no one with money is ever gonna come to you again.”

There’s a determined set to his rounded jaw, and a glimpse at the future suggests Indrid will have better luck with a different tactic

“....were they really so awful?”

“Yes. They were rude, or thought I was rude, or thought I was dull, or we just had fuck-all in common.”

“Have you considered you might just be a tad more demanding than average?”

“It ain’t demandin to want the person I spend the rest of my life with to actually like me.” He sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cold, but unless you got a real winner up your sleeve, I’m done.”

All responses, all timelines show Duck ending his time as Indrid’s client and walking out the door.

“You could try me!”

“Really?” Duck looks deeply unconvinced.

“I will admit it’s unorthodox, but I, I foresee us having a perfectly nice time together. It will let me prove that I am capable of choosing companions for you.”

The shorter orc looks him up and down more deliberately and Indrid fights not to draw his dressing gown tighter. He will not be intimidated by some newcomer from across the sea.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I got to go to this concert tomorrow; someone from Kepler house is expected to show and Minerva is busy. You’re comin with me.” He holds Indrid’s gaze, daring him to renege on his offer.

Indrid summons his best, professional grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

---------------------------------------

Indrid smooths his waistcoat and jacket as he steps from the cab, tucks a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. It’s his only concession to the nerves skittering up and down his spine.

Gatherings such as these are nothing new to him; he goes to them to gather new information and new clients, to remind the well-to-do families of London and beyond that he is the matchmaker extraordinaire. But there is always the moment between when they see him and when they recognize him, when every face in the room wonders why someone like him dares to enter their space.

Somewhere in Indrid’s ancestry is a love story between an orc and a goblin. His silver hair, very angular features, and complete lack of tusks or fangs is the proof. The red eyes don’t help--they unsettle everyone who sees them--but his mother insists they’re evidence of other orcs gifted with rare magic on her side of the family. He wears red spectacles over them just to be safe; he rather likes how the color stands out against his skin, and his glasses let him avoid prying questions.

Duck is waiting for him under the awning outside the music hall; he’s in a grey day suit this time, looking just as understatedly handsome as he did yesterday morning. Indrid must admit his desire to save his reputation is not the only reason he agreed to this; he cannot understand why Duck is having such trouble meeting his match. He’s good looking, moneyed, American--an exotic background in the eyes of the average, sheltered upper-class orc--but still has family history here in England. All Indrid’s matches showed a high probability of success. The point of failure must lie with the orc himself.

“Afternoon, Mr. Cold.” Duck smiles with everything but his eyes.

“Indrid is fine, given the reason for our meeting.”

Duck nods. Indrid wishes the ground would swallow one of them up. When the pavement fails to oblige, he offers his arm. The shorter orc takes it, both of them doffing their hats as they step inside.

“I, uh, like the earring.” Duck indicates the moth cuff on Indrid’s left ear, a stark contrast to the single gold hoop in his own.

“Thank you. A friend gave it to me. I, ah, I rather enjoy working moths into my wardrobe; I find them fascinating.”

“Y’know, back home we got moths that look like hummingbirds.”

“Really?” Indrid’s ear twitches, “how big?”

Duck holds up his hands to indicate the size. Indrid is about to demand details when they’re waylaid by their hostess and pulled into a cluster of families. Indrid breathes deep, feeling crowded in, and notices Duck routinely being cut off in conversation or given disapproving looks behind his back. Yes, Indrid supposes his manners are a bit rough, but there’s no harm in that. Too, everyone seems far more interested in the goings on at Kepler House and with Lady Minerva than with Duck himself. By the time they’re seated, their arms feel locked together from shared tension.

The violinists are quite good; Indrid enjoys strings, his recordings of them being his favorite music to listen to while drawing. But his mind is so consumed by futures and by thoughts about the orc beside him that he struggles to focus on the music. Duck is having a similar issue, though he hides it well; were they not side by side, Indrid would miss the way he fidgets with the knee of his trousers.

“Are you alright?” He whispers under the applause.

“N-ye-uh. Fuck. I, the musics real nice but I gotta say I’m gettin kinda bored. But I got no fuckin clue if leavin will piss everyone here off.”

“Intermission is soon. When it comes, keep quiet and follow my lead.”

When the guests rise to stretch their legs and fetch refreshments, Indrid guides Duck to their hostess.

“I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is rather angry with me and it’s best if I go home. Duck has agreed to accompany me so I do not pass out in the street. I’m sure you understand.”

She nods, and in a matter of moments they’re out on the street, each breathing deeply.

“Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure.”

“Guess I oughta just head back to the hotel.” Duck sighs.

“You could. But, ah, we’re not far from Kew Gardens and the weather isn’t miserably cold for once. If you’d like-”

“Hell yeah. Wait, fuck, sorry, tryin to swear less in public.”

“I don’t really mind.” Indrid starts them down the street.

“Lots of them do” Duck tips his head back towards the concert hall, “I mean, at least that rule is easier to figure out. It’s not that there aren’t weird rules and class stuff back home, but I grew up learnin them. Here I always feel like I’m one move away from makin an ass of myself. No one’ll say anything because of Minerva, but I know if it weren’t for her, none of ‘em would give me the time of day. It makes every interaction so goddamn stressful.”

Indrid twinges with sympathy, “When I first started in these circles, I wrote myself notecards and had Ned test me on them.”

Duck giggles, so absurd and loud it draws stares from passersby, “why? You seem to know your stuff.”

“I didn’t come from money, and I don’t always read social situations the way others expect. It was learn or live as a penniless artist for all my days.” As the gardens come into view he adds, “I know the basics of your life in America but if you weren’t here, what would you be doing there?”

“Workin in the Yosemite valley. I was a ranger there for a few years before Minerva called me here.”

“What was that like?”

Duck tells him as they wander the first stretches of the gardens. He’s midway through a tangent about bears when he stops.

“Holy fuck, you’re really still listenin.”

“Of course I am, this is fascinating.”

His companion smiles, “Glad you think so. But it ain’t polite for me to dominate the conversation like this. Now you gotta tell me what you do when you’re not gettin fancy folks together.”

“...You promise you will finish the story about the bear and the tent later.”

“You know it.”

Indrid knows that time passes more quickly with good company, but he’s still startled when the sun sets. The Savoy, where Duck is staying, is closer than his home, so their cab stops there first.

Duck pauses halfway out the door, “Meet me here for dinner tomorrow?”

Indrid grins, “I’d like nothing more.”

--------------------------------

“I didn’t know the line even went this far.” Indrid watches the moors race by them out the window of the train.

“You and me both.” Duck rotates his map, glances at the letter he received a week ago, “okay, once we get off at Amnesty, we need someone to take us down Greenbank road. The house is at the end of it, somewhere around here.” He taps a patch of moor miles from anything else. Indrid studies his fingers and is glad that, of his more rugged habits, one he elected to keep was letting his nails stay claws rather than filing them down.

“My visions suggest that as long as we don’t ask anyone to drive us out after dark, we should have no trouble reaching it.”

Indrid tries not to be too giddy at the prospect of spending weeks and weeks more or less alone in the countryside with Duck. They’re going because an anonymous note informed him that he did indeed have a family estate and--once they determined that the house near Dartmoor did indeed legally belong to him--it was decided he would go to see how the old place was doing and perhaps take up residence.

He asked Indrid to come without even glancing up from the telegram from the solicitor. Indrid agreed without looking away from his drawing. If two months of semi-courtship in a crowded city got them close enough for that, Indrid dares to hope that being out here together will bring them closer still.

Amnesty is small, as they both expected, the air chilly and fog threatening to swallow whole buildings as they make their way to the Lodge where they’ve been told they can find a driver. When Duck asks the young woman working the counter for help getting to Greenbank Hall, she quirks her lips in a frown.

“I’m not sure there’s even a place called that around here….OH! Do you mean Beacon House?”

“Maybe?” Duck looks at Indrid, who quickly looks at the futures.

“Yes, it seems we do.”

“Okay. Since it's still light, I should be able to find someone to get you out there. If it comes down to it, I can, like, drive you out myself.”

They end up being driven by a friendly young man named Jake, who deposits them and their bags on the steps of the massive house with a friendly wave farewell.

“Agh” Indrid shivers as they step through the newly unlocked doors, “I think it’s actually warmer outside.”

“No kiddin. Damn fog means it’s already gettin too dark to see too. I’ll go get some kind of fire started, you see if you can find some lanterns or candles so we ain’t trippin all over ourselves.”

Indrid begins his search, comes to the kitchen and finds some matches and a candle. The solicitor arranged for food and other supplies to be brought in ahead of time, so in theory lanterns should be somewhere nearby. He’s just glad that the paltry light shows no signs of rodents getting into their food.

When he gets upstairs, he discovers two things; one, all the lamps are gas, so he’s able to light them easily. And two, a mother tortoiseshell cat is nesting with her kittens on a guest bed.

“Well, that explains the lack of mice.”

Footsteps behind him, “Got a fire goin in the sittin room, if you wanna pick a room for yourself I can light one th--awwwww” Duck moves past him towards the cat, who hisses at him, “now, there ain’t any need for that, missy. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your babies. But we oughta bring you somethin more’n mice to eat.”

“I saw some tinned food in the pantry.”

“Perfect, lemme go find a bowl.”

----------------------------------

Beacon House has seen better days, but Indrid discovers the houses loss is his gain. Duck decides they can do many of the repairs themselves, and sets about ordering supplies from London or bringing them in from Amnesty. The few times they need help, the cook and several others from the Lodge come to assist in the project. These gatherings are far more pleasant than any Indrid had to attend for work (well, except for the ones where he was with Duck). And they always end before dusk.

Indrid occupies himself with figuring out why. There was no mention of this house when he first researched Duck, and even using the local name turns up very little. It’s not until he finds a diary belonging to one H. Newton in the library that he understands.

October the 15th, 1805

I fear the worst is upon me. I cannot leave the house, dare not even peer out the windows for fear of what I shall see. Lucy says it is my health, that we should travel to warmer regions so it will improve. But I know it is not so simple. Were we to flee, it would merely wait for our return. It may even waylay us before we reached town. I am cursed. We are cursed. We always will be.

Beneath the words is a hastily sketched image; yellow eyes and sharp fangs peering from between the bars of the front gate.

There are no more entries.

Indrid is unsure whether to raise the matter with Duck. On the one hand, he wishes him to know of any possible dangers. On the other, his friend is so very content these days, coming in from some project or other with grime on his skin and a smile on his face. Indrid’s own desire to stay with him here, in a house he can pretend is theirs, threatens to drown out all other reasons.

Eventually, his conscience shouts it down while he and Duck are on their evening walk.

“Oh yeah, Barclay told me about that a few days ago. Some ghost apparently wanders around the moor at night; got somethin to do with a murderous ancestor.”

“That does not alarm you.”

“You know I don’t believe in curses and destiny or anythin like that. People make up all kinds of stories when they’re alone in wild places.”

Indrid’s foresight guides his arm, gripping Duck and keeping him from moving forward.

“Does that look like a story?”

Directly ahead of them, a tor rises like a spike. Atop it, revealed by the rising moon, is a gigantic, fur-covered shape.

“See” Duck whispers, “were we back home, I’d say that was a bear.”

“And now?”

“Given there ain’t been bears in this part of the world in decades, I say we get the hell outta here.”

They take off back down the slope, the hall a collection of yellow squares of light in the darkening distance. A howl splits the air behind them and Indrid quickens his pace, keeps his eyes on the future in hopes of protecting them both.

This means he doesn’t see the burrow in the path until his ankle goes sideways in it.

“‘Drid!”

“Under no circumstances are you to try and help meAH!” He yelps as Duck swings him over his shoulder and continues his flight towards the house. As he’s bounced about, Indrid watches a glowing shape bounding closer.

“Thank fuck.” Duck crosses the gate, slams them closed, and lowers Indrid to his feet. Nothing glares at them from the path. But a growl creeps from the shadows and follows them until they shut the door.

------------------------------------------

“How’s the ankle?” Duck drops his coat on the chair opposite Indrid before tending to the fire.

“Better than yesterday. I should be up and moving tomorrow, if the futures are to be believed.”

“You know you don’t gotta rush. I’m happy to take care of you.”

Indrid picks at the ends of the blanket in his lap, “but I miss being able to aid you with work.”

“There’ll be lots of time for that. We got plenty to do to get the house to where we can live in it full time.”

“We?”

Duck goes completely still, then fails to put the fire poker back in place three separate times. When he finally meets Indrid’s eyes, he looks worried.

“‘Drid? What’s your endgame? With, uh, with me?”

“I…” Indrid grabs his teacup, intending to drink it to buy time and finds it empty, ‘I...I don’t know. I, I wanted to prove to you that I could find you a companion who made you happy, hoping you would give me another chance to locate your perfect match. But lately I, ah, I struggle to see that plan working. As I do not wish you to have any match but me.”

Duck moves across the rug, shadows on his face making it hard to read.

“I know that shows great selfishness on my part. If that is not something you wish to have in your life I, I…” he shrinks back as Duck leans down, certain this is the timeline where he accuses him of being a conniving monster.

“Funny you should say you’re bein selfish” Duck braces his arms on either side of the chair, “because I’ve been beatin myself thinkin’ I was selfish for keepin you out here so long.”

“Keep me here forever.” Indrid whispers. Duck smiles, closes the remaining space between them. His lips are still a bit chilly from working outside; Indrid does everything he can to warm them with his own.

The shorter orc straddles him and he whines so needily that Duck snickers in reply.

“What’s wrong darlin? Kissin too much for you?’

“On the contrary; it is far too little, but my injury means my ability to drag you to my bed and beg for more is greatly impeded.”

“Good thing we live alone.” Duck pulls the blanket from Indrid’s lap, nibbles his ear as the seer catches on and begins frantically undoing the buttons of Duck’s workshirt and shoving his suspenders. When at last he pushes it open he loses himself a moment, tipping forward to tongue at the golden ring in Duck’s left nipple.

“AHheh, gettin right to it. Good” Duck unbuttons his pants, “because I’ve been wantin to fuck you since before we even came out here.”

“Oh I see” Indrid purrs, “you lured me into the countryside to sully my virtue.”

Duck laughs, full throated, as his tusks catch in the firelight, “You forgettin the time we got drunk instead of goin to the opera and you told me you convinced two sailors to take you home?”

“Only if you’ve forgotten telling me about the young ranch-hand you gave several rides to” Indrid nibbles along his neck, his twitching oddly in their quest to grind against him without jostling his ankle.

“Not a chance. But I don’t care about reminiscin right now; right now, I got the best lookin fella in the world beggin for my dick.”

“I’m not begging.” Indrid tilts his head back to help Duck get his shirt open some.

“Not yet.” Duck grins, then shoves his hand down his trousers.

“Ohhhhhyes” Indrid reaches for him.

“Keep your hands on the armrests until I say you can move ‘em.”

“But, but” it’s hard to argue when he’s trying to stare a hole through Duck’s remaining clothes. His partner notices and makes a show of moaning louder.

“Only good boys get to watch the show. You gonna be good for me?”

“The best.”

Duck kisses the tip of his nose, then wiggles and kicks his pants and underwear off. Indrid can only watch, growing more envious by the moment, as he fucks himself open and rubs a thumb along his cock. Indrid tries bucking his hips, only to discover Duck is keeping himself out of reach.

“Cruel creature.” Indrid groans.

“Cruel? I’m giving you a seat to the best show in town.”

“I’d rather you take the best seat in town.”

Duck laughs, is still doing so when he bends to kiss him. Indrid whimpers, nails digging into the upholstery to keep his promise of good behavior. Duck notices.

“Good boy.”

“AHHHnnnthankyou, thankyouthankyouthankyou” Indrid moans as Duck drops his weight into his lap, grinding on his clothed cock with abandon. He flings Indrids hands up to his shoulders. The seer glides them up to his hair, burying them there where he’s now certain they’ve always belonged. Duck mirrors him, lips only leaving his to bite the tip of his ear.

“Fuck, Indrid, that’s it darlin, lemme ride you like the sleek little beast you are.”

He whines, loses his thoughts as Ducks hips quicken.

“I know ‘Drid, you like bein mine, like that I’ll bounce on this fuckin perfect dick as often as you want as long as you’re my good, sweet, ohsweetfuck, fuck, darlin’” Duck drops his forehead to Indrid’s shoulder with a groan as he cums, soaking the fabric of his pants. Before Indrid can think about stopping, Duck picks up again with as much force as before, growling in his ear to be a good little social climber and cum for his lord.

Indrid cums at that with a chirping sound he thought he’d stopped making long ago, legs spasming from the force of his climax. Unfortunately, this means his pleasure is chased by a burst of pain. He whimpers, flinches, and Duck spots the problem.

“Oh, oh darlin I’m sorry” He drops to the floor, rubbing Indrid’s thighs, “thought the position would keep you from hurtin.”

“Apparently not. I, I want you to know I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

Duck smiles, relieved, and rests his head on Indrid’s stomach, “Guess you did find me a match, huh?”

Indrid bends slowly, nuzzling his hair with a hum, “Yes, I believe so.”

#indruck #meet ugy #indrid cold/ duck newton #orc au #victorian au #trans duck newton

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mythicamagic · 5 years

Text

Diabolik Lovers: Murder Mystery Sequel

AU: In Edwardian London, Detective Mukami Ruki pays a visit to Sakamaki manor after hearing the news of his late Benefactor’s murder. It soon becomes clear the culprit is one of the sons, or is it possibly Karl Heinz’s ward; miss Yui Komori?

Mystery/some romance

Rated T

10,600 words

Chapter one - here

AN: So, first chapter was a commissioned one shot, buuut then I got commissioned to write more so here ya go. All the details were decided by the commissioner @s-e-kwan

Chapter Two (sequel)

Harsh panting rang out, quick, frantic footsteps echoing around the streets. Lamposts guided the way, illuminating the darkness with a gentle, cold light that cast harsh shadows on Subaru Sakamaki.

He ran like a mad-man, hurrying down a narrow alley. Stumbling, he quickly caught his footing and carried on, smelling salt on the air.

At least she's safe, he told himself, pressing a hand to his side. Pale fingers felt sticky, the grey shirt dying red. He could feel the sting in his abdomen but pushed on, adrenaline coursing through his veins and pumping blood out of the wound faster.

As he broke through the line of houses, the sound of waves crashing somewhere below caught his attention. Sucking in harsh breaths, desperate lungs bid him to stop and lean against the handrail. Looking down into the watery depths below from up high on the edge of the city, he could feel the wind lash at his hair and clothes. A wailing noise accompanied it, softening the sound of quick, pursing footsteps behind him.

Subaru turned to face the man, panting. A weapon glinted, catching the moonlight.

Knowing he was out of options, Subaru steeled himself, lashes squeezing shut. Forgive me, Yui.

He then spun on his heel and grabbed the railing, vaulting himself up over the side and free-falling off the edge. The large, rolling waves rose up to claim him, and the youngest Sakamaki disappeared into the darkness of the sea.

OOO

It had been a while since Ruki had visited downtown. He walked there from his newest job, rather than taking the carriage as he once would. Though it forced him to witness the filth and poverty of London, he bore it silently.

Entering Yuma's infamous pub known as 'The Sow,' music and singing flooded the room, reaching his ears. Padding over to his reserved table, he took a seat next to Azusa.

"Have you been waiting here long?"

"Mn...an hour."

"Azusa, I told you the meeting was at 7." He sighed, glancing up when Yuma joined them with a grin.

"Heh, there's no point in lecturin' him. I told him as much earlier."

Azusa glanced away stubbornly. "I just...don't want to miss anything."

They all turned to glance at the stage, where Kou sung, energetically bounding around the stage. His bright aura seemed to clash with the grumpy patrons, who nursed their drinks and hangovers moodily. Yuma sighed, gaze turning flat.

"He really doesn't fit in with the vibe. Guys here like to fight, drink and brawl, not listen to sissy singers."

Ruki's lips curve as he adjusted his collar, "so tell him to stop performing here."

"I obviously ain't gonna do that," his brother huffed.

When Kou's final lyrics drifted around the pub, he swept into a flamboyant bow. Deafening silence answered him.

Azusa clapped slowly, who nudged Ruki and caused a chain reaction of reluctant claps around the table. Kou grinned and straightened, hopping off the stage after purring his thanks. He slipped into a seat next to Yuma, panting. "Whew! What a song. It really took it out of me."

"You were...very good," Azusa murmured, nodding. Kou beamed, preening as Ruki turned to Yuma tiredly.

"The only reason I came straight from work was because of the 'thing' you saw downtown. What was it? I don't see why you couldn't include it in the letter."

"Sorry, guess since you've ditched the bookshop and started bein' a Privet Detective, I wondered if someone might check your post. But anyways," Yuma took a breath, leaning forward and causing the brothers to mimic his actions slightly. "I saw...her."

There was a beat of silence.

Kou tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Her who?"

The thundering heart in his chest answered Ruki for him, but he didn't want to voice his suspicion. He hung on the precipice of Yuma's next damning words.

"Miss Yui. Yui Komori. She's back."

All eyes immediately turned to their eldest brother, who remained stony silent. Pale lips pressed into a thin line, feeling dry. The weight of a certain iron rosary felt 10 times heavier in his pocket.

"It doesn't matter," he said at length, voice calm. "The charges against her were dropped. She's free to walk around London."

"But that Subaru Sakamaki, he's still a murderer walkin' around-"

Yuma cut off Kou's tangent. "That guy wasn't with her," he muttered. "She was buyin' groceries from the market. I could see her hands real clear. No wedding or engagement ring."

Frowning softly, Azusa curled scarred hands around his drink, sipping it. "Do you think...something might have...happened to Mr. Sakamaki?"

The four glanced at each other, wondering. It had been half a year since Karl Heinz's murder. They'd figured she'd settled down into her Happily Ever After with Subaru in a foreign country.

But they were all waiting for Ruki's answer, wondering what he'd do. The next step. Would he try to find the woman that had ruined his reputation and outwitted him?

The Detective gave a soft noise of amusement, bringing his drink up and downing it. "There's no need to look so nervous, gentleman. I can say with full confidence that I will never approach miss Yui Komori ever again. That case is buried in the past."

OOO

'Dear Mukami Ruki,'

His eye twitched.

'I know this letter is a little out of the blue, but how have you been?'

"Why are you asking that as though you're talking to a friend?" Ruki muttered flatly, holding the letter in his hands a little tighter and crumpling the paper slightly.

'Have you ever been to The National Gallery? I'd be extremely happy if you could meet me there tomorrow on January 27th. I'll be waiting for you at noon in front of "Venus and Adonis." Since you're quite well-read, I'm sure you know which painting I mean.'

"Is she making fun of me?" He grumbled, finally looking down at the playful, looping letters of her signature.

'Hope to see you soon, Yui Komori.'

Ruki calmly folded the letter and tucked it away into a compartment on his desk. He then leaned back in his chair, stewing. It took about 10 seconds until he was reaching for his schedule and clearing a place.

OOO

His footsteps on the marble floor sounded far too loud. Ruki glanced around, taking in the quiet atmosphere. Beautiful paintings lined the walls, their brushstrokes lush and vibrant or delicate and mild. He didn't think he'd ever understand the romanticism inherent in paintings. Perhaps he was too unimaginative to wonder if he'd ever be seized by the same feeling of madness or need that had possessed some artists as they painted.

Approaching one piece that stood out among overs in the display, as it bared the flesh of a young woman to the eye, he glanced at the sofa situated before it. There sat a familiar woman with light blonde hair and rose-pink eyes. Her soft-looking lips curved, face blossoming into a gentle smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Mukami."

Ruki stared, before nodding stiffly and taking a seat beside her. "I was under the impression that once it's noon, it is considered afternoon."

"Well, you're a few minutes early." She teased.

His steady gaze slid to her, solemn and heavy. "So I am..."

Yui blinked and held her hands awkwardly. She then tilted her chin up to look at the painting. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"I've never been a good judge of art, but it does have something about it."

She lowered her gaze a little. "It reminds me a little of Subaru and I."

Ruki frowned slightly at the painting. It showed the young Adonis pulling himself away from Venus, his lover.

He knew the meaning behind it quite well. Adonis was a beautiful youth, a royal orphan, who spent his time hunting. Venus fell in love with him after one of Cupid's arrows hit her by mistake. They hunt together, but she avoids the fiercer animals, and warns him about them, citing the story of Atalanta. One day Adonis hunts alone and is gored by a wounded wild boar. Venus hears his cries but cannot save him.

Blue-grey eyes slid over the couple in contemplation. Adonis pulling himself away willingly seemed to be Titian's, the artists, invention.

All his attention turned to her then. "...What happened, miss Komori?"

Giving a quiet giggle, her tired eyes softened. "We're a little past that, Ruki Mukami. You know you can call me Yui." She then sighed, threading and unthreading her fingers. "Subaru is missing."

His muscles stiffened slightly. "How? When?" He demanded. "When you made your escape on the Eden, I expected it to be the last time I saw either of you. Weren't you going to build a life together?"

"It was about a month ago," she said softly. "He became convinced someone was following us, so he bought me a train ticket. He told me to wait for him at a hotel while he travelled on a different train. Only, he never showed," Yui bowed her head, body shaking. "The authorities found his boot n-near the docks where we'd initially been staying. They didn't find a body."

"I see," he said quietly, and if Ruki were a better, kinder man, he'd say he was sorry. But he wasn't, so he did not. "Do you know anything about the person who was following you both?"

Yui bit her lip, before reaching into her purse. "This was...also found. It was tied around the railing overlooking the sea where they think Subaru fell."

Ruki opened his palm, accepting a necklace. The distinct crest of the Sakamaki household stared back at him from within the crimson jewel hanging off the chain.

He frowned slightly, "that's certainly...a clue."

She glanced at him worriedly. "Do you think his brothers might have followed us, and-"

"Calm yourself, Yui. You know the act of planting something on purpose just to lead someone to a false conclusion," he muttered. "This was planted there on purpose to frame the brothers. But there's no harm in paying them a little visit."

Standing smoothly, he adjusted his clothes and glanced at her. "Come."

Yui brightened slightly, "I'm allowed?"

He huffed, eyes warming with faint amusement. "You did outwit me last time. I think you'll be an asset to this case. Where are you staying in London?"

"Sakamaki mansion," she quietly admitted.

"They accepted you back?" He was a little unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

"Yes, they were a little upset but...I've mostly settled into my old role there."

Facing her, Ruki was somehow reminded of the moment he'd seen her on that damned boat, drawing further and further away. Though beautiful in a gentle, understated type of way, this woman was quite crafty. He'd have to watch her closely, lest this all be another elaborate scheme to discredit his good name. Sliding his hand into his pocket, Ruki took her wrist, lifting her palm face up.

He then trailed the rosary into her hand, closing her fingers over it.

"Y-you kept it," she breathed, palpable relief filling her eyes. Pressing her closed fist to her chest, Yui bowed into herself slightly, voice shuddering. "Thank you. It's the only thing I have left of my Father."

His own father's memento flashed briefly in the recesses of the Detective's mind. "I see," he said quietly, before turning. "Let's go, there's much to be done."

OOO

It was a strange sensation, passing through the gates of Sakamaki mansion again. He never thought he'd be returning.

Yui sat opposite him, eyes dulled as she looked out of the window at the greenhouse. When the carriage came to a halt, it shook her from her reverie. Stepping out, Ruki offered her a hand, which she accepted.

Walking into Sakamaki mansion together, Ruki smiled pleasantly the second his eyes met one of the Triplets, Ayato.

"Oh fuck no," he automatically grumbled, marching up to Yui and seizing her elbow. "Oi, pancake. Why'd you bring him here! He caused enough trouble the last time!"

Yui winced, glancing at her arm. "He's just here to investigate Subaru's disappearance."

Casually reaching out and prying Ayato's hand off her, Ruki took off his coat and passed it to a servant. "It's as she says. There's no need to feel threatened unless you had something to do with it."

"How could I!? They were in a foreign country! And didn't you become a lame bookkeeper?"

Breezing by, Ruki walked into the living room. "That was a little while ago. I'm actually a private investigator now," he said, laying eyes on a head of blonde hair. "Also, congratulations are in order, I hear. Yui told me you've come of age, so you're now the Head of the Family?"

Shuu cracked open one lazy eye. "Gross...who opened the doors to this troublesome guy?" He sighed.

"It was pancake," Ayato snipped. "It's like having Reiji back here, only more two-faced and smarmy."

Taking a seat, he ignored their insults and watched as Yui went about making the tea. Without Reiji, he noticed the house seemed a little less spotless than when he'd been there last.

"Mn...there's going to be a dumb party celebrating me becoming the Head," Shuu cut his eyes to the ceiling. "Wish Reiji was here to organise it."

"Oh! You should come, Ruki." Yui turned to him, eyes bright.

"Ruki?! Since when were you on a first-name basis with him?" Ayato hissed, looking between the two suspiciously."

"Since she assigned me to Subaru's missing person's case. Now, can you give me any details of communication between ethier of you and Subaru?"

The brothers recounted that they'd heard nothing from him, and after being served tea, Laito and Kanato joined their conversation. Unfortunately, unlike the last time he'd visited, Ruki had no leads and no motive and was dealing with foreign territory. The smart thing to do would be to give up the case and let the foreign agency deal with it.

Yet one hopeful look from Yui stopped the gears from turning in his mind. Ruki's hand curled into a loose fist, and he exhaled.

He supposed a bit more research couldn't hurt.

OOO

Upon arriving home at his quaint apartment however, he found an unexpected sight on his doorstep. The Chief of Police, his old boss.

Approaching, Ruki shook his hand. "Hello, sir."

"Good evening, Mr. Mukami. I wonder...if I could trouble you with something?"

"No trouble at all," he said, mildly surprised. Since he'd been fired, he hadn't been called on by any of his old colleagues. He invited him into his home, going about the usual pretences of politeness by offering tea.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to investigate into something. We've looked into it ourselves, but considering your history, I thought it prudent to approach you," the man said soberly, bushy brows furrowed. "Reiji was spotted in London."

Ruki opened his mouth to say something, but the man lifted a thick hand.

"Everyone thought that he had committed suicide in prison before his execution, but admittedly it never sat well with me, old chap. So even though I dismissed you from the police, I still admire your skills. I've no doubt you're just as smart as Reiji, so I'm extending this offer; You can redeem your reputation as a detective if you solve Reiji's case and you'll be welcomed back into the police. What do you say?"

He knew this was a shallow offer. The words of admiration were like a bouquet of fake flowers. All talk, just pretty things to say to get him to agree.

But Ruki extended his hand with bright, narrow eyes. His lips curved when they clasped hands. "I won't let you down, Chief."

He'd be agreeing to this for the sake of his own bruised pride, no other reason.

OOO

With two cases to juggle, it was a natural reaction to write to his brothers, calling for their assistance once again. Yuma and Kou had searched the area where the second eldest Sakamaki had been spotted, down at the docks. Whether he'd been disembarking a ship or visiting one of the riverside shops, they didn't know. He seemed to have passed through the area like a ghost.

"I'd say it's guaranteed he used the same vile he used on you to make his escape," Ruki uttered quietly to Yui, sitting beside her. "Posing as a deadman."

The blonde woman watched the guests flitting about around them, fanning herself. The Detective had naturally attended Shuu's celebration, observing the party with a detached air. Sakamaki manor was buzzing with excitement, as it had become infamous for drama. Yui had called him over by carrying the fan in her left hand, leaving it open. Without words, he'd known it to be an invitation to approach. She was sly, using the language of the fan. The Sakamaki's didn't seem to have a clue.

"I remember it made me unable to move," she confessed softly, folding her hands in front of her. She wore a soft pink dress, gloves lacy and white. Ruki had never seen her wear colour before, and slid his gaze down her skirts. The rosary had returned to the safety of her fingers. "I couldn't feel anything, do or speak a thing. Everything had to be arranged beforehand. Did you manage to find the man who must have helped him escape?"

Ruki nodded, "he got paid off, naturally. But his usefulness begins and ends there. He pulled the exact same stunt with switching a body, but of course, I wasn't assigned to the case, so Reiji got away with it. Why he'd linger in London, I've no idea."

"Do you think he has something to do with Subaru's disappearance?" She asked.

"Not certain yet. I can't begin to imagine what motive he'd have," he muttered, glancing around. "Wonder where the Head of the family slipped off to."

Yui stared head of her, not hearing him. She could picture it so clearly. The last time she'd seen her lover.

He'd lingered inside the train station with her, a hood drawn up over her hair as she tried to be as discreet as possible. He kept hold of her hand, squeezing it and resting his forehead against hers.

"Go and don't look back. I'll find you, alright?" He swore, kissing her. "I promise."

"Yui?"

She blinked, starting and looking up with wide eyes. "Y-yes?"

Ruki rose a brow. "You look pale. Are you quite well?"

"Very well! I-um, forgive me but I must excuse myself to um, powder my nose." She curtseyed, hurrying from the room. Watching her go, Ruki felt mild concern, before crushing it under his heel.

Instead, the Detective set his sights on the Triplets that happened to be enjoying themselves with a game of poker. Teddy also had a set of cards.

"Good evening, gentleman."

Ayato glanced up sharply, souring. Laito smiled easily. "Ah, hello~ would you like to join us?"

Shaking his head, he opened his jacket pocket. "No need, I just needed you all to look at this for a moment and tell me who it belongs to, specifically."

Bringing out the long silver necklace that held the Sakamaki crest, Ruki glanced around as their faces became ashen.

"How the fuck did you get that?" Ayato said slowly.

"It was found at Subaru's last known location. Yui seemed quite certain it wasn't his-"

"No," Kanato murmured, eyes grave. "It was our late mother's necklace."

Ruki rose a brow. "Cordelia? How do you think it came to be across the seas?"

"Hm, perhaps Uncle Richter had something to do with it? He was our father's brother but carried on with her behind his back," Laito smiled. "You'll have a hard time getting a hold of him though."

"Why?"

"No one has seen him for years~"

OOO

Yui grasped her skirts, hurrying up the large staircase. Reaching the top, she made a sharp turn- reaching for the door to the bathroom and tugging it open. Once she was inside, it fell shut behind her, leaving her in the quiet space. Pressing rose-pink eyes tightly shut, she exhaled a shaky breath, fighting tears.

Padding shakily to the mirror, she adjusted her hair, dimly noticing movement behind her.

"Ah!" Jumping, she pressed a hand to her chest. "Shuu! What are you doing in here?"

The blonde happened to be reclined in the bathtub, wearing his best clothes the servants had dressed him in. Water lapped around him as he shifted, opening one eye.

"Hiding. Just like you."

Yui blushed, fussing with her skirts. "No I am not, I-I'm just taking a breather."

"Mn..." he stayed where he was, faintly amused.

"Aren't you...happy to be the Head of the Family?" She asked gently.

"Not exactly. Sounds like a pain."

"It doesn't have to be," Yui approached, smiling slightly. "Reiji might not be here to oversee everything, but I'll be staying here now. I can help, if you need anything."

Tired blue eyes watched her quietly. She forced a wider smile and placed her hands on his arm. "Come. The first way I can help is by helping you come back downstairs to greet the guests. They came here to see you," she chided.

Shuu huffed, sighing overdramatically and forcing himself to sit up. The water sloshed and lurched as he slowly stood in the tub, Yui gripping his waist and shoulder to try and keep him upright.

The door swung open soundlessly then. Yui looked up just in time to see a tall man dressed in dark clothes lift his arm. A shiny black hand-gun caught the light, sliding out from his coat.

Her eyes flew wide- words catching in her throat as Shuu suddenly grabbed her, turning so that his chest filled her sights. Three loud bangs then filled her ears, Yui's scream joining them. The body before her jolted, before Yui lost her grip and balance, falling back into the tub with a splash and bringing Shuu down with her.

Yui panted, cracking her eyes open and looking up at the eldest Sakamaki. Wet hair plastered to his brow. Wide blue eyes stared ahead uncomprehendingly. It was the most awake she'd ever seen Shuu. The water lapping around them sounded too loud.

Slowly, dazedly, she noticed that water blooming red. It seeped up, coating her hair as it trailed in the tub.

And then the real screaming began.

Guests flew into the bathroom. Shuu was moved off her. Yui barely felt the hands lifting her out of the water, her head lulling against a shoulder as she blinked up, finding blue-grey eyes looking down at her.

Everything blurred, swinging down into darkness after that.

OOO

"Miss Komori."

She gripped the rosary tight, knuckles bleeding bone pale.

"Komori-"

The voice sounded so far away.

"Yui." A hand covered hers, rousing the woman.

Ruki had knelt before her as she sat, slightly shaking in the doctor's office. After being examined, it became apparent she had no injuries, merely suffering from severe shock. A nurse had changed her out of wet clothes, leaving the woman in a plain beige dress with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The doctor lingered, looking mildly concerned.

"I need you to tell me if you can remember seeing the person who did this, Yui." Ruki spoke slowly. "A description. Anything."

Her lips pressed tightly together, a small sound escaping her, before her head bowed and she shrank into her self.

"I don't think you'll get anything out of her, Detective." The Doctor muttered gravely. "The experience seems to have shaken her nerves too badly."

His thumb stroked her knuckles slightly as Ruki watched the young woman begin to sob. He then tilted her chin up, looking at her. "Listen to me. I just heard from the medical staff outside; Shuu Sakamaki is alive," he murmured. "Do you understand?"

Yui stared, trembling. Steel fingers then latched onto his clothes. "A-alive?"

He nodded, jolting as she threw herself into his arms then, making a half-sob, half-relieved noise. Ruki awkwardly set a hand on her head, stroking the damp locks as he murmured low, comforting words for only her ears. He wasn't usually this soft.

But he allowed it.

What he didn't say, was that Shuu had slipped into a coma.

OOO

After leaving, Ruki decided to take Yui back to his home. Though it was improper to have a young, unmarried woman in the house of a bachelor, alone and unchaperoned, he hardly cared. He was not Subaru Sakamaki, who fretted over reputations. She had wailed and cried whenever he mentioned returning to Sakamaki manor, so the choice had been made for him.

His brothers joined him now, having made Yui a bath. Ruki cooked some food, while Azusa helped set the table. Even Kou behaved himself as they all ate. All the while, she never spoke a word.

The next day, when Yui seemed calmer, Ruki finally led her over to a chaise lounge, leaning her back.

"Alright Yui, I'm going to try something to help make you remember what happened. I know it's difficult, but it's important you tell me any details you can recall."

Her eyes remained subdued, focused on the floor. The other Mukami's glanced at each other.

Ruki touched her hand, drawing her attention to him. "Just think of it as something you need to do for Shuu."

"For...Shuu?"

He nodded, and Yui settled back, asking him to start. He smiled slightly, drawing out a watch on a long thin chain.

"I studied this for a little while. It's called hypnosis. Keep your eyes on the watch. When I snap my fingers, you're going to cast your mind back to yesterday evening." He commanded softly as it began to gently swing from side to side. Rose pink eyes followed it's progress, eventually being lulled into a relaxed state as he spoke calmly. "When I snap them a second time, you'll wake up. Close your eyes now, Yui."

Tired lids slid shut, a strangely peaceful expression on her face. He then snapped his fingers.

"Cast your mind back. Back to the night when the Sakamaki's held a party to celebrate Shuu becoming the Family Head. Do you remember what you did when you saw me?"

"Yes," she murmured. "I signalled you over with my fan."

"Good, and after we finished speaking, you hurried away. Can you say where you went?"

"To the...bathroom. Shuu was in there, he said...he didn't want to join the party."

That sounded about right. Ruki opened his mouth to ask more, but she continued in a faint, shuddering voice. "I managed to get him standing, but the door opened and- and a man walked in."

He leaned forward. "Do you remember what he looked like?"

A small noise escaped her, like a cry to stop. To not pry any further. "I can't...see his face. It's hidden."

"Tell me any other details, Yui. Anything. His clothes. The gun."

"His clothes were black, and he w-wore a long coat. The gun had..." she frowned softly. "A crest on it's side...with two dogs and the words; Nullius in verba."

Ruki stood, hands curling into fists. "Take nobody's word for it."

"Huh?" Kou piped up.

"It's the saying the Royal Society goes by. So that's where the gun came from. Looks like I'll be paying them a little visit," he mused, before snapping his fingers to wake Yui.

Yuma rose a brow. "Why the hell would they give out a gun?"

"They wouldn't. But sometimes they keep various things in display cases. I'd wager one went missing," Ruki muttered, before grabbing his coat and heading out the door.

"Ruki!" A voice exclaimed behind him, before Yui hurried out, grabbing at his clothes. "L-let me come with you."

Doubt must have shown in his expression because she drew herself up to her full height (which wasn't very high) and frowned. "I promise I won't hinder your investigation. I want to help get to the bottom of this."

Ruki gave a put-out sigh but nodded in acceptance, smiling teasingly when she huffed.

OOO

Stepping up the white steps into the prestigious building, the couple passed by an old man seated at a bench.

"Terrible, just terrible," the man muttered, looking at his newspaper. 'Attack on the homeless!' It read. 'Downtown plagued by five kidnappings in a row. Bodies laid plain sight on the streets the next day!'

Ruki's lips curved wryly. The work never ends.

Padding inside, they were greeted by a woman at the front desk. After flashing his documents permitting him to search the premises, Ruki was given free rein to look anywhere. However, he only deemed it necessary to visit the various historical items out on display on the second floor. He'd also asked if Reiji Sakamaki had paid the place a visit, but the woman had found no record of such a thing.

Yui strayed from his side, brushing gloved fingers over surfaces. Ruki happened upon a space in a display case that looked oddly like something had been there previously. He called a tall male attendant over, who confirmed it was where the ceremonial pistol had been kept. But it had inexplicably gone missing a few days prior.

"The glass wasn't smashed?" Ruki asked.

"No, sir. We don't know how it happened."

"Seems obvious. Whoever got in obtained the key from somewhere," Ruki glanced around. It was a very large, imposing building. Only someone who knew it well would know where to find the key. "Reiji Sakamaki's research and findings were explored and celebrated here, were they not? Do you know anyone who supported him who works here?"

The attendant shook his head, deep lines under his dark eyes. "Not at all."

Ruki dismissed him, searching around the cabinet himself. He could find no sign of forced entry, but felt absolutely certain the murder weapon had come from the establishment.

Yui's eyes drifted over the jewellery that had been removed from patients. Obviously they'd had no surviving relatives to pass them down to, so the building had kept them.

"Do you like necklaces?"

She jumped, glancing behind her to smile at the attendant. "They're quite pretty, but too fine for me."

"I find that hard to believe," his lips tugged up at the edges.

For some reason though, the look on his face made a thrum of uncertainty skitter down her spine. Still, she kept chatting, presenting herself as a mild-mannered clueless girl.

When it was time to leave however, Yui curled her hand on the crook of Ruki's arm, feeling the attendants heavy gaze boring into her back.

"It's ridiculous no one seemed to know who kept the keys to the cabinets. They're certainly hiding something," Ruki muttered. Perhaps if he returned with the police it would loosen their tongues.

"Mn..."

Ruki glanced down at her as they padded down the white steps. "You're quiet."

"O-oh, I'm sorry. It's just something that man said to me."

"The attendant?"

"Yes, for some reason, he called me Cordelia."

Ruki stopped dead. "Cordelia?" He repeated slowly, calm voice dipping into steel. It caused his companion to look at him worriedly, nodding faintly. He quickly pulled away from her, racing back up the stairs.

Yet no matter how long he searched, Ruki found no trace of the attendant. When describing him as a tall older man with long dark hair, the receptionist revealed that no such man matching his description worked there.

OOO

The apartment lay quiet and undisturbed when they returned. Ruki didn't exactly know how Richter fit into the jumbled mess the case had become, or if he were linked with Reiji or Subaru, or both at the same time. What he did know, was that he was tired.

Ensuring the front door had been bolted shut, he strictly instructed Yui not to leave his home for any reason.

After supper, they each retired to their rooms, and the Detective settled down in bed for the night. He therefore did not expect the knock on his bedroom door at ten minutes to midnight.

Opening it, he found miss Komori waiting outside. Her eyes widened slightly at his state of undress, wearing only pyjama bottoms.

"I apologise f-for the disturbance at the late hour but..." she trailed off, voice croaking. Her skin was flushed, cheeks wet.

Ruki exhaled, gaze dragging up her nightgown. "I'd invite you in, however you must be aware of how unorthodox it would look."

She laughed without humour. "There's no one here to see, but my reputation lies in tatters anyway. I just...don't want to be alone," Yui admitted smally.

He wondered if the thought of Subaru had her hesitating, but Ruki stepped aside, allowing her entry. Yui padded in, expression shattering into gratitude. As he turned to pull the door shut behind her, a small noise escaped her.

"R-ruki, your back..."

Lean muscle locked. The burns on his shoulder blades gave a phantom ache. "Ignore them," he muttered coldly, padding to a draw and pulling out a shirt to cover up the marks.

"Y-you don't need to do that- I think they look beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

"Yes, almost like the remnants of angel wings."

Ruki gave a short, cruel laugh. "Brands are pretty to you? How interesting," he muttered snidely, joining her as she sat on the bed hesitantly, holding her arms.

"I've noticed...you keep everyone at arms length Mr. Mukami. Even your brothers to some extent. Is it because of what happened when you received those marks?"

Blonde hair scattered over the covers as Yui found herself on her back, staring up at dark blue-grey eyes. Ruki braced himself over her, nose slightly brushing hers, lips inches away from each other. Their breaths intermingled.

"I told you to ignore them. If you're disobeying me, miss Yui, surely you know there are consequences to be faced."

Yui swallowed, completely frozen. He slowly leaned in further, until her soft-looking mouth was a mere hair's breadth away- before she turned her head, his lips pressing to a crimson cheek instead.

"I-I'm sorry," she murmured, small hands curling into fists. "I can't. I'd be betraying Subaru."

The Detective leaned back slightly, observing her strained expression. Chuckling quietly, pale fingers stroked some hair back from her face. "It's fine. I was merely playing my part as the snake who tempted Eve," he muttered quietly, a jaded touch to his voice.

Yui blinked and shifted herself up as he pulled away. "I remember you called me Eve before, a long while ago. What do you mean?"

"It's nothing. I just liken you to her," he muttered, grabbing a cover as he sat in an armchair, getting comfortable. "And Subaru to Adam."

"Would any man I chose be considered Adam?" She asked, watching as he shifted the cover over himself.

Ruki glanced away, lips thinning. "No. I think only certain ones are fit to be your partner. I, certainly could never be. I'm just the serpent."

Yui's brows drew together, and she offered him the bed to sleep in, to which he declined. They spoke no more that night, though it brought him no short amount of pleasure and satisfaction to see the woman fall asleep in his bed.

He'd take his victories where he could get them.

OOO

Setting out the next day for the morgue, Ruki left his guest behind. Yui promised not to leave the house in his absence.

He took a horse, letting it trot at its own pace. The purpose of the visit was to find out what Azusa knew about the homeless people's corpses.

Something about the article in the newspaper yesterday bothered him. The timing, for one. If Azusa could confirm his theory, that the bodies had been experimented on, then it stood to reason that Reiji was behind it. But why?

If he was the one who had tried to kill Shuu, for what purpose?

Smelling something in the air, Ruki pulled at the reins sharply, looking up dimly. Smoke. Smoke and flame rising above the buildings. Coming from-

Ruki's eyes widened. He then nudged the horse to begin galloping, racing by the crowd of onlookers on the streets until he stopped before Azusa's workplace, the Hospital. He spied the undertakers standing with the Doctors, and dismounted, sprinting over.

"Where's my brother! Where is Azusa Mukami!"

One of the undertakers looked at him, slightly pale. "O-oh, Detective Mukami, it's you. I-I'm sorry but in all the confusion, I didn't have time to get to him."

Ruki grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. "What do you mean 'get to him'! Don't tell me h-he's still trapped inside!"

"No, sir! It's just that I saw a man in black put Azusa in the back of a wagon. Your brother seemed to be unconscious- ah, sir- wait!"

He wasn't listening anymore. Ruki swung back onto his horse, hurrying away from the heat of flames at his back and the dark plume of smoke curling up beyond the city.

But as he galloped downtown, there were more onlookers. And yet another black stain spiralling into the air. Flames licked up the sides of Yuma's prized pub, The Sow.

Ruki felt sweat slide down the back of his neck. This couldn't be happening. Kou would have been performing at his time. Where? Where were they?

"E-excuse me, Detective?"

Dark, maddened eyes swung down. The young, thin woman flinched from where she stood below. She had dirty, slightly ripped clothes. Homeless, most likely. She reached up to him, handing up a piece of paper.

"A man asked me to give this to you."

Ruki unfolded it carefully, his abdomen tightening with dread.

'Mr. Ruki Mukami.' It read in cursive, flawless writing. 'I trust you suspect by now what is happening. I do in fact have your brothers in my possession, so there's no need to keep worrying. If you'd like to set them free, please bring the deed to Sakamaki manor with you and come to this location, alone-'

He blinked, looking up. The woman was long gone, having melted back seamlessly into the bedraggled crowd.

'If you contact the police, your brothers will be killed on the spot.'

OOO

There had been no need for the kidnapper to leave a name at the bottom of the note, Ruki knew instinctively who it was from. Walking into the shadows of an old, abandoned warehouse near the docks, Ruki glanced around, noting the complete silence.

The atmosphere felt too large yet stifling. As though the very building could swallow him whole. Padding further in, he noted steel double doors in the ground, and decided to reach down and tug at a handle. It gave, creaking open. What awaited him were grimy looking steps that led down into the abyss, but a faint light could be seen further down.

With his appearance remaining masterfully calm, Ruki opened the other door and descended into the dark.

Upon reaching the bottom and turning a corner however, a crack split Ruki's facade of calm.

There were four people against the opposite far wall. Their hands were bound above their heads, wrists encased in shackles. Three unconscious men and a woman. All save one had a small black sack over their heads, only Yuma's left uncovered as a man stood beside him, readying a sack, before reaching up and sliding it over his head.

Reiji blinked and turned at the company. "Ah, you're finally here. A little tardy, aren't you?" He snipped.

Assessing the situation, Ruki failed to see any weapon on Reiji, but that didn't mean he was unarmed. Within the room lay a table and two chairs facing each other, with a chessboard atop it. Up against a wall was a desk with a few beakers and vials, along with a caged rat. There was also a telephone.

"Did you bring the deed to the house?" Reiji prompted when the Detective remained quiet.

"Yes," he finally replied. "Why are you doing this? And how...did you manage to kidnap Yui along with my brothers? I left her back at the house. You must have an accomplice."

"That hardly matters. Shuu is dead now, and since I hear that Subaru isn't around to claim Father's ridiculous condition of a murderer inheriting his fortune, naturally everything should fall to the second in line to inherit."

Ruki's expression flickered. He really thinks Shuu is dead. "Well, I have the deed. Now let them go."

Just then, a loud ringing filled the room. Reiji casually brought out a gun and trained it on Ruki as he wandered over to it and answered. "Yes? Ah, I see. Thank you."

Blue-grey eyes narrowed as Reiji glanced at him. "I hear there hasn't been any police sighted in the area. What good manners you have, for a former street urchin."

Ruki's hands curled into loose fists. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Padding over to the lab rat calmly, Reiji reached into his jacket and pulled out a syringe. "I've done a bit of research on you for this event. You're a former aristocrat whose father became bankrupt. Subsequently, your mother left with her new lover, prompting your disgraced father to take his life. Your mansion was ransacked, and you became much like this little rat here. Caged. But your cage was an orphanage," he muttered, opening the lid and lifting out the rat in his palm.

Ruki grit his teeth, heart thundering in his ears. He knew this was payback. Revenge for catching the scientist last time. But he would not crack.

Presenting the rat to him, Reiji lifted the syringe. "This contains a type of poison of my own creation. It's mixed with a toxin that causes paralysis that will stop the heart of a human in 15 minutes," he said, injecting the rat.

Ruki watched mutely, as Reiji set the rat down in the cage. "So, we're going to play a game of chess. It's tedious, I know. But I can't help but be a little bitter. Father lavished more attention on Shuu, so naturally, I came to hate him."

Red wine eyes pinned the Detective in place then. "So imagine my...irritation, when I find out that you and your brothers were raised by him in secret."

Jealousy? He'd go so far for something that petty?

"Why do you want to play chess, exactly?" He asked with a sinking feeling.

"I'd have thought it would be obvious by now that we're playing for some high stakes," Reiji grinned jaggedly. "If I win, I get the deed to the house and destroy you along with your brothers and that woman. If you win, I'll give you the antidote to the very poison I injected into your loved ones mere seconds before you arrived here."

"What?! So-"

Reiji hummed, glancing at the clock on the wall apathetically. "Yes. I imagine by now, you have around 12 minutes to beat me, Mr. Mukami. Or I win by default when the poison causes them all to die." He glanced at them then, malevolent satisfaction rolling off him in waves. "What'll it be?"

There wasn't exactly a choice.

Sitting down at the table, Ruki's hands curled into fists on his knees when Reiji joined him, sitting opposite.

A terrible, shrill shriek came from within the cage. The rat twitched, soon laying still. Reiji lifted his eyes and gestured to Ruki. "Let's begin then. White goes first."

OOO

Ruki stiffly reached out and moved his cream-white pawn, drawing his opponent into conversation. "That poison you're using...is that the same one you've developed by kidnapping homeless people and experimenting on them?"

"So you do read the paper. I had wondered," Reiji uttered, moving his Knight into the game. "It is."

"Why return to London? You could have lay low in a foreign country." He asked, pushing his Bishop behind his pawn.

Reiji moved another piece. "To live for the sake of it sounds like a disgusting notion that my late brother would enjoy."

Ruki paused, before moving his Rook.

"I have my pride," Reiji snipped, taking the Detective's pawn with his Knight and gaining a small smirk. "My findings were shared around the Royal Society. But I'm also determined to gain that which has been so long denied to me."

"And so you teamed up with your Uncle?" Capturing Reiji's Knight with his Rook, Ruki's lips also curve. He'd taken the bait. Ruki had sacrificed the pawn on purpose.

This caused his opponent to frown slightly. "Don't refer to it like that, I simply used him a few times. It was mutually beneficial, but we're by no means partners," he muttered, a little annoyed. He decided to just put his black Queen out, knowing she would do the most damage.

"I notice that Subaru isn't among the hostages." Ruki hummed, moving his Knight out. "I'm therefore assuming it was Richter who was behind his disappearance."

"That's a little presumptuous, but yes."

Ruki watched as Reiji lined the black Queen up, readying itself to capture his Knight.

He decided to move the white Knight out of the way, but left his pawn vulnerable. "That's funny though. You're so committed to your own sense of fairness, wanting what is owed you, and yet you'll accept the help of Richter? From what I've heard, he's a scumbag. Tarnished the family name. Calls into question your self-image a little, doesn't it?"

"My image remains as it was. I am, and always have been the most suited to taking over Father's position," Reiji hissed. In his flustered state, he actually takes the pawn, something he would normally think over a little better.

"But if that's the case, and you were so perfect, why weren't you picked by Father?" Ruki calmly takes the dark Queen with his Rook, in a move that mimicked the one which took Reiji's Knight. Distraction, decoy, then capture. A cold sweat had broken out onto his neck, despite his unaffected expression. Time kept weighing heavy on his mind.

His opponent made a low noise. "You are not my equal, therefore your opinions are beneath me," he muttered lowly as Ruki set the newly captured Queen down along with Reiji's other lost pieces, contemplating them for a moment.

"Mn," Ruki looked at him. "It's not an opinion if I'm just stating facts. They all preferred Shuu, didn't they, Reiji?" He asked, glancing at the clock.

"Shall we speak of people's preferences?" Reiji spat, seething. His cruel mouth upturned at the corners, "you're lusting after a woman that is already spoken for. Yui has no feelings for you!" He snatched his white bishop with his own. "You'll remain in a limbo of unresolved want. Pining like a dog. She will wait for Subaru as long as she lives, ignoring you completely as you beg for scraps of her affection!"

Ruki stiffened, emotions raging hotly under his skin. He remembered the moment she'd turned her cheek for his lips to touch.

"You think I don't know?" He said quietly, voice subdued as he took another pawn, disinterested in it. For some reason though, in the hollow of his chest, none of Reiji's words reached him. When he closed his eyes, Yui's face appeared in the recesses of his mind and smiled gently at him. Beautiful, she'd said.

"I'll tell you what I think. I think you're a hack Detective who was taken in by a man above your station. It's led you to want the finer things beyond your reach, but you are nothing. A disgraced aristocrat and street urchin." Reiji grinned sharply, moving a piece. "A half breed Livestock."

Viciousness skittered out along his veins, and something cold shifted within the Detective.

"That so?" Ruki asked, reaching out and claiming the black King via his other white Bishop. He then levelled a narrow, hateful gaze at Reiji. "Check."

Dark, red-wine eyes widened, flitting around the board. "You cheated. That's quite impossible."

"No it's not, brother..." a tired voice called.

The two looked up then, Reiji's face paling at the sight of his elder brother. Shuu leaned against the wall near the stairs, hand resting on his abdomen, the wounds still tender. But he was dressed and up walking about, looking more awake than usual.

"H-how?" Reiji murmured thinly, soon standing. "I saw you get hit! The papers printed the date and time of your death!"

Ruki also stood, adjusting his clothes. "Yes, well. I may have had something to do with that. But let's save this conversation," he muttered, pulling a gun from his jacket and levelling it at Reiji. "I won. Now inject the antidote and let them go."

"This is further proof you cheated! I told you not to-"

"Contact the police, yes. You said nothing about asking anyone else to come along."

Shuddering, the man swung his gaze to stare at Shuu, pale and slightly dazed as though seeing a ghost. He grit his teeth, yanking out his own gun to train it on Ruki. The Royal Society seal gleamed on its side.

"Ah..." Shuu drawled. "Was that my murder weapon?"

Reiji made a faint noise, eyes widening when Shuu also trained a gun on him. "It's two against one, brother, and the police are waiting outside. I called them myself," the blonde sighed tiredly. "That's enough now. Let's stop dancing to Father's tune. He'd sure be happy all this drama happened because of him, wouldn't he?"

The gun trembled slightly, Reiji's finger poised over the trigger. He then slowly, reluctantly, lowered it.

Shuu didn't flinch at the look Reiji sent his way, a rehearsed, old hatred clinging to his eyes.

The scientist was soon shoved to the victims, injecting them with a clear looking vial. Ruki tugged off Yuma's black bag, then Kou's and Azusa's, breath shaking with palpable relief. He'd never felt more afraid.

When it came to Yui, he carefully lifted the material off, seeing a waterfall of blonde hair slide free.

His muscles then locked.

Reiji found himself shoved into the wall, a fist slamming into his cheek. It caused the glasses perched over his face to fly free, clattering to the floor.

"WHERE IS SHE!" Ruki snarled, heedless of Shuu's hand on his arm as more footsteps sounded out, the police joining them in the basement.

Pale lips drew back as Reiji flashed a sharp smile. "No idea. Richter could be anywhere with her by now. You didn't seriously think he'd help me out for free, did you? He required a paymen-" another fist slammed into his jaw, before the police wrestled Ruki off him.

"You let me think it was her, bastard!" He shouted, struggling and snarling until his throat strained.

OOO

The Mukami brothers were set free, and after a brief reunion with the Detective, they were led outside to sit in a wagon awaiting the hospital. The unknown woman also sat with them, looking shaken. Reiji was led away in cuffs, head held high, back straight.

Shuu lingered near Ruki, who paced back and forth, like a tiger padding the length of his cage. "Would he take her to the docks? It's possible he knows that's where I'd check first, maybe he-"

"Oi."

"There's always leaving London by carriage, anyone can hire a-"

"Oi, Detective."

"Maybe if I just-" Ruki tripped over something, falling to the ground in a heap. He then growled, looking up at Shuu, who had casually tripped him. "What is it?" He snapped.

"I've got someone you'll want to meet," he drawled, padding away at a leisurely pace.

Ruki growled, picking himself up from the floor of the warehouse and following the blonde Sakamaki out of the building. They rounded the side of the structure, until a hooded figure came into view, leaning against the wall. When the man noticed their approach, he pushed off it, lowering the hood to look at Ruki soberly.

He stilled instantly, eyes widening. "S-Subaru Sakamaki?"

The white-haired young man frowned, very much alive and breathing. He lifting the hood up again. "I know where she is. Let's hurry this up. Ya can either call the police over to arrest me right here and now and get that dumb recognition back that you probably want, or we can save Yui."

Ruki didn't even need to think. "Let's stop wasting time and go."

OOO

Yui shifted, groaning quietly. Her eyes cracked open, shapes slowly sharpening into focus.

"You're awake."

Shifting, she became aware of her position, leaning against a wooden beam with her arms wrapped around it. Tugging, she realised her wrists were bound with rope. There was a sharp smell in the air.

Raising her head, she noticed the man from before. The attendant. He was walking around what looked to be a greenhouse, pouring an oily, thick dark-coloured liquid onto the floor from a container.

This greenhouse...it's Subaru's! Yui grit her teeth. The Triplets wouldn't be at home at this time of day. He must have snuck in without the servants noticing.

"W-what are you doing? Why am I here? A-and who are you?"

He turned, discarding the container that had the word 'petroleum' its side. A black, gloved hand then seized her chin, making her look up at him. "Don't you remember?" He purred. "During your missionary work. Think back."

Rose-pink eyes widened, flitting over his face. "You...you were on the street. I think I gave you food and clothes."

"Yes. A year ago," he stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. "None have shown me such kindness. Not since Cordelia. I'm quite certain you have been reincarnated into this girl, my love." His eyes were hazy. "I'm sorry I failed you. I had plans to kill Karl myself to gain you in the inheritance after hearing the terms of the will. But that white-haired brat beat me to it. Not to worry though, I got rid of him..."

Yui's breath halted, before she latched her teeth onto his thumb and bit down with all her strength. Richter let out a snarl, yanking his digit free and backhanding her across the face.

She yelped, but glared. "You're the reason Subaru disappeared! Where is he?!"

"Dead, you foolish girl!" He snapped, dark eyes glowing. He then softened, voice dazed, "just as we shall be. Then we may...reunite and be together in the...afterlife my dear sweet Cordelia."

Yui's cheek stung, but she ignored it, shaking her head. "I'm not Cordelia! Please, let me go. You don't have to do this!"

Richter lit a match, holding it up. "I must. It's clear the authorities and that low-life Detective will not let me have you any other way. Do not be afraid," he murmured, letting it pass through his fingers easily.

The match fell, landing in the dark liquid and instantly lighting up. It sparked a trail of fire all around the room, racing up the walls where he'd flung the petroleum onto. Yui cried out, moving her legs out of the way of a nearby flame, heart racing.

Fire caught onto the neglected plants and flowers Subaru had once cared for. They'd planted some of them together. Yui's eyes filled with tears, heart stinging and aching. She felt the weight of her betrayal sinking deep within her chest, because it was not her beloved's name she wanted to say.

"...Ruki," the name slipped out. "Ruki!"

She cried out now, tears leaking down her face. They stung, and combined with the heat of the flames and sharp smoke, Yui squeezed them shut, shuddering.

"YUI!"

Her breathing hitched. Eyes snapped wide open as the doors to the greenhouse were slammed into. But locks held them in place. Soon after, a figure crashed through one of the panels, shattering the glass.

Richter turned, snarling and drawing a gun, only for a second figure to crash through, tackling him.

Yui looked up as Ruki ran to her, the flames catching around his legs. He didn't seem to notice as he bent down, slashing her binds free with a knife. She instantly threw herself into his arms, grabbing his hand and coughing.

"Hurry! We must go!"

Ruki nodded, lifting her in his arms so that her skirts were out of reach of the trailing flames, hurrying outside onto the grass. Servants raced outside from the main estate, while Shuu hung back, shuddering.

Yui coughed, leaning into Ruki as his clothes were patted down by servants, putting out the stray flames. "W-who was the other man who helped you?" She murmured.

The Detective stilled, before looking at the burning greenhouse. He made to move forward, when a loud shot rang out.

Shuu paled, chancing a look at the fire. Ruki's eyes widened, everything seeming to stop for a moment. He then saw a figure wander out of the greenhouse.

Subaru collapsed to his knees, cursing and coughing the smoke from his lungs. He sneered to himself, glancing behind him as the greenhouse collapsed in on itself.

The woman could barely believe her eyes, shock rendering her speechless. Yet nothing stopped Yui from racing forward, stumbling across the grass frantically.

"Subaru!" She cried, collapsing into his waiting arms and sobbing as they clung to each other.

Ruki watched soberly, seeing no sign of injury on the Sakamaki. He must have turned Richter's gun on the madman and ended it. He turned, walking back towards Shuu with an emptiness in his chest he knew wouldn't be easily filled. But this was the outcome he'd predicted, and he'd live with it. She was happy, and safe.

That was enough.

Subaru soon guided Yui away from the towering flames, rubbing at his eyes and glancing around as they stood together.

"What's wrong?" She asked, clinging to him. He felt so solid and real.

"The police will be here soon. I should...I should be going."

"I'm coming with you-"

"No."

Yui's breath caught, and she stared, uncomprehending as he raised her hand to his cheek, leaning into it. "A life on the run doesn't suit you. We had some great months togther...just us. I was happy then. I really was," he swallowed, pulling her hand away. "But...I always felt like you didn't belong there. London's your home, right? You love it here. And I guess I've...been watching you for a few days," he admitted.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin' you should turn around, and go solve cases with that Detective."

Her eyes widened, fingers weakening in his shirt. She suddenly felt exposed. Her secret on full display. "Subaru- whatever you think...it's not-"

"I've got eyes, don't I?" He tsked, nudging her on the head with his fist lightly.

The sound of hooves drew clother, wagons pulling up at the Sakamaki manor. The police dismounted, starting to rush over towards the servants and Ruki.

Yui felt Subaru's warmth leaving her as he stepped back, pulling a hood up. "Subaru..." she said faintly. "I-I don't understand. I still...I do love you."

Red eyes warmed, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers in a rush. Pale fingers latched onto her clothes briefly, before they clenched and withdrew. "Same here. But I know a thing or two about knowing what'll make you happier in the long run," he turned, facing away from her.

"P-please send me letters," she murmured thinly. "Promise me, Subaru."

The haired young man glanced at her, a heavy weight in his eyes, before he nodded and slipped away, heading through the bushes to climb over the garden wall.

Yui watched him go, hands sliding up to hold the rosary at her chest. "Goodbye..."

It was a strange sensation to turn away. She raised wet eyes, finding Ruki's figure. When he chanced a look in her direction, expecting them both to be gone, he stilled.

The two looked at each other wordlessly. He then approached with confusion. "Is he coming to get you later?" He asked quietly.

Yui squeezed the rosary, before tilting her chin up and shaking her head. "Subaru...won't be back for me."

Ruki stared, shock visible on his frozen features. She drew closer to him, reaching out to slide petite hands onto his larger one. "Is it alright if I...continue staying with you, Mr. Mukami? I wouldn't...want to impose on your kindness if you don't want me there. I completely understand if-"

"Shut up," he murmured, before gathering her closer. "You can stay. Of course you can stay. Foolish woman."

Feeling his hands rest on the base of her spine, keeping her grounded in the wake of the storm, Yui exhaled shakily. She then inhaled his scent and buried her face in his chest, clinging to him. She felt ashamed for feeling at ease in those arms, but Ruki stroked her hair, easing the shame away.

OOO

After the events of the fire, Reiji was incarcerated with a life sentence, the authorises not trusting a death penalty again.

Shuu worked as the family Head, receiving help from Yui to manage his affairs from time to time.

Yuma started to re-building his pub, with help from its patrons and his brothers. No one attended Richter's funeral.

And if one employed a certain Detective Mukami, they'd find that he was often joined by his wife on cases, who also doubled as his secretary. She had a sharp eye for details, and could sometimes be seen with a happy glow about her countenance, revelling in the trill of a new mystery at hand.

End

#Diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers fanfiction #diahell #dialovers #Ruki mukami #mukami brothers #sakamaki brothers #yui komori

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antspaul · 5 years

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happy holidays @lollercakesff !!! I wrote you a fic! I hope you enjoy it ~ and have a wonderful holiday season!

I am posting the fic here, as well as on ao3, as it’s a little long (~10k).

charity (who is helping who?)

Summary: AU in which Anne is a little more poor but just as vivacious while Gilbert is a lot more wealthy and a little more cowardly.

Based somewhat loosely on the book Daddy Long Legs, written in 1912 by Jean Webster. There’s a movie with Fred Astaire and a wonderful musical based on the book. I always thought that Jerusha, the main character, was very reminiscent of Anne. The title comes from the song “Charity” from the musical.

PART I.

13 July 1899

Dear Ms. Shirley-Cuthbert,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to receive a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. This scholarship allows deserving young men and women invested in the arts to attend college in pursuit of strengthening their craft. You were selected on the basis of your imaginative and enjoyable writing, which the University hopes that you will pursue once on campus.

The scholarship will cover your tuition and board for the four years it will take you to earn your Bachelor of Arts, provided to you from a very generous benefactor. There is also a small account in your name that will provide for your books. The funds in this account are stable and will not be replenished, so you are advised to spend very wisely. All additional details about your award are on the attached page.

In order to keep your scholarship, you will write your benefactor letters, at least once per month throughout your tenure at the University of Toronto, informing him of your progress, both academic and creative. Your benefactor will remain anonymous, and you may only address him as “Mr. Smith.” The address is provided below. You may use your book account to purchase postage, if necessary.

Congratulations once again. We at the University of Toronto will see you come fall.

Alastair Pendleton

Director of Financial Aid and Scholarships

University of Toronto

1 September 1901

To my magnificent benefactor,

I am sorry but I cannot address you as “Mr. Smith”, not when you have changed my life for the better in such a profound way. I can hardly believe that scarcely two months ago I was lamenting my future stuck on the farm and now I am here at the University of Toronto, ready to learn all there is to know in the world! And I have you to thank.

Please don’t think that I’m an ungrateful child. I truly appreciate everything that everyone has done for me. Until six years ago I lived the sorrowful life of the unwanted child that I was. You see, Mr. Smith, my parents died when I was only three months old. Does knowing I’m an orphan make you think less of me? I hope it doesn’t. I imagine a man as generous and kind as you wouldn’t care. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be giving charity to poor girls such as I.

Anyway, I lived in an orphanage, among other places, until I was thirteen and the most wonderful people in the world adopted me! Their names are Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert and they are brother and sister. I lived with them on a farm on Prince Edward Island. Have you ever been to Prince Edward Island, Mr. Smith? If you haven’t, you must go. I am quite certain it is the most breathtaking beautiful and splendid place on the planet.

I was told when I spoke to Mr. Pendleton in person that you don’t need to know anything about my life beyond my schooling and my writing. But since I will likely be mentioning Matthew and Marilla quite frequently, I thought that I would tell you who they were.

Will you be reading these letters? On the long train ride to Toronto, I thought long and hard about what I would do if I were a mysterious, filthy rich old man giving heaps of money to farm girls who couldn’t otherwise afford college. After a while I just gave up because I am not any of those things and could simply not put myself in your shoes. Marilla always berates me for my vanity, which leads me to think that I could not remain anonymous for very long. My opinion doesn’t matter, of course, but I do hope you read my letters. I intend to pour every speck of gratitude towards you that I possess onto these pages.

What is there left to talk about? Classes don’t start until tomorrow. I know that you wanted to know about my academics, but there isn’t any to talk about yet. I wanted to draft my first letter to you before homework became too overwhelming. Would you like to hear about my friends? My friendships certainly count as personal, but since I will mention them in the future as well, I will introduce them now.

My best friend and roommate is Diana Barry. Oh, how to describe Diana! She is the most dearest girl in the world. I met her when I had just arrived in Avonlea and immediately recognized her as a kindred spirit. Sharing a room with Diana is a dream come true! Her parents are rigid and close-minded. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that because they are also very rich and seem to know every other rich person in North America. I don’t mean to be harsh but I’ve seen them make her cry enough times that I think I am entitled to my opinion of them.

Ruby Gillis is my second best friend. She’s also from Avonlea. She’s a wonderfully nice girl, maybe too nice for her own good. Ruby lacks imagination, perhaps, but sometimes an imagination as big as mine, I have found, can be a burden, as when you can imagine a beautiful future it sometimes leaves the present looking grayer than ever.

Who else is there to mention? Jane Andrews is the only other girl from home who also got in to U of T (University of Toronto, as I’m sure you know — writing it like that gives me such a thrill!) but I doubt I’ll be seeing her much, as she’s taken residence with her aunt and uncle in town. I’ve also met some new girls and we’ve become fast friends. Their names are Priscilla Grant, Stella Maynard, and Philippa Gordon. As I have just come to know them, I can’t tell you much except I can already tell they are kindred spirits. It’s just something you feel. I feel that we are kindred spirits, too, Mr. Smith.

I apologize if this letter has gone on too long, or if it’s not the type of letter you wanted me to send you. The letters that come from my desk usually go to someone I know very well, like my friend Cole or Diana’s Aunt Josephine.

Oh, those are two others I’m sure to mention a lot — Cole is an artist and is the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever come across. Aunt Josephine is a rich old lady who is a sort of parent to Cole. Perhaps you know her, though when I asked Aunt Jo if she was acquainted with an old rich man who sends orphan girls to college to be writers, she said she knew of none.

All that is to say that I don’t know who you are or what sort of person you are but I vow with all of the strength in my heart to do my very best to write these letters well.

Until next month!

Your eternally grateful friend,

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S.: I know you insist on remaining anonymous, but if I were to receive some sort of occasional acknowledgement that you are getting my letters, that would be more than welcome. I only thought I’d let you know.

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

21 April 1902

To my beloved benefactor,

I have not been able to stop smiling all week! Priscilla tells me I look crazed, with this Cheshire grin stretching across my face but I simply can’t contain myself and it’s all because of you! I don’t know how you found out that it was my birthday last week but your gift came just in time. My handwriting has never looked more beautiful than it does underneath the words “FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT.” Just seeing it on my table sends a thrill down my spine knowing you so thoughtfully ordered this for me yourself. How I wish you would have sent some sort of personal note with it. I know you have never answered my questions before, no matter how many I have asked. I am sorry to tell you that you’ll just have to deal with it as I can’t help but want to know you. Can you really blame me?

Classes are going much the same as in my last letter. I retook my geometry test and did much better, I am happy to report, due to Phil’s untiring help with studying. I even started to draft some short stories that I have been thinking about, though I find it difficult to put aside the time to write them as my studies keep me more than busy.

Here, Mr. Smith, is where I get more personal so if you still feel obliged to ignore ramblings about my social life skip to the end of the letter now.

As you know my birthday was last Thursday. Priscilla, Stella, Phil, Ruby, and Diana decided to surprise me and take me out for dinner! They escorted me to the most charming and expensive restaurant within five miles of our boarding house. At first I felt overwhelming unprepared and underdressed for such a formal occasion, sure that I stuck out like a sore thumb around all of the elegant ladies and gentlemen dining nearby. But soon the waiter brought out course after course of wonderful, delicious food and we were having such a pleasurable time that any insecurity slipped my mind completely. For a moment it seemed that nothing at all could tarnish such an impeccable moment!

But of course as soon as this thought entered my mind Gilbert Blythe showed up to ruin the dinner. As I have not yet mentioned Gilbert to you (that I remember, at least) here is all you need to know about him: he did something terribly humiliating to me when we first met in school at age thirteen and I have never forgiven him for it since. If he had left it at that we would be on better terms now but soon after he left Avonlea and on the few occasions we’ve seen each other since he has made a routine of offending me similarly. So as you can see why his presence at my special birthday dinner was less than welcome.

Perhaps, had I not known what kind of person Gilbert is, it would have offended me less when he sent a bottle of wine over to our table and offered to pay for my meal. But no doubt he only intended to flaunt his wealth before us like some peacock parading its feathers! He likely thought we would struggle to afford our meal. I have no aversion to certain types of charity, Mr. Smith, as you know, but his assumptions, and that inappropriate bottle of wine, nearly had me storming out of the restaurant in a rage. Diana and Ruby calmed me down and we politely but sternly declined his offer to the waiter. I didn’t see Gilbert’s reaction but I wish I had seen the smugness drop from his face.

It was a thoroughly exhausting affair. Emotionally, of course.

22 April 1901

I’m sorry for the interruption. I heard Diana call for me and it sounded quite urgent— a bouquet of flowers, it turns out, had arrived at the front door and were addressed to me. Thinking they were a belated birthday gift I readily accepted them. Imagine my surprise when the note inside revealed they were from Gilbert Blythe himself! I wanted to scream from the nerve of him and throw the flowers out but they were still quite beautiful so Ruby convinced me to keep them. The note on the inside wished me a happy birthday and apologized for his impertinence on my birthday. It almost made me regret writing those harsh things about him above. Almost.

Anyway, Mr. Smith, this is where my personal ramblings end if you don’t care to read them. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that I spoke to one of the instructors here about my stories and she said they sounded promising and recommended that I submit one to the University literary journal! I might get published before the end of the term, if all goes well! If you care to read my work, I’ve attached the first four pages of a recent story to this letter.

Yours,

19 year-old Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, soon-to-be published author

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

5 February 1902

To my dear but frustratingly mysterious benefactor,

Can you believe it’s been a year and a half since I found out that you had selected me for the scholarship? I can’t. Since this letter will likely be incredibly short (examinations are upon us and will start soon, so I have little time to write) I wanted to start this letter by offering my undying thanks to you. So here it is: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! And I’m so horribly mortified that I wrote to you in the manner that I did in my January letter. At the time I felt horribly unsympathetic to the wealthy and took out my frustrations on you. I wish every wealthy person were as kind as you. I suppose I really don’t know how kind you are but something tells me you are wonderfully nice.

Classes here are going well. I’ve said it before but I love being a sophomore! I finally feel like I truly belong at the University of Toronto. As much as I love Avonlea— have you visited yet? — I’m equally glad to be exploring the world on my own. As stressful as exams are, I love being at school. Even though I’ve been to only a few places in my life living in a city as large as Toronto makes each new day an adventure. I could explore this city for years and still find new nooks and crannies.

Since time is running short, here are several quick updates:

Ruby is still considering dropping out. Diana and I desperately try everyday to convince her not to, but our pleas seem to have done nothing to change her mind. It will be sad but not totally unsurprising to see her leave.

Ever since Aunt Josephine intervened with Diana’s parents, she has more confidently pursued her music. If you’re ever interested in hearing beautiful songs played on the piano then she plays a concert once a month. You could come and I wouldn’t even know you were there! It would be worth it, I promise.

Stella, Phil, and Priscilla are doing fine as well! Priscilla gets herself into trouble for pulling pranks on our new house matron, but scoldings never seem to bother her. Beautiful Philippa frustratingly has no shortage of suitors willing to do anything for her. It’s maddening in a funny sort of way to watch them trip over themselves to impress her as she pays them barely any notice at all.

What else? I have started to write for the newspaper! Just as I did in school. I will put in the envelope my very first story. It’s only a little book review but seeing my name in print gives me the same thrill as it did last spring when my story was published. I hope this time my writing will be met with less harsh criticism.

Well, that’s all I can think of to say today. I’ll try to send a longer letter next week if I can.

Faithfully,

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. I forgot to ask— if it isn’t too much trouble could you send me more stationery? I’m almost out of the paper that you sent me for my birthday.

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

10 May 1903

My deeply appreciated benefactor,

I deeply apologize for the time it took me to write you this letter. I'm also sorry for how many of my letters start out with an apology. I realize it's been more than a month since I sent my last correspondence. Can it be called correspondence if you never write back? You've sent me gifts, which I cherish with all of my soul, but never once have you sent me a single word back. After three years you'd think I would just resign myself to the fact that all you'll ever be to me is a mystery shrouded in enigma, albeit one I'm relentlessly grateful for. But if you know anything about me by now, Mr. Smith, as you should if you've read any of my letters, is that I am as stubborn as a mule. Every person I've ever worked for or belonged to has said as much.

As I wrote that above paragraph I've realized that some of my words to you could be considered rude. Would you mind terribly if I apologized again? It's just that this week has been one of the worst I have ever experienced. May I tell you about it? I suppose one of the good things about never hearing back from you is that you will never tell me I can't.

As I write this it's Friday, and the dreadfulness started Monday. What makes everything seem worse is that the weekend was so wonderful. Ruby came for a visit, sporting gifts for all of us from her and Moody's recent visit to America. Seeing her glowing face (I think she may be expecting but if she is, I doubt she knows herself) and hearing about how happy she and her new husband are softened the blow of her departure from school last year and everyone had a delightful time. Then she boarded the train back to the Maritimes Monday morning and everything seemed to put on a shade of gray.

For the rest of the day both me and Diana were terribly irritable in our sadness to see her go. Our crossness culminated that night when Diana and I had a horrible argument. I can barely recall how it started— I think that I made some offhand comment disparaging Gilbert and she jumped to his rescue, and everything devolved from there. We were shouting horrible things at each other that should never be said out loud, things we didn't truly mean but hurt regardless. We haven't spoken since and though I know we are both regretful I don't know how to approach her and I think she feels the same. Our friendship isn't over, at least, but I yearn for normalcy. Concentrating in class has proved near impossible, even in the classes Diana and I don't share, because I'm so distracted by my guilt and shame.

To make matters worse, yesterday I checked my mail at the post office and what would be there but not one, but TWO rejection letters from literary magazines. I was reading them up in a secluded tree behind the library, thinking I was alone. The first was firm but polite in their rejection. We regret to inform you that we will not be accepting your work at this time, but please submit more work in the future. The kind of dismissal that comes with an impermanent sting. The next, however, was clearly more personal. The letter described my writing as infantile, superfluous, and shallow— I starting crying on the spot. In my twenty-one years of life, I've been on the receiving end of much harsh criticism, coming from my peers, my teachers, even those I considered my friends. I often turned to writing as a way of comfort and solace in those moments. The thought that I wasn't even good at my one talent was too much to bear. So in my privacy I sobbed harder than I had in years.

But apparently my spot in the tree was not as concealed as I originally thought. Just as I was about to collect myself and climb down, I heard a man clear his throat and call up to me, "Miss, are you alright?"

I looked down and almost fell off the branch as I realized who it was. "Gilbert?" I exclaimed.

He looked surprised to see me, a wonder since that day I wore a bright yellow dress and my hair is as red as ever. "What are you doing up there?" he asked me, knitting his eyebrows together in that infuriating way he always does. "Have you been... crying?"

I shook my head but I'm sure it did nothing to hide my frazzled state.

"Do you need help coming down from there?"

"No," I said but he offered me a hand anyway and I accepted it.

As I brushed the leaves and bark from my skirt he asked me, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

My meltdown had caused me to miss lunch so I accepted. At the tea house, he as always volunteered to pay for everything which I found frustrating but I've gotten more used to Gilbert over the years.

We talked idly for a while. I asked him about his classes. He's a medical student, did I tell you that? Not in medical school yet, but in a pre-medical program. With all of his money, I don't know why he needs a career but I suppose you have to do something to fill your days. Anyway, I knew this term he's had a number of terribly strenuous courses and I was curious how he was handling them. Everything was going well, he said but didn't appear that interested in talking about himself.

"Do you want to talk about why you were so upset earlier?" he asked me suddenly. "I would understand if you don't, of course, but perhaps if you told someone you'd... feel better."

I sighed and pulled the letters from my pocket, handing them over to him. He scanned them quickly, raising his eyebrows.

"Wow," he said once he finished reading. "How could they be so..."

"Blunt?"

"Wrong," he finished. "These people clearly know nothing. "

I was a bit nonplussed at his reaction. "I should have worked harder on the stories, instead of rushing to send them in. I'm more angry at myself than at those who rejected me."

Gilbert shook his head. "Your work is far from shallow, Anne. If you wrote it, then I'm sure it was amazing." He scoffed at the letter.

“I didn’t know you had read any of my writing,” I said.

“I read your articles in the newspaper,” he was quick to reply.

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t judge my writing on those little book reviews in the newspaper.”

“No— I meant the newspaper back home. In Avonlea. Bash would send them to me here, and I always loved what you wrote. Everything you wrote carried so much meaning. That stuck with me.”

"Well, thank you, Gilbert," was all I really could say. I felt a strange burst of affection towards him at that moment and it struck me that we are truly friends. Close friends, as close as I am to Priscilla, Phil, and Stella.

Gilbert has changed these last few years, too. It's the strangest thing. When I first met him and he was a boy of fifteen, he was much like every other boy I met back then— confident, rowdy, foolhardy. Then his father died and on the rare occasion he came back to Avonlea, he seemed to have retreated into himself. We blamed it on the grief and all of the money he came into with his father's inheritance (and, reportedly, that of a wealthy aunt). But recently traces of the old Gilbert, the one who defended me from Billy Andrews and called me Carrots, have resurfaced. I don't know really how I feel about all that. I just know that I was incredibly thankful to have him as a friend yesterday in the tea house.

Anyways, I know that all of that might have been too personal. I'll stop myself now as I hear Diana coming up the stairs and writing this letter has motivated me to mend things with her. I’ll write more to you in a few days with updates on my courses and all of that (everything is well, don’t worry) but I simply wanted to tell someone.

Thankful as always,

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. It’s Saturday now and Diana and I are on good terms again. I showed her the letters and she too thought they were preposterous. Diana has read the stories I sent in and liked them a lot. Because of her confidence and my talk with Gilbert on Thursday I’ve decided to send you one of my stories. I know you at least like my writing so perhaps someone will enjoy them.

PART II.

“It still doesn’t feel real,” Anne told Diana as they walked, arm-in-arm, through the front doors of the lecture hall. “Can you believe that it was three years ago that we first walked into this building for our first class?”

“We were terrified, if I recall,” said Diana. “Look at us now— tall, beautiful, intimidating senior girls!” She struck a pose, silly and exaggerated and the two dissolved into giggles.

They found seats, two right next to each other near the front of the room. Twenty minutes early as they liked to be to every class on the first day, only a few other students had yet arrived.

“I remember being frightened of the older girls when I was a freshman,” Anne said, pulling out her notebook and pen and placing them squarely on the table in front of her. “Now that I am one, I don’t know what there was to be frightened of. I scarcely feel older than I did back then.”

“Do you think that there will be many lower-years in this class?” asked Diana.

“I don’t know. If this course was offered my first term here, I would have stopped at nothing to take it.” Anne breathed out dreamily. “To think we’ll be studying only contemporary women writers— this is exactly the kind of course I envisioned taking when I first thought about going to college.”

“It’s too bad that the others couldn’t fit this into their timetables.”

Anne sighed. “Such is the busy life of a senior. Everyone says that we’ll have loads and loads more coursework this term but I think that I’ll hardly notice if the extra work is something I enjoy. Don’t you agree?”

Diana nodded firmly, and the room started to fill up with other students, mostly girls but a few boys showed up as well. Their instructor, the soft spoken but kind Professor Abbott, arrived five minutes prior to the class’s scheduled start time. He walked through the front door, trailed by none other than Gilbert Blythe, and the two seemed to be engaged in conversation. As they approached the chalkboard and instructor’s desk, Gilbert thanked the man and they shook hands before Gilbert left him.

“Hello Anne, hello Diana,” Gilbert said, standing in front of their table. “May I sit next to you?”

One of the only free seats in the room was right next to Anne, so she nodded, then asked, “You’re in this class?”

Gilbert sat down. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Diana gently elbowed Anne for her rudeness. “We’ll be glad to see you at least twice a week now,” Diana said. “Last term we could barely catch a glimpse of you once a month.”

He chuckled. “Yes, the medical faculty keeps us quite busy. If this is how rigorous pre-medical program is, I can’t even begin to imagine the real thing.”

“You’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” Diana said.

“I have no choice,” replied Gilbert, sardonic but Anne could tell he was in a good mood.

Up front, Prof. Abbott ordered a red-faced sophomore boy to hand out papers with the reading list. He had prepared one paper for every three students, so Anne, Diana, and Gilbert shared a paper.

“Oh no!” Anne exclaimed as she read one title on the list.

“What happened?” asked Diana.

“I forgot to bring a book with me from home. This one here— Elizabeth and Her German Garden— I read it last summer and meant to bring my copy from home so I didn’t have to purchase another. But now I realize that I forgot to pack it, and we’re reading it next week.”

“Don’t despair, Anne, you can borrow mine when I’m done reading the assigned sections,” offered Diana.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Actually, I happen to have an extra copy, if you wanted it, Anne.”

Anne perked up. “Really? Thank you, Gilbert!”

After class ended, Gilbert and Anne said goodbye to Diana and started the walk to Gilbert’s nearby apartment. Gilbert leading Anne, they reached his street only a few minutes later, as Gilbert lived only a street or two away from the main campus of the University of Toronto. The houses that lined the road embodied wealth and luxury. Though she had never been there, Anne knew that Gilbert lived in a small but ridiculously comfortable apartment at the top of one of these red bricked buildings.

She had never been on his street, either, but still the name— Sherbourne Street— felt familiar. As the two ascending the stairs of Gilbert’s building, Anne realized why: somewhere on the street, among its seven miles of fancy house after fancy house, live Anne’s mysterious benefactor.

Anne laughed out loud.

Gilbert turned around and threw up an inquisitive eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Anne. “It’s only that the world of the rich is so remarkably tiny, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” answered Gilbert. “Why do you say that?”

They reached the top step and Gilbert pulled out his key to open his door.

Anne told him, “I’ve realized that you live on the same street as someone I know.”

Gilbert paused, his key only halfway in the lock. “Oh? Who?”

“Well, I’ve never met him. This might sound strange, but he’s— are you going to open the door or not, Gilbert?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Gilbert let them in. “You were saying?”

“He’s an old rich man who’s been paying for my education. I’ve never seen him in person, you see, but I’ve written him letters for the last three years so I feel like I know him quite well.”

Anne followed Gilbert through his apartment, which was quite larger than it appeared on the outside, until they ended up in a large library room with a fireplace and massive chairs with vast, soft-looking cushions. It was exactly the kind of library Anne yearned to possess herself, where she could sit with a warm cup of tea on a cold winter’s day.

“The book is over here,” Gilbert said, pointing to a shelf and directing her there. “So… your… old man has written you back often, then?”

“Well, not exactly. But I believe that you don’t have to know a person to know them.”

“That doesn’t make much sense at all, Anne.”

She pouted. “Never mind then. Maybe it isn’t meant to be understood by anyone else but me.”

He laughed, then, a soft chuckle that surprised Anne in its clarity. He pulled a book off the shelf. “Here it is,” he said, handing over his copy of Elizabeth and Her German Garden.

As Anne took it graciously, she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have another copy on the shelf but decided not to mention it.

The rest of the course was as enjoyable as Anne and Diana had hoped. Tuesday morning before class often brought Anne, Diana, and Gilbert together to a nearby tea house to eat lunch and discuss the week's readings. Anne looked forward to their meeting more than almost anything else. Gilbert seemed to appreciate the literature as much as Anne and Diana, even though the books were by women. He was able to offer both a male and medical opinion, the latter of which being particularly valued in their discussion of The Yellow Wallpaper. Both Anne and Diana thought his enjoyment curious, but their instructor was also a man after all. It wasn't so strange, and to have a man appreciating the words of a woman rather than the other way around was empowering to Anne as a writer herself.

Anne had never seen Gilbert so relaxed as he was during their Tuesday morning book discussions. Usually, in most other occasions when their paths crossed, Gilbert always seemed to be in such a rush, stressed out about business, or class, or some other small thing. Anne had always felt sad for him because of this, but to see him truly at ease painted him in a different light in her mind. His presence became something welcome, more soothing than it had ever been. She had realized they were good friends less than a year ago, and she wondered if Gilbert's father had never died, if business had never kept him away from Avonlea, they would be as good of friends today.

The term flew quicker than Anne had anticipated, as it was want to do, and soon Christmas was over and exam season was upon them. Anne barely caught sight any of her friends for those two weeks, as everyone boarded themselves in their rooms to study and write essays. The only person Anne saw with any sort of regularity was Diana, which only happened because the two shared a room.

The Monday of the second exam week, Anne and Diana decided to take a much-deserved break, going for a stroll in a nearby park to clear their minds.

"Have you seen Gilbert lately?" Anne asked Diana.

"No," said Diana. "I imagine he is incredibly busy with his own exams. Studying for our exams is hard enough. Can you even imagine what his must be like?"

Anne shuddered. "I would rather not. While I find the human body and all its functions endlessly fascinating, I've caught a glimpse of his more complicated textbooks. I won't be joining the pre-medical program any time soon."

"At the very least, we'll see him at the exam for women's literature," said Diana.

But when the day came, Gilbert did not show up. Diana and Anne showed up their usual twenty minutes early, expecting to see their friend, but he was nowhere to be seen.

As the minutes to the exam's start passed, Anne became nervous for her friend. She rose from her chair and said to Professor Abbott, who was seconds away from starting the test, "Excuse me, sir, but shouldn't we wait until Gilbert is here?"

Professor Abbott fixed her with an odd look. "Mr. Blythe won't be sitting the exam."

Had something happened? Had Gilbert dropped the course last-minute? That couldn't be right. He had attended every class.

Anne badly wanted to ask why, worried about her friend, but Professor Abbott gave her no room to do so, starting to read the instructions for their timed essay. She wrote a fine essay, though it took her longer than it would have had she not been so distracted by the empty spot next to her. When the exam finished, Anne wasted not a second to ask her instructor what he had meant.

"Mr. Blythe was only auditing the course," was his answer. "Therefore, he did not have to take the exam. I thought you knew that, him being your beau."

Heat rushed to her face. A younger Anne might have argued that Gilbert was not her beau in the least, but today she thanked him and left with Diana.

On their walk home, Anne clung to Diana's arm and asked, "It seems very strange that Gilbert would audit a course."

"It's not so strange," replied Diana. "Gilbert has always been interested in literature, and likely wanted an excuse to read more without having another exam to prepare for."

"Why do you think he didn't tell us?" asked Anne.

Diana peered at her, a curious glint in her eyes. "I have a suspicion."

When Diana didn't elaborate immediately, Anne stopped them in the middle of the walkway. A disgruntled set of girls behind them rolled their eyes to wind around them.

"What is it?"

With a small grin, Diana answered, "I think Gilbert took the class because of you."

"Me?!" Anne said incredulously. "Why would Gilbert do that?"

"You really don't know?"

"Know what? What is there to know?"

"Never mind," Diana said slyly, pulling them back into motion.

"Diana, quit messing with my head and tell me."

Diana laughed. "Are you saying that you really don't see the way he looks at you? He obviously loves you."

Anne didn't say anything, trying to wrap her mind around Diana's words.

Sighing, Diana continued, "If you don't believe me, just ask him yourself."

Anne huffed, confused at her irritation. "I think I will."

It took a few days to pin down Gilbert, as his exams kept him busy and occupied at the few moments he was usually reliably free. But finally Anne managed to catch him at their favorite tea house, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee, and sat down without invitation.

Gilbert looked surprised to see her there. "Anne, hello." He folded his newspaper and set it down in front of him. "Not that you're unwelcome, but what are you doing here?"

"Stella said she saw you here," Anne said.

"Oh," said Gilbert. "Well, do you want something? On me, of course."

"No. Actually, I have a question. An important question. Well, maybe it's not so important, but it could be. Depending on your answer."

"Anne— just... ask the question."

Gilbert looked a little nervous himself, shifting in his chair.

Anne took a breath. "Right. Sorry. I was only wondering... why did you take the Women Authors course?"

"Oh." He was quiet for a moment and Anne studied his face. "Well, I wanted to educate myself, I suppose, about literature written by women. I felt I didn't know much about the subject."

Unsatisfied, Anne shot back, "You decided to take an extra class for no reason in your last year of the pre-medical program?"

"I wanted to read something other than dry medical books. I'm sorry... did you want another answer?"

Anne sighed and stood up, more dejected than she thought she'd be. "No. I was just being silly. I'm sorry for bothering you, Gilbert. I should go."

"You don't have to."

"No, I should. I have a letter to write."

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

1 May 1904

Dear Mr. Smith,

It felt right to address you in a more formal manner today because we have formal matters to discuss. As I graduate in three weeks, I imagine that this will be my last letter to you for some time. Don’t worry, I intend to tell you as soon as something big happens with my writing. You’ll be the first to know, before Marilla or Matthew or even Diana. I could never forget that you are the reason I was able to go to school and reach my full potential. Because of you, I’m not stuck at Green Gables, shoveling hay alongside Jerry or teaching at the small Avonlea school house and never seeing the world for the rest of my life.

You’ve already given me so much, Mr. Smith, and it doesn’t feel right to ask for more but I can’t help it. It would feel even less right to graduate without you in the audience, watching me.

Say you’ll come, won’t you? I know you wish to remain anonymous. Your decision to hide your identity has been my constant turmoil for the last four years and I don’t think I could bear to go out into the world without putting a face and a name to the man who has changed my life completely.

Please don’t be afraid that you’ll disappoint me. Is it presumptuous to tell you that? For all I know, you don’t care about me one bit and haven’t read a single one of my many, many letters. But if you have, and if you have found any meaning in them at all, please tell me you’ll come. I already love you with all my heart.

If you are brave enough to come, I have included in this envelope the invitation. Matthew and Marilla regrettably can’t make it so if you come, you’ll be the only one there specifically for me. If you aren’t, then I’ll try to forgive you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to, but I’ll really, really try.

Hoping to see you soon,

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

“Perhaps he’s running late.”

Anne slumped against the stage wall. “There’s no use. He isn't coming."

Diana pulled back an inch of the stage's curtain once more. She must have seen the same empty seat as before, as she said, "I'm very sorry, Anne."

"What are you two up to?"

Anne and Diana turned to see Gilbert, dressed in the same black and white graduation robes as them.

"We're trying to see if Anne's benefactor has shown up," Diana informed him.

Gilbert adopted a pained expression, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "No luck so far, then?"

"The ceremony starts in five minutes," said Anne miserably. "He isn't coming. I don't know why I expected any different. I've written him for four years with barely any response. I'm a fool for thinking today would be any different."

Diana crouched next to her, placing a reassuring hand on her back. "You're not a fool, Anne."

"Perhaps he got called away on urgent business," said Gilbert, with a tone perhaps meant to be reassuring but that came out with a slight irritation. "You never know."

"He's a coward," Anne declared, crossing her arms. "He never cared about me at all."

"You can't possibly know that," Gilbert said.

"Yes, I can. I can just feel it."

Gilbert infuriatingly pointed out, "Just last month you could feel that he was a kindred spirit."

"Would you stop taking his side?"

"I'm not taking his side," Gilbert insisted. "But perhaps your day wouldn't be ruined if you tried to consider things from his perspective—"

"I'm glad to graduate. Then I can finally wash my hands of rich men trying to control my life!"

Gilbert was quiet for a moment. "Is that all you think of me? Just another rich man controlling your life?"

Anne huffed but before she could respond, the professor organizing students called for graduates with B last names.

Diana stood up next to Anne. "We should probably go line up, Gilbert."

As they walked away, Diana turned around to shake her head at the other girl, sympathetic but disapproving, a look Anne had been on the receiving end of many times over their nine years of friendship.

Anne tried to compose herself after that, tried to still enjoy the moment she had anticipated for all her life. But as she walked across the stage, she couldn't stop her eyes from stinging or her heart from aching.

After the ceremony, the University arranged for a banquet of sorts for the recent graduates and their families. When picturing the moment in her head in the weeks prior, Anne had imagined her and her benefactor, who showed up perfectly on time for her graduation and had instantly turned into a grandfather of sorts, walking arm and arm through the crowd so she could introduce him to all of the people she had mentioned in her letters over the years. But in the face of the actual thing without any new friend or grandfather figure, Anne wished to skip the ordeal altogether.

Still, she had watched the graduations of other students older than her with jealousy for three years, anticipating her own shining moment. So Anne changed out of her robes, put on the new dress Marilla sent her as an apology for not being able to attend, a beautiful, soft blue thing, and resolved to enjoy herself. If she had to avoid Gilbert, then so be it.

Anne, Diana, and Diana's family sat at a large table under the largest white tent that Anne had ever seen. The sunset cast a pink and orange glow about everything and the faintest chill of evening air had begun to take hold, bringing a divine atmosphere to the banquet. Anne had almost started to relax when Gilbert approached their table. He had something in his hand which he seemed insistent on hiding behind his back.

He first greeted the Barrys, who always loved Gilbert Blythe, and then turned to Anne. "I was wondering if we could talk."

Anne swallowed and nodded. Gilbert led her to a bench under a tree, away from the crowds of people.

"Look, Gilbert, if this is about earlier today, before the ceremony..." Anne was quick to say, "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I had a horrible moment and ruined the day for you, too."

Gilbert shook his head. "I was trying to comfort you, but I only made things worse. And truly I am sorry that you were disappointed so sorely today."

"You aren't to blame," Anne told him. "It's Mr. Smith that I'm the most angry with."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Well, I didn't bring you here to apologize. I mean not just to apologize. I mean— these are for you."

He held out a bouquet of flowers, beautiful pink camellias, which Anne only now noticed were the object he hid behind his back.

"Oh, Gilbert, these are beautiful," she told him, eagerly taking the bouquet from his hands. "This is the most lovely apology I've ever received."

Gilbert looked down, a small smile forming on his mouth. "It's not just an apology. It's also a thank you." Then he looked at her, the smile growing to fullness. "You don't know how... valuable your companionship has been these last four years."

Heat rushed to Anne's cheeks as she thought of her reprehensible behavior towards Gilbert the first few years of her time at the University of Toronto. "Even after how horribly I treated you freshman and sophomore year?"

"I probably deserved that," Gilbert said, laughing. "After I left Avonlea, I barely spent any time with people my own age who didn't own at least three homes. I'm afraid I often forgot to act around normal people."

"Still, I could have been a little less harsh."

"Perhaps that's true."

"So I'm a normal person, then?"

"You're anything but, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert."

They were quiet for a moment. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above them as the final few rays of sun sunk below the horizon.

Suddenly, Anne had to ask a question with an urgency that surprised her. "Gilbert," she said. "This isn't a goodbye, is it?"

He looked at her in surprise. "No. Never."

"Oh. Good," Anne said, relieved.

Gilbert looked like he was about to say something, but at that moment a little girl with light brown skin and curly black hair ran up to him. She couldn't have been more than four. He laughed, picking the little girl up.

"Who is this?" asked Anne, not thinking about how disappointed she felt in that moment.

"This is Delly, my friend's daughter," Gilbert said. He stood up and sighed. "I should probably get her back to her family."

Anne stood up as well. "Yes, probably."

He walked a few steps away before turning around. Again, he looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he picked up Anne's hand with his free one and kissed it. "I'm really proud of you, Anne."

Her heart beating loudly in her ears prevented her from making any response, and she was only able to watch him walk away, back to the crowds of people, as she tried to reckon with her own feelings.

A | S | C

1 June, 1904

To my forgiven benefactor,

I know I said that the last letter would be the last letter. I had thought that because I had imagined the last week would go a lot differently than it has.

If you had come to my graduation, there would have been no reason to continue sending letters in this manner. As I intend to stay in Toronto for the foreseeable future, I had pictured us having tea once a week and discussing books and my writing and the weather or any number of other things. But, as we both know, you did not attend. Before it happened, I had thought that I could never forgive your absence. I know I said that I would try but I was already certain that I wouldn't be able to forgive you. But I have surprised even myself.

I have realized that I don't know you at all, Mr. Smith, and have made my peace with this. I didn't come to this conclusion easily, that much is certain. I haven't the faintest idea why you never wanted to write back to me, or why you didn't come to my graduation. Perhaps you were busy. Perhaps you have not read a single letter I've sent. Perhaps you were as scared to meet me as I was to meet you. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid I have lost sight of everything you've given me. If our relationship, however one-sided it is, ends with scorn, then every time I think about University and all of the opportunities it has afforded me I would have to think about my anger. A younger Anne would have been content to live that life, but I certainly am not. So there you are, Mr. Smith. This young, foolish girl forgives you.

I've only now realized how valuable writing these letters has been for my personal development. You are my closest confidant. You know things about me that even Diana doesn't know, which is saying a lot. Had you responded, then I doubt that I would have been as honest as I was. If you'll allow me to be honest one more time, I have quite the dilemma. You see, these letters have allowed me to sort through confusing feelings and I feel more confused right now than I had ever been.

You see, Mr. Smith, I think I am in love. I wish you could help me. I could use some wisdom right now. As much as I have longed to be in love my whole life, I never thought to think about what it would actually be like.

When I'm with him, time doesn't exist anymore. And then he leaves, I'm aware of how quickly time passes by and I want to sob. I want to share everything there is. I want him to be there in the morning when I make porridge and I want to be there with him when he's doing the most boring business possible. Every time I read a good book, or think a funny thought, I wish he was next to me so I can tell him about it. At night I hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. Do you understand what I mean? I really, really hope that you do. I think anyone who has ever been in love would understand.

Here is my problem and the source of my anguish: the man I am in love with is Gilbert Blythe. This may come as a shock to you, since I have frequently spoken ill of him in my letters. For this very reason, I am afraid I preemptively damaged my relationship with him permanently. We have since become close friends, but how could he forget how horrid I was to him, enough to love me back? I'm sure he'll also want to be with a distinguished woman from wealth, like that beautiful Winifred Rose I spotted him walking arm-in-arm with last February. I will forever be the red headed orphan girl who slapped him with a slate when I was thirteen.

I know you won't respond, but I still have to ask you. What do you think I should do? If you could just read this letter and think your answer really, really hard then I am certain I will feel better.

I will miss writing these letters and I will miss you, Mr. Smith. I will continue to think of you every day of my life.

Sending you all the love in my heart,

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. In this envelope I have included my final transcripts as well as a check for $100. The check is not for much compared to all that you've given me but it's a start and I intend to pay you back every penny that you have spent on me. I received a small sum of money for a short story that will be published soon, and it's a start.

P.P.S. Did you notice my new stationery? I bought it myself also with the money from the advance.

A | S | C

6 June 1904

Dear Mr. Smith,

YES! I will be there— Saturday at noon. I can’t believe that I am finally going to meet you. It doesn’t feel real.

Love, love, love,

Anne

Once Anne arrived at the address told to her by Mr. Smith, she recognized the building as the tea place she, Diana, and Gilbert went to nearly twice a week during the Fall term. Had her and her benefactor ever been there at the same time? Had they ever crossed paths before, said hello to each other on the street without knowing each others' identity? For the first time in nearly four years, how close they lived to each other truly struck Anne. She knew he lived in Toronto, even knew what street he lived on thanks to the return address on the stationery he sent her every birthday. But they knew about the same businesses, ate at the same places!

All that time being so close and yet he still never made an effort to visit. Anne wondered if she would come to regret her choice to meet Mr. Smith here today. But she was too curious and had come so far. So she pushed her shoulders back in resolve and entered the tea house with as much confidence as she could muster.

A waiter in a nice blue jacket greeted her immediately.

"I'm here to meet with Mr. Smith," she told him.

Comprehension bloomed on the waiter's face. "You must be Ms. Shirley, then. Follow me."

He escorted her past large rooms with tables full of people eating lunch, past the kitchen door, past the restrooms, to a private tea room with a large window facing the park across the street. A large table sat in front of the window, meant to accommodate a large party of people. A single figure stood in the window, a silhouette in the face of the bright sunlight that streamed inside. This was it. She would finally meet her benefactor. Anne's heart stopped as the man slowly turned around. Only, when he did, he wasn't Mr. Smith. He wasn't even an old man.

He was Gilbert Blythe.

"Gilbert?" Anne cried. "What are you doing here?

"Hello, Anne." He swallowed visibly.

"You must leave now. I'm meeting someone very important and undoubtedly he'll be here soon, so if you could—"

"I know," Gilbert said.

"If you know, then you know why you must leave," Anne told him, irritation setting him. She approached him to try and push him towards the door. "How you could possibly know is another thing. Did Diana tell you? I told her not to tell anyone."

"No, Anne—" He paused, firm in his footing and grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "I know why you're here because you're here to see me. I sent you that letter."

"Did you impersonate Mr. Smith?"

"No, what I'm trying to tell you is..." he dropped his hands from her shoulders and moved one to scratch at the back of his head. "I couldn't impersonate Mr. Smith. Because he's me."

Well. Anne wasn't expecting that. She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape.

"Please, say something," Gilbert begged, a tremor to his voice.

"You?" was all that she could get out.

"You're Mr. Smith."

Blood rushed to Anne's face and she felt her heart and breath speed up dangerously. She grasped the back of a chair, tightly clutching the wood.

Gilbert pulled out another chair. "Perhaps you should sit down."

She did take a seat, but it wasn't the one he offered. "You're my mysterious, anonymous benefactor."

He gave a feeble laugh. "One in the same."

"I don't understand. How can you be Mr. Smith? You're not even old."

Sitting next to her, Gilbert said, "I never understood why you always wrote about my old age. I certainly never said that."

"Rich men who give orphan girls enormous scholarships are old. That just makes sense," Anne told him, nearing hysteria. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "They aren't pre-medical students I hit with a slate when I was thirteen!"

"I owe you an explanation. That's why I—"

Anne's hands flew to her mouth in shock. "My goodness, the letters! Every horrible thing in the world about you I wrote in those letters!"

"You said a lot of things to me in person, too," Gilbert pointed out dryly.

"That's different! I didn't know I was insulting my benefactor to his face!" If it were possible, Anne felt her face growing even warmer. She surely looked like a tomato, with her face red enough to match her hair. "And you read my letters?"

"Every single one. They were the best part of my month."

"Every single one?" Anne echoed. "I suppose there's no hope that you skipped the last one, then?"

"I meant every one."

She buried her face into the table. "If Mr. Smith had been my matron from the orphanage, it would have been easier to take."

He patted her back awkwardly. "Well, I'm not so bad, am I?"

Anne wanted to scream, taking a deep breath to avoid doing so. "Could you just promise to forget about the last letter and never mention it ever again?"

"I'm afraid I could never do that, Anne."

"And why not?"

"Well, I— I just couldn't."

"Why would you do this, Gilbert? I can't wrap my mind around it. I just don't understand."

Leaning back in his chair, Gilbert paused a moment before saying, "You wouldn't have let me pay for your education any other way."

"You still should have asked."

"Maybe so," Gilbert said. "But come on, Anne, I've known how stubborn you are since we were kids. I had the bruises to prove it. And when I heard that you had been accepted into the U of T but couldn't go because of money, well, I had to help."

"But why me?" Anne asked him.

"You deserved it. And, well, maybe I was selfish."

"Selfish?"

He took a deep breath. "Maybe because I knew I was also going to Toronto. And maybe I wanted you there, too."

Anne didn't know at all how to respond to that. Her mind raced, replaying every moment they shared over the last few years. How her benefactor happened to know her birthday, when Gilbert had bumped into her at her own birthday party. How her benefactor didn't come to her graduation, when Gilbert was graduating himself. They even lived on the same street. Of course Gilbert was her benefactor. It made sense.

"Why did you agree to meet now? Why not before?"

Gilbert exhaled loudly. "You don't know how many times I almost told you, or how many letters I started to draft but threw away before I could. I didn't know if I should be Mr. Smith telling you I'm Gilbert, or if I should be Gilbert telling you I'm Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Smith doesn't exist," she said.

That made Gilbert go quiet. "I suppose he's not," he said finally. "Are you terribly mad at me?"

Anne sighed. "You lied to me and betrayed my trust for four years. I don't know how I could ever forget that."

"And yet?"

"And yet..." Anne was surprised to feel a smile forming and at last she laughed. "It's you, it's really you."

Hope or something like it bloomed on Gilbert's face. He grabbed her hand.

Anne told him, "You never answered my question."

Gilbert took a shaky breath. "Because," he said, "When I read your last letter, I realized you needed to know everything before I did this."

"Did what?" she asked, but she knew he was already leaning in.

Gilbert kissed Anne, and while Anne had imagined her first kiss much more chaste, she put all of the emotions she felt into it. When they pulled back, Gilbert had a goofy grin adoring his mouth that she was sure matched her own.

"Anne," he said urgently. "I love you."

"I'd tell you the same," she said, "but something tells me you already know."

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED

TO THE WEDDING OF

ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

and

GILBERT BLYTHE

Saturday, October 4, 1904

3 o’clock in the afternoon

At the St. Andrew’s Church

Toronto, Ontario

Reception to follow.

/ fin

#annesecretsanta #kindredspiritssecretsanta #kindred spirits secret santa #lollercakesff #anne with an e #awae #shirbert #royalcordelia #tessa im tagging ur other blog in case something gets fucked up lol #i hope you enjoy this lollercakes!#i love ur fic a lot :)

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anneesfollesrpg · 4 years

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「THE AUSTERE 」

30+ • PUBLIC • OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

Your family’s name was known, far and wide - not for anything in particular besides the money attached to it, but what else did you need? Born into the lap of luxury, you never wanted for anything. Or, if you did, you didn’t want for long. From the most spectacular toys to the prettiest baubles, every lovely thing was at your fingertips. Your wardrobe rivaled royalty. The summer house, the lodge, the chalet, the handsome townhomes? All marvels, the envy of your less-fortunate friends - who were, of course, all people like you, heinously wealthy. But not the way you were. And you enjoyed rubbing their noses in it, didn’t you? Yes, that was part of the fun of sweeping them along on exquisite vacations, drawing up guest lists for your gaudy, pointless parties. You didn’t need to have a reason for anything; just a desire, and, above all, what you desired was to inspire. Jealousy, that is. Everyone should know what you had, and how much you were enjoying it. Because you were, weren’t you? Oh, yes. You were having all the fun in the world.

Looking back, you can see how awfully you took your good fortune for granted. So thoroughly that the fall left you utterly whiplashed. How could everything be gone? And that quickly. But poor choices had been made - some of which were undeniably yours - and those golden days were over. Left to your own devices, all you could afford was a miserable flat in Montparnasse. Montparnasse! You could hardly help rubbing shoulders with starving, unwashed artists, and wild-eyed, opium-addled “intellectuals.” Once, you’d mocked such people over caviar and champagne, sneering and snickering in your high society circles. Now, they were your neighbors. How can you stand life among these wretched bohemians? If the rats don’t get you, the embarrassment will.

CONNECTIONS:

The Diva: Once, you were dear chums - both so eager to revel in the best of things. You didn’t forsake her, when those dreadful managers tried to push her aside; now, she’s back on top, and you’re in the gutter. Will she return your loyalty, or was that friendship flimsier than you thought?

The Benefactor: You used to pal around, back when the going was good. It would be a stretch to say you were close, but you were at least familiar - enough for them to extend a little of their famous generosity your way, perhaps? If you could stand to be a charity case, that is... but living in such tawdry circumstances is wearing on your nerves. How long can you handle it?

The Nymph: She brightens the dreadful gloom of your fallen days, revealing all the surprisingly simple, cheap, everyday things you can be thankful for. You don’t understand how she does it, honestly. How are any of these small, poor people so... happy?

Possible faceclaims: Sandra Oh, Carey Mulligan, Shaun Evans, suggest more!

The Austere is open.

#af.the austere #af.public #af.open

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asexualbookbird · 5 years

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THE WAY OF SHADOWS BY BRENT WEEKS ★★★☆☆

For Durzo Blint, assassination is an art-and he is the city’s most accomplished artist. For Azoth, survival is precarious. Something you never take for granted. As a guild rat, he’s grown up in the slums, and learned to judge people quickly - and to take risks. Risks like apprenticing himself to Durzo Blint. But to be accepted, Azoth must turn his back on his old life and embrace a new identity and name. As Kylar Stern, he must learn to navigate the assassins’ world of dangerous politics and strange magics - and cultivate a flair for death.

Content warning for abuse, assault, talk of rape, blood I wanted to finish the series, but realised I remembered absolutely nothing about what happened in this book, so I figured a reread was in order! And wow have my opinions changed!! It’s definitely not the worst book I’ve ever read, and there are still a lot of things I love about it, but dang I almost wish it had no women at all due to how terribly these characters are treated. Add that to the repetitive sentences that are peppered throughout and the unnecessary length of this book, and yeah it’s no longer a five star read. It never should have been in the first place, but hey I forgive past me.

GOODREADS

When I say the women in this book were treated poorly, I don’t just mean assault and rape. Yes, that happens, and yeah it’s mostly only to the women, every single woman in this book is to prop up a man. Not a single one has any agency, and their pain is used to further the plot of the men. One child is sexualised by the author to the point where I was incredibly uncomfortable with those scenes. She was described as having “perfect breasts”, and it was mentioned how she acted so mature for her age, you never would have guessed she was fifteen! After paragraphs describing how sexy she looked. Okay, fine, I can deal with that, maybe, if the characters describing her weren’t adults. It’s creepy, it’s gross, and it skeeves me out. It all could have been solved too if they just made her a little bit older, so really there was no reason for this! And of course, she was later assaulted and killed, and then brought back to life to be assaulted and killed at a later time. Ick. Ah, Doll Girl. The one thing I remembered from this book. Except I hadn’t read enough fantasy to realise how poorly she was treated too. And again, I don’t mean the beating and the scarring. At least, not directly. I’m not against bad things happening to characters, or bad things happening to women. Bad things happen, that’s what makes the plot move forward. It would be a very boring book if only good things happen. However! Again! All this bad stuff happens to Doll Girl to move Aztoh/Kylar forward! Her entire life, her entire being revolves around him, and it’s boring! Give her something more than just pining for this boy she really barely knows. Even when we see her in one of the few scenes with her friends, all she talks about is Kylar, and boys, and how she’s so in love with this mysterious benefactor (who she just so happened to guess correctly was Kylar. Amazing.) She’s supposed to be grateful to Kylar for giving her this life, even though he treats her terribly whenever they’re together. She makes a great point, that they wouldn’t make a great couple considering she’s been pining over a fantasy her entire life, but it’s turned around to her feeling sorry for herself for her scars. But of course, Kylar is worthy because he doesn’t care about her scars, he thinks she’s beautiful anyway because he sees past them. Blegh. She deserves better. Even the single female assassin (I still refuse to call them wetboys come on) is reduced to a sex object, and then never heard from again. It sounds like she might be dead? It’s unclear, but I can’t decide if I’d prefer her dead so I don’t have to see her poorly written anymore, or give her the chance to maybe do something other than try to kill someone with her breasts. Just give me these characters, let me give them the stories and characterisation they deserve. This is definitely one of those books that I would choose to rewrite if given the chance, because the plot and magic building is actually wicked good. The characters that are fleshed out are done beautifully so, but so much is shoved to the side to let them shine. So why is it still three stars? Well one, I’m still a sucker for assassins, what do you know. Two, the fight scenes! I still love them! And there’s a lot of it! Yeah, the book is longwinded like a lot of fantasy is, a lot of characters are thrown at us and it’s hard to remember who’s who, especially with all the twists and betrayals. You can’t trust anyone, everyone is awful, and honestly, I love it. I love the magic, I love the morally grey-ness of Durzo. And there’s a lot of Durzo, too. All the bad is spread out over 600+ pages, but in between that is a whole lot of fun and bloody scenes. There are better assassin books out there, better books with a similar feel, but I wouldn’t throw this one away. I’d recommend it, with reservations, but it’s certainly no longer a favorite. The Lies of Locke Lamora, on the otherhand….

#books #booklr #night angel #night angel trilogy #the way of shadows #way of shadows #brent weeks #book review #my review #my reviews #bookbird babbles #ezra reads way of shadows #ezra reads night angel

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thetravelerwrites · 6 years

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Rantha (Minotaur)

Rating: Teen Relationship: Female Human x Male Minotaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Minotaur Boyfriend, SFW Content Warnings: Abandonment, Physical Disability, Congenital Myopathy, Muscular Dystrophy, Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy, Focal Muscular Myopathy Words: 5116

A young disabled woman is abandoned at a cabin in the middle of the forest with no way to take care of herself, until a mysterious benefactor begins leaving her food and supplies while she sleeps. Please leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

Your mother was taking you to a cabin for, she said, some fresh air. She had bought it for next to nothing and spent weeks going on about how good it would be for the two of you to get away for a while. You were excited, too. You’d only ever lived in the city, and to be honest, you hated it there.

You were born healthy, but as you aged, your right arm began to wither. Every healer in the city had been consulted, but no one could tell your parents what was wrong with you. By the time you were ten, the arm was completely immobile and permanently curled up against your side, skeletal and gnarled.

You knew they resented you. At first, you didn’t realize it, because you were a child and it happened gradually. But as their friend’s children grew up and got married or started apprenticeships, only for you to remain uselessly at home, you could see it on their faces. They knew they’d have to take care of you forever, and they loathed the idea.

You spent all your time reading because no one trusted you to do anything else. You insisted you could still do basic chores, like sweeping floors and dusting, but they heard none of it. It was confusing to you; you were asking to help, and they were refusing to let you. It wasn’t your fault you were growing weaker and more infirm since they never let you leave your bed.

You read all your books a hundred times, played all your card games, cleaned up after yourself until there was not a speck of dust in your room, but nothing could dispel the crushing boredom and madness of being alone all day.

A lot of the time, you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling, dreaming of a life you could have had if your body hadn’t betrayed you. You could be married by now. You could have a wonderful job as an artist’s assistant or a alchemist. You could have children, or not. You could have had a choice. There was no choice now. You were what you were, and nothing would change it.

That was why this getaway sounded so amazing. You and your mother would spend a few months living in the fresh air in the country. It would be so freeing. You could go outside! You could feel grass beneath your toes. You could try and take a run for the first time. You found yourself daydreaming about how lovely it would be.

You were going to pack up your things, but your mother insisted the cabin would be fully furnished, including clothes; all you would need was a single change to wear on the trip up. You took a small bag of books and a few of your treasures anyway.

Mother had hired a carriage to take you both, a fast, bumpy thing with an impatient groom. Your mother had told you to wear your cloak to hide your arm until you had gotten out of the city, despite it being high summer and extremely hot, but you complied. You didn’t want people looking at you, either.

The journey was several days ride by carriage, and you slept most of the way, stopping only to sleep at various inns along the way. Your mother insisted you wear the cloak at all times despite the heat, and though you felt a little resentful, you complied.

On the fifth day, you were dozing in the carriage when you heard your mother call out to you.

“Wake up,” she said. “We’re here.”

You opened your sleep-glued eyes to find yourself staring at a vast expanse of forest. As you stepped out, you saw a small shack in the middle of a tiny clearing. It wasn’t exactly the luxurious cabin your mother had described, but it was well-built and charming and you were determined not to judge it too harshly.

You stepped down and followed your mother toward the shack, looking back at the carriage and expecting it to leave, except it stayed where it was with the groom tapping his foot sharply. The ground underneath the horse and carriage was all grass; you weren’t even near a road of any kind.

Your mother unlocked the door to the shack and it swung open, and you peered inside. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, a table, and a single chair, all plainly made and well worn. There was a table with a water basin and an iron stove with a neat stack of firewood sitting next to it. It was a little drab but cozy, and you thought all it needed was a few personal touches to make it feel like home.

“What do you think, my dear?” Your mother asked, watching you look around the shack.

“It’s nice,” you replied. “A little small, but I think we can make do.” You smiled at her, and her returning smile was strained.

“I’m going to go into the nearest town and buy supplies,” Your mother said. “Why don’t you stay here and start getting this place livable?”

You smiled brightly. “I will!”

Your mother smiled again, gave you a quick hug, and left the key on the table before striding out of the door and stepping back into the carriage. The groom snapped the reins and the horse jumped into action, pulling the carriage away.

You spent the next few hours doing what you could to tidy up. One handed, you managed to remove and shake out the bedclothes and remake the bed, which seemed a bit narrow for both you and your mother to share. The larder was a bit sparse, with only a bag of dried beans and a turnip or two, but your mother would bring back food. Oddly, your mother had insisted that there would be clothing waiting for you here, but you found none. There wasn’t even a closet or a dresser in which to keep clothes.

After you had done what you could do comfortably to make the shack presentable, you went out onto the small porch to wait for your mother to return.

Hours passed. The sun began to dip behind the trees and the air, while still warm, dropped in temperature. You began to worry about your mother’s well-being. Perhaps that groom was a nefarious highwayman who’d brought harm to your mother. You were twitching with nervousness.

You were being paranoid. She might have just gotten held up. You decided to go to bed. She’d be there in the morning, you assured yourself.

She had not returned by morning. It took another two days of waiting for you to realize she wasn’t coming back.

She’d left you there to die.

You sat on the steps and cried, knowing that your family had finally washed their hands of you. It wouldn’t be so bad if they had taught you even the basics for taking care of yourself, but they had always made you stay abed, never allowed to interfere with the workings of the house. You wept bitter tears at their betrayal. What had you done wrong besides living in a broken body? Was that all it took to condemn someone to death?

You were running out of water and you were scared to leave the hut, afraid you’d get lost and never find your way back. It was your only shelter. You rummaged around until you found a flint and stone buried in a toolbox, so you were at least able to built a fire in the stove and cook a handful of beans each day to keep yourself fed, but those, too, would run out soon. You had no skill for living on your own, let alone living off an unfamiliar land with no one to help you. You truly were going to die.

A week on, just before twilight, you sat on the steps, having eaten your daily rations of beans and taking the last swallow of water, and you broke down again.

“Why?” You sobbed into the empty air of the forest. “Why did they do this to me? Was I such an imposition? Did this,” You gestured violently at your useless arm. “Make me unlovable? Have I no value at all? Surely I could have been taught. I could have learned. Was that too much trouble?”

You thought you heard something, a deep lowing, answer you far in the distance, but you convinced yourself that it was merely the wind. Sniffling, you went inside and lay down in the bed, crying yourself to sleep.

The next morning, you went out with a bucket in your hand, determined to find some water. It took about an hour, but to your surprise, you found a hidden well under a trapdoor in the ground near a rock just out of side of the cabin. It was camouflaged with overgrown vines and moss. If you hadn’t tripped over it, you might never have found it.

Now the dilemma of getting the water up. This was definitely a two handed job. You went back to the cabin and found a length of rope hidden in a basket under the bed, managing to tie a knot on the bucket handle, though it took nearly thirty minutes to do so. You had to be careful about this; this was your only bucket and rope. If you lost either of them, you were screwed.

Praying the knot didn’t come undone, you dropped the bucket into the well and was relieved to hear a splash. Then you began pulling it up, carefully gripping the rope between your knees every time you tugged up the bucket. It was grueling work for you, who had little muscle tone and no experience with any sort of manual labor, but you did it.

Well, you had water. That was one thing in your favor, but you were still running out of food and had no way of finding more. Anxiety about how much you had left ate at your mind, making the skin of your back crawl.

“Don’t panic,” You told yourself out loud. “Don’t panic. You’ll find food. You found water, you’ll find food. You can do this.”

You fired up the stove and threw the last handful of beans and final chunk of turnip into a pot of water and waited for them to cook. Tomorrow you’d have to find something or you were going to starve for sure.

The next morning dawned, and you were awakened by a knock at the door. Your heart hammered in your chest as you got up, hope that your mother had returned for you welling up in your chest, and you threw the door open to find no one there.

Confused, you looked down at the steps at your feet and blinked. There lay two largish rabbits and a basket of potatoes.

“Wha…” You gaped at this sudden gift from no one and looked around you, trying to find the generous soul who’d left them. The forest was empty.

“Uh… thank you,” you called. No one answered.

Now you had to figure out how to skin rabbits one-handed. Well, no sense in dallying. You went inside to retrieve the only knife you had and set about trying to free the meat from the fur. It took some doing, and eventually you ended up washing your feet and using them to hold the animals steady so you could strip them. You were a bloody mess halfway through, and the porch wasn’t looking too pretty either, but you were doing it.

A few hours of trial and error later, you had done it, and now needed to find a sharp stick to spear them on. There was a metal rod in the back of the hut and you stuck the meat onto it, deciding to build a cooking fire outside. You took the flint and wedged it between your toes, striking the stone against it into some dried leaves for kindling. Then you brought out the firewood out, one log at a time, and built up the coals, placing two of the potatoes in the iron pot whole and sticking the pot in the embers at the edge of the fire to allow them to roast.

You almost laughed with giddy relief as you sat there on the ground, watching your gifts cook in the fire. You fully expected to go hungry today. There were some potatoes left in the basket, so you were going to have to ration them and the meat to last as long as possible, though the urge to wolf it all down at once was strong.

A tear dripped down your face as you ate your slightly burnt rabbit meat. You wished the kind person hadn’t run off so quickly. You wanted to thank them. You wiped your face and stood, cleaning up the gory remains of the rabbit and looking for something to store the rations in.

The next morning, another knock on the door woke you. You shot out of the bed and unbolted door, hoping to catch whoever was there, but they were already gone. This morning, they had left you a cured ham steak, some corn cobs, and two apples.

A smile spread across your face and you laughed, a little of your anxiousness ebbing away, but at the same time, you tried not to take the stranger’s generosity for granted. If your family was any indication, people could decide they didn’t want to deal with you anymore and throw you away with no warning.

Well, all wasn’t lost, then. You decided to straighten up the hut and make it nice after breakfast. You went out to the forest not far from the house and began to pick wildflowers. You were feeling more at ease than you ever had, as fleeting as you knew it would be.

You spent the rest of the day airing out the hut, placing the flowers here and there, using water you’d pulled up from the well to wash the bed linens and the curtains, laying them on the railing to dry. It wasn’t too warm, so you sat on the porch and read from your favorite book for a while. If you were going to be living here, it was best if you started trying to make it feel like home.

It went on this way for weeks, with a charitable offering laid on the steps of the porch for you every morning and no one there to receive your thanks. Their selfless benevolence baffled you and left you emotional, especially in contrast to your family’s begrudging tolerance of you.

Once, you had even ripped your dress rather badly on a jutting nail and, after crying over it and wondering what you could possibly do to fix it since you had no needle or thread, you had left it on the railing of the cabin overnight to deal with it in the morning. Only to find it mended perfectly when you rose from sleep the next day. There was also a new pale green dress waiting for you, as well as a plucked pheasant and a large bushel of beans.

There had to be something you could do for your mysterious benefactor, some way you could repay them. The only thing you had that was of any worldly value were your emerald earrings, a gift from your grandmother before she died. One evening, after more than a month of this big-hearted caretaker looking after you, you took them from your ears and laid them on the steps of the porch, hoping they were watching.

“I want to repay your for all your kindness to me,” You said to the empty evening air. “These are all I have, but I hope that they’re worth something. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Then you went inside and prepared for bed.

The next morning, when you woke up, you immediately went outside to check if your caretaker had accepted your payment. Shocked, you saw that not only were your earrings still there, they were now joined by a pendant on a silver chain that complimented them perfectly.

This had been weird before, but now it was on an entirely new level. This wasn’t food or clothing or mere survival. They were leaving you real gifts now, trinkets of worth that served no purpose out here, because… why?

Enough was enough. You needed to know who this person was. You needed to be able to thank them face-to-face, at the very least. You took up the earrings and the pendant, then walked back into the house. You lay the jewelry on the table and found your knife, slitting the skirt of your dress to the hip where it had split before. You pulled it off and threw it aside, pulling on the new linen dress that your caretaker had left for you that’d you’d yet to wear. It was wonderfully soft, light, and comfortable.

After waiting a good amount of time, you took the dress you had torn out to the porch and laid it over the railing, sighing dramatically. You were overacting a bit, but you hoped they could see you. You’d just have to wait and find out.

That night, you waited anxiously for the sun to go down so that you could dowse the lights and wait out your caretaker. You sat with your back to the door and listened hard. If felt like you waited for hours, but eventually you heard a soft, careful thump as someone or something stepped up onto the porch in a way that told you they were trying very hard not to make any noise. There was a fwip as the dress was snatched off of the railing, and muffled thump as the person stepped down from the porch and back on the ground.

You scrambled to your feet and waited a minute before trying to look out. Pausing for a moment to put on the pendant, you carefully opened the door so that it wouldn’t squeak and saw a large, black mass escaping into the woods. Just as their large form disappeared behind the trees, you silently slipped out of the cabin, leaving the door open, and followed.

Looking around the first tree you reached, you saw the black shape moving steadily west. It was fast on its feet and you followed as quickly and as quietly as you were able. It was far ahead of you, and you were beginning to lose sight of it, but after a few minutes of moving straight, you saw light that you guessed was from a fire and approached it cautiously.

You crept carefully through the underbrush, trying your best not to make a sound, as you heard the crackling of the fire grow louder. You reached the edge of the circle of light, and looked around a tree that was large enough to hide you. You had to clap your hand over your mouth to keep from gasping.

It was a camp with a large canvas tent set up between two trees and a few wooden crates containing food and tools. There was a bow and quiver propped against the tree on the far side, and a spear and short sword hung on a rack. Everything looked completely normal, except for the person who occupied the campsite. There, sitting on an upturned log in front of the fire, was a gigantic minotaur.

His horns were long and flared, and black fur crowned his head and adorned his neck, fading as it went down his torso, though the skin was as black as his fur. Whether he had fur on his legs, you weren’t sure, as he was wearing a sturdy pair of trousers, though you could see hooves at the end of his legs, which were as big as serving trays and just as black as the rest of him. The only thing that wasn’t black were his eyes, they were as deep a green as the forest around him.

He had your dress in his hand, inspecting the tear closely, and in the other he held a tiny needle, already threaded, and seemed ready to set about mending the dress himself. You watched him begin to stitch your dress back together, carefully pulling the needle through with his tongue caught between his teeth, concentrating hard on his task.

You felt like you had forgotten how to breathe. You’d never seen anything like him. Granted, you’d spent most of your life in your bed, but seeing this huge creature, with his raw, colossal strength, bent over a dress as he meticulously repaired it, was something straight out of a fairy tale.

You watched him stitch in silence for a good while, completely captivated. As he tied the thread off and bit it, you stepped out from your hiding place and walked slowly toward him.

He didn’t notice you immediately, but when a twig snapped under your feet, he jumped to his with a surprised bellow. He backed away, trying to flee.

“Please, wait!” You cried, reaching out with your good arm. He halted, but stared at you, wide-eyed and apprehensive.

Slowly so as not to spook him, you walked up and stopped in front of him, looking up. He was breathing hard, as if afraid. How absurd that someone like him could be afraid of you. You looked at his face, his chest, his arms, his hands, one of which still clutched your dress. You looked around the campsite and saw crates of the same vegetables that had shown up on your doorstep. You saw furs from the meat you had been given on drying racks. There was no doubt that this man had been the one who had been looking after you, asking for nothing in return.

You rushed forward, letting out your breath, reaching out with your good arm and wrapping it around his waist. You held him as close to you as you could, weeping into the fur of his chest.

“Thank you,” You sobbed. “Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die. You save me. Thank you. I owe you my life.”

He dropped the dress and threw his arms around your shoulders, holding you to him. “I couldn’t just let you starve,” He said, his voice like stones tumbling inside a spinning barrel.

You wept hysterically for quite a long time, and he simply held you, stroking your hair and patting your back. After a while, you sniffed to a stop and he released you. He kicked up another log to the fire and sat you down on it, sitting beside you.

“I’ve been wanting to introduce myself for a while,” He admitted, taking your good hand in his. “My name is Rantha.”

You told him your name, and he repeated it.

“How is it you’re out here all alone?” He asked.

You told him your story, about how your arm suddenly stopped working and gradually withered away, how your parents hated taking care of you and made you stay in bed all the time, how your mother had told you that you’d be coming to the cabin to get away from the stress of the city life, and how she had left you behind with no intention of returning.

“What a sad tale,” Rantha said, still holding your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Your family is full of monsters.”

“I was… burdensome,” You said regretfully. “I don’t blame them for resenting me, but I never thought they’d actually abandon me.”

“They’re monsters,” He repeated sternly. “You are their family. How could they do something so cruel to their own child?”

“Taking care of me was hard for them. I’m not good for much,” You said, shrugging your useless arm. “I can’t contribute or work like this. They’ve been pouring resources into me for years and getting nothing back.”

“Nothing except your love and trust, you mean?” He replied flatly. “Anyway, taking care of you is not hard. I’ve been doing it for weeks now, and it’s been no trouble at all.”

You blushed and looked away shyly.

“Your value is not derived from how useful you are to other people,” He said seriously. “You deserve to be happy and loved regardless of what you can do for the rest of the world. What have they done for you, anyway? You don’t owe anyone anything, and especially if they have no concern for your well-being. Besides, you can do plenty. I’ve seen you do all sorts of things on your own.”

“Because I had to, I didn’t have a choice,” You argued.

“What difference does that make? We all have to do things because we don’t have a choice.”

“Still, if it weren’t for you, I’d have starved weeks ago.” You fixed him with a shrewd stare. “Why did you start taking care of me in the first place? Why did you come to the cabin at all?”

He chuckled. “It’s my cabin. I built it. I went traveling to sell some furs and someone seems to have sold the cabin out from under me while I was away.”

Your mouth fell open in shock. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!”

He shook his head and laughed. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I will admit I was startled to find that a young woman had taken up residence in my house, but once I realized someone had cruelly left you to fend for yourself, I couldn’t just throw you out. But I was also hesitant to reveal myself. You were already frightened. I did not wish to frighten you further.”

“Still, I feel bad for forcing you to live out here while I just took over your home.”

He squeezed your hand with his. “I don’t mind.” He reached out his other hand to caress your face, and you surprised yourself by leaned into it. “I hadn’t intended to start a courtship ritual. It just sort of… happened… because I couldn’t let you starve. And then, once I saw how determined and resourceful you were in spite of all the adversity you faced, how could I not fall in love?”

Your jaw dropped and you picked your head up from his large palm. “Love…” you gasped. “You were… courting me?”

“Not at first,” He said ruefully. “It was compassion that compelled me to help you when I first saw you weeping on the steps. It just kind of… turned into a courtship over time.”

“You meant what you said? You actually… love me?”

“Is that so shocking?” He asked, a playful laugh in his voice.

“It’s just that… I’m like this…” You shrugged your arm again. “And you’re so…”

“Big and strange?” He asked, chuckling.

“Beautiful,” You replied, avoiding his eye.

He was quiet, and you looked up to see him staring down at you, his mouth open.

“You think I’m beautiful?” He asked.

You nodded, placing your hand in the fur of his chest and carding it upward toward his neck, making him shiver. “And a little strange, too, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“I can’t believe you’re not afraid of me,” He said, nuzzling your shoulder as if to test if you were being truthful.

You leaned into him and pressed your face into his fur. “Trust me, I’m having trouble believing that myself. But I’m not. You rescued me. How could I be scared of you?”

“I didn’t rescue you,” He said softly, his arms around you again. “I only dropped off dinner every day. I just was the delivery boy. You did everything else on your own. You’re so much stronger than you think you are.”

“I’m not,” You said, shaking your head and pulling away. “I’ve never been strong in my entire life. If I was, I wouldn’t have been such a burden to my family.”

“You are not a burden,” He insisted. “It’s not your fault you think that about yourself; you’re family has been lying to you your whole life.”

“I wish I could believe that,” you said sadly.

He rubbed a hand down your back. “Maybe one day you will.”

You looked at the crates of food settled around the campsite. There was a significant amount. “Where did you get all this food in the middle of the forest? I don’t see a cart anywhere.”

“There’s a farm nearby that a friend of mine owns,” He explained. “Him and his family are very kind people. I trade with them all the time. It’s where I got the dress.” He motioned at her attire.

“The necklace, too?” You asked, patting it.

His eyes softened when he looked at the pendant around your neck. “No, that was my mother’s.”

Your heart thumped in your chest and you stared at him with wide eyes. “You gave me your mother’s necklace?”

He winced. “Is that too forward? You didn’t know you were being courted, after all.”

“You’re serious,” You whispered. “You really want to be with me?”

“Yes,” He said matter-of-factly. “I do.”

You hated that you were such an easy crier. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” you said, sniffling.

“What’s that?” He asked in concern.

You chuckled. “You’re going to need to build a bigger bed. That one in the cabin won’t hold both of us unless I was lying on top of you.”

He looked startled, and then grinned wickedly. “I wouldn’t mind that one bit,” he replied, kissing your cheek. You turned your head and caught his lips with your own, and he returned the kiss enthusiastically. You ran your fingernails through the soft fur of his face, pulling with and against the grain, as his hands roamed your back.

“I guess we should start hauling all of this home,” You said, laying your head against his chest.

“Tonight?” He asked.

“Why not tonight?” You asked, looking up at him.

His eyes twinkled mischievously. “It’s rather late. I was thinking we could spend a night under the stars together,” He replied. “Perhaps… consummate the union.”

“You’re assuming much, aren’t you?” You said playfully.

“How much?” He asked with a grin.

You answered with a grin of your own. “Not that much. But I did leave the cabin door open.”

“Hmm,” He hummed, standing. “You wait here. I’ll take care of it.” He bent to kiss you, lingering for several seconds, gently scrapping his teeth over your bottom lip, making you moan. “You’ll be here when I get back, eh?”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” you assured him.

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

#Minotaur #Monster Boyfriend #Minotaur Boyfriend #Muscular Dystrophy #SFW #Focal Muscular Myopathy #My OCs #My Characters #My Writing #Exophilia #Rantha

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craniumculverin · 6 years

Text

Ripper!AU Characters

A while back the ever talented @donc-desole drew some great art of their Bloodborne Ripper!AU, and I fell in love with it instantly. I’ve been slowly working out a story and background for this AU since then. These character summaries were one of the first things I started writing and have added to and kept up to date as the story develops. Most of these folks are tertiary and some may not even have a role in the story by the time I’m done, but I wanted to figure out how most of the NPCs fit into this universe.

Also, if you’re a fan Des’ OCs as well you’ll notice a certain doctor’s name. ;)

Alfred - An up-and-comer that’s relatively new to Yharnam. Gentleman, academic theologian, fleeting soldier, amateur pugilist, literal lady killer. He’s currently working on his dissertation to complete his theology doctorate after an extensive, years-long mentorship that equated an education up to that point. It’s slow going given his preoccupation with stalking about in the dead of night, but he persists; for his own fervid pursuit, as well as to follow-through on the wishes of his late mentor and benefactor. The reproachful scholars at Byrgenwerth University are particularly interested in his enigmatic past - a topic he’s all too happy to leave be. He’s taken strongly to one of Yharnam’s aristocracy, much to her vexation. And fear of mutilation.

Annalise Cainhurst - A life-long resident of New Pthumeria and one of its few remaining that can truly claim to be of noble blood. She holds an unknown amount of power in Yharnam’s activities, and may have been involved in the politics of the recent civil war. In fact very few seem to know what it she does, though everyone seems to know not to mess with the sole heiress of the Cainhurst nobles - other than Alfred that is. When not pulling strings, she’s taken to writing articles in the local paper under a pseudonym, and is quite popular with cult naysayers. The higher echelons of the local Church of Healing cult apparently despise her; maybe something to do with her pastime? Or perhaps her evident immortality?

Percival Hewlett- A doctor that practices in Yharnam, and likely Alfred’s only real, albeit begrudging friend. A rather eccentric and introverted man that was a respectable medical practitioner long before his move to the city. Stories of Byrgenwerth University’s ventures into the medical frontier proved tantalizing enough that he left his established practice in London, thus leaving behind his own share of secrets. Like most of Yharnam’s foreign doctors he’s had to take up a position in the local cult - however, like most of said doctors, he sees it simply as a means of gaining access to the Church's resources. Alfred trusts him fully, and in turn Percy has taken to minding his more self-destructive habits - or perhaps more accurately, taken an interest in studying him.

Siegward - Alfred’s beloved canine companion. An English mastiff pampered to the utmost degree and treated better than Alfred treats himself at times. Despite multiple outings every day he still carries more bulk than any other dog in Yharnam. While under his mentor’s tutelage, Alfred saved him from an irate nobleman whose prized bitch was bred with the wrong male, Sig being a part of that litter. Since then he’s been the closest companion Alfred’s ever had, thus his rather extreme protectiveness of the animal. Red meat is often a part of this dog’s diet, despite his master’s lack of visits to any local butchers…

Iosefka - A New Pthumerian doctor who was one of very few allowed by the Church to travel beyond the country's borders before they were opened to the outside world. During her time spent abroad she happened to meet Percy Hewlett - he was one of but a handful in England that took her completely seriously as a medical practitioner, not only because she's a woman but also her "unconventional" practices. His acceptance and their shared research interests quickly forged a friendship that has lasted since. It's Iosefka's clinic and row house that Percy rents, and her good word that continues to ease tensions between he and other Church members. The two meet from time to time for tea and a chat, usually about their studies or more annoying compatriots.

Djura - The man every dog-loving Yharnamite knows - or hates, in Alfred’s case. The seemingly homeless, one-eyed native veteran earns his keep around town as both a dog walker and sitter, whether it’s requested or not. Many of the pooches he looks after never quite make it back to living with their owners, yet oddly most don’t seem to have a problem with that; the man takes care of every dog he “shelters” as if it were his own flesh and blood. He’s taken up residence in one of the larger empty buildings of Old Yharnam, same as where he keeps his multitude of kennels. An overall helpful and well-known old coot, he seems to be more knowledgeable than he lets on, in a number of areas.

Eileen, aka the Crow - Nothing much is known about the woman other than this: she acts only at night, kills those that deserve it, and has never once been caught. A vigilante of sorts, she’s taken it upon herself to erase those that aid the ever growing crime-rate in Yharnam. Thus far only murderers, abusers, kidnappers, and similar ilk have been targeted, so many Yharnamites are content to let her go about her business. Alfred, on the other hand, has had to be very careful during his night time escapades. Annalise has also had to deal with the Crow’s snooping - or at least her cousin has…

The Crow of Cainhurst - A mysterious man that Alfred has never seen unmasked, he's apparently a “distant relative” or “cousin” of Annalise. He comes and goes silently from her manor seemingly as he sees fit, though nearly always converses with her before leaving. As it is, he likely carries out his mistress’s more unsavory dealings and orders. He has no quarrels with sharing his disgust and mistrust of Alfred’s attempted courtship of Annalise, earning him Alfred’s utter disdain. Neither ever dare to raise a finger against the other however, as the noblewoman all but demanded they play nice. The only association he has to the other Crow in Yharnam is a bitter and historied rivalry.

Gascoigne - A retired clergyman and soldier that assists at the Healing Church chapel near his family’s home. Many believe him to be in some official capacity since he’s so often seen there, but really he’s the groundskeeper more than anything. He left the clergy long ago - originally in New Pthumeria as a missionary, he joined the civil war effort and eventually found himself in the same regiment as Henryk. He was forced into retirement due to injuries from some sort of "beast," leaving him scarred and with sensitive vision. He’d met his wife while still a clergyman, marrying only after he’d returned from the front. His two daughters are adopted, and he’s as fiercely protective of them as any true father would be. He and Alfred are far from friendly, mostly due to Gascoigne’s seemingly unfounded suspicions of the man.

Viola - Gascoigne’s wife and mother to their adopted daughters. She met her husband while working as a nurse during the civil war, and tended to him when gravely injured. One of few women in Yharnam that Alfred both personally knows and holds in high regards - and so receives his particular brand of chivalry. She’s a gentle woman, kind to all but just as firm in what she deems needed and appropriate. She’s become fond of Alfred with how kindly he treats her youngest, despite his peculiarities and her husband’s distrust. He seems in need of a motherly figure in his life, and so long as he continues to be a gentleman toward her and her girls, she’s more than willing to be just that; regardless of her husband’s overbearing wariness.

Eleanor & Madeline - Gascoigne and Viola’s adopted daughters. Their biological parents were victims of the civil war, and were known by both Gascoigne and Viola before their demise. Eleanor, the eldest, was old enough to remember some of what happened, while Madeline was just a babe at the time. Ellie is more reserved when it comes to interactions and letting people near. Maddie, on the other hand, can find a friend in even the most peculiar of people - Alfred, for instance. She is an avid artist-in-the-making, drawing with her chalks on the family’s front walk as her father tends to chores, while her older sister enjoys receiving piano and singing lessons from their mother. They are both very fond of dogs, for whatever reason.

Henryk - A veteran soldier and altogether mysterious older man. He is close friends with Gascoigne from his time looking out for the younger man during the war, and considers Viola and the girls his family just as much as they do him. He can occasionally be seen having a drink in a certain tavern outside of Yharnam. Other than that the man is an enigma - he comes and goes often, sometimes gone for weeks at a time. What he does with the bulk of his time in his later years is known by very few, and he seems content to leave it as such. Alfred finds him rather unsettling, more than he’s willing to admit.

Constable Valtr - A Swedish constable from a village deep in the forest that flanks Yharnam, Alfred’s only met him off the clock with drink in hand. He’s a jovial sort with an adamant personality and unwavering resolve when it comes to disbursing justice - or so his comrades have said; frankly Alfred is just fine with never having to find out firsthand. Some of the men at the tavern he frequents defer to him regularly or let him speak for them altogether, making it obvious he’s a leader of sorts among them, beyond his position as a man of the law. Even old Henryk treats him with a good deal of respect.

The Madaras Twins & Yamamura - Three men that are almost always with the Constable at their favored tavern. The young Twins run a butcher shop, but don’t seem much more than local thugs, brutish and loud in their revelry. Yamamura on the other hand is very reserved, the times he speaks always in his native tongue though Alfred is certain he knows English. On the rare occasion he wishes to speak to someone Valtr translates for him. Alfred’s familiar with the three from his occasional visits to the tavern - he even had a good-natured, drunken bout of fisticuffs with the Twins, much to Valtr and the tavern’s bettors’ delight.

Arianna - A New Pthumerian prostitute typically seen along the streets of Old Yharnam. Very personable and flirtatious, regardless of whether she’s currently working the alleys or "taking time off.” She holds herself with a surprising amount of poise for a common tart - perhaps that’s part of why she’s one of the more sought after courtesans the capitol has to offer. Though they’ve hardly interacted she holds a place in Alfred’s past, not that he would ever willingly admit it. Despite or perhaps because of that, she’s long been in Alfred’s sights for a very different sort of late-night soiree…

Gilbert - A quiet, very sickly gentleman, drawn from his homeland by Yharnam’s reputation as a place of medical advancements. He had hoped for a cure to his terminal illness, but instead found himself "aiding" the Church’s brightest minds as their guinea pig. He crossed paths with Alfred early on in the latter’s time in the city, becoming a cultural lifeline for the man. Since settling in, Alfred’s more than repaid the kindness by Gilbert’s estimate - he referred him to a certain clinic, run by one Dr. Hewlett. His existence has become far more bearable since leaving the Church doctors' clutches, and is simply glad to know whatever time he has left will be peaceful.

Sister Adella - An English nun that’s part of a convent far outside Yharnam. She rarely ventures into the city, and has little reason to given its proclivity to the resident cult. She originally joined an abbey in England associated with an orphanage, before being relocated to her current convent. She and Alfred have shared history, though neither really considers the other more than an acquaintance. Soft spoken and nervous, though on occasion can become quite impassioned.

A Hunter - Before truly moving to Yharnam Alfred spent a good deal of time touring his new homeland of New Pthumeria, during which he crossed paths with a certain individual on a number of occasions. They only ever told him they were "a sort of hunter working under contract," never giving their name and rarely uncovering their face. Despite the odd sense of discretion, they and Alfred got along swimmingly. After the first few meetings the two began spending time or continuing their travels together before parting ways once more. They're one of only a handful of people whom Alfred has allowed to pet Siegward - a good indicator of how highly he thinks of them. As of yet they don't appear to have shown up to Yharnam since he settled there.

#bloodborne #bb #ripper!au #alfred bloodborne #executioner alfred #alfred the executioner #queen annalise #percival hewlett #they're p much the main three really #donc-desole ocs #original content

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avelera · 6 years

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A few headcanons about what was going on with Newt’s parents during the Uprising years (that I’m writing out for organizing my thoughts for fic purposes):

- First of all, I personally headcanon Jacob and “Uncle” Illia Geiszler as a married gay couple rather than as brothers. I see Monica Schwartz as Newt’s biological mother but who is either 1) a good friend of theirs who agreed to be their surrogate 2) a woman Jacob had a fling with before he married Illia. Either way, Newt’s parents are Jacob and Illia and Monica is his “mother” but not really part of his life (and part of his joke about “Only my mother calls me Newt” is for Hermann’s benefit because Hermann knows he has two dads). I know this contradicts canon and all, but honestly, born-in-the-1990s Newt probably WOULD refer to his second dad as “uncle” to avoid trouble with bullying and whatnot in those days and it just fits his personality, I think, with being comfortable with himself and his sexuality and going to protests and stuff like what we saw the Drift that he would have that social awareness from a young age.

- I know the canon also says that Newt is from Berlin but like... Charlie Day just isn’t portraying that. At all. So I’m totally willing to keep that Jacob and Illia are from Berlin but to my eyes, Newt either born in Boston or moved there so young that he has no other cultural identity. The man oozes New England in his mannerisms.

- So onto Uprising, while I do think it’s possible to keep Hermann and the PPDC at arm’s length I do disagree with the idea he cut off contact entirely, even with Hermann. I think he definitely isolated himself, and contact was sparse, but I don’t think it ever got so sparse that suspicion could be raised enough to prompt an intervention.

- But the thing is, Newt was clearly a workaholic all his life. If we keep the ridiculous “6 PhD” thing or even if we don’t, the guy’s enormously accomplished by a young age at 35. I know people see Newt as messy and alternative but he is not lazy or a slacker, he simply couldn’t be with his background or what we see on screen. He is intellectually and just action-wise extremely high energy and proactive. Tragically, this leads me to believe his years at Shao wouldn’t necessarily raise any alarm bells with his family.

- Whether you see Jacob and Illia as living in Berlin or Boston, Newt’s move from Hong Kong to Shanghai wouldn’t impact them much travel-wise since they’re only a two hour flight apart but at least a 15 hour flight from both those locations. Aside: I tend to headcanon the latter, basically my fictional biography of Boston Newt is that he got extremely lucky at a young age at a time where over medication of kids with ADHD was extremely common, and instead of getting drugged to the gills he had loving, artistic/engineering dads who saw his potential and got him enrolled at an MIT kids program that quickly morphed into going straight into MIT at a crazy young age and effectively channeling all his overabundance of energy and intellect Matilda-style into a place that could actually handle him. Most kids are not so lucky and this only worked out because they were living down the street from MIT.

- So basically, you have a situation where Newt has been living away from home at least since he joined the Hong Kong Shatterdome, which is 5 years, but he was bouncing around to Shatterdomes before that. His dads are probably used to not seeing him except over video calls (when even THAT is possible given Kaiju disruption of communication lines) or a few times a year during good years in person. So him going to work for a high-powered job in Shanghai with a company that demands a lot of his time wouldn’t really change things very much.

- The one thing that might raise eyebrows is that he’s working for a weapons manufacturer at all, but that’s only if you headcanon (like I do) that Newt was protesting the military industrial complex with his dads ever since he could walk. But again, a lot changes with the Kaiju, and even more changes for people like Newt especially when the Kaiju go away. Him making a dramatic switch in field might be odd, but who knows how losing the focus of his life’s work with the closing of the Breach would impact him? And he was working for the PPDC, a military organization, so him going to work for a weapons manufacturer isn’t really that out of the blue given the way private and public sector tend to pass people back and forth.

- While I think the Precursors would work to keep Hermann away, I think Newt would be able to convince them that he needs to keep at least light contact with his dads or they’re going to worry and maybe try to intervene. But again, we’re talking the occasional video call and a few in-person days of meetings (at most) maybe once a year. Either with Newt flying out for a “whirlwind” stopover in Boston/Berlin, maybe for just a few hours during a business trip because he’s “in the area” and he’s gotta rush out of there, or with them coming to Shanghai to visit and him being “tragically” busy with work so he can only grab a quick dinner with them. Again, sad, but probably not all that different from his Shatterdome schedule.

- The more gut-wrenching thing I can think of is: Newt’s making seven figures. He’s firmly upper class now, and with Jacob and Illia being a musician and an electronics engineer, they’re probably middle class but hardly wealthy. That means it would make sense for Newt to support them financially. And you know what supporting someone financially helps you buy? Control. Wielding status as a financial benefactor could mean he puts his dads in a position where they can’t really ask questions or make demands on his time without feeling guilty, and he can hold that over them, something I can 1) see Precursor Newt doing because he’s a douchebag 2) see as serving the Precursors’ plan for Newt very well.

And frankly, his dads would be getting older at this point. Probably not traveling as much, not able to come out to Shanghai as easily if he doesn’t come out to where they are, and probably living on retirement and savings. Their senses may not be as sharp and therefore able to pick up the micro-expressions of distress Newt puts out. And Newt has probably always been pretty self-sufficient from a young age given when he got his degrees, so besides a certain coldness and level of distraction, there’s nothing you can really pin his odd behavior on except that, well, he’s working as a corporate douchebag now and that environment changes a person. But he’s making good money and he’s not in trouble or anything, so you can’t really intervene, can you? At least there will probably be the wedding at some point when he finally gets hitched with this Alice girl he can’t stop talking about, right?

#pr meta #maggie's writing progress #newton geiszler #pacific rim #this got long forgive my rambling

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caremobile · 4 years

Text

letters/journals

La Societal Mujer, de Murcia y Sorbonne, Mita

Everything is reconciled, with the knowledge that I’d been given the honor, with realization after being in the dark, that we, having fought with all the graces, for our children and in mother’s case, whether, all my children and step children, inclusive of Lucky and Gia --Tallia, Bella, Kaylee, my children with Erica, my children with the McAllister, and, Malec ...

I’m asked, about, life, with mother, that usually the rugged invidualist was the only route and ideal life for the American once you turn 18 you’re off on your own and the journey in the wild is there. For all of us, in some fashion, when you’re in the advent of Apocalypse, if not Apocolpyse now Either the life of Cain and Able...and celebrations hard to come by

Mother, worked two sometimes three jobs, at a time, I was a working scholar, and she earned her PhD in her 60′s in nursing after working in travel and tourism for twenty years.

In between, she worked in Retail for Bonwit Teller, I-Magnine and Lord and Taylor, before working for TWA, American Express, Hyatt, Banana Republic as a Travel Consultant, and Hotel Nikko -- using Sabre and Pars, until she worked for Hotel and Travel Consultants, and then needed insurance for her chld and herself, in the advent of the Grande Luchar, worked for Northwestern Medical Faculty Foundation,

She earned her PhD, after sometime in Nursing at Claremont McKenna, and Economic and Medical Geography at North Carolina and NC State. and her Licenciate at Sorbonne, Nouvelle an Pantheon-- Management where she is a head trustee. And, after what we’d been through, her, judges, of her theses at Sorbonne determined, that she passed because of what she’d done for her son, in nursing me through the apocalypse and the advent of it and what she’d done for me by guiding me through the sanitarium, as my caregiver, and much more--- buying my writing, investing in my work. That, was what healed me most -- in her winter years, she became my benefactor in the end.

She and I been through many wars, fought wars against, the evil empire of tobacco who had family ties amongst us -- relative to Hatfield and McCoys, that tried to assasinate us --we fought each other, in our hatfield vs McCoys, it was the Evil Cigerrette Empire against the survivors using any means they could, who witnessed what they did to our children and family,

My mother married a great man -- she met him while he was in his last year in high school at San Beda and just entering the Royal Pontificate University of Santo Tomas as a Fine Arts and Advertising/Printing Major, and he was a great tennis player who played tennis at the Makati Country Club --he won the 1972 arts competition in Photo Essay, and later became a successful publisher for a Reed Publishing Affiliate and after retiring opened his own company--and then became an intelligence officer for Cuba and the Philippines-- Rene is a second generation Cuban/Filipino Intelligence officer and I am the third, and we’re third generation UC Fellow’s my wife is the fourth, my daughter is the fifth, so are my ex’., After boarding school in Fribourg Switzerland and studying French at St Joseph Israel, my my mother was finishing college at Maryknoll as an international studies major before she took a job at the airport as a translator and agent, translating anywhere from English, Spanish and French, where she caught the attention of an Air France official while she was doing French translations, and Air France offered her a job, at any position but, she told her we were already planning our move to America.

Just prior to our leaving, we visited the family cabin, in Bagiou, where it was cold, it was the only time I recall it snowed, and I saw a Chinese girl, and I am not sure now if I was dreaming. Every time we’d go to Bagiou we’d go boating and horse back riding or strawberry picking. I’d fallen off the horse and after that I’d never got back on the horse.

I can’t say the name(s) or the clan, whom we fought with, in these wars for our survival, against the Cigerrette Empire, but I assume it was their survival too, because, we didn’t just give up our lives, although, we almost died of cyanide, lead, metalloids, severe split personality --mainly of also the Amoeba Devil Larvae from related Poisoned Water and I didn’t realize why we were all getting cancer and the resistance was so strong. That slowly but surely, we all were getting cancer and or diabetes, and dying slowly, and I thought all along, it was the fact, sheer fact, we were Cuban/Filipino Intelligencia -- I thought all Cuban Intelligencia died that way -- Of Kampala. It was our Romanov Story.

I realized, we lived by the waters, of the Amoeba Devil Larvae and we smoked these awful Cigerrettes where we fought the War against it with our family members, who were on the other side of the fight --where we called it, nuclear ciggerrettes.

We resolved to hold the fort down, at the demarcation line at Wilson and Mission Hills, against the Huks, but pretty soon, even if we have property at Tiffany Missions, and Valle Verde at Pasig, this fight is so long against the Huks, and so many of us, are not only fighting each other but fighting the Huks, because of this Larvae, and these cigerrettes that are buying souls --

You see we know we are much like the Noble Family of the Philippines, of ambassadors, of judges, of lawyers, a family of great artists, and prominent government officials and bankers -- sixth generation legionaires. And, yet, we’re tearing each other asunder. And we’ve lived in this fort, not far from the Wild where the Huks are. And we’re educated to fight them where, at some point, there are so few of us, we’d all realize the only way, to defeat them are as immortals, and maybe, most of us, are women.

My mother was the most injured person I know because she made the most sacrifices and lived in the most vulnerable places -- she lived past the fort, in the wild. And she drank the nuclear water and smoked their cigerrettes, but we fought our war against them, til our dying day, til we got ressurected, and its the only possible way we’d win.

The empire of this great, 214 Noble House Saga -- meant, that, the greatest gift she gave me, was she sent me away, to find my roots but also, to get me a secret Ultra Yale and Ultra Military Intelligence Education at some secret annex abroad. And I also became an Angler.

The fact that I am angler, and a great mapper, that we are a family of Anglers and Royal Geographers, allowed us to become pathfinders --in the war where at Post-Apocolypse, we found, respite through the Surrealist Communist Movement and now the Romance Empire that we based, not just on Surrealism and Romantacism, but also the Dutch East India Annex.

When she was younger, she worked two jobs, and it eventually would take a toll on her. What I remember most, is this journey, where we began, living this epicurean life, with little money in our pockets and living a lot on credits, and she’d make these beautiful dresses and we’d travel across the world on Airline Passes and get free hotel comps because she worked in the travel industry and she had friends that were notable and unforgettable.

She could write a Lover’s story of at least dear friendship --at her brother’s wake, was her friend who gave a eulogy or gave the sermon, in John Negroponte, and when I knew that at some point, I saw evil not far, I saw him at the Hospital where she worked.

I guess there’s no irony, that our journey together, whether at the fort, or, the fight, between and beyond Good and Evil, or the journey through our Triumph beyond the surreal,

Two men stood there through to the end and more....la cuento de la fin -- whether my father, in Rene, or John, Gore, my secret benefactors which I shall have them remain secret. The people of the Manhattan Institute -- we are of the Manhattan Society, where she lived for almost 12 years -- and there’s part of her that is a New York Society a women who is our benefactor --that survived what was in the New York waters.

La Poema por la hermosa madre, Ode lo Mita --

The final, piece of work, was her school geografica economica de ecol Mita, en Murcia, and Sorbonne Nourvelle. Where we have a secret Mensa annex in Sans, which is code -- Nouvelle. Her legacy --

Ella trabajar por Carolina Herrera, y Chanel, por los grande mode, secretos projectos, per perfumas y sopas -- code -- Phoenix por fin grande exitos...

por grande exitos, Carolina sans Mita, y su favorito design, es Paisley, la avant colour, paisley secret code-- fin

Rene Justin B. Ocampo

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octannibal-blake · 7 years

Text

sad songs for dirty lovers 1/4

by: bellamysdelinquent rating: mature word count: 15,005 part: 1/4

based on a prompt from @whyclarke from months ago.

special thanks to @pensieve-foryour-thoughts for the awesome advice and edits!

part i. we have scars to cover

May 2013

When Clarke Griffin imagines how she thought her senior year of high school would go, she didn’t imagine it would begin with a severe back injury and losing her best friend. She didn’t imagine it would be filled with whispers in the hallway about how it was actually her fault, that if she hadn’t gotten shit faced drunk at a party, walked in on her boyfriend with his face between another girl’s legs, and called him to come get her, Wells Jaha would have been alive to walk across the stage and receive his high school diploma. He would be well on his way to Stanford to become the best lawyer in the United States. According to the same whispers in the hallway, she took that all away.

It took her a majority of the year to realize Wells’ death hadn’t been her fault, it was just the wrong place at the wrong time. It took some therapy, some nights spent in the sheets with whoever she could find that was willing (girls, boys, she learned a long time ago she didn’t care), and even more nights spent curled into her father's side, broken and afraid of the world. But she’s coping, or she’s trying, at least. In the fall she’ll be heading to Northwestern for her freshman year of college and to her, it’s a new beginning. It’s a new life.

Needless to say, the last thing she wants to do is spend her summer with her mother. Abigail Griffin is many things -- renowned surgeon, respected researcher, and benefactor to multiple non-profit organizations (though, Clarke knows this is more for image than for actually caring). Being a good mom? That’s not exactly in the same category. In fact, motherly skills is not something she could put on her list of accomplishments. Her parents divorced when she was ten years old, though it hadn’t come as a surprise. As far as Clarke is concerned, she was raised by her father. Her mom had spent countless hours at work, out of town for research shit and conferences and whatever else she could do to stay busy. Eventually, she decided to stay gone altogether. She moved to Boston, taking some prestigious job in a research center hoping to one day cure paralysis. Clarke and her dad stayed in Arkadia, the small town on the outskirts of Maryland. She had been fine with this arrangement.

But Jake Griffin ensured his daughter maintained some relationship with her mother, whether (it) be agreed visits over breaks or forced phone calls between the two of them to check in. She never liked them much, but it made her dad happy, so she would suffer on his behalf. Which is exactly how she finds herself in this predicament: currently standing in the middle of downtown Boston, lost and sweating her ass off. All because she loves her father.

“You need to get away from here,” he told her late last week, “And I know you’re going to Chicago in the fall, but it’s important for you to spend time with your mom.”

She had all but kicked and screamed to get out of it, though when asked she couldn’t provide any concrete reason not to go. She had learned to hate Arkadia and everyone in it, and she felt Wells’ ghost follow her everywhere she went, like some sort of reminder that she made it and he didn’t so she should be grateful. It’s the worst kind of haunted. She let him convince her, and in a moment of weakness, got on the plane.

She regrets it(coming to Boston), especially now that she’s become lost and is exactly the kind of person to refuse directions from anyone. When she arrived, her mom had been just as awkward as expected, but she has to give her credit for trying. She took the day off to show her around the city, give her a tour of the local hotspots and entertainment within walking distance. It turns out there are a lot of things within walking distance as her mom’s condo is located in the heart of Midtown. She isn’t surprised- Being a doctor means having money. Being a good doctor who is very well-known and respected? It means more having money than absolutely necessary. She can’t complain, she supposes. Her mom is at least paying for college. Some fucked up penance for child support over the years.

Their reunion had been short lived. The day after she arrived, Dr. Griffin had to go back to work and she’s only caught glimpses of her since. It’s been a whole week and she’s already to go the fuck home. She huffs in frustration as she turns the map in her hands again, trying to pinpoint exactly where she is. Realizing she just isn’t cut out for topography, she stuffs the map into her backpack and pulls out her phone, typing the nearest address into Google maps and finding her location. It’s a ten minute walk from the condo to her spot.

She’s making an effort to be active, even when all she wants to do is lie on her mom’s expensive sofa and binge watch Netflix on the big screen. That’s what she had done her first three days alone, wallowing in her own misery and silently cursing her father for putting this on her. But then she realized this is the first time she’s had true freedom and who the hell is she to sit around and waste it?

She checks out some of the local shops and galleries, feeling a particular pull to the small art studios. When she walks in, often times she’s ignored by the owner. They are, no doubt, pegging her to be some disruptive teen pretending to be a know it all for the sake of being pretentious. She feels a particular satisfaction when she asks the artist about their pieces and goes into a deep discussion of the technique and well-meaning behind them. She manages to walk away with invitations to local art shows and even the number of one of the shop owners. His name is Nyko, and she’s almost positive he was hitting on her. She’s also almost positive he’s in his thirties.

She stuffs the phone number into the back pocket of her jeans without a second thought and continues her journey around the city. She doesn’t get far before her stomach begins to growl aggressively. She tries to Google restaurants around the area, but decides instead to try out one of the food trucks parked on the curb. She finds one advertising a messy looking sandwich, filled with cheese and onions and her mouth practically drools. She steps up to the counter and orders. They prepare it fairly quickly and when she steps to the side to enjoy the Boston-take on the Philly Cheese Steak, she notices the looming building across the street.

Architecturally, it’s gorgeous, with ancient brick and large arched glass windows. Engraved at the top is: “Library of the City of Boston Built by the People and Dedicated to the Advancement of Learning”. It reminds her of something out of the Harry Potter books, if only for it’s long descriptive title It could have said Public Library and had the same effect.. She remembers hearing her mom mention the library to her in passing, saying she would bring her here to show her around and perhaps give her an early start on pre-med books. She had been less than excited about it. But now, as she stands outside without her mom, it actually seems quite interesting.

When walks in, she understands why it has such a fancy title. The inside is something out of a regency period novel, perhaps even something out of a castle in kingdoms long ago. A soft, sand colored marble graces the floors and the walls, shining brightly as though they had just been polished. The ceiling arches over them, engraved with elegant designs and paints. Pillars are placed sporadically through the entrance hall, making it seem more daunting than anything. She runs her hands along the walls, where art flows freely around and up the stairs. She moves between galleries, admiring their respective themes and Googling any piece that seems unfamiliar. She likes knowing artists- It’s kind of her thing.

She isn’t sure how long she spends gazing at all the pieces, recognizing some from her high school art history classes and others from her dad’s old art books. She’s completely zoned out when someone startles her.

“This panel represents epic poetry,” a deep voice says from behind her, “it represents Homer, the author of The Iliad and The Odyssey. They’re crowning him.”

She turns to snap at the person who had taken it upon himself to pretentiously explain the art piece to her, but stops when she sees a nameplate, gold plated and bold name, staring back at her. She pauses, taking a good look at the owner of said nametag and notes he can’t be much older than her. Based on the BU hoodie he has paired with his well-ironed khakis, he’s a college student. And he works here.

He nods at the painting, “It’s by an artist named ---”

“Puvis de Chavannes,” she finishes for him, “I know.”

It comes out a little sharper than she intends, but he seems not to mind. Instead, he moves to stand next to her and pulls her attention back to the other panels, “So, I’m assuming I don’t need to explain these to you, either?”

He’s looking at her with a crooked smile and renewed interest. He had clearly not been expecting her to know. It isn’t common pop culture knowledge by any means. She takes a good look at him, admiring the freckles that pepper his nose and the way his dark hair is all chaos in curls. When she locks eyes with him, dark, chocolate orbs, gleaming with something that almost looks like excitement. Like he truly enjoys talking about art history. She decides to humor him.

“No,” she says finally, “But I guess it’s your job to explain it to me, so go ahead.”

He laughs, and she finds she likes the way it sounds. It’s deep, rich, and sends a small tingle up her spine.

He then launches into a grandiose explanation of the rest of the panels, talking passionately with his hands about each piece and their historical significance. She finds it’s refreshing to hear someone talk so passionately about art. She counters him a few times, telling him the correct facts about the artist and their techniques in painting it. By the end of it she’s almost criticizing the pieces and he immediately becomes offended.

“Back then, this technique was popular!” he says in disbelief, “The lines are beautiful.”

She shrugs, “I don’t know...I just don’t think he captured the true emotion of the time, though.”

Bellamy scoffs, “I don’t think emotion is what he was going for. He was just recording history!”

She can’t hold in her laugh at the way he seems so offended by her opinion and this seems to soften him up a little bit.

She shakes her head at him, “I guess you’re the expert, huh?”

He gives her a mischievous grin before backing away from her slowly. It’s then she notices an abandoned cart full of books a few feet away. He grabs it and pushes it towards her, stopping when he’s next to her again, “I’m just the guy who puts away books.”

She nods, like it was the most obvious thing in the world (even though he had definitely convinced her he was the art guy), “Right. Next time I’ll be sure to find the actual art expert.”

He shrugs his shoulders and begins to push the cart away, but not without the last word, “Well, if you don’t want to be bored to tears, I’m here Monday through Friday...”

“I’ll keep that in mind…” she makes a show of squinting as his nametag, “Bellamy.”

“I’ll be sure to warn the so-called art experts about you…”

“Clarke.” she fills in for him.

“See you around then, Clarke.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he rolls away, leaving her thinking she might just have to visit the library on a regular basis. For the art, of course.

She falls into an easy routine. Her mom shows no signs of slowing down at work and she has eaten dinner more times alone than she would have liked. She can’t help but be a little perturbed by the whole thing. She had come to Boston with relatively low expectations but even so, she can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. To compensate for her mother’s lack of interest in hanging out with her daughter, Clarke has made it a goal to go out and at least try to have fun for the summer. Her dad had sent her here for a reason, whether it be to simply get away from her shit town or for her to find some way to fully heal and move on with her life. Somehow, she knows it was probably for both of those reasons.

Her routine begins with a morning walk around the neighborhood; she stops at the bakery to grab a cup of coffee and continues walking, mostly to people watch. She finds it quite entertaining. Post cup of coffee, she’ll walk to the park and sketch. Drawing has always been her best outlet, the thing to keep her sane even when she felt the furthest thing from it. Over the months, she’s filled more sketchpads than ever in her entire life and though it didn’t cure her, it definitely helped. Her mom calls it a hobby, but it’s always felt like more than that. She gets lost and pours her soul into it.

Sketching will keep her busy until the afternoon at least. She’ll walk home, grab some food, and shower. Then, she’ll make her way back to the library to simply read. Something about it makes her feels safe. It gives her something to pass the time and their collection of old literature piled with old biology and anatomy records is quite interesting. Admittedly, during the hours she spends there, she checks out the book cart guy, Bellamy, while she’s there. She doesn’t see him everyday but when she does, it’s usually when he passes by her table, a squeaking cart in tow, and he comments on something she’s reading or offers a fun fact about one of the million art pieces located around the gallery. They’ll talk briefly and then he’ll bid her goodbye and move right on along.

When she talks to her friend, Raven, she can practically hear the girl roll her eyes through the phone, “Jesus, you would be the one to do some weird, artsy flirting with a librarian.”

Raven is a spitfire, part of what draws Clarke to her. She had been devastated to find out her boyfriend had been dating someone else at the same time (though, Clarke was the actual side chick), but it led her to Raven Reyes and she is actually pretty fucking grateful for that.

“I didn’t come all the way here to date,” she argued, “I’m not emotionally ready for that.”

“Well, at least make some friends while you’re there. You could use them.” Always count on Raven to put things in blunt perspective. It’s a blessing and a curse.

She isn’t sure how to make friends. Right now, Bellamy is the closes thing she has and she has no idea how to push that mere acquaintanceship into friend territory. Does she ask him to hang out? It seems like that could easily be misconstrued into a date, which is definitely not what she wants to happen. Though, she could probably make it clear that she only wants to be friends. She’s never been good at this stuff. Wells was always the more popular one of the two of them. She had just always been part of the deal with him.She doesn’t have to overthink it much more because as luck would have it, Bellamy makes the first effort.

She’s buried deep into an old anatomy book when she hears him clear his throat,“You do realize it's nine p.m on a Friday night and you're sitting in a library?”

She looks up from her book to find him leaning against her table, collar of his library issued polo unbuttoned and name tag missing. Off the clock, she assumes.

“I suppose there are better things to do?” she crosses her hands over the book she had been engrossed in and smiles sarcastically. There are probably a million things she could do that would be more appeasing than reading books about the human body, but going home to an empty house is not one of those. She doesn’t do well with silence and emptiness. That’s when her thoughts become the loudest.

He shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, “Probably. I was about to meet some friends for a drink.”

She leans back and shuts the book with an aggressive thud before grabbing her bag off the back of her chair, “A nerd like you has friends? I figured you spent your free time talking to yourself about all the inaccuracies of the Hercules cartoon.”

He laughs at her dig, “I save that for weekdays.”

“Mmm, of course.”

She slings the bag over her shoulders and stands there awkwardly, fiddling with the straps. She wonders if he is actually trying to ask her to come out with him or if he’s just telling her his plans for the night. When the pause becomes a bit too overwhelming, she starts for the door.

“You in?” he asks, falling into step behind her.

She skids to a halt, her Keds making an uncomfortable screech against the polished marble. He stops too, eyebrow quirked, “Or not?”

She considers him for a moment. She's known him for a solid two weeks now. Granted, their relationship extends as far as first name basis and artistic opinions. But, it’s not like she has any other options available. It beats spending all night in an old ass library (even if it is beautiful).

“Sounds great,” she finally answers. Raven would definitely tell her to go. Plus, she wants something to occupy here time. It’ll be good for her, too, to put herself out there. He’s fairly cute. Win-win.

She follows him out of the library, where he immediately untucks his shirt and runs a hand through his hair, pushing the curls into their natural chaotic look. All professionalism vanished from sight. The disheveled look works for him, she decides.

“So,” he says as they fall into step together, “What's your story?”

She tries to hide how uncomfortable that question makes her. She’s never been one to talk about herself, but now it’s become especially difficult. She decides to take a more sarcastic route.

“Oh, you want my biography?”

He shrugs, “Just the basics. So I know you aren't plotting to kill me or something.”

“Says the guy who lured me out of the library after dark,” she counters.

He doesn't respond and she takes that to mean he's waiting for an answer. She decides he probably isn’t a serial killer. Mostly because she just doesn’t get that vibe from him and she thinks she has a good judge of character. Plus, they’re on a well lit street so if he tries something, she should be able to escape pretty easily. She has a mace.

“Visiting for the summer,” she tells him finally, “Divorced parents. Different cities. Nothing crazy.”

“So that explains why you hang it out in a library for fun.”

“It's close and free.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. She takes it as her opportunity to question him.

“And you?” she probes, desperate to take the attention off her, but also curious to learn about the mysterious librarian once he’s no longer in the library.

He seems to think about his answer carefully, “I live here full time. I go to BU. The library is a summer gig. My professor hooked me up.”

So he’s a student. It makes sense; It explains all the random history knowledge he seems to have stored in his brain and also the fact that he actually seems to enjoy working in the library. She doesn’t know many people this age who would find joy working in a place like that (though, she is part of the minority along with him.).

“Let me guess,” she taps her chin with her finger, “History major?”

Predictable.

He feigns shock at her assumption, “How did you know?”

She laughs and finds herself feeling more comfortable around him. He’s a bit intimidating, with his sharp wit and rugged good looks. She had planned to just admire him from a distance, which definitely sounds creepy but it isn’t. She figured he’d remain an anomaly she told Raven about -- just the cute guy in the library. She hadn't thought they’d actually speak. She definitely expect him to ask her out, or well, whatever it is they’re doing.

“How about you?” he breaks her from her thoughts, “What's your major?”

She almost tells him she hasn't declared since she's only just starting. But then she doesn't because he's taking her out to, presumably, a bar and her ID says that she’s 21. Not that she has any interest in drinking, but she also doesn’t want miss out on this opportunity. This trip is about expanding comfort zones and putting herself back out there, at least, that’s what Raven told her to use it for.

“Pre-med,” is what she finally settles on. He lets out a low whistle.

“That explains all the anatomy books you've been checking out,” he says passively and she stops again, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Have you been stalking my check out record?”

He turns to face her, “Someone’s flattering themselves. You realize I can see what you’re reading when I pass by your table.”

“So you’re just creepy from afar then?”

“I think you’re projecting,” he scoffs, “Don’t act like you had any intention of coming back there until I so eloquently explained those art pieces to you.”

She finds herself having to bite back a smile, their banter coming quick and naturally. She’s already having fun, “I’m not the one that goes out of the way to walk by your table.”

He laughs at that, holding his hands up in surrender, “Fine. You caught me. I was trying to be smooth.”

“And why is that?”

He stops them in front of, what she can only presume to be, the bar they’re meeting his friends at. It’s got an old-time feel to it, with a sign hanging above a chipping wooden door. She can faintly hear music thumping from behind it.

“Cute girl who knows history?” he offers and this time she doesn’t bother to hold back her smile.

He doesn't give her a chance to respond and she's somewhat thankful because she isn't sure what to say. He pulls open the door and gestures for her to enter first. She mumbles a quick thank you.

The bar turns out to be an old pub. The Ark, it's called. It's cozy, reminiscent of the ones you'd see on a modern sitcom. Full of hipsters and draft beer choices. Every day of the week holding a special event: Trivia on Wednesdays, Karaoke on Thursdays and Fridays,live music on Saturdays. She can't say she's surprised.

She follows him over to a booth in the back where he is greeted warmly by a group of people, who are seemingly already a bit tipsy.

“Everyone, this is Clarke,” he announces, “She was reading biology books in the library for fun.”

“Anatomy,” she corrects without thinking. Her cheeks grow red when she does. Smooth.

She's met by choruses of ‘Hi Clarke!’ and ‘We love nerds.” which makes her feel slightly better about the whole thing. He pulls up a couple of chairs from a nearby table and she plops down next to him. She’s trying not to be awkward, but damn if it doesn’t come naturally. She pulls her phone from her back pocket and shoots a quick text to Raven.

Clarke: “I’m socializing. You should be proud of me.”

Raven: “Bloom, my beautiful flower”.

She giggles and stuffs her phone into her backpack. She wouldn’t say she’s an introvert by any means, but meeting new people has always been an awkward experience for her. She never really knows how to start. Luckily, Bellamy seems to sense her discomfort and introduces them one by one.

“That’s Miller,” he points at a scruffy guy currently sporting a beanie despite it being summer, “My roommate and a total dick.”

The guy, Miller, glares at his friend before extending a hand, “Nice to meet you. Also, he’s projecting his own insecurities onto me. He is the actual dick in the relationship.”

She smiles at that. The others get similar introductions: Harper, the peppy blonde, Gina, the kick ass bartender, Murphy, the kindest asshole she’ll ever meet, and Emori, the asshole’s equally asshole-y girlfriend (in a loving way).

“Bellamy, do you have a radar for finding lost souls?” Harper nudges him on the shoulder playfully.

“You know, I’d be careful,” Murphy comments, “With the way you target young, attractive, lonely people, you might start coming off like a serial killer.”

She decides to give the whole being friendly thing a go. She pipes in, “I definitely got serial killer vibes.”

Bellamy gives her a faux wounded look while the others laugh, “Don’t feed into it!”

She smirks back but finds herself questioning, “Does this happen often?”

“God, yes,” Miller groans. And that’s how they spend the next hour, trading each other’s stories about how they met Bellamy. Miller is the original friend (or OF as he calls it), having been friends with him since high school. They met after Miller had been subject to severe bullying when other kids found out he was into guys.

“Talk about fragile masculinity,” Miller rolls his eyes as he recounts the story, “Anyways, Bellamy here so valiantly defended my honor and punched one of the guys on the football team for using some pretty nasty slurs.”

“We spent the rest of high school as the mystery couple,” Bellamy confirms, “Some people figured he was my boyfriend and that’s why I got mad.”

“Best fake boyfriend ever,” Miller tilts his beer into the air and takes a long sip. Gina goes next, explaining that she had come to this bar, to drink her pain away after suffering a pretty nasty breakup. Bellamy forced her to sing karaoke and made sure she got home safely. They ended up dating for almost a month before both realized the romantic chemistry wasn’t there and stayed friends.

“You’re not a good real boyfriend,” Gina pats him on the shoulder, “But you’ll make a good mom.”

“Mother hen, Bellamy,” Murphy agrees, and launches into his hilariously unexciting story about how he had been the brooding freshman in their biology lab and after a long and painful semester of being forced to work together, Bellamy had ensured that Murphy passed Biology with flying colors. Though Murphy does seem to be the most cynical of the group, he does seem appreciative of his friend.

Harper is the last to go, “This is going to sound like some bad college PSA, but I got drunk at a frat party and I guess some douche tried to slip something in my drink while I wasn’t looking. I’m sure you can guess what happened.”

“He saved the day?” she asks, watching Bellamy with curiosity. His cheeks are glowing red, seemingly embarrassed by the sudden revelation of all the good deeds he’s ever done.

“He saved the fucking day,” Harper confirms, “Launched the guy right out of his own Frat house and called me an Uber to get back to the dorm.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that you have a savior complex?” she concludes. He chugs at least half of his beer he had poured from the table’s pitcher, smacking his lips at the end.

“Sure,” he responds shortly, and she watches something like annoyance pass through his eyes. Before she can think further into it, Miller seems to notice the slight exchange and changes the subject.

“So, you read anatomy books for fun?” The conversation flows easily after that, and she realizes this is the first time she’s truly had fun in a while.

“I had just watched Mary Poppins for the first time!” she’s defending herself, hours later, and the group laughs at her sheer idiocy. By the end of it, she nearly forgets they had all been strangers when she walks through the doors. She thinks making friends may not be a lost cause after all.

“Can we keep her?” Gina asks Bellamy as they all pack up to leave for the night. She pretends not to hear, fiddling with her backpack like she’s searching for something.

She has to keep herself from grinning when she hears his response.

“Definitely.”

“We’re going out for Gina’s birthday tonight.”

She is currently helping Bellamy sift through the return cart, reshelving the books in their appropriate sections. They have been working diligently for the last couple of hours and the cart seems to finally dwindling down. Over the last couple weeks, since Bellamy took her to meet his friends, they’ve managed to make a smooth transition into friendly territory. When she stopped by the library the next day, he sat with her on his break and they bickered over the value of reading medical books from the 1940s when medicine has made such big strides since then.

After that, it sort of became a part of the day.. He’d come over for breaks and they would chat, sometimes about the weather and other times about the meaning of life (he had been skimming the philosophy section on those particular days). She preferred keeping conversations light, away from personal territory. The closest they had gotten is when they were in the theatre section placing the mere two returns for it, she mentioned that her ex-girlfriend’s favorite play had been Othello.

“I’m bi,” she had essentially word vomited, though he hadn’t even asked. He hadn’t even hinted at wanting to know her sexuality but she threw it at him anyways.

“Sorry,” she apologized, blush creeping into skin, “You didn’t ask.”

She expected him to just shrug it off and go on with the day. She had been surprised when he had offered a sympathetic smile and told her very nonchalantly that he also identifies as bi.

“You know, in case you ever wanna talk about,” he added. It’s not much in the way of revealing deeply personal things, but it makes her acutely aware that she’s struggling to keep him at arm's reach. That feeling bubbles up on occasion and when she’d begin to feel as if the conversation was turning too serious, too personal, she’d excused herself to the restroom or rapidly direct them back into the safe zone.

It wasn’t until a couple of days ago that she had offered to help with his work. He had passed by to let her know he was going to work through his break, a very cluttered cart being pulled behind him. He looked like he had been hard at work, his cheeks flush and curls sticking to the sweat beading on his forehead. She isn’t sure what possessed her to offer, but she shut her own book and followed him into the stacks to ask for the rundown on how to shelve them.

“You don’t have to help me with my job, Clarke,” was his first response, but she had shushed him and repeated her questions. With a defeated sigh, he reluctantly explained the catalog system and the shelving etiquette.

She’s currently shoving three copies of Fifty Shades of Grey onto the shelf with a smidge of aggressiveness.

“Can you believe people really read this shit?” she muses aloud, completely missing his previous statement. She likes erotica as much as the next person but that? (It’s )A monstrosity.

“Believe it or not, some people don’t care to read academically all the time,” he jokes and she gives him the finger in return.

“I was reading a regular book, earlier,” she argues and he rolls his eyes, pushing another book onto the shelf.

“I would consider trying to read any part of Infinite Jest academic reading as well.”

“There’s just no winning with you is there?”

“Nope,” he pops his lips dramatically on the word, “But as I was saying, you should come out with everyone tonight.”

She’s been out with the group a handful of times now. She was given a trial run on the trivia team, and as luck would have it, they scored first thanks to her unmatched knowledge on the human body. They had quickly extended a permanent invite to their savior. She accompanied Bellamy from the library to their usual weekend outings, whether it be to a movie or to the Ark just to hang out. She fits in well with them. Even Harper has made an effort to hang out with her, solo. They exchanged numbers and have gotten coffee a couple of times, Harper joining her on her morning walks. She finds that she really likes the girl, her positivity a much needed change in her life.She really is trying.

“Oh, should I?” she responds with a quirked eyebrow.

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” he says sarcastically. Of course, he knows she doesn’t. Hell, she’s made it pretty damn obvious by the amount of time she chooses to spend with him at the library. She even volunteered to help him work.

“I might,” she twists one of her blonde curls idly between her fingers, looking at him innocently enough.

He rolls his eyes, “Well, when you inevitably get bored doing whatever it is, you can meet me here at ten. Wear something nice.”

She doesn’t respond but he seems okay with that. They continue placing books side by side and she decides to take off once they finish. She begins to feel the familiar dull ache of her back and knows she should go home and take a hot bath and rest. Just as she’s pushing the door open, she hears him call behind her.

“See you at ten!”

She shows up at 945. She’s sitting on the stairs when he walks out, running a hand through his curls, no doubt to recreate the messy bed head look he’s learned to perfect. When he sees her, he shakes his ruefully.

“Shut up,” she grumbles before standing up. She swears she sees his eyes slide down her body, but he turns away quickly to cover it up. In his defense, she does look good. She hadn’t been intending to dress to the nines, but when she had called Raven for advice she had been fully advocating for the tightest pair of jeans she owns and the most revealing top. She settled somewhere in the middle, going for the jeans, but opting for a loose fitting, off the-shoulder blouse.

“Finished the all important task you were doing then?” He says instead as they descend the stairs on their way to...wherever the hell they’re going. She assumes it's not to the usual bar. He would have never told her to dress her up. She’s certain she’s seen people dressed in pajamas sitting at the bar which she is totally fan of.

“Yeah, I managed to pencil this into my busy schedule.”

“Oh, I'm so glad you made time for us peasants, Princess,” he tells her sarcastically and she shoves him playfully on the shoulder. Another new element to their relationship -- playful touches.

“I try to be kind royalty,” she smiles before changing the subject, “So where are you dragging me, anyways?”

He scoffs, “Dragging, is that what I'm doing?”

She gives him a pointed stare.

“Gina likes going to more...I don't know how to describe it. Club-y type places?” his voice rises at the end.

“Like the ones with the obnoxious music and douchebags wearing polos?”

He snaps his fingers, “Those are the one.”

Her mouth twitches, “I guess you'll fit right in.”

It takes her statement a moment to catch and then he realizes that he is, in fact, wearing a polo. And khakis.

“Miller is bringing me an extra shirt, thank you very much.”

They arrive at a place called Ground Bar. She can hear the music as they approach the doors, the windows vibrating with every bass drop. She can say, for certain, she’s never been to this kind of place before. She assumes it’s the sort place exclusive to big cities, not towns like Arkadia. The closest thing she had come to had been her Junior Prom.

“Oh this kind of music,” she remarks. She doesn't hate EDM. She has a few songs on her jogging playlist. But she can practically feel the migraine coming on. It’s then she realizes she has no idea how to do this.

“Yeah,” he agrees to her insinuation before pulling out his wallet, “Ready to sweat your ass off and pay ridiculous drink prices?”

As if to answer, she pulls her shirt down a little further, revealing a small bit of her cleavage, “I’m ready to make other people pay ridiculous drink prices, if that's what you mean.”

She watches him try to avoid looking, though she can tell he wants to. Maybe she's teasing him a little bit, but it's fun. Just fun.

“That's not fair,” he mutters.

When they enter the club, they manage to spot their group of friends crowded around one of the standing tables, clinking glasses and shouting into the void.

“You made it!” Gina yells, clearly already having had a couple of drinks. She throws her arms around Bellamy, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

He doesn't seemed fazed by it, instead laughing and turning to the rest of the group, “Really? You started her off with tequila?”

Gina turns to her and throws her arms around her neck, causing her to stumble back slightly. She slurs something about being happy she made it and she can’t help but smile back, feeling genuinely complimented that the girl actually wanted her to be a part of it.

“Happy birthday!” she yells over the thumping music.

Clarke settles in next to Harper, who is still mostly sober. The blonde greets her with an enthusiastic half-hug, “You look great!”

She tugs on her hair self-consciously, the curls already beginning to frizz in the humidity of the bar. She had put a little product in it, in the hopes it would stay relatively tame. She can tell it was a failed attempt. She returns Harper’s compliments, commenting on the dress she picked out. It’s a tight fitting black dress that reaches to mid-thigh and hugs her fit figure in all the right spots. She’s paired it with a pair of blue heels and she tosses her long, blonde hair over her shoulder to model for her. She laughs at the girls antics before turning her attention back to the table. Somewhere in the midst of their greetings, he’s managed to change into a more comfortable looking t-shirt. It’s just a simple dark blue shirt, but it compliments him.

He sneaks off to the bar and she listens intently as Gina starts rambling on about the asshole she had been seeing that won’t call her back.

“I’m a great catch,” she slurs, leaning into Miller’s shoulder.

“Yes, you are.” he reassures with a pat on her shoulder.

“Maybe...” Gina’s voice lowers as she pulls her head in towards the group, “Maybe I’m an awful hookup.”

The group attempts to soothe her, even Emori offering a half-hearted, “No, I’m sure you’re great.”

When Bellamy makes his way back to the table, sipping from his overflowing beer, she proceeds to bombard him.

“Be honest!” Gina jabs his chest with her index finger, “Was I bad in bed?”

Clarke finds herself having to purse her lips to suppress a laugh. He looks completely blindsided by the question. More than that, very much unsure of how to answer. His gaze finds hers and she jerks her head towards Gina. The girl is waiting for an answer.

“No!” and she has to give him credit, whether he believes she is or not, his answer seems to brighten her up.

“It’s him then,” she concludes, smacking her palm on the table and rattling their drinks, “He did weird things with his tongue.”

“That’s why girls are better,” Harper offers and Clarke can’t help but high five her on that one. In her experience, girls are more self-aware of what they’re doing. And more apt to take direction.

This launches everyone into the great debate and Harper announces she needs a drink. Clarke decides to follow her to the bar, if only to get away from the drunken attempt at figuring out who’s better at sex. In all honesty, she’s a firm believer that gender has nothing to do with sexual prowess. It’s definitely based on the person, at least, that’s been her experience.

Harper takes her hand and guides her through the crowd and she finds herself having to squeeze in between bodies and having to take a couple of elbows to the boob in the process. Somehow they manage to squeeze into an open spot at the bar and Harper flags down the bartender. She orders a gin and tonic before turning to her.

“Clarke!” she yells to get her attention, “What do you want?”

This is where she didn’t think it through. She doesn’t drink. Not anymore. The whole idea of it makes her sick to her stomach, no doubt residual guilt eating away at her when she even contemplates picking up a drink. Every time she’s gone out with them, thus far, she’s ordered her own drinks at the bar. Usually a coke or a red bull. People just assume they’re alcoholic and she doesn’t feel like correcting them. As for now, she could just order a coke. She doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. But instead she decides to take the safer route, the one that won’t end in a potential interrogation.

“Bourbon and coke,” she announces. From behind Harper, she watches a greasy looking man admires her ass as she leans over the bar and then turns his eyes on her. He’s definitely older than them, probably in his forties. His beard is hinting at gray and he’s wearing an excessive amount of hairgel, something people her age have learned not to do.

“15 dollars, ladies!” the bartender hollers. Clarke makes a show of beginning to dig in her small purse for cash and she feels a rough hand touch her wrist.

“I got it, sweetie,” he says and tells the bartender to put it on his tab. She tries to keep her eye rolling at a minimal and instead offers as sweet a smile as she can give.

“Thanks!” she grabs Harper’s free wrist and drags her away before the creep can try to latch onto them.

It still amazes her how there still seems to be the assumption that if you buy a girl a drink, she’s suddenly in debt to you. Maybe he’ll learn his lesson. At least they got a free drink out of it.

“Was it free?” Bellamy asks when she moves into the spot next to him. She slides the drink to him and he gives her a confused look.

“Free for me, free for you,” she offers without explanation, “Bourbon and coke.”

She sees something pass across his face briefly, but she isn’t quite sure how to place it. Morbid curiosity? Gratitude?.

“You trying to get me drunk?” he has a charm about him, she can admit. The way he carries himself confidently but self-aware. He knows he’s good looking and he knows how to use it. She can’t complain.

They’re teetering into flirtatious territory and she feels herself going along with it, moving a bit closer to him and placing a light hand on his arm, “Definitely.”

She isn’t opposed to flirting with him. In fact, she’s opened up that gate multiple times. There’s just something about him that continues to draw her in without notice. It’s like she tries to remain friendly and distant, but he’s determined to make it as difficult as possible, though she isn’t sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. Based on all his interactions, he’s just a friendly guy. He’s affectionate with all of his friends, constantly teasing them and it could easily be misconstrued as flirting. Maybe that’s what’s happening here?

Their moment is short lived. Gina manages to nearly yank her shoulder out of socket trying to drag her to the dance floor. She practically orders everyone else to follow suit. Bellamy and Miller are the only exceptions, expressing just how vehemently against dancing they are. They prefer to watch the poor souls who don’t have rhythm make fools of themselves.

Clarke has nothing against dancing. She’s always enjoys it when she gets the chance to do it. She doesn’t make a big show, just sways her hips with the music and follows the rhythm. She actually enjoys the song that’s playing so falling into the movement isn’t too difficult. The lights are overwhelming, a kaleidoscope of colors surrounding them, but once she’s used to them she finds that likes them.

It doesn’t take long for Harper find someone to make out with. She moves into the crowd and Clarke does her best to keep at least a idea of her whereabouts. She’s watched too many true crime series to just let someone fade into the background without ensuring they’re safe. She and Gina are dancing with each other, though Gina is very much outdoing her, tossing her hair and twirling despite her balance being something close to awful. Emori and Murphy are dancing closely next to them, zoned in on one another like the rest of the floor doesn’t exist. The beat begins to pick up and she’s having fun throwing herself into the music until she feels hands grip at her hips.

She whips around to find the guy from the bar grinning at her lecherously. Her stomach takes a sharp turn. She tries to move away subtly, turning to face him and backing into Gina. She gives him her best smile, like she hadn’t just rejected him but he seems determined. He places his hands on her hips again and pulls her towards him, grinding his pelvis into her. The whole thing feels dirty and strange. She’s done her fair share of bumping and grinding, but usually the consensual kind.This just feels forced and all around terrible.

She places her hand on his chest and pushes back and it’s then that he seems to register that she doesn’t actually want to dance with him. He puts his mouth to her ear, “You let me buy you a drink.”

She pulls back and has to fight the urge to knee him in the balls. She leans towards him, “You offered, I don’t owe you anything.”

He wraps an arm around her waist, the direct opposite of what she was trying to tell him. Gina seems to come to her senses, though she’s a little too tipsy to offer any sort of support. She gets credit for trying.

“She said back off, dude!” she yells, trying to pull Clarke away from him. It doesn’t do anything besides make him more irritated.

“No one asked you,” he yells at her before waving her off like a fly. To Clarke’s surprise, Gina just takes a step back before disappearing in the crowd. She tries to locate Murphy and Emori, but they seemed to have disappeared at some point. Trying to decide what next steps to take, she concludes that he is actual trash and being polite isn’t going to make him let go. So, she rationalizes her next move and as she leans into him and he gives her a sickening smile, she rears her knee back and gets him squarely in the dick. He let’s go immediately.

He bends over in front of her with a yelp and she places a hand on his shoulder before leaning down to get on his level yelling over the music, “Word of advice: when a someone says no, you fucking listen!”

Feeling satisfied with her work, she gives him a small push and he leaves the crowd with his tail tucked between his legs. When she turns around, she finds Bellamy watching her carefully.

He manages to snap his mouth shut and give her grin, “Gina said some guy was being a dick.”

She nods in understanding. She went for help. She gives the girl her credit back, glad that she hadn’t actually left her in the dust.

She lifts her chin, “I can handle myself.”

That only causes his smile to widen, “Clearly.”

She stands there awkwardly for a moment, trying to shrug off the whole incident. A new song has begun and it’s a slower. Seductive almost. Almost instinctively, she begins moving to beat again. She kinks her eyebrow, daring him to join her. She expects him to shake his head and walk away, but as she moves her hips from side to side, she notices the way his eyes darken ever so slightly and he begins to move with her.

Instinctively, she moves in closer to him. It makes her feel a little more comfortable and she expects that no one else will attempt to dance with her, at the least. He seems hesitant at first, his hand only grazing her side. She feels like she’s in a trance. They’re watching each other intently, and she grabs his hand to place it firmly on her hip. Permission granted.

She leans in with a coy smile, “I thought you didn’t dance?”

He places a finger to his lips, “Don’t ruin this once in lifetime opportunity.”

He places his other hand on her and he’s holding her as she moves, letting himself follow her lead. It feels vastly different from her previous encounter. It’s tentative, but they gravitate towards one another. Her hand slides onto his neck, playing with the hairs at the nape and his arm slips around her waist. They press into each other, hips meeting and chests flush together. She’s feeling warm, all of a sudden, heat flooding her cheeks and her stomach. She doesn’t know when the last time she had been this close to someone. But what she does know is that this, the way he’s moving with her and watching her likes she’s something special, is something she doesn’t want to end.

As if thinking the same thing, he leans his forehead onto hers and their breaths mingle with the heat of the dance floor. She licks her lips in anticipation. There is only a second of hesitation as the song begins to fade into something new before he closes the short distance between them and presses his lips against hers. It’s chaste at first, just lips on lips but she tilts her head slightly and when he runs his tongue teasingly at the seam of her lips, she quickly grants him access.

He’s a good kisser, is the first thing that she registers. She gets lost in him almost immediately, the rest of the world completely drowned out, her own racing thoughts silenced. They’re testing the waters, teasing tongues and soft touches. They could be there for moments or hours, she isn’t sure but when they break apart, suddenly everything is too loud.

“I need some air,” she breathes and pulls away, trying to make her way from the crowd. Her heart is beginning to race and she feels herself beginning to panic. Her chest is vibrating under the bass and her head feels like it’s pounding. She forces her way out the door, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

Damn, he’s a good kisser.

Her head is a flurry of thoughts, wanting more but also wary of what it means. She leans against the brick building and closes her eyes, trying to ground herself. The air isn’t cool by any means, but there’s a light breeze that’s helping the fire burn low on her cheeks. She’s hears approaching footsteps and doesn’t even open her eyes to see who they belong to. She knows. And she isn’t surprised one bit.

He leans against the wall next to her, shoving his hands in his pocket and just gazing into the parking lot. They stand in silence, both taking in the meaning of the moment on the dance floor. What does it mean, if anything? Where do they go from here?

“Did I fuck up?” he asks finally, his voice low and contemplative.

“No!” she says immediately, her cheeks flaring once again in embarrassment, “You didn't do anything wrong. It was nice…”

Nice is an understatement. It was amazing. Mind-numbing, even. She can’t remember the last time her mind had ever been that quiet, That focused.

“But?” he can already tell there’s more to the statement. There is a but. A very big but. How does she explain it without going into her history? She’s not ready to reveal that part of herself to him, after all, they're nothing but strangers. Intimate strangers.

“I leave for Chicago in August,” she settles, revealing the least personal of reasons why kissing him was a bad idea, “I...I can’t commit to anything.”

He finally looks at her, shaking his head with a grimace, “It was a kiss, Clarke.”

She doesn’t say anything so he continues, turning his body towards her and relaxing against the wall, “I’m not asking for anything. I like you and it can mean whatever you want it to mean.”

What does she want it to mean? She likes him too, she knows that. But can it really be that simple? Like a friends with benefits type thing? They’re hardly friends. But maybe that’s what makes it a good thing.

“How can you like me? You barely know me...”

“Maybe so. Does it matter?”

She thinks about it carefully. If she had any interest in dating him, maybe it would. She'd want him to know everything about her -- her birthday, her history. She’d tell him about Wells. She'd want him to know the finer details. But she can't date him. She has three months in the city and then they're both on were their respective lives. Yet he’s making her an offer-they can just do what they want to do, summer fling. She always thought those were movie cliches but it doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. They’re pretty much together all the time, anyways.

“I guess it doesn't,” is her final answer.

“I know you’re smart, you’re kind of funny, and tough as nails,” he lists them off like they’re no big deal. Like he wasn't complimenting the hell out of her. She realizes that nothing really has to change from what they’re already doing. They had been flirting since they met.

“Kind of funny?” she raises an eyebrow and she swears she sees his shoulders sag in relief. He seems to understand that it’s her way accepting his offer...or whatever it is.

“You’re hot, so it makes up for the lack of humor,” he deadpans and she pinches his arm. He gives her another smile and she decides to go for it. What does she have to lose?

“So, what happens now?” she asks, inching closer to him, lips curving upwards as she grazes her fingers against his arm.

He offers a shy laugh, bringing his hand to the curve of her hip, “Well, for starters, if I kiss you again, are you going to run away?”

She smiles then, “No.”

“Good,” he replies, a slides his other hand onto her cheek and pulls her forward. Their lips are inches apart, “I like kissing you.”

She doesn’t respond, just closes the distance between them. The world goes silent again, her mind a comfortable quiet she could find solace in. It’s the happiest she’s felt in months.

June 2013

Two things change after Gina’s birthday. The first being that she now has everyone’s number and has been added to every chat group known to man. And they talk a lot. It's endearing but also annoying as her phone is constantly buzzing with activity. The second being that her and Bellamy are friends who make out on occasion. Or all the time. That’s a better description.

She continues to see him in the library and they put away books together, talking about anything they can, usually keeping the topic neutral and not very personal. She had told him that after a particularly intense make-out session outside of the Ark and he had been cool with it. The less they know about each other, the more casual they can keep it.

They talk about Harper’s currently dating crisis -- apparently the girl from the bar (Roma was her name) is extremely into her and really wants to date her, but Harper also really wanted to play the field this summer. They also talk about school, he tells her about some of his classes and his aspirations. Nothing out of the ordinary for friends. Perfectly comfortable.

At first, she had been wary on how to act with him while they were around his friends, seemingly not wanting to give the wrong impression.They’re all cool and don’t seem like the judgmental type, but she still hadn't been sure. Bellamy took the reigns on that one after particularly intense game of darts with Emori and Murphy, he snatched her into a victory kiss and no one cared. They seemed pretty unsurprised by it, in fact. She figures they know Bellamy well enough to know that relationships aren’t his thing, after all they’ve talked about it quite a bit. His longest relationship had been with a girl named Echo and that lasted about three months before he decided it wasn’t for him.

“Maybe I’m just picky,” he defended himself, but everyone chided him on his inability to connect emotionally. It’s somewhat of a relief to know that about him and it’s perhaps why he so willingly agreed to remain as distant as possible. She can’t complain, it makes staying unattached pretty simple.

“Do you know who Two Door Cinema Club is?” he asks her one day as they lounge in one of the book stacks of the library. They’re taking a well deserved break after shelving a large amount of encyclopedias and she has her head resting on his thigh, thumbing through one of the 1940 editions. He’s currently tracing idle circles into her scalp.

“Sure,” she tells him. Wells had always been her musically inclined friend, introducing her to bands and insisting she listen. They had been one of the few groups/bands she found herself actually enjoying.

“I have tickets to their concert tonight,” he tells her and she doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s trying to brag. He likes to do that, she’s learned. He plays the cocky asshole well.

“That’s cool.”

“Miller was supposed to come with me,” he continues, “But he went home.”

Miller’s family lives in Amherst, the most boring town in the world according to Bellamy, but she’s noticed he seems to be a bit dramatic.

“Everything okay?” she asks. She imagines he wouldn’t ditch without good reason. If there’s anything she’s learned about Miller it’s that he’s reliable.

“His dog is sick. He’s old, so you know...”

If she remembers correctly, his dog had been his screensaver on his phone and he had drunkenly told her all about him. His name is Ammo and he’s pretty fucking cute. It’s also adorable how much Miller cares about him. He’d had him since he was a kid.

“Poor guy.”

Bellamy hums and pulls his clipboard over to idly scratch out the returns he’s shelved, “What I’m trying to say is, I have an extra ticket if you’re interested.”

Oh. It sounds vaguely like a date. Her heart thumps aggressively against her ribcage at the thought.

“It’s not a date,” he seems to read her mind, “It’s just convenient that you like them and I have a ticket already paid for.”

“And you want to go with me?” she wishes she weren’t so self-deprecating. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s very obvious now that he enjoys her company, and only partially because she’s a good kisser. Or so she assumes. She’s never had anyone else tell her otherwise.

“You were definitely my last choice.”

“Well, in that case,” she leans up to give him a pointed stare, “I’d hate for you to have to go alone. Knowing you, you’d probably find some unsuspecting introvert to prey on.”

The venue isn’t far from Midtown, so they make plans to meet at her mom’s place. She gives him the address and she watches his eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“You're kidding,” he deadpans and she sighs, praying that he’s not another person who will decide to judge her based on wealth.

“We can leave around 6:30,” is all she responds.

“Damn,” he whistles when he shows up at the apartment, “You weren’t kidding.”

He’s fiddling with one of her mom’s weird fake plants while she slips on her shoes.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s amazing,” she practically shoves him out the door, not wanting him to spend too much time going over the historical artifacts lying around the apartment. She’s also not a fan of showing off money, which her mom’s apartment does quite a bit. It’s Not her thing.

They make it to the venue about thirty minutes before the concert, thanks to a very new Uber driver taking the wrong route and getting them lost. She thinks it’s funny, but doesn’t mind when the driver tells them to forget the payment and drives off.

“I’m not really big into standing at the front anyways,” Bellamy says when they walk inside to see a fairly decent crowd smashed against the stage.

“Me either,” she agrees, “Grab a drink and hang in the back?”

“You’re speaking my language.”

That’s how they spend the entire concert, leaning against a table and nodding along to the music. She dances a little, enjoying the infectious rhythm of their songs. When they play her favorite song, Sun, she can’t help but join into the jumping and maybe one or two hair whip’s makes it out. She wore her hair down for a reason.

He watches her amused, though makes no effort to join in. He did tell her the dancing was a rare thing for him. It’s fine, she enjoys dancing alone anyways.

When he steps away to grab a drink during a small break, the band has an issue with an instrument and arere in the process of tuning their back up. She’s fairly engrossed in watching them until she turns to make a comment to Bellamy and realizes he hasn’t come back. When she turns towards the bar, she sees him engaged in conversation with a tall brunette who’s putting on all the stops. She throws her head back with a laugh, looking like she belongs in a Crest commercial, and places a hand on his shoulder. Clarke feels something pull at her stomach but does her best to ignore it. He has every right in the world to flirt and have fun. They’re friends. Friends who like to kiss sometimes and she’s perfectly content with that.

She decides to move slightly closer to the crowd and engage a little more. They seem like a calm bunch. There’s been minimal pushing and some fairly tame dancing. She’ll fit right in. The next song starts and it’s one of their older ones. The crowd goes wild and she finds herself engrossed in the fist pumping, mouthing the words along with the person standing next to her.

When she feels a hand on the small of her back, she nearly pulls up her knee in reflex. But then she sees dark curls out of the corner of her eye and relaxes.

“Couldn’t resist, huh?” Bellamy says into her ear, her original idea of hanging out in the back and watching long lost. She gives him an innocent shrug. She ignores the fact that the knot that had been sitting in her stomach releases at the sight of him. It’s no big deal. He rolls his eyes but to her surprise, he starts to dance with her. It’s nothing much, just bobbing his head and swaying, but seeing him dance is not as rare an occurrence as he claimed. She tries not to feel satisfied by that.

They spend the rest of their night in the crowd and by the time they leave, they’re a sweaty mess. She pulls her hair up into the bun, desperate to get the hair from sticking to her neck. She hates the way it feels.

“They were amazing,” she gushes, pushing a loose hair from her forehead. He nods in a agreement and watches the crowd begin to scatter. She pulls out her phone to order the Uber and hesitates.

“Would it be easier to drop you off first or me?” she asks. She plans on paying for it, to equalize the fact that he brought her along, so she finds a solution that makes sense, “You, probably.”

“You could come home with me,” he says and she nearly snaps her neck looking up from where she had been typing the address in. He watches her reaction warily, “If you want.”

They haven’t crossed that line yet. They have only hung out in the presence of others, whether the general public or his close friends. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it. In fact, when his tongue is down her throat and his hands are splayed across the small of her back, she thinks about it quite a lot. She’s trying to make better choices, to stop resolving her issues with sex and drinking and whatever destructive behavior she can come up with. None of those things would bring Wells back. Would stop people from hurting her.

But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel the temptation. She thinks about going home, to the dark and empty home, to another cold pizza on the counter from her mom, trying to make up for her absence. She thinks about the aching loneliness she feels when she’s stuck inside with nothing to distract her from reality. She looks at him and he’s watching her with reserved hopefulness and suddenly the answer is easy.

“Sure,” she finally says and types his address into the Uber destination bar. They stand in a comfortable silence waiting for it to pull up. Not ten minutes later are they in the back of the car and he’s debating the ethics of surge prices. He had caught a glimpse of her phone and saw the “3x” symbol next to the pricing and decided that this particular Uber driver deserved to hear his lecture on price gouging.

“Bellamy, it’s fine,” she groans, sensing the discomfort of the driver, “Write a letter to the CEO or something!”

He concedes with a dramatic sigh and she pats his leg sympathetically. She’s learned that he tends to work himself up about the smallest things, but she’s happy he’s easy to redirect. She slides her hand from his thigh and twines her fingers into his to give them another reassuring squeeze. That’s the thing about Bellamy. He’s an affectionate guy, free with his touches and often times has no semblance of personal space. He’s that way with all of his friends, often times hanging an arm around Miller or placing a chaste kiss on Harper’s forehead. He enjoys the contact of others and she can’t say she’s opposed.

There surge price debate becomes forgotten. The drive isn’t long and they pull up to a small brick house in a quiet neighborhood, vastly different from what she’s experienced thus far in the city. She likes it.

“It’s not much,” he says as he unlocks the front door and pushes it open, “But it’s home.”

It’s not big by any means. A two bedroom, single floor house. It’s a bit run down, paint chipping from the walls but well decorated and clean. She follows him through the hallway and into the living room, where it is joined with the small kitchen. She’s impressed by how well matched everything is. Most college students have mismatched cheap furniture. They haveat least put thought into their living room set.

“Most of it is Miller’s,” he breaks the silence, “He’s a bargain hunter. Got the couch and the chair for like 200 bucks on Craigslist.”

“Smart guy,” she responds. She moves to settle on the couch and grabs the book currently lying open on the coffee table.

“Are you seriously reading this again?” it’s a tattered copy of The Iliad, a book that she knows he’s read at least ten times- He’s told her as much.

“I like it,” he counters and snatches from her hands, delicately marking his page and placing it on the bookshelf next to the tv. She’s not surprised to see the shelf is filled with books, some clearly textbooks and others well read editions of classics. He seriously is a nerd but it’s kind of endearing.

When he flops onto the couch next to her, he picks up the remote to mess with the TV, “What do you want to watch?”

“Just turn something on,” she says casually and decides she might as well lay it all out on the table, “We probably won’t watch it much anyway.”

“Are you insinuating a Netflix and chill?” he asks sounding appalled, though his eyes seem to hold a sparkle when he looks at her.

“Don’t you have to have Netflix for that?” she asks dryly.

“Yeah,” he replies, “But Hulu and chill just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

He finds a show on the front page of Hulu and clicks play, “Did you know Nick Offerman has his own woodworking shop in real life?”

The familiar theme song of Parks and Rec begins to play and smiles slightly, “You don’t say.”

He sets the remotes on the table and glances at her, “He’s also a skilled saxophone player.”

He’s nervous. She peeks at him through her peripherals and he’s stared fixedly at the television, habitually picking at his nails. That’s his tell. His sudden anxiety gives her a bit of her own. Maybe he hadn’t brought her over here for anything other than to hang out. Maybe she had misread the whole situation. But then she thinks about the way he kisses her, like he wants to consume her completely. The way he touches her so freely, like it's the most natural thing in the world. They’ve already agreed upon a no strings relationship, even if it was only in reference to kissing and heavy groping. She imagines that going further will be under the same rules.

She humors him and turns her attention back to the television, pretending to be fascinated by what Andy’s currently doing. She laughs, because dammit Andy Dwyer is hilarious. She hears him chuckle as well.

“Did you know he was only supposed to be in season one?”

The fact that he knows so much about the show doesn’t surprise her. He seems like the kind of guy to get on IMDB and read the trivia facts, which, she’s not judging because she has admittedly done the same. But is now really the time? She scoots closer to him so that their thighs are pressing together.

“It was supposed to be a spinoff of the Office,” his voice deepens a little and she sees his throat bob nervously.

“Bellamy,” she finally says, exasperation clear in her voice. Finally he looks at her, and she notices the way his pupils have gone dark, the way they did when they had been dancing. He’s definitely interested.

She hears the familiar voice of Tom Haverford and Bellamy points at the screen half-heartedly, “He went to business school.”

Deciding that she might as well make the first move, she moves into his lap placing her thighs on either side of his so she’s straddling his legs. She feels his hands slide onto her hips, “I am basically offering myself on a silver platter here and you want to tell me Parks and Rec trivia?”

He leans his forehead against hers, lips dangerously close, “I didn’t want it to seem like I brought you here just to hook up.”

She snorts, “Even though you did.”

“Whatever,” he says, “I’m trying to be a gentleman, Clarke.”

The last thing she says before crushing her lips to his is, “Fucking nerd.”

Seriously, she could kiss him for hours. Not only for the solace it gives her, but also because he’s very skilled with his lips. He can go from lazy to passionate to sensual in about three seconds flat and honestly, he could, quite possibly be the best kiss she’s ever had. She won’t confirm that, though. She wouldn’t want to stroke his ego any more.

However, when she thought it couldn’t get much better, it turns out he had been holding out. Being in the privacy of his own place without fear of interruption or the stigma surrounding PDA, he’s much hungrier. He nips at her lower lip before moving his own to the hollow of her throat and the sensitive parts of her neck. She can’t help the moan that escapes when he finds a sweet spot just behind her ear. The sound seems to drive him more.

She can feel his building excitement between her legs and she finds that she’s not worried or intimidated by it. It actually causes her own to grow. It amazes her how he’s able to drive her to this point with his lips alone. Instinctively, she grinds down into him and he sucks her bottom lip in between his teeth, grazing it and driving her completely mad. When she pulls back, her lips are red and swollen from the large amount of attention they’ve received but she isn’t quite ready to let them rest. When he seems ready to say something, she leaves a hot and wet kiss on his jawline. His hand creeps under her shirt and she flinches as his thumb nearly grazes the puckered scar on her back.

“Sorry…” he says quickly, snatching his hand from its place on her bare back. She gives him an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” she reassures him. It caught her by surprise and though she may be ready to cross some boundaries with him, letting him feel that part of her isn’t one of them. She feels her mind beginning to race again, thoughts of that night beginning to flash through her mind. She kisses him fiercely, trying to drown them out once more. He lets his hands travel her body, though this time remaining firmly above the shirt. He grazes her breasts and she feels her self-control begin to waiver. A want she’s never felt before settles into her stomach.

“Bellamy,” she groans when his hand brushes her breast and she feels them harden at the slightest touch.

“Tell me what you want,” he growls into her ear, lust coating his voice..

She stops thinking at this point, letting herself follow the moment for what it is. She’s picking up what he’s laying down, he’s putting the ball in her court.

“You,” she breathes, “To touch me. Everywhere.”

She lets out a loud yelp when he stands up, gripping her ass in his hands to keep her firmly attached to him. She wraps her legs around his waist and allows him to carry her off to, she presumes, his bedroom. She nuzzles his shoulder and lets out a giddy laugh when he drops her on his bed and she takes a couple bounces. The room is illuminated only by the dim lights coming through the blinds. She finds comfort in the dark,. They can be strangers here.

“Miller would kill me if I tainted the couch,” he explains and pulls his shirt over his head and though her eyes are still adjusting, she can see the smoothness of his chest and the tone of his abdomen. She can see the muscle definition and the way it disappears below his waistline. She does her best not to drool.

“Like what you see?” he asks smugly, her desire clearly written on her face.

“Eh,” she responds, trying her best to sound unfazed. He climbs on top of her and attaches his lips to her neck, sucking the spot he knows drives her absolutely mad.

“You’re alright,” she says half-heartedly and he grinds into her for good measure.

He leans up and she moves with him, lifting her arms in the air indicating she wants her shirt off. He obliges and pulls the offending piece of fabric off, tossing it to the floor with a soft thump. Thank God she wore her good bra today.

He watches her for a moment, taking it all in and runs his hands along her sides. Goosebumps follow the trail of his finger and he leans down to kiss her, slower this time.

“Have I mentioned you’re fucking beautiful?” he asks and the reverie in which he says it stuns her for a moment. Of course he’s called her cute plenty of times, but the way he says this feels...intimate. Like he really finds her to be the most beautiful creature on the Earth. It’s a bit intimidating and she tries to pretend her heart doesn’t flutter in her chest when he says it.

She twines her fingers into his hair scraping at the curls on his neck and then they’re kissing again while their hands are everywhere. She slides hers into the waistband of his jeans, tracing along his hip bones and she swears she feels him shudder under her fingertips. He reaches behind her back and skillfully unhooks her bra with one hand, finally allowing her chest to be free. He wastes no time, first palming at her breasts and replacing his hand(s?) with lips. He swirls his tongue around her nipple and she almost comes from that contact alone. He pays equal amount of attention to both nipples.breasts/etc and she’s forced to rub her thighs together to get some sort of friction down there. She’s already on the edge and he hasn’t even fully touched her yet.

She tries to hasten the process of clothes removal by reaching down to unbutton her own jeans and he takes the hint, hooking his own fingers into her belt loops and sliding them down her thighs along with her underwear. She’s fully exposed to him now and he looks nothing short of amazed. He reaches in between them and touches her gently, causing her legs to twitch. His touches are soft, first running a gently thumb over her folds and she can’t help but groan in frustration.

“You wet for me?” he’s smirking now, loving the way her body begs for him.

“Yes,” she breathes, “Please just…”

“What do you want, Clarke?” he applies more pressure to her now and she pulls her hips up to meet him as he begins to circle her clit.

“Fuck!” is all she manages to get out but he seems to understand perfectly.

He pushes her thighs apart, his thumb still working her and slides down on the bed, kissing her hip bone as he goes, “Just so you know, I’m really into foreplay.”

She doesn’t have a chance to respond before he replaces his finger with his mouth. Just as suspected, he’s just as good with his mouth down there. His tongue slides smoothly along her sex while his fingers move in and out. She slides a hand into his hair, gripping it a little tighter than she means to when he grazes his teeth along her. Apparently, he appreciates her enthusiasm because he buries his face further into her and she’s falling apart with a loud moan. He takes her through the entire orgasm, lapping up her juices like he’s never tasted anything like it. When he leans up, he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm before giving her a proud smile.

“Really into foreplay,” he reiterates and she offers a weak laugh before pulling him down for a kiss. She can taste herself on his lips. Deciding he deserves a similar show of affection for his effort, she perks up to her knees and gently pushes his shoulders back.

“Well, in that case,” she husks and reaches down to pop the button on his jeans. He helps her get them off and his erection springs free, waiting for her next move. She wraps a delicate hand around him, feeling him out for the first time. Not that she has a whole lot to compare it to, but she can already see he’s well equipped. She wraps her hand around him and slides it up and down slowly, testing him out. His hand grips the bed a little tighter. She should be more nervous than she is, after all this isn’t something she normally does, but she can’t remember ever being this turned on. She hardly has time to think and finds herself doing what comes naturally. In this case, she doesn’t hesitate to run her lips along the length of his erection before completely taking him in.

“Fuck,” he growls out, threading his fingers in her hair. She’s not very experienced in the blow job department, but she also never had any complaints. Either way, she wants to pleasure him as much as he pleasured her.

“Tell me what you like.” She says, pulling up for a moment to give him another seductive smile.

And he does. When she does something he likes, he makes sure she knows. Whether it’s grunting in pleasure or telling her how much he likes seeing her with his cock in her mouth. When he’s not reacting at all, she knows it’s not for him. She continues for a solid five minutes before he pulls her up.

“Not that...I mean I’m not expecting,” he’s the one having trouble forming coherent sentences now and she can’t help but feel satisfied with her work, “Guys don’t rebound like girls do.”

She has no idea what he’s talking about so he tries to clarify, “I’m...close and I don’t want it to be over...you know, before we get started?”

He’s getting flustered and she can’t help but laugh. He groans, clearly frustrated by his lack of cohesiveness.

“I’m just trying to say if you want to have sex and good sex, you shouldn’t keep going.”

She doesn’t answer for a moment, and not really because she doesn’t know what to say but because her mind is pretty hazy as well. She was perfectly content to finish him this way, letting him cum in her mouth because she knows it would blow his mind and she doesn’t really have an aversion to it. But, selfishly, she definitely wants to know what he feels like inside of her.

“Did I fuck up? I mentioned sex...fuck. I don’t want you to think that’s all I want….I,” she kisses him mid ramble.

“Relax,” she says when she pulls away, “I’m happy with sex or I’m happy to finish you off like this. What do you want?”

He considers her for a moment before he grips her hip firmly, “I really want to fuck you.”

She never thought she’d be into the dirty talk, but damn if he didn’t sound good when he told her all the filthy things he wanted to do to her.

“Condoms?” she asks and he points to his nightstand. She fumbles around in the drawer, keeping one hand firmly around his shaft so he stays hard, and pulls one from the drawer. She tears the wrapper open with her teeth and he moans at the sight. She just grins as she rolls the condom onto him. Just as she’s about to sink down on top of him, he flips her onto her back.

“I said I want to fuck you,” he clarifies and sinks into her with one long push. And it feels better than she could have ever imagined.

“Oh God,” she gasps as he fills her up, sinking her nails into his shoulder.

He starts of with slow strokes, pushing in and out at a tantalizing speed. She never thought herself to be loud or anything, but her breath is coming out in raspy moans and they get a little louder as the momentum increases. She pulls her hips up to meet him, flexing her inner walls when he’s completely inside of her.

“You feel so good,” he’s whispering into her ear, face buried in her neck and one hand firmly wrapped around her back, “Amazing, Clarke, so fucking good.”

She hikes her leg up and he slides it over his shoulder and the angle causes her to nearly scream. She grips his arm as he picks up speed and before she even feels it building, she’s falling apart again, shaking beneath him and crying out his name into the dark room. It only takes him a couple more pushes before she feels him come undone as well and he collapses on top of her with a groan.

She runs a hand idly through his hair and he doesn’t move for a good minute or two. Finally, as though he has to muster up the rest of his strength he rolls off of her and removes the condom, idly searching for the trash can near his bed.

“Fuck.” he says when sinks back down into the pillows. It’s a simple statement. She isn’t sure what it means. Wow? I fucked up? Or maybe, You were amazing?

“Fuck.” she agrees. She isn’t sure what she means by it either. She’s satisfied and the usual guilt that comes from these sort of hookups doesn’t come. She doesn’t regret it.

He turns to look at her and gives her a lazy smile, “Was that okay?”

He isn’t asking if he was okay in bed or if she’s satisfied. He’s asking if they stepped over any boundaries. If they violated the terms of their unspoken agreement.

“I’m okay,” she answers firmly, “You?”

He lets out a low chuckle, “I’m great.”

Neither makes a move to get closer to the other, which is fine by her. Cuddling seems too intimate in this moment and she almost laughs at the contradiction of it all. She can have sex with someone and still feel far away. But if there is cuddling, well, that’s just not allowed. She leans up and finds her discarded shirt on the ground, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, determined to cover up. She feels all too exposed and uncertain. What happens now?

“Relax,” he tells her, again seemingly reading her mind with ease. She hates how well he can read her already. It’s not fair.

“I’m still not going to ask you to marry me, Clarke,” it’s a reference to the conversation they had when they first kissed, “We’re friends. We had sex. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

“You’re okay with that?” She feels like she has to ask. He hasn’t indicated anything to the contrary, but she can’t help but still be a little paranoid about it. The last thing she wants is to hurt him. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? She has a record of hurting people. She doesn’t want to add anymore names to the list.

“Getting laid on the regular without having to suffer through the relationship part that I know I’m not good at?” when she doesn’t respond, he clarifies, “I’m definitely okay with that.”

It doesn’t feel normal at this moment. That’s usually not something girls want to hear after sex, but to her, it’s a relief.

“Who said it’s happening again?”

He leans up onto his elbow, and opens his knees so that’s he’s practically posing for her, “You know you can’t resist.”

“You just think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” she teases, pushing his shoulders so that he’s on his back and she’s pinning him to the bed.

“Absolutely.”

“Well if you do manage to convince me to do it again,” she says dramatically, “Maybe it would be a good idea to set like...rules or something?”

He slides his hands onto her bare thighs and she has to suppress a shiver threatening to run up her spine, “What kind of rules?”

“I don’t know, to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I’m listening.”

They manage to agree on three things.

No staying the night.

No cuddling (which he was reluctant to agree to because he likes cuddling almost as much as he likes foreplay.)

No falling in love (or feelings beyond lust.

He walks her out that night and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek with a simple request that she let him know when she arrives safely home. She does. She crawls into bed, her body exhausted from the long day. Normally, it takes her hours to fall asleep. Her fear of the nightmares often keeping her awake long into the night.

She falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #my writing #in case you don't like ao3 here you go #modern au #road trip au #angst and tropey goodness

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