#aisling is *pokes through her ghost*

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eight —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. reader menstruates. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let's see how this trip goes

A neon-yellow lighter. A comb with a few teeth broken off. A deck of cards. That is what you have scrounged so far in this little convenience store that Blue convinced Ghost to stop in— the only stop in the village he will allow on the way to the military base. She spotted a rack of magazines from the window and the child in her begged him.

Fuckity fuck, Ghost. Please. Please. Please.

You’ve decided to sweep through the aisles to make this forced trip at least a little worth it for you. Broken glass and dust lay under the soles of your boots. All the food in here is gone, of course. The lighter you found can be useful.

Oh. You also found a corny romance book. You are in need of something to read, too. You left behind your old copy of A Farewell to Arms. You imagine that it was flattened to something unrecognizable by the mass of Greys.

You go to the aisle for toiletries. Again, these shelves have been licked almost clean. You fish your hand all the way to the back to see if anything could be there. You didn’t have time on your first trip to do much searching for anything other than medicine.

What your hand manages to knock against is a box. You pull it forward to inspect it. Gold packaging. Faded letters. It’s a box of condoms. First, you feel annoyed. It is useless to you. Expired, anyway. But then some memories come to mind along with a stir in your stomach.

Sex. Right. At one point, these were useful to you.

What you had told Blue the other day was mostly the truth. Coursework and exams meant that a steady relationship wasn’t on your mind back then. You were too young for it, anyway. You liked going out. You liked dancing with your friends. You liked meeting new people and sipping on drinks that were sweet enough to go down without a wince.

But what you didn’t tell Blue, and what you haven’t thought about in a long time, is that the last guy you had sex with was a little more than just someone you enjoyed the company of.

You trace your finger over the letters on the box, recalling the buried memory. A few weeks before the outbreak, you met him at a pub. He chatted you up. He was kind-eyed and sleek. A few years older than you. A jaw like the man in Blue’s magazine.

You didn’t even go home with him that first night. You just spent hours talking. And then texting. And then he took you out to that sushi place you loved in London three times because he saw that you were obsessed with the sashimi. He teased you for it. Finally, he invited you to his flat. He was different. He didn’t touch you until you touched him. You can remember it, that last time. The kissing. You whispered in his ear to take you to his room. He pulled out a box of condoms just like this.

The morning of the outbreak you remember telling your sister you might want something more from him.

She was thrilled to hear it.

There were a few people you texted that day to see if they were okay. Your parents, some close friends, and him. You never got a response from any of them. As you fled with Paul towards the forest, you’d dropped your phone. You only realized it later than night when you wanted to take it out and read over your old messages with him as a source of comfort.

Anyway, he was never your boyfriend, and he is now likely dead. Or Grey.

You haven’t thought about him for at least three years. Just another singed thread of an old life, unimportant to you now. Those losses are easier to deal with than the losses you had to actually witness.

You are just about to put the box back when a poke arrives on your shoulder.

“Hey, Twix, look what I found.”

Blue holds a solid stack of magazines against her chest. In her other hand, she holds up two bracelets with plastic, pink beads on them.

“Bracelets,” she smiles. “One for you and one for me.”

You raise a brow, then glance around. You spot Ghost at the front counter stuffing his backpack with cigarettes. His own treats, you suppose.

You look back at her. “Are you sure?”

She nods and offers one to you. As you slip it over your wrist, subconsciously hiding it under the sleeve of your coat, she says, “One of the books Ghost read to me talked about friendship bracelets. That can be this for us. I mean— we’re friends, right?”

“Oh. Um. Do you want to be my friend?”

“Well,” she slips her own bracelet on and waves her hand about, “Grim is my friend and he never saved my life before or gave me chocolate. So—” her voice turns hushed as if sharing a secret, “—I guess you are a better friend than him, huh?”

You bite a smile. “I guess so.”

Then, her eyes drift to the box still in your hand. “What did you find?”

“Huh?” You raise it up, almost having forgotten about it, and feel a warmth spread over your cheeks. “Oh, nothing, really.”

“What is it?”

“I-I don’t know, actually,” you splutter quickly.

“Maybe Ghost knows.” She rounds her lips as if ready to call for him but you shush her.

“No, no. Don’t ask him."

“Why not?”

“Because he—” you slide your eyes around, looking for the right excuse, “Because he doesn’t care for me, okay? I don’t want to bug him.”

“It’s not that he hates you or anything,” she assures you, sighing. “He just doesn’t trust you. Really, he isn’t so bad. He let you play would you rather with us, right?”

She is referring to the game that consumed the four-hour walk to get here. As you stepped over the same tree roots from your first journey, Ghost and Blue began a rather dark game of would you rather. Asking each other which gruesome death they would prefer. A humor she must get from him, you figured. Blue finally asked him: Can Twix play, too? He flashed you a look, jaw stiff, and you wanted to hide as you watched his eyes process this new name his daughter has chosen for you. To your surprise, he allowed it. Maybe to keep her calm, entertained, or both. You can’t say it wasn’t awkward for you, though.

Before you can protest again, she calls his name, and you regret not just telling her what they are.

He is quick to make his way over.

“Twix found something but she doesn’t know what it is,” Blue chimes, taking the box from your hand and passing it to him. You inch backward, your spine pressing into the shelves as you watch him realize what it is. Then, he offers you an unreadable glance, probably wondering why the fuck you would be looking at these.

His eyes shift back to her.

“Well,” Blue clicks her tongue. “Is it useful?”

“No.” He hands it back to her.

“What is it? Do you know?”

“Jus’ nothing useful,” he repeats, and she huffs, giving you an apologetic look and mumbling a sorry before tossing the box back on the shelf.

“Got ‘em all picked out?” He nods to her magazines.

She nods. “Yeah, I found some good ones.”

“We’re leaving, then.”

A clear sky hangs over your heads as you continue moving south. On your solo trip, you spent hours perusing Ribchester's streets, whereas now Ghost cuts right through, wanting to search the base before nightfall and then find somewhere safe to sleep.

There is no rain today, luckily. Even though it helps conceal your human scent, it also helps hide their rotten one, making it hard to detect them. It also can make shooting arrows trickier.

There is a light wind that howls like a moaning widow through the empty buildings, drowning out the sound of all three pairs of booted footsteps. Just as you told Ghost, there aren’t many of those fucks here. Their smell lingers in the air but most of them are probably trapped in the buildings and cars. Still, you keep your bow armed and Ghost clutches his handgun. Only one finds you here, but it isn’t much of a threat. A slow and pitiful one with a twisted leg that drags as it clambers out from an alleyway.

It catches the human scent, its pale eyes pointing toward the three of you.

They love the smell of living flesh. From your experience, they love the smell of fresh blood even more, but luckily none of you are bleeding, or else more of them certainly could've been drawn out like cockroaches.

Upon one look at it, you can tell this Grey must have been infected years ago, a woman tattered without any hair left on her skull. The thing is, the longer they have been infected, the longer their muscles have been rotting away. They grow slower.

For some reason, Ghost doesn't pull the trigger of his gun even though you know he sees and smells it like you do. He doesn't even reach for the axe tucked at his waist. You have never encountered Greys with him. You suspected he'd be quick to kill them. Confused, you aim your arrow and close one eye for precision, but a firm hand falls on your arm and forces you to lower it.

You give him a furrowed look.

He drops his hand and nods to Blue, who has been sticking close to his side.

"All yours, kid."

"Do I have to?" She puckers her lips in disgust and touches the fabric of his black coat.

"Good practice for you."

"With my knife?" she sighs dutifully. "Or the gun you gave me?"

"Knife. Save the ammo.”

The Grey is still a few paces away, but slowly trudging closer, enough that its flayed snarls sound over the wind.

Blue pulls out the knife from her pocket. You stand back and watch as she hurls it towards the head, but the blade pierces its neck instead, splitting the stringy flesh and exposing a larynx.

She winces.

"S'okay. You've got another," Ghost says.

She nods and reaches for the second knife strapped to her ankle. This time, her knife finds the skull, audibly cutting through bone and brain.

“Good. Now go get ‘em.”

You understand why he made her practice this. They don’t encounter them often in the forest, but he still wants her prepared— get her used to doing it on her own for the day she might not have him there. It is a reminder of what it means to be a parent in this world, and you don’t envy him for it.

Blue twists her knife out from the skull, some chunks of grey brain bubbling out, and she scrunches her nose but doesn’t seem too bothered. Before she runs back over, she mouths words to it just as you have seen her do to the dead animals. You can’t make them out.

“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like being one of those fucks,” she announces as you keep walking. She taps a finger to her temple. “I just wonder if you still remember your old life or have dreams and stuff. Or does your brain just not work at all?”

“They aren’t people anymore,” Ghost reminds her gruffly.

“I know, I know.”

“I don’t think they have dreams,” you quietly add. “They don’t sleep.”

“But maybe they are sort of sleeping,” she says. “Like sleepwalking. And maybe they are dreaming the whole time about things they remember from being a human.”

“No,” Ghost says. “They’re as good as dead. Don’t go thinkin’ like that.”

“I’m not saying I feel bad about killing them. I know they aren’t real people anymore,” she mumbles, kicking at a rock. She looks at you. “Twix, what would you do if you got bitten?”

Ghost mutters a Jesus Christ under his breath.

The question throws you off, even though it is something you have mulled over often. You hesitate, before honestly answering, “I think I would just kill myself.”

“Ghost would, too. Well, actually, our plan is for me to shoot him in the head and then run back home. Right, Ghost?”

He hums his response.

It must be a plan he reviewed with her before leaving.

A plan that he has ingrained into her brain from an age too young to fully comprehend the potential reality of it.

There are another ten kilometers to walk to get to the military base. The sore toes cramped in your boots and the growing blister at your heel wishes Ghost took the truck, but whatever his emergency plan is, it must call for every drop of fuel he has.

The terrain transforms back to soil and trees as Ghost departs from the road, and the rotten smell in the air remains faint. The game of would you rather resumes, but Blue quickly grows bored of it. Instead, she begins to poke at you with some questions as she likes to do. She seems to be more comfortable doing it in front of Ghost. It’s not like he can keep her away from you out here.

“So, Twix, how old are you exactly? You never told us.”

You tell her.

“Shit balls, Ghost,” she nudges a hip to his side. “You really are an old man.”

“Fuckin’ hell. I’m not.” He nudges her back, a bit too hard, because she practically stumbles, but it only makes her laugh more. “I’m just your old man, kid.”

Luckily, her questions stick to the minute things, and she doesn’t bring up sex again. Your favorite animal. If you have any tattoos. You should see how many Ghost has. Of course, you have only ever seen the skin of his hands a few times and the skin around his eyes.

The sound of rushing water is what quiets her.

You make it to a river.

Ghost leads you to where a bridge must have been on his map, but all that remains of it is a narrow beam of rusted metal and nothing to hold onto.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Dad.”

Blue peers down the cliff and you take a look with her. The water isn’t moving too fast, but it must be freezing, and walking around in wet clothes is a sure way to get hypothermia. Ghost doesn’t have much of a choice.

He has her walk close in front of him and keeps both hands firm on her shoulders. You don’t have anyone to help you. You tighten your core to keep yourself upright, watching each step you take. Right, left, right, left. The wind dissuades you with nudges against your left side. You pause for a moment and look up.

They are already across.

You hear Blue shout just as your left foot slips. Air whirls around you and your arms instinctively jut out to grab hold of the beam. You hang from it, breathing hard from your nose. Your bare hand clutches the sharp edge and earns you a cut into your palm, but the pain is easy to ignore. Your ears ring. You muster all your strength to hoist yourself up, but it’s not quite enough, and you almost lose your grip.

Hissing, you look down at the water that laps between rocks beneath you. Maybe you should just fall in. Your skin prickles as you imagine the icy water engulfing you and soaking your clothes.

Hypothermia. Another real threat in this world. You recall the chapter from one of your textbooks. It can set in quickly. There wouldn’t be enough time for you to make it back to the village and search for dry clothes. You should’ve brought your extra pair of old ones. You didn’t even think—

What ends up engulfing you is warmth.

You are pulled up with ease and drawn close to a hard chest. Ghost locks an arm around your waist to steady you and naturally, you lean into his hold, your boots finding their place again on the beam.

You pant. For a moment you just stand there, before you start walking again, this time with him close behind you as he holds your shoulders just as he did with Blue. Because of the proximity, you can detect the rise and fall of his chest against your back. Underneath his thick coat, the muscles of his core are tightened just as yours are in order to keep his balance.

He couldn’ve just let you fall. Blue must have asked him to help you back up.

You find your voice when you are almost across. Blue watches with her hands tucked in her pockets.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

What he tells you, warm brass in your ear that arrives in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him: “Don’t become a liability for me out here, Twix.”

It unnerves you, the message that lies in his words. What he means to say is he has no problem leaving you behind if he has to. Letting you die.

But what unnerves you even more is the shudder that hums through your spine from the soft drawl of his voice in your ear, uttering this new name for you when he has never even once used your real name, and the way that his filtered breath works its way down your neck. Even though he has growled threats of murder in there multiple times, you find yourself not minding if he has a few more to offer just so you can hear his voice like this again. So quiet. Probably so Blue doesn’t hear.

But he doesn’t offer anything else.

Maybe you are just in shock. Maybe you are just glad to not be freezing, and his warmth has given a confusing relief. You swallow the strange thought and find a nice burial spot for it next to your grief.

When your boots make it to the soil, his hands drop and you turn around to face him. Annoyance finally finds you. Of course, his help arrives at the same time that he warns you of the limited supply of it he is willing to offer.

Through your teeth, you say, “I won’t.”

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 13: …because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

The special day arrives.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Art by @lirotation

Ban stared at the gowns laid before her. There were three, in contrast to Astarion’s four suits. He’d hired several painters to sketch out portraits, some in the days before the event and some on the day itself. Today.

The maid braiding her hair tugged at a strand a little too tightly, but she barely noticed. On the opposite end of the room, Gale entered.

”Ah. Ban.” He nodded. “Just picking up the suits.” He reached for them, hanging from a coatstand near the doorway, but had to pause to shove away the silver-curl-topped head that threatened to poke through the door. “No peeking, Astarion! Don’t make me put up wards!”

Ban stifled a laugh as she heard a low growl, a chuckle, and then the sound of steps stalking away.

”He’s impatient,” Gale grinned, finally gathering all four ensembles in his arms. “But you already knew that.”

”You’d think he wouldn’t be, considering we’ve seen each other in these outfits before.” She remembered posing for portraits, having to hold poses stiffly - not a new occurrence, but they’d worn these outfits for them. It had felt… odd, seeing herself in wedding finery, white silks and embroidered fabrics. She was more comfortable with wearing more extravagant clothing now, but some of these outfits were well beyond what she was accustomed to. She’d imagined marrying someone, of course, but she’d figured it would be one of her father’s arranged events - a son of some fellow merchant or someone of import. Never had she considered it would be someone she’d actually love.

Not until the nautiloid, she supposed. She brought the old fantasy to mind.

Astarion in a crisp white suit, the color matching his hair. He’d smile at her, waiting for her as she walked down the aisle. The sun would shine on both of them somehow, but the tadpole would be gone - how this would be possible, she’d never thought to consider. He’d beam, his fangs making an appearance as she approached, and he’d offer her his hand, which she would take. She would be the happiest woman in Faerûn.

Another tug on her hair, and Ban sighed, opening her eyes. Their wedding would be at sunset, which meant a whole day of not seeing each other. The last time they hadn’t been glued to each other’s side was - she brushed the thought away.

Irrelevant. It will never happen again.

She instead allowed her eyes to gaze into the mirror, watching herself. She was still in her silken robe, a rich royal purple, but her eyes were locked onto her own. Still black, miraculously. Still her. She absently opened her mouth, a finger pulling her lip up to see her fangs for the first time. They weren’t anything impressive, and she sighed, letting go of her lip.

The maid doing her braids looked at her in the mirror. “You are still lovely, madam. Even if you are…” she trailed off.

Ban chuckled nervously. “I never was. But thank you.”

“That most certainly isn’t what our lord thinks,” the maid said amusedly. She resumed her work and left Ban to ponder her words.

Gale walked in to find Astarion preening in front of a mirror, styling his hair. He wordlessly hung the suits one by one. The to-be-groom seemed perfectly level, fingers carefully raking through and arranging the silver curls into their usual perfectly-coiffed style, but Gale could see the slight tremor in his hand.

“How is she doing?” His eyes remained fixed on his reflection, his voice calm with only the faintest tremble. “I need to remind her to clasp the back of her cape properly, else the whole thing hangs off-center. There are six buttons she has to do; three on each side. One of them is rather tricky - the holes are hidden in-”

“She is perfectly fine. Her maids will attend to her clothes. There’s no need to be concerned about a malfunction.” Gale waved him off dismissively, and Astarion sighed.

“Fine. Do you have the rings, at least?”

Gale patted his pocket. “Of course.”

“Be a dear and don’t lose them.”

Gale noted the irritability, but the nervousness behind Astarion’s tone was obvious. “I’ll try not to. If I do misplace them, however, don’t drink me dry, please?”

At Astarion’s irritated huff, Gale laughed and left him with a final quip of, “Don’t fiddle with your hair too much, Astarion, she may change her mind if she sees you with frizz. Positively hideous.”

They were both laughing as Gale exited, closing the door behind him.

They met in the gardens.

She walked down the small steps to see a figure in white, hair shining in the dying light of the sun. He was fidgeting with the buttons on his cuffs, huffing as he struggled to fit the buttons into the holes.

He was turned away from her, and did not notice her approach.

“Astarion?”

Her voice startled him, and he turned to face her. He swallowed anxiously, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

”Ban. Do you mind-” He held his sleeve up.

She approached him, taking his hand carefully and began to fit the buttons through. As she did she eyed him, meeting his gaze. He offered her a quick smile.

”Thank you.” He drew her close, hands settling around her waist to tug her to him. “I missed you.”

”It’s been…” she frowned, “less than eight hours since we last saw one another.”

”Doesn’t mean I can’t pine for my wife, does it?” He buried his face in the crook of her neck and exhaled, a long, drawn-out release of air that told her all she needed to know. “Even a minute of your absence is excruciating.”

She placed her hands on his back, rubbing gently. “You weren’t missing me. You’re nervous.” He raised his head, eyes narrowed. “Which is perfectly fine,” Ban added quickly before he could get a word in edgewise.

His brows smoothed out and he acknowledged her words with a stiff nod. “That does not mean both could not be true.”

”I guess you’re right.” She gently placed a hand on his cheek, watching the tension melt from his features as he leaned into the touch. “Any second thoughts? You still have time to say no, you know.”

“Of course not.” He scoffed, eyebrows knitting back together. “I disappear for a few hours, and you fill your head with the silliest of notions. Which of us can’t manage mere hours without the other, hm?”

”It was a joke.” She pecked his cheek.

His shoulders sagged and his features softened. “I am aware. It’s simply… difficult, comprehending being…” he threw both hands up, gesturing at them and the garden around them, “here. I never allowed myself the luxury of thinking of having a future at all - let alone this one.”

“Even during our adventuring days?”

Astarion pursed his lips, pensive. “At the start I assumed we would all part ways, or die.”

“Astarion,” Ban frowned, “we were seeing each other!”

“And I thought I was using you,” he answered without hesitating. “Later on there was the threat of Cazador and the Absolute, not to mention the rite itself. I did not have room to consider what life would be past those events.” He frowned and his eyes flicked away. “We’re both painfully aware of what happened after that, of course.”

“My love,” she murmured, the sobriquet slipping from her lips; she realized she never really used them, almost never outside sex. His eyes met hers, widening in surprise and then joy, and quietly chastised herself for not using them more. “I know. We both know. We’re also past that.”

He exhaled. “I am aware.” She could tell he was still tense, whether it be because of the mention of those six months, or the wedding itself. She placed a hand over his breast, felt the hammering there, and sighed.

Leaning forward, and on tiptoes, she kissed his cheek. “Look at me?”

He did so, a chagrined smile on his face. He dipped his head. “Just… nervous.”

“It’ll be fine. Nothing will change. It’s just a ceremony, a soiree, like any other, and that’s all it is. Paperwork. It doesn’t have to matter if you don’t want it to. If that helps calm your nerves.”

Astarion scanned her face, then shook his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we both know this isn’t mere theatrics to me. I refuse to belittle it that way.” He took a small, aborted breath. “So little of my life has meant anything. Let this mean something, Ban. Let me be nervous and excited. Let me feel this, because it means everything to me.”

His mind touched hers, disparate thoughts flitting through. Redemption, finally. Joy, that he had been chosen by her, wanted by her. Worthy to be the one waiting as she walked down the aisle. Worthy of being the man she’d bind herself to. Enough.

She smiled, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. “Of course it means something, and of course I want you to feel it as I do. I merely meant, well. If that sort of thinking would help ease your nerves, then it might be useful.” He leaned into her touch, eyes shuttering as his shoulders finally lowered. She drew in close, pressing their foreheads together; she on tiptoes and him bending down to accommodate her.

He exhaled, the warm air rushing over her face. She saw his lips part and kept her peace, waiting for him to speak.

“Thank you,” he finally mouthed, eyes still firmly shut. The hammering beneath her palm quieted some, and she pressed her lips to his.

There were flowers everywhere. Roses of every shade adorned each side of the aisle. The archway that they would stand under was just as she’d envisioned. She had known how it would look, had arranged everything with the florists, but seeing it all in its full glory as she peeked through a window sent a thrill down her spine.

Everyone she knew and loved was there, mingling as they prepared to take their seats - everyone save one. He was sequestered away, just as she was, in preparation for the ceremony. She caught a quick glimpse of Karlach fidgeting with her dress and Halsin looking uncomfortable in an old suit.

There was a knock at the door. She called out to an invitation to come in and it opened, revealing Wyll.

“The blushing bride.” He held out his arms and Ban stood for a tight hug.

As Wyll pulled away she looked out at the crowd, watching as they began to take their seats. “Who knew, hm?”

He stood beside her, crossing his arms. “Who knew, indeed.” He caught her gaze and offered a smile. “Shadowheart filled us in on everything that happened. A lot passes you by when you’re stuck in Avernus.”

“I don’t doubt that. Have you talked to Astarion?”

“A little, this morning.” Wyll ran a hand over a horn. “He seemed glad that I approached him, but his mind was elsewhere. I don’t blame him.”

“He’s happy you’re all here,” Ban offered. “I’m happy. I didn’t think I’d get to see you two again after the reunion.”

“In much happier circumstances, too,” he nodded. “We’re glad to be here. Perhaps the next wedding will be ours.”

Ban blinked twice. “Does Karlach know?”

He shook his head. “It won’t be anytime soon, but closer than she and everyone else thinks. I figure with our lives being so full of danger, she might want some time to settle after we’ve fixed her heart.”

“Well, if you need anything,” she said, clapping his shoulder, “you can always ask me. Or Astarion, for that matter.”

Wyll offered her another shy smile. “I’ll go ahead. Tell everyone to prepare. Shadowheart will come for you when it’s time.”

She nodded and Wyll left, leaving her to her thoughts. Not that there were any other than the present, the seconds seeming to tick by extremely slowly. Her mind wandered aimlessly, refusing to focus on any one thing for very long in an attempt to avoid thinking of how nervous she was starting to feel.

Ban had no idea how much time had passed, but it felt like mere seconds later when a bouquet was pressed onto her hands. Numerous people were suddenly checking her hair and makeup one last time and smoothing her dress into place. She took a nervous breath, keeping her eyes fixed upwards as she felt tears begin to pool. Crying would ruin the kohl.

“Take a deep breath.” Shadowheart’s hand on Ban’s shoulder startled her and she jerked, head snapping around to lock eyes with her friend.

“Is… Is it time?” Ban shuffled nervously, making sure to not step on the train of her gown.

“He’s waiting for you.” Shadowheart gathered most of the train, and they made their way out of the room. As they approached the main garden Ban swallowed; she could hear the music increasing in volume with every step.

She stopped in her tracks, Shadowheart almost tripping over the dress behind her. “I-” Ban turned to face her.

“This is it,” she choked out; tears filled her eyes and she blinked, trying to not let them fall. It shouldn’t matter, she told herself. It was a trite ceremony, and they were already eternally bound. She could think about the significance of it all later, when there were less eyes on her.

But she remembered his words, remembered him asking her to let it matter. She wanted to touch his mind, but they had agreed not to.

No cheating, he’d told her, after they’d had their final pre-wedding kiss earlier today. I want to feel it the way it was meant to be felt.

She’d understood what he meant. To experience it as if they were not vampires with a mental bond. As if they were just them.

Shadowheart approached her, carefully dabbing her tears away before they could spill. “We’ve faced worse, and you did it all fearlessly. You can do this.”

Ban nodded. “I know. I just…”

Feel it. She took one deep breath.

Shadowheart squeezed her hand one last time. “Walk as soon as your music starts.” She went ahead, taking her place next to Gale to walk down the aisle with him.

She stood there for a painful few minutes, hidden from view by a hedge. The music started, the song she’d picked for herself. Steeling her nerves, Ban took one last breath and walked to the aisle.

The setting sun hit her eyes first, blinding her for a moment. Her vision cleared and she saw the same roses, the same aisles, the same ivy-wrapped archway, but the seats were now full of people watching her. The music wasn’t quiet at all, but it was completely drowned out by her racing heart.

Her eyes locked onto that familiar glint of silver, the crimson of his eyes burning into her even from this distance. He had his hands clasped together, his face carefully neutral, shifting into an uncertain, boyish smile as their eyes met. Time froze. Nothing else mattered. Not Ulder standing by Astarion, not Gale holding the ring box in his hands. Not the music, nor the artists quickly sketching off to the side. Not the scent of roses or the blazing sunset. Not one other thing existed. Just him.

She took a step onto the red carpet. Then another. She could feel the slight drag of the train of her dress, requiring slightly more effort to place one foot in front of the other. She could feel the bite of the heeled shoes, a little tight, on her feet, and the subtle change in her posture to accommodate walking with an elevated heel. The feel of the satin ribbon holding the bouquet together contrasted with the rougher stems of the flowers it bound. The gown’s fabric slid against her body, shifting with every move.

Her mind registered all this, part of her begging to dwell on these trivial sensations, to hide behind her walls again.

We don’t cry. Not in public. Not like this. Not where everyone can see.

Her father’s words. Not hers.

Instead, she allowed herself to feel.

Every step brought her closer to the archway - to him. His smile was slightly wider now, but his eyes were wide and misty. She remembered everything - nights under the shelter of their tent, cuddled by the campfire, the soft press of his lips against her temple. Strong, slender fingers grasping her wrist, tugging her away from whatever trap she had missed in her rush. Those same capable hands undoing the straps of her breastplate, a small huff of annoyance as the armor snagged on her underclothes, tearing them, knowing those same hands would repair them later that same night. The scent of bergamot and rosemary, clinging to her clothes as they parted for the day, something she’d imagined she could still smell even under her armor. The sound of his voice, always the first one she sought out; his thoughts, his quips, even the playful little insults he’d throw her way.

Then more recently, their hands clasped in meetings, sly glances and hidden smirks as they mentally discussed the people they were making deals with. The press of his lithe body against hers as they twirled around the dance floor, leading her effortlessly. The heated kisses, his lips trailing a fiery path from her lips to her breasts, his hands tangled in hers. Breathless moans, whispered promises of eternal love - no longer only promises, but truth. Seeing his face every dawn, reaching across the bed and always finding him there, every time without fail, whether he was watching her or reading a book or sipping tea-

Astarion gave her a small, encouraging nod, and she smiled in return. The tears finally fell, wet as they traced a path down her cheeks, but she was beyond caring. She took a few more steps, bringing her closer to him - to her fate, to everything that had ever mattered and the only thing that ever truly would.

Hers. Hard-fought and almost lost, but hers now, for however long their immortal lives lasted - forever, she vowed, and even beyond.

She stopped. Faced him. He swallowed, his smile fading as he took a step towards her, his hand held out for hers. It was a gesture they’d made countless times, in countless ways - helping each other up in combat, in camp, at breakfasts and dinners and meetings and parties - but this felt like the first time. She placed her hand on his, feeling the skin under hers, smooth and trembling, but still the same. Always.

They stood side by side as Ulder recited the rites. None of it was anything she’d remember, she thought. Her eyes were on him, from the perfectly coiffed hair to the slightly-trembling hands clasped behind his back, to the embroidery on his shoes. She reached out, and to her relief he noticed and responded in kind, even though his eyes never left Ulder. His index finger touched her first, gently tracing the back of her hand. His lips curled at the corner, his eyes crinkling even as his gaze remained ahead. Ban slipped her hand into his and felt him squeeze.

“Do you, Lord Astarion Ancunín, take this woman to be your wedded wife?”

For the first time since the ceremony began his eyes moved over her. They were large, wet, and painfully beautiful. He shot her a grin before turning back to Ulder. “I do.” The hand holding hers was cold, and she fought back the urge to reach over and rub warmth back into it.

The same question was leveled at her. She met Ulder’s gaze while he spoke, but made sure her eyes were locked on Astarion’s as she uttered her response. His shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly at her words, eyes flicking downwards for the briefest of seconds, then settling back on her face.

Then Gale approached, the rings kept in a small, ornate box. He opened the lid, offering it up to Astarion, who nimbly took her ring in his hands. He playfully bounced the ring on his knuckle, to the crowd’s delight, then looked at her.

“I am not prone to… long speeches, or poetry, for that matter,” Astarion began, the ring passing between his thumb and index finger as he fidgeted with it. “Nor am I the kind of person who usually appreciates public declarations of love. However, with you I could enjoy anything, and that includes this.”

His hand drifted down, patting his hip anxiously. “You probably weren’t the best leader, likely not even the best companion - I’d wager Wyll wins out over everyone in that regard.”

Ulder laughed; Ban glanced over at Wyll, who gave her a small wink. Astarion continued. “Back then… you tended to make frankly foolhardy decisions - thought with your blade rather than your brain… except when it came to me. With me…” he paused, thinking, “you seemed to think with your heart. Yet another foolish thing to be doing at such a time, darling, but I very much appreciated it.”

“I cared little for you at the start. In truth I didn’t know how to care for anyone, and certainly didn’t think anyone could care for me… despite my dashing good looks.” He huffed out a high-pitched laugh, one she hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. He grew somber then, and continued. “But I quickly grew to love you. I grew to treasure every single moment we spent together, from camping out in the wilderness to the most mundane arguments about which vase would match the drapes. We’ve already lived through a lifetime’s worth of tribulations in our time together, but look at us.” He gestured at her and then himself. “We held on to one another, through every challenge. We have worked so hard to be the people we are today. To seize this happiness for ourselves and for one another.”

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the curls as his fingers carded through them. “And while there’s little doubt we’ll run into more trouble, because of course,” he rolled his eyes. “I do so knowing that you will be with me for all of it. Knowing that my every sunrise and sunset will be spent with you. Knowing that…” his breath caught, and Ban squeezed his hand. He swallowed. “that after two centuries… I am finally enough, the way that I am. Perhaps quite a bit more than enough at times, darling,” he chuckled.

Astarion straightened up. “But now that I am enough… I stand here today and I vow to love you forever. For the rest of time, even when the sun burns out and we give ourselves to the night. When we face whatever lies beyond - I vow to love you then too.”

His hand took hers, slipping the ring onto her finger. It did not meet much resistance, the cold metal settling in place easily. They both looked down at it, at how it seemed to belong there, as if it had always been there but just out of sight.

Gale’s movement brought her back to the moment. The box was held out to her, and she took Astarion’s ring. It was larger than hers, heavier, with a slightly thicker band, and with engraving identical to hers. She looked at him and saw the same hunger in his eyes as the day she’d asked him to marry her, that ravenous need clear in the set of his features.

“I wasn’t… born for this. Not for any of it. My life was supposed to be one of quiet subservience, to be what I was raised to be. I left that behind, and then I thought my life would be one of unassuming simplicity. Not… not these gardens. Not this palace, or the journey we all had. Not immortality. Not you.” She bit her lip, a fang catching on it. “I think we were both done a great favor the day the nautiloid took us. It brought me to you, and you to me.”

“The way fate works is something I don’t pretend to comprehend. I don’t think any god looked kindly on us before that day,” she snuck a glance at Withers, who merely nodded, “but neither do I think it was mere chance. We were… meant to be here. Meant to meet, meant to go through everything we did and everything else we will encounter. Each meant for the other,” she added, watching his lips curl as he acknowledged her words.

“You waited far too long for me, while I did not have to wait long at all. There’s no compensation that can make up for all that,” and she shook her head as he opened his mouth, “but I hope that I can at least begin to… I don’t know, ease it.”

She looked down at the ring in her hand. It felt easier to say the words then, without meeting his gaze. “There are not enough words to express the depth of my love for you, and I fear there never will be. I have never been good at baring my heart, but if there was ever a moment to do so anyway it would be this one. I could say I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved in my life, and it would be true, but somehow it fails to express the sheer magnitude of my feelings for you.” She dared glance up to Astarion and was rewarded by an encouraging nod. “I vow from this day on to love you, to cherish you, and to see you. Even when it gets hard, even when it takes work to do so. I promise to do better, as you have done. I shall be your rock, your support, your comfort whenever you need me. Until the sun burns out, and through whatever lies beyond, I am yours. For as long as we exist, I vow to be your home, as you are mine.” She finally met his gaze and thanked herself for not fully looking up sooner. He looked so beautiful.

Astarion held his hand up, his fingers quivering visibly. He was smiling, but it was a bit frozen, almost forced in his anxious excitement. His eyes were too bright and wet, and she realized the trembling wasn’t just his hand but his whole body. She wanted nothing more than to wrap him in her arms and hide him away from everyone else, to keep him in the shelter of her embrace until his nervousness abated.

She slid the ring onto his finger.

Astarion cleared his throat. “Wrong finger,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. She stammered out a quick sorry, moving the ring from his middle to his ring finger.

The moment the ring slid home, Ulder spoke up. “It is with great honor that I pronounce you husband and wife. Lord Ancunín, you may kiss your beautiful bride.”

Instantly, Astarion wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her close. He pressed their bodies together, and slipped his hands down, linking them under her ass. He gripped her tightly, lifting her up. She wound her hands around his neck, the silken fabric of his collar pleasant against her skin.

His mouth slotted against hers, his plush lips pressing against her own. Leaning into the kiss, she heard him groan softly as his tongue lapped at her lips, seeking entrance. She opened for him and the approving hum that answered her sent shivers down her spine. The feeling of his teeth catching her lower lip, dragging over it as he pulled gently, elicited a quiet moan from her. The sound of whistling from somewhere in the crowd broke through to her and she finally pulled away, embarrassed. He set her down but didn’t let go of her.

Astarion simpered for the crowd, but his eyes were still damp and round. He offered her his arm and she gratefully accepted, leaning against him as they walked back down the aisle, finally husband and wife.

Astarion sauntered over to where Ban stood in front of the enchanted mirror, fighting with the clasps of her capelet, approaching from behind. “Does my wife need aid?” His hands ran over her shoulders to the clasps.

“Probably,” she huffed. “I had so much trouble having them put on. No one really knows how to do it, other than you.”

They were working on their first outfit change of the day, and she knew there would be more. Astarion had insisted on doing so for some variety in the portraits that would be painted today, but Ban also thought it a good idea to convey a sense of decadence and power. She was beginning to regret the pragmatism in that decision, now that she had to deal with the reality of multiple complex and tedious dress changes in a single evening.

He hummed in response, fingers slipping under the ornamentation to undo the buttons. “At the very least they managed to put it on straight. I was worried.”

“Gale did say as much.”

They both watched their reflections as he easily unbuttoned one side, then did the other, allowing the cape to fall to the floor between them. He leaned forwards, placing a kiss on her bare shoulder.

“Do you require more assistance, my love?” he whispered against the shell of her ear.

Shivering, she turned. “I wouldn’t say no, but I’m surprised you’re offering. The day isn’t quite over yet, Astarion.”

“Is it not? We’re wedded,” he held up his left hand, ring glinting in the candlelight, “and we have more than two hours before the reception starts. I presume we could steal a few minutes.” He closed in, crowding her, foreheads almost touching. “It wouldn’t take long, surely.”

Ban shook her head, reaching back to begin untying the laces of her dress. “We have portraits to pose for. We don’t have time.” She would have loved to; a month apart ensured her resistance was thin, but in that moment her thoughts were with the wedding arrangements. “As much as I want to-”

The words died in her throat as he moaned in her ear, rolling his hips against her thigh. “Certainly it should be up to me when our game ends, don’t you agree, darling? Ten minutes,” he whispered, “is all I would need.”

“Astarion-”

“Please.”

That word and the needy, aggressive tone in his voice undid the last threads of her restraint. She growled, taking a step back to remove the rest of her outfit. His eyes tracked her every move as she stripped the gown off, shimmying out of it gracelessly, shoving it down to her legs and stepping out of it.

“On that table,” Astarion pointed, and she backed up to sit on its edge. He prowled towards her, eyes dark and very much hungry, still fully clothed. His hands parted her legs roughly as he knelt. Their eyes met and she swallowed.

“Ten minutes, Astarion,” she warned weakly.

A dark bark of amusement answered her. “Trust me. I require less than that.”

His hand made its way up her thigh, fingers dancing playfully. He kissed her knee, eyes still locked onto hers. The other hand wrapped around the back of her knee, fixing that leg in place.

“Be a good girl,” he purred, “and be quiet. We don’t want anyone,” he traced her folds through her underwear, then flicked her clit through the fabric, “hearing us, do we?”

“Or walking in.” She took a quick, cursory look. She was pretty sure the door had been locked so they could change; the likelihood of anyone walking in was low.

He sank his teeth into the meat of her thigh, lapping lazily at the blood that formed, then smirked. His thumb ran circles around her clit, no doubt feeling the wetness beginning to soak through the cloth. “That too.”

Her eyes were glued to him as he began kissing his way up her thigh, fangs scraping her skin. He mouthed at her core, the thin cloth leaving too little and yet too much in between his tongue and her. He drew back a hand to undo the buttons of his suit, but his mouth never left her.

She rolled her hips, an insistent, pleading gesture, one hand wrapping around the side of the table as she bit on the other to stifle a moan. He hooked a finger in her underwear, tugging the fabric aside to bare her glistening folds. Red eyes flicked to her face, and he looked ravenous. “I wager you now agree with my assessment?”

“Probably less than ten minutes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “Just please. Lick me.”

He nodded, his face perfectly neutral, as if they were merely talking about the weather. “I knew you’d come around.” Keeping his eyes on her, he licked her, his tongue laid flat, from her entrance all the way up, making sure to give her a firm flick where she needed it most.

Ban groaned, spreading her legs further, needing more. Astarion obliged, slipping two fingers into her without meeting any resistance. “You’re deliciously wet, darling. How long have you wanted this? Wanted my tongue on you, wanted me - my fingers or my tongue or my cock, any part of me - inside you?”

She bucked, fucking herself on his fingers helplessly. “Too long,” she whispered. “Far too long.”

“Then I shall reward your patience, my love.” Without another word he dove right back between her legs; his hand spread her open, his tongue running circles around her clit before finally wrapping his lips around it and suckling.

She whined, the sensation momentarily overwhelming, but then he shifted into gentle, loving licks. Even that was intense, her hand instinctively lowering over his head, about to fist into his curls, until she remembered they needed to keep them pristine for the reception. She saw his eyes crinkle at her movement, but his mouth and fingers never stopped their work.

His fingers pumped into her faster, curling to hit her spot with every pass. His tongue lapped harder, the delicious friction making her hips move of their own accord, grinding against him. The fingers spreading her open, the naked, sheer desire in those eyes eating up her every reaction, the way his hips moved desperately in rhythm with his fingers, and the tent in his trousers were sights to behold, sights she had not seen in far too long, and it brought her climax barreling towards her.

“Astarion,” she whimpered, his name a quiet supplication upon the altar of his tongue.

He growled, low and deep in his throat, dragging a fang across her clit. The vibration and the slight sting of his fang sent chills racing along her entire body. She fought the urge to arch, to allow her eyes to roll back, wanting to see it. To see him. Their eyes met, and he cockily raised a brow as he gave her one last, hard flick, perfectly timed with a hard thrust of his fingers.

She bit her hand, fangs inadvertently breaking skin, a loud, muffled scream emanating from her as she came. Her hips jerked and Astarion wrapped a hand around her hip, pressing her closer as he lapped up everything she had to give. As she slowly recovered he kept licking, seemingly unwilling to stop. She could still see his erection straining against his trousers, his hips still slowly rocking.

“I… fuck,” she finally managed to say. She put a hand on his shoulder, pushing gently, feeling slightly oversensitive.

Astarion let go, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his face. He wiped his mouth on his cravat, then tugged it off. “Plenty of time to spare, just as I expected.”

Still trembling, Ban barely managed an annoyed glare. She let her eyes stray to the bulge between his legs. “And what about you?”

He looked down, as if noticing his clearly painful erection for the first time. “I think I can wait a little longer.” He adjusted his trousers and took a slow, deep breath in an attempt to calm down. “I simply wanted to end your punishment.”

“As for myself,” he drew in close and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue, “I figure I have all night, and eternity after that.”

[sunnasweet]

i haven't written anything new :( so here's an old literotica post

Literotica summary: Griffin meets a ghost who wants to suck him dry.

4.3k , F!ghost x m!human, bad ending, nonconish at the end

Griffin was half-near exhausted by the time he finished his studies in the library. His friends had gone back to the dorms long ago yet Griffin was still determined to get in another chapter or two.

His eyes blurred words together. He tried to justify another hour to himself. Standing up, cracking his knuckles and neck. He let out an obnoxious yawn. The library was dead inside, even the librarian had gone home.

He patted his pocket making sure his keycard was still there, swallowed the last bit of his now cold bitter coffee then dove back into the aisle of books.

Griffin was studying folklore for his occult science elective class. It seemed like an easy grade and would weave in nicely with his creative writing degree. At least that was his line of thinking when he signed up for the class.

Unfortunately for Griffin, occult science was well--a science. There were plenty of dense historical articles he had to sift through if he wanted to pass this class. His teacher was a hippy but also a real bitch, she seemed to be spiritually inclined to Griffin's life as hard as possible. Also, her classroom always smelled like patchouli and that was enough reason to hate her. The amount of sneezing Griffin did in his class was actually ridiculous.

Barely lucid, Griffin aimlessly searched through the shelves for relevant books for his essay that he planned on starting tomorrow. 'Fact vs Fable' was his topic. Fact: Griffin wanted to pass this class. Fable: Griffin wanted to spend his free time looking up make-believe creatures when he should be catching up on sleep this weekend.

Snap.

Griffin flinched. What the hell was that? He turned around to find nothing. When he lifted his foot he noticed an errant pencil someone must have dropped. He stared at it for a long while before inevitably deciding it wasn't his job to clean up this mess. He kicked it under the gap of a bookcase like you would an ice cube under the fridge. When he looked back up he paused with furrowed brows.

Occultism, read the sign on the door. He raised a brow.

No fucking way was there a room full of exactly what he needed. He swore he had been through this aisle at least 4 times already and he never noticed the door. He looked around. Then shrugged and grabbed the knob.

At first, it refused to open but with a little brute force, the door let out a long whine and Griffin managed to get inside. He switched the light on and it flickered.

"Nice," he murmured.

In front of him was a whole room filled with folklore. Why his professor hadn't told the class about this room was beyond him. Not everyone bothered with the library but this was an invaluable resource.

Griffin's hands traced over the spines of some pretty dust-looking books. He pulled one out and grimaced. Okay, so some of them were moldy. Gross. He pushed the rotten book back in its slot.

After about 20 minutes of poking and prodding at books he found several that seemed to be in decent condition--albeit slightly falling apart--and would be great to use for his essay. "Ghost Land Or Researches Into the Mysteries of Occultism" was one in particular he had an interest in. He pulled the book free from the shelf and the lights once again flickered.

He looked up, this time, however, the lights did not go back on.

Griffin cursed under his breath, it was pitch black. He could barely see his own hand in front of him.

He tucked the book under his arm and then pulled out his phone, which would be entirely useless as it was dead. He sighed. Putting the phone back in his slacks he blindly tried to make his way back to the door. Patting on shelves and nearly tripping over the pile of books he had set aside for himself earlier on the floor.

He found the exit.

Turning the knob, it clicked--locked.

Frowning he tried to press his knee against the door but that didn't work either. It wasn't stuck. It was locked, the knob wouldn't turn.

Had someone decided to make a 3 am trip to the library? "Hello?" he called out, "Is someone out there? This isn't funny!" he called.

No one answered. Which he had been half expecting considering the time but then that didn't explain how the door was locked from the outside.

A chill breeze licked at his ankles. He looked up and around confused, had the AC just been turned on? He couldn't hear the familiar hum but the room became noticeably chillier. A janitor maybe?

"Hello?" he called again, knocking his palm against the door.

Griffin was stumped. What the hell was he supposed to do?

He sat down against the door. Knees bent, legs spread. His head rested against the door and he felt that same draft from before.

Suddenly, a fog had begun to appear. His eyes widened, "what the hell..." he muttered. It was overtaking the room and the temperature decreased so dramatically that when he breathed out he could see the frost.

He squinted, trying to find the source but instead came face to face with a pair of glowing white eyes rising from beneath the carpet. He shouted, jolting up from his sitting position.

The figure continued to rise, revealing a feminine head and long black hair that fluttered around her, she was wearing a ragged white dress and her face was gaunt. She looked frail, however, the most disturbing feature of the woman was the fact that he could see through her.

Griffin didn't want to turn his back towards the specter but that's exactly what he did as he began to pound on the door, "Hey! Someone let me out of here!" was this some shitty prank? Was he really seeing a fucking ghost?

"Sss..." the ghost hissed from behind him and he flinched. He turned back around.

The woman moved her long spindly finger towards him, so close she could trail the tip over his chin. Griffin's entire body shook in both fear and chill. He could feel her icy touch.

He tried to push the ghost away but his hands went straight through her, causing him to gasp. Her fingers trailed over his jaw bending her knuckles to trace them against his stubble. Griffin watched the specter with terror and confusion.

Was he hallucinating? Was the exhaustion finally getting to him?

No. This touch was unmistakably real.

He should've known this was some sort of setup. He'd been baited like a fish. How likely was it really for a room to be entirely dedicated to the topic he'd been searching for? His stupid ass walked into this without a second thought and now he was being molested by some creepy ghost.

He stared at her glowing body, swallowing when she began to caress his cheek.

"Hey...there..." he murmured nervously, "let's just keep our hands to ourselves yeah?"

Her eyes flickered towards his, creamy and white in a way a blind person's was. The woman's petting halted at Griffin's command and he breathed out, slightly relieved.

He was squished flat between this ghost woman and the door. He merely stood there staring at her with wide eyes in bewildered silence until she spoke.

"Ssstay.." the ghost finally rasped and Griffin's heart dropped to his stomach. This couldn't be real. This had to be some joke. "Stay," she whispered again.

"No." he said sternly." Stay with her where? In this room? For how long? She was a ghost! He tried to put a palm to her chest but once again was met with air. He looked wildly at his arm poking out of her chest on the other side.

Her hands gripped his shoulders and he brought his arm back. She could obviously touch him, so why couldn't he touch her? How was that fair?

She began to smooth out his shoulders, rubbing them. He groaned as her skinny fingers began to dig right between his shoulder blades. She kept going, pressing deeper, taking his sign of discomfort for pleasure.

The ghost pulled back and ran her fingers down his chest, he shivered. "Listen," he spoke--she grabbed him by the nape of the neck. Pulling him down to her level.

"Sshhh." she hissed before pressing her lips against his. His eyes went wide open, she felt...cold but also soft. Her hands cupped his face and her fingers gently stroked his cheeks on either side.

He breathed out his nose and made a noise against her mouth, one of...protest? He wasn't so sure. She took advantage of his open mouth to stick her tongue inside, meeting his warm one. They tangled together, briefly touching before she explored the roof of his mouth. She tasted behind his teeth and he didn't know if he was full of desire or disgust.

Griffin could feel his body warming up to the girl. Despite her emaciated state, she felt amazing against him. He tried to reach out to touch her in reciprocation but remembered he could not. The only thing he could do was let her invade his mouth and use her hands on him.

Which she did.

Her hands slipped down from his cheeks to the sides of his neck and back to his shoulders, rubbing them gentler than before, she rubbed down his arms then felt for his waist--the buckle of his slacks.

He pulled away, "Okay, woah--" he interrupted, "hold on for a moment."

She paused, looking back up at him, her head tilting as if she were a dog that didn't understand their master's command. She looked down below the waist and then back to his face. Griffin took a glance down as well and his cheeks felt warm when he was faced with the noticeable bulge.

The was all kinds of fucked up.

"Sss.." she began to hiss again and he realized she clearly couldn't speak well. No way was he turned on by this.

When he didn't explain himself or move to stop her, the specter's hands moved back to his belt. He swallowed, watching her fingers fiddle with the buckle. Her eyes kept flitting between his bulge and his eyes.

Griffin couldn't move. The only thing he could do was watch this woman remove his belt then unzipper his slacks and slide her bony, cold hand into his boxers. He hissed when she went straight to fisting him, giving a perfunctory stroke.

"Just..." he was about to tell her to back the fuck off once and for all but her body began to recede into the floorboards. She stopped just short of her knees and then began to pull down his slacks. "Oh god, hold on."

She didn't wait this time, instead, she pulled his already hard cock from his boxers. Her eyes flitted up to his with a raised brow as if to ask him why she should stop when he was in this state.

"Jesus." he hissed, he knocked the back of his head against the door, "Fine. Go ahead."

She began to stroke him from root to tip, using both of her hands in a twisting motion that hugged his cock completely. He groaned. Despite her cold touch, the sensation was just fine. Better than fine, great.

The specter leaned her head forward, her black hair dropping to curtain around her face as she licked her tongue in between the slit of his cock. He grunted, bucking his hips forward, slipping more of himself inside her mouth.

"Hmm.." she hummed around him as a bit of pre-cum slid over her tongue and her mouth seemed to warm around his. She removed one hand, using it to cup his balls instead as she took more of him into her mouth. She bobbed her head up and down and slid her long--almost unnaturally so--tongue around him.

Griffin didn't know what to do with himself, he couldn't touch her. So he just watched while fisting his hands at his side. He still didn't understand how she could touch him all he wanted but he couldn't touch her at all.

Another grunt came from his mouth as she began to gag down on him, feeling her throat convulse around his dick. He wondered if her pussy would be as warm as her mouth then snapped back into reality.

Was he really considering fucking her? Could he even do that? Well. It seemed he couldn't do anything but she certainly could. Would this ghost woman try? How long had she been in this room for to accost some random college student? Not that he minded anymore...

He sighed, closing his eyes and hovering his hand over where he'd normally rest on his lover's head. He swore he could feel some sort of heat emanating from her now but it was probably just his imagination.

She squeezed his balls and he nearly keeled over.

"Careful!" he hissed.

She looked up at him, mouth full and he was done for. Her big eyes batted up at him while her cheeks were sucked in around him. He erupted inside her mouth with no warning.

The woman's eyes widened and she moaned in delight, redoubling her efforts. He gripped her hair...gripped her hair? He looked down at her head and noticed his fingers were now threaded between black silky locks.

He could touch her now?

She bobbed her head once more and he moaned, his back bowing as she pulled every bit of his orgasm out of his cock.

When she pulled back he watched her swallow and she seemed to materialize right in front of him. Just barely opaque, he could still slightly see through her. She smiled up at him brightly, her eyes now clear and grey. Twinkling up at him.

Not only that but she looked...healthier. Plumper, her cheeks looked rounder and Griffin couldn't only just see her collarbone now instead of how it was jutting out before. He reached out a hand to touch her cheek and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes and all but purring as she rubbed her face against his palm.

"Warm..." she sighed softly, his eyes widened at the sound of her voice. "You feel so warm." she could speak complete sentences now. What changed?

"You can speak now." he pointed out dumbly.

She laughed and nodded, "I can."

"I can feel you."

She smiles, "Do I feel good?"

"I guess..." he murmured, still confused and frankly drained as hell from her little performance there. "How is this possible? Just a few seconds ago I could walk right through you."

"It's thanks to you," she says brightly, as if genuinely excited. "You saved me."

"Saved you."

She nods, "uh huh, your cum..." she says dreamily, "it makes me better."

Griffin snorts.

What?

"What do you mean, makes you feel better?"

"I mean, you can touch me now can't you?" she presses her palm against the floor, "and I can't float through things anymore." she shrugs, "It makes me corporeal"

"I see that." He mutters. She was noticeably different. Her hair no longer levitated around her and that faint glow had gone away. "Why me? Why'd you pick me out of anyone who could've randomly walked in here."

She shook her head, "I didn't choose you, you're the first person to see me in nearly a decade." pressing herself up against him. Her small chest rubbed against his. "Don't you get it? You've given me new life," she says. "And I can't thank you enough..." she purred flirtatiously, her hand reaching for him once again. Her finger gently trailed against his flaccid cock.

"How long until you can go again?" she asked.

"Uh," he looks away awkwardly, "I don't know..."

She smiles, "Well...then maybe you can help me out until you're ready?"

"Help you out?"

"Mhmmm..." She was still kneeling in front of him and now was grabbing for his hands and shuffling back to give him space to kneel on the ground too, once he did she laid further back, leaning on her elbows and spreading her legs open.

He took an indrawn breath, beneath her ratty dress was nothing but skin. He reached for her but then she snapped her thighs closed with a laugh. His eyes flitted up towards hers confused.

"Aren't you going to undress me first?" she asks.

"Oh." Right. He nods, then pulls her dress upwards and over her head, tossing the rags to the side. She laid down on her back, her hair fanning out all around her. "So...now, I can just...?"

She nods with a soft sigh, "Yes..."

He spread her legs back open, kneeling between them and she didn't resist... Griffin looked over the ghost's entire body. Her breasts were small, less than a handful. She was completely hairless save for the small bush between her thighs. He ran his fingers over the hair, it wasn't course--instead, she felt soft and silky. Her skin was pale and milky.

He started at her face, tracing over her now rounded cheeks. "What's your name?" he murmured."

"I have a lot of names...." she expresses in a slightly impatient tone, "why don't you just call me Gwen?"

"Gwen." he nods. He caressed her face, much like she had done to him. Then leaned forward, kissing at her neck. She sighed once more and he took that as a good sign so he did it again, this time using his tongue slightly.

One of his hands moved down to grope her right breast, rolling the small dark brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned softly, arching her back--presenting her tiny breasts to him. She must've been barely a B cup. His other hand reached behind her to thread his fingers through her hair.

"Mmm..."

Griffin could feel himself beginning to wake again, he ground slightly against her teasingly, just barely stimulating himself but Gwen moaned and he knew he had rubbed her clit with his half-soft cock. She was already wet.

Gwen's legs wrapped around his waist, the heels of her feet pushing down Griffin's slacks and he couldn't help but help her by pulling down his boxers along with her. She kept her legs locked around his waist and rocked with him.

He bent his head down to catch her other nipple in his mouth. She gasped and pressed herself against him harder. He was fully hard now but he wanted to wait a minute before just sticking himself in.

He continued to slide his cock in between her wet open pussy, the tip of his cock hitting her clit over and over as he sucked and rubbed her nipples in tandem.

"Griffin!" she gasped again, and he groaned in response. Her skin tasted sweet.

She moved against him, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pushed his face closer to her breast.

He stopped rubbing her nipple and shuffled his hips away, before rubbing her clit back and forth quickly. She yelped, her body jolting upwards and further into his mouth. He continued to stimulate her clit as she squirmed and writhed underneath him.

She was gasping, and he was rubbing himself against her thigh which was probably a bad idea considering how turned on he was in the situation.

It didn't take long before her grip on his hair tightened, she let out a high-pitched whine before her hips bucked forward and she began to hump his hand as she cried out.

"Fuck!" she cried, "Yes, yes!"

Jesus.

He couldn't wait, the moment she seemed to finish with her own orgasm, he thrust inside her with no preamble, she was wet enough for him to just slide in. She groaned, and he felt her stretching around him.

Their hips rocked together, he pulled out halfway before burying himself back into her to the hilt. The two of them gasping and groaning in pleasure.

Her pussy hugged his cock so well that he felt he was going to cum again already, he tried to slow himself, thinking of not her but it was impossible when she was beneath him.

He pumped inside her once, twice--three times before letting out a grunt, spurting ropes of cum inside her.

"Yes!" she encouraged and he fucked his cum into her until he couldn't anymore. Could ghosts get pregnant?

He practically collapsed on top of her, she giggled and slightly pushed him off onto his back.

He was beat. Exhausted. Bone tired. Staying up this late was finally catching up to him. Instead of cuddling up to him, she was already touching his dick again, he moved to catch her wrist but she slapped his hand away.

Something was wrong.

He felt...sluggish.

"Listen I don't feel right..." he said with a groan. He scrubbed at his face before looking down at his hand with a squint. They were wrinkly.

She laughed at him, "oh don't worry about that." she said, noticing him looking down at his aged hands.

"What does that mean?" he asked, clearing his throat. It sounded frailer.

"I said don't worry about it," she repeated, this time more sternly. She took him into her hand and squeezed. Gwen bent her head down and licked the last of his cum off his cock and Griffin hissed in pleasure and sensitivity. She began to stroke him.

"Gwen." he grunted, "Seriously, I'm tired." he tried to reason, "Just let me rest and then we can go okay."

She looked down at him and then shook her head, "Hmm.." she hummed, "No. No, I don't think so.

What the fuck?

"Mmm..just relax Griffin, everything's going to be okay," he recalled at that moment that he never told Gwen his name, he'd only asked for hers.

She grinned seductively down at him, throwing a leg over his body and straddling him. She began to grind herself down on him. Rolling her hips. seemingly waking up his overworked cock. "There you are..." she crooned.

He noticed she seemed to have changed as well, her small breasts had grown, and she looked far more lush on top of him than before. Her ass was actually substantial now, if he wanted to he'd have something to grab onto. Which if he was being truthful, his hands were twitching to do just that. He could feel it on his thighs while she moved back and forth on top of him before lifting and grabbing his cock with her hand, stroking up and down before positioning the traitorous thing--it was already hard again--with her hole.

"Alright." he conceded. Dazed and slightly hypnotized by the enticing woman on top of him. "But after this, I do need to rest."

She smiled, "After this, I'll leave you alone, I promise." she leans forward, "I just really need you right now."

She sunk onto his dick and he felt slightly dizzy as her pussy tightened around him. Already squeezing and milking him for his cum.

He didn't know what was going on but he felt noticeably weaker as she fucked him.

Griffin tiredly gripped onto her waist but she was doing all the work, rocking back and forth on top of him before she started to bounce slightly which had him groaning. She let herself go loose when she sunk on him then clenched around his cock on her way up. His vision was going hazy and he watched as she seemed to grow on top of him, her breasts getting even heavier than before, her belly turning soft and slightly protruding against her now chubby mound. She moaned, digging her nails into his chest.

The more she seemed to grow, the weaker he felt and he realized how much of an idiot he was.

She was going to kill him.

Literally and figuratively.

"Ohhh," she moaned, "I haven't fed in ages Griffin, you feel so good."

He thought back to how she told him that his cum had made her corporeal. What she failed to mention until now was that she was feeding off him. Whatever the hell that meant. His eyelids were falling heavy but he was trying to push her off.

She didn't budge, in fact, Gwen seemed to ride Griffen with more enthusiasm the harder he fought, he watched in exhaustion and horror as her once emaciated body had now turned lush and soft.

He could feel the familiar build-up of his orgasm and he knew for sure if he let that happen, he was going to die. He tried to think of things that would turn him off. Old women, his father--anything.

But she had a hold on him, he couldn't deny his attraction towards the woman bouncing on top of him. The wet sounds they were making as her now fat ass slapped against his thighs.

"Gwen.." he groaned, "don't."

She paid him no mind at all.

His baser instincts kept him hard, he had a naked woman on top of him, squeezing his cock in a vice grip while she went on and on about how good he felt and how deep his cock was.

"Fuck..." he groaned, he could feel it, he was going to cum--die.

His balls were tightening, and his stomach was clenching as his nails dug deep into her plush hips. She seemed to get even more excited by that, moving from bouncing on her knees to placing her feet flat on the floor.

Pure euphoria filled Griffin as he felt his soul slipping away. He could feel the ropes of cum filling her warm pussy. She cried out atop him, her back arching.

He was as good as gone.

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[champion-level-astroturfing]

[A video is posted...

It starts out being filmed by Shardy; the phone is clearly in his hand, taking in the aisles of a large Pokemart before it angles downwards to focus on Blue Diamond the Glaceon. The little guy is walking next to his friend, demure in a bright green harness, and dragging with him an entire cushion. It's a smooth blue, with a happy little cartoon Eiscue on it, and big enough for him to comfortably lie on.

"Doing okay with that?" asks Shardy's voice, incredibly amused. Blue makes a muffled chirruping sound, perfectly happy with his burden, and Shardy laughs.

"Alright, well, that's your treat. Time for Her Majesty's."

He moves the phone up to show where he is: the Grass-type aisle, in front of a row of shelving units stacked high with all shapes and sizes of plant pot. The fancy kind he originally picked out is visible about halfway up the second unit.

"She's gotta like one of these at least," he says, with possibly unwarranted confidence. There's the sound of a Pokeball opening, and he pans down to show Queen Fezzerie the Third, ten seconds out of the ball and already poised to throw a tantrum.

"Hey girl," says Shardy, and when her head snaps up immediately with a gaze of utter displeasure he corrects to "Your Majesty Queen Fezzerie. The third. Sorry. Hey. Since you didn't like the pot I got you before, I thought you might like to pick out your own? That way it's definitely exactly what you want."

The little flower 'mon considers for a moment, then imperiously reaches her blooms upwards in the universal signal to be lifted. She's small enough that Shardy has to go down on one knee to easily provide a hand for her to ride on, and that if nothing else seems to please her.

Once raised to the appropriate level, she studies the offerings with a critical gaze before something catches her eye. She gestures with some excitement to one of the upper shelves; the camera follows the gesture and settles on something grand.

It's a rather large pot, shaped with elegant curves and moulding around the rim, painted with abstracted flowers and leaves. The quality is evident.

Shardy makes a faintly dubious noise and zooms in on the price tag.

It's just as high as you might expect.

Shardy isn't exactly poor, but that's a big chunk of change. He whistles through his teeth.

"Oh boy. Your Majesty, you sure about that one?"

The Roselia bristles a little, and nods firmly.

"Look, it's pretty, sure. But it's kinda big for you, maybe? I think maybe that one over there would fit you better-"

Fezzerie lets out an insulted squeal, and stamps her foot.

"Hey, there's a bunch of other really good ones that don't cost three trillion poke, promise. Look- ouch!"

Tired of being sweet-talked out of her expensive tastes, Fezzerie has upped the ante. Tiny purple-tipped spines have popped up across her body, and she is giving Shardy's hand and arm a thorough pummelling with every Poison Point she has.

"Ow ow ow fuck ow fucking fuck that hurts-"

The view blurs and spins as Shardy drops his phone; it lands face down and for a moment everything is black, before it flips back up and spins round to capture the scene. Now that the ghosts are piloting the video quality is infinitely worse, but what's happening is still clear enough.

Shardy is on his knees, clutching his hand; it looks swollen, strangely coloured. Queen Fezzerie III is on the floor again, but she is being backed into a corner by Blue, who is puffed up in furious offense, fur glittering with tiny ice crystals, teeth bared, his cushion forgotten. A woman in Pokemart uniform is approaching with rapid steps, concerned.

"Sir? Sir are you alright?"

"'Sfine," Shardy mumbles. "Blue- careful, don't- don't hurt her. 'Sjust Poison Point, that's not... 'snot deadly, is it?"

"Oh, ouch," the Pokemart employee says, sympathetic but also somewhat relieved. "No, sir, it's painful but we'll go and get you an Antidote and you'll be right as rain- um- well, you should- your hand-"

Her voice drops back into worry as Shardy, who has been trying and failing to get up, lifts a hand that has now swelled to a grotesque size on the end of an arm that's visibly trembling and goes, "Huh."

Then he falls face-first onto the Pokemart floor, and the video cuts out.]

[q-gorgeous]

Tucker Foley’s terrible, awful, very bad day

fanfiction

ao3

word count: 1736

Tucker Foley’s terrible, awful, very bad day

ihbwudhbiwhn

Tucker Foley’s terrible, awful, very bad day. 

This day could’ve been salvageable if it wasn’t for the blade he’d just taken through his chest. 

~~~

It started like any normal bad day would start. By waking up late. 

He looked at his phone and it was already five minutes past when his first hour started. He shot up out of bed and started stumbling around, trying to get dressed and make sure he had everything he needed for the day. 

Stupid Technus for starting a fight with him at midnight. Stupid Technus for asking him a question that led to a discussion. Stupid Tucker for losing track of time. 

He transformed and flew through his ceiling. He normally didn’t like to fly to school but his mom wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if she found out he missed all of first period. 

And then he remembered he forgot to grab something to eat. 

He got to class and they were watching a movie. He missed a movie! But it made it impossible not to notice him as he walked in. The light from the hallway shone into the classroom and everyone’s heads turned to stare at him. 

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Foley.” Lancer drawled out. “I’ll see you in detention this afternoon.” 

Tucker groaned and made his way back to his seat next to Sam and Danny. 

“Dude, where have you been?” Sam leaned forward in her seat as she whispered behind him as he sat down. 

Tucker yawned. “I overslept. I hope Lancer doesn’t call my mom.” 

“You’ve gotta figure your stuff out, man.” Danny whispered as he leaned across the aisle. “You miss class all the time now.”

Tucker rolled his eyes and slumped down in his seat. “Things happen. I don’t have anything I need to figure out.”

Danny shrugged. “If you say so.” 

~~~

The next bad thing that happened today was that Sam tried to introduce another new menu in the cafeteria. Today was the first day. Tofu. Which would’ve been fine, but the lunch ladies did not know how to cook tofu. It tasted like all they did to it was heat it up and then serve it just like that. Needless to say, he didn’t eat lunch that day. He sure was hungry though. 

“It’s wet, Sam.” Tucker frowned at her. 

“It’s tofu.” Sam said as she put another piece in her mouth.

“Yeah, but can’t you at least grill it?” Danny poked the tofu on his tray and it jiggled. “Or even season it?”

“At least it’s not garbage this time.” Tucker leaned his head into his hand and Sam rolled her eyes at them. 

Later towards the end of their lunch, Tucker got into an argument with Danny about whether or not hurting ghosts was morally right. Danny thought it was because ghosts didn’t care if they hurt you. Tucker countered it with only some ghosts didn’t care. The ones that did care just didn’t seem to make their way out of the ghost zone very often. 

“Ghosts don’t care about anything.” Danny complained, gesturing with his hand while he stabbed at his last piece of tofu. “All they do is come and terrorize us here in Amity Park.” 

“But aren’t there probably like, millions of ghosts in the ghost zone? They can’t all be bad. That’d be like assuming all men are bad. Or all gay people. There’s bad people in every demographic but that doesn’t mean the whole demographic is bad.” 

Sam stood up as the bell rang. “Tucker’s right. Obviously, a ghost needs to be dealt with if they’re causing problems but to hurt them intentionally just because they’re a ghost? That doesn’t sound right to me.” 

They headed towards the garbage cans and threw their food away. 

Danny stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched up his shoulders. “Well, until I meet a ghost that doesn’t try to hurt or terrorize someone, I’m sticking with my guns on this.”

“Well, what about Ghouly?”

Tucker flinched when Sam said his name. They both knew how Danny felt about Tucker’s ghost half. He didn’t know why she kept trying to convince Danny of it when they both knew he wouldn’t change his mind. 

Danny scoffed. “He’s the worst of the worst. He puts on a mask to convince and manipulate everyone. I’d probably trust him the least out of all of them.” 

Tucker ignored the pitying look Sam shot him. 

He’d let Sam in on his secret the first time Danny had gotten a good hit on him. 

Tucker had been flying and chasing after another ghost when Danny had shot him in the shoulder from behind. 

His shoulder popped out and burst with pain. He had thought “screw it” and turned invisible to try to lose Danny. He wouldn’t be able to capture that ghost like this anyways. Danny could take care of it.

But where would he go? Tucker didn’t know if he could set it on his own. And he couldn’t go to the doctor’s office like this. As he flew through the air he could already feel his transformation pulling. He wouldn’t last long enough to get it popped in and leave before he detransformed if he went to the hospital. 

That left one option. 

He made his way across town to Sam’s house. He flew through her wall into her room and she looked up at him with big eyes and dropped the spoon she’d been using to eat apple sauce. 

“Ghouly?”  

He collapsed onto her bed heavily, wincing as his back hit the wall and jostled his shoulder.

“I need your help.” 

Sam sat up and nodded, her hands hovering in front of her. 

“What do I have to do?”

He pointed at his shoulder. “We have to pop this back in.”

“You want me to set your dislocated shoulder?!” 

Tucker nodded. “I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Sam frowned at him. “Why did you come here?” 

Tucker opened his mouth to respond but his transformation ring appeared around his waist. He pushed it back and it disappeared. Sam was staring at where it had been a moment ago. 

“We have to do this before I transform. The muscles are looser when I’m a ghost. It’ll be harder to pop back in in my human form.” 

“Your human form? What does-“

“Just hurry, please.” 

She studied him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” 

“On the count of three?” Tucker looked up at her. She nodded. 

“One-“ She popped his shoulder back in and he saw spots in his eyes.

“What happened to two and three?!”

She shrugged. “I’ve always heard that doctors do that so you’re not so tense when it gets set.”

He closed his eyes. “Fair enough.”

Then he could feel his transformation pulling on his core again. He didn’t try to stop it because he knew it would keep fighting him. 

“Tucker?!” 

~~~

The last thing that happened that day was that Skulker just had to come back and try to hunt Danny down again. Tucker didn’t understand what his fascination with Danny was. He was a human! Why was the ghost zone’s greatest hunter so fascinated with hunting a human? 

Skulker was the only ghost that Danny actually helped Tucker fight instead of trying to use it to capture Tucker himself. He couldn’t get Tucker if he himself got captured and killed. So they worked as a team to get Skulker. 

Fighting Skulker also meant that Tucker missed his detention for today, so his mom was definitely going to be getting a phone call. 

“You take him from behind, I’ll get him from the front?” Danny called to him. Tucker nodded. He flew around out of view as Skulker flew up to Danny.

“What do you want this time, tin can?” Danny sneered at him. “Ready to lose another round?” 

“I’m here to claim your pelt and hang it on my wall.” Danny wrinkled his nose at that. 

“Why?” 

“You’re the greatest human ghost hunter!” Skulker bellowed. “What would it say about me if I couldn’t catch you? You’re my ultimate prize.” 

“Uh, what about the Fenton’s?” Danny asked him.

“Your buffoonish parental units do not even remotely compare.” And how did all the ghosts just know who Danny was straight out of the gate? 

Tucker could tell that Danny was rolling his eyes under his mask. “If they’re really buffoons, how did they make the working portal that you all seem to love so much?” 

“They-“ Skulker cut off as Tucker jumped at him. Sulker dodged and Tucker went flying past Danny. A maniacal smile spread over Skulker’s face and he pulled a blade out of his suit. He pulled his arm back and charged at Danny. 

“No!” 

Tucker threw himself in front of Skulker’s blade. He shoved Danny out of the way, sending him flying through the air. The blade pierced his chest and he could feel as it pushed its way through to the other side. 

He could hear Danny shouting. Then Skulker pulled the blade out. Tucker fell to the ground and lay there. Fighting sounds came from the sky above him and then everything went quiet. 

Then he was being rolled off of his side onto his back. His shoulders were being shaken and he opened his eyes a crack. 

Danny was above him. He had a strained expression on his face. Tucker could tell he didn’t understand why he would’ve sacrificed himself for Danny like that. They weren’t supposed to be close like that. He wasn’t supposed to matter to Ghouly like that.

His transformation ring appeared around his waist and Tucker breathed out a laugh. He guessed Danny would be understanding a lot sooner that Tucker would’ve expected. 

As the rings passed over his body he closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the look of horror he thought would appear on Danny’s face. 

He heard a shout. It was probably his name. He thought somebody grabbed his shoulders again but he could feel himself drifting away. He was pretty tired. 

Then he felt his entire body shift and this time he definitely knew someone was holding him. He could tell he was safe. He could let himself drift off now. 

He hoped this would be the end of his terrible, awful, very bad day. Hopefully tomorrow would be better. 

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

wip word search!!

rules: go through your wips and look for the words given to you and post a snippet with that word.

i was tagged by the ever-lovely @sidekick-hero, my fellow metaldeputy enthusiast 💟🫶

my words were: breath, hair, smile, fingers, blue, love

putting it under the cut!

breath (from my sailor!steve x rockstar!eddie fic)

Chief Bond speaks up from his spot along the wall. “You assholes are fucked, you know.” and takes a drink from his be-faced cup. The other four boys deflate a bit more. “Yeah, we kn—.”  the shortest of the four starts before getting cut off by the door slamming shut. Harrington's hands go to his hips once the door is closed, his head hanging with the long breath he takes. “Ste–” He whirls around, fury boiling beneath his calm expression. “Whatever extra duty I get for this, you assholes are taking from me after.” he states, glaring at the four younger sailors. That look on his face should not be affecting Eddie the way it is.

hair (from pt. 2 to my summer fanworks challenge fic)

Robin appears in his doorway, arms crossed across her chest. He watches her examine him for a moment, then looks away. She heaves a sigh, “C’mon Doofus, let's get you cleaned up, huh?” Eddie lets her sit him up on his bed, hunching forward with his legs crossed and arms holding his own chest together. Why does this hurt so bad? It wasn’t even real. The mattress sinks with her weight when she sits behind him, poking one of her boney knees into the small of his back. She reaches forward and sweeps his hair back from his face, raking her nails through one side, then the other, slowly detangling it with her fingers at first, before he points out where his hairbrush had been abandoned this morning.  This morning? Was it really only this morning? Fuck..

smile (from my ghost!eddie fic)

“Hi!” the girl says, bouncing to a stop in front of him. “Uh, hi? Who are you?” “I’m Chrissy!” she grins, her smile bright yet slightly crooked. “Hi Chrissy, I’m Steve, uhm…what the hell is going on? Who are you? Why are you in my dream?” “I assume it’s because I died at Forest Hills.” She shrugs, as if it was the most benign news in the world. Steve blinks at her in the darkness, takes in her uniform– “Oh my god, you’re the cheerleader who died! Are you–are you my ghost?”

fingers (from a little thing i'm doing based on a tiktok i saw lmao)

The double doors whir open before him and he grabs up one of the mismatched baskets, nodding politely to the woman manning the one open register as he passes. He wanders the aisles, drumming his fingers on the metal handle of his basket to the somewhat familiar new Fleetwood Mac song that’s echoing down on him from the speakers embedded in the stained ceiling tiles, when he rounds the corner to the most unbelievable sight. He literally cannot believe what he’s seeing. At first Steve thought there was no way. That the frizzy head of unkempt waves before him had to belong to someone other than the one person he wanted it to. But no. The person’s own basket is dropped unceremoniously onto the floor to whisk their dark hair up into a bun.. and there’s no doubt. The scarred cheek, the dark brows, the same strong nose...It’s Eddie. The newest, most bat-chewed member of their party, who sped out of town with his uncle as soon as he could (which is more than fair, honestly; he wasn’t going to get anywhere in Hawkins), is dancing. In the middle of the bread aisle. To Fleetwood Mac.

blue (from destiel!steddie / spn!au pt 7!)

He grabs a yellow colored pencil first, scribbling wildly over the page, then drops it in favor of a blue one, scratching that over the whole page as well. Dustin is watching too, “Where’ve you been that’s blue and yellow?” Eddie thinks for a moment, “Nowhere that I can remember.” Will drops the blue then, picking the yellow back up to add a blob of the color directly in the middle of the page. “Ah.” Dustin says suddenly, “I get it.” No one speaks for a moment, waiting. “Care to share?” Hopper finally asks. “He doesn’t have any more green. He’s just using blue and yellow to make it.”

love (from pt. 2 of my witch!au)

“But there are some that are rumored to be true love spells, soulmate spells.” She continues on when she sees the look on his face. “Rumored, Steven, only ever rumors.” “Okay, so what do the rumors have to say about them?” “Every spell like that I’ve ever heard of of this nature is specific to each caster.” “So I’ve had this spell on me for possibly my whole life, and there’s no way to know anything about it or about the caster.” “...I’m sorry, honey.”

i'm going to tag...@thisapplepielife, @its-steddie-time, @thefatedthoughtofyou, @anthotneystark and @wolfstarendgame!

your words are: ignore, second, road, soil, term, circumstance

[thatguywiththefaceog]

Choose Your Own Adventure-Dipper's Day (ao3 Version)

I had so much fun with using polls for stories, I did the same thing on Ao3. This is what they voted for.

All characters are over 18. This story is rated E for explicit and is for adults only. Contains Incest

Dipper yawned as he got up. His sister did her best to keep him up. Which was unfair as he was a growing boy of…

Wait, Dipper’s groggier than he thought how old was he again?

12

16

19! The hell dude?

Winner: 19

Nineteen, he was nineteen. Yeah, why the hell did he think he was younger? Boy Dipper needed to get his head on straight. It was Mabel’s fault, she spent half the night giggling at her phone. He couldn’t get any good sleep.

Despite both being adults, both still shared the attic at the shack. Soos' family needed the rooms and it was cheaper than hotels. Mabel didn’t even show her late night adventures, being her normal bouncing self. And giggling self too.

“Good morning Dipper. And good morning to your friend too.”

Friend? Dipper looked down and saw his semi-hard penis sticking out from his boxer flap. He had become well endowed in his adulthood.

“Aaagh!” Dipper made sure to make himself presentable before making his way to the bathroom. One of the hazards of sharing a room with his sister. Not that Mabel had been much better. Puberty had been kind to her sister, with her breasts growing to about the size of her head. For night clothes, she wore a old tee-shirt she had since junior high and some old panties that didn't really fit either. Dipper could see all of his sister.

Gagh, don’t think stuff like that! Once showered and dressed, Dipper made his way for breakfast. Mabel came skipping in. “Dipper I found something you ight like!”

“What, the mall?” He asked jokingly.

“Yeah!”

"Mabel that closed down 5-years-old."

"I know. I mean everyone in town says it's haunted now."

“Mabel, the last time we dealt with ghosts we got turned into wood!”

“Pfft, you mean the last time you dealt with ghosts. You need the Mabel touch!”

Well, it might help with Grunkle Ford’s research. He agreed to go with her after their chores. Dipper made his way to the gift shop to sweep. After sweeping a couple of aisles Wendy bust through.

“Guess who has two thumbs and talked herself out of a family camping trip!” Wendy had grown up quite a bit since Dipper's first summer. Her red hair was cut to a pixie cut, multiple piecing in her ear, and both shoulder adored with tattoos.

“Wendy!” Dipper ran up and greet his old friend. She was wearing jeans and a white tank top with red plaid tied around her waste. Dipper couldn't help but notice she wasn’t wearing bra, her nipples pointing through the fabric. Her left had a piercing poking at the fabric.

“Since I still got the day off, want to go swimming with me? I know a super cool secret lagoon that we’ll have all to ourselves.”

“That sounds amazing, but I already promised Mabel I’d do something with her.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Call me if your plans open.”

What should Dipper do?

Go swimming in secret lagoon with Wendy

Go to the haunted mall with Mabel

Winner: Mabel

“Damn Dip, you should have gone with her!”

“Mabel, I already promised to go with you. Besides, I wanted to spend the day with my sister.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet Dipper. But Wendy was totally vibing you. You could have gotten some ass.”

“Mabel!” Dipper blushed. “I’m over Wendy. Besides, she made it perfectly clear that she only saw me as a friend.”

“Yeah, when you were twelve. Now, you’re like mega hot. Even in your stupid cargo shorts.”

“What’s wrong with my cargo shorts? They’re practical.”

Of course his sister clearly knew nothing about practical outfits. Hers consisted of a blue top that barely covered her. The black bra she was wearing was clearly visible and her tummy was out. As a bottom she was wearing denim daisy dukes.

The twins made their way to the old mall. Dipper remembered helping Soos meet Melody, holding up here with Wendy. The place now definitely looks like it was still weirdmaggedon. He and Mabel broke through the sliding glass door. The mall was dark, little light came from the fluorescent lights that were still barely working. Most of the abandoned building were covered in vines.

“What the hell is this?” Dipper wondered aloud.

“They had a big greenhouse that sold flowers and yard stuff. Must be from that.”

“Are these luminescent?” Dipper asked. Sure enough the vines had a subtle green glow.

The only place that wasn’t covered with the vines were stairs to the floor under the ground. A quiet, but distinctive wailing was coming down there. An average person would dismiss it as the wind, but Dipper knew too much to think it was anything else then a ghost.

Mabel turned to her brother. “So, what do you wanna do?”

Follow the vines.

Follow the wail.

Winner: Follow the wail

They came to investigate ghosts, so they'll investigate ghosts. Dipper and Mabel made their way down the broken escalator, which just functioned as stairs. Once they made the bottom, their flashlights were their only source of light.

The wailing had grown distinctively loudly and the ghost seemed to added a bit of groaning for good measure.

Dipper knew this place well from his time with Wendy during weirdmaggedon. He followed the wail pasting long abandoned storefronts. He knew where the wailing was coming from.

"The food court?" Mabel asked.

"Alright, we know you are in here! Show yourself!" He turned to his sister. "Okay Mabel, people who become ghosts aren't the most stable people to begin with so we have to be careful not to offend them."

"I heard that!" Their came a terrible stretching voice. A woman appeared. Early twenties she looked dressed like an extra from an old Britney Spears video. Low riding jeans with her thong peeking out and a shirt that showed off her belly button. Lòkednlike Mabel found a kindred spirit in fashion.

"Listen! I know what you're thinking. But I'm not some old fart of a ghost. I'm a modern ghost from the totally modern year of 2002."

Dippered sighed. "Always nuts." A bit louder he asked, "Spirit, why do you still haunt this mortal plan?"

"Well, I was totally gonna lose my v card to Jason p but I… but I choked on a slice of Sbarro's!"

"You poor thing," Mabel said.

"And now I'm dead without realizing the wonders of sex! I refuse to pass on until I learn the pleasures of the flesh." She looked at Dipper. "Day, you looked hot. Like super hot."

"Wow, thank you but I'm made of flesh and you’re ectoplasm so I can't help you there. Come on Mabel, let's go." He took his sister's wrist and made his way to the stairs.

The ghost jost nodded toward Mabel. "She has a body. Let in her, than we can fuck."

"Yeah she's my sister."

"We're twins."

"So yeah, that's not happening."

The ghost did not like this. "I NEED BOOTY!"

The whole place went nuts. The tables went flying, terrible lighting came down.

"Dipper, how did you stop the other guys again?"

"While for the old couple at the convenience store I danced around in a lamb costume. And for the crazy lumberjack at Pacifica's Madison, she just let people into her dad's party."

"So you just, gave the ghosts want they wanted."

"Yeeeeah."

Mabel looked at the crazy ghost flying around.

"Ah poo. This isn't gonna make things weird between us, is it?"

"What? No."

"Yeah it's just… ghost stuff."

She kissed her brother on the lips before getting up. "Hey shut! You want booty? Fine. Have mine." Mabel spread her arms out. The ghost phased through her, possessing the 19-year-old.

"Oh god, it's been so long since I had a body." Mabel and the ghost's voices spoke at once, reviving over each other. Her eyes glowing white. She ripped off Mabel’s top and undid the bra. Her breasts bounced free, giving Dipper an eye full of Mabel’s large pink nipples. "Ah, bitch wasn’t even wearing panties!" She said as she pulled off the daisy dukes. A patch of groomed hair adorned her pubis. "Now let's see what you got."

She knelt down and undid his shorts as Dipper let her pull them down. The sight of his naked twin had gotten him hard.

"Holy shit, you’re fucking packed!" She started stroking him. "Aw fuck it's so warm. Shit I'm so horny." She sat down on a table, spreading herself at Dipper "Fuck me. I don’t care where you stick it was fuck me!"

Where should Dipper fuck?

Between her tits!

Her face!

Her asshole!

Her pussy!

Winner: Her asshole

Dipper kissed his possessed sister, squeezing a boob as his tongue met hers. His cock throbbed between his legs. Oh god he really needed to fuck her. “Turn around, I’ll fuck your ass.” That’ll stop any surprises from this encounter.

“Ooh, such a dirty boy,” the ghost said through Mabel. She presented her backside to him, sticking her ass up. Dipper ran his cock along his sister’s asscrack. Shit it felt heavenly. Neither of the Pines twins were virgins, both losing their respective virginities to previous partners. But there was one problem.

“Uhm hey a… ghost? Do you know where we can get some anal lube, cause if I go raw it’s really gonna hurt.”

“Wait.” The ghost made a few gurgling sounds and spat out a wade of blue goo on to Dipper’s hand. “Ectoplasm.”

Dipper smiled but his erection had softened a bit. He took some of the goo and started prodding Mabel’s butthole. The ghost gasped and the finger penetrated the body’s backdoor. After a bit of fingering Dipper added another finger, making sure his sister’s anus was nice and slippery.

He lined the rest onto his dick. Taking a deep breath He held onto her hips and guided his cock into her anus. The ghost yelped as she felt his head enter. Once firmly inside her, he used both hands on her hips. Mabel had done plenty of anal before so the experience wasn’t too painful for the ghost. And it wasn’t too bad for Dipper either. Her walls squeezing his cock while his hips slapped Mabel’s ass.

Dipper wanted this. He wanted this awhile he realized. He’d been looking at his sister's body in a sexual way for a while now. Having a good rhythm guiding him, Dipper bent down and reached for her chest. Mabel’s large breasts were hanging down, jiggling with each thrust. Kissing the back of her neck, he groped her. God it was great. This felt so good.

Dipper needed to cum. He needed to…

Pull out and cover her butt with cum

Creampie her asshole

Winner: Creampie

Damn he was cumming! Holding on to his Mabel’s body tight as he slammed into her as he began firing his shot. He could hear both the ghost and his sister's voice as the screamed in pleasure.

His warmth flooded their backside, anus clenching around his dick. "Oh fuck, it was everything I wanted." And with that the ghost was gone.

"Dipper it's me! We did it and that's your dick in my ass."

"Yeah I'll just-" He very gently pulled out of her. Mabel couldn’t help but grunt at the opening up of her ass. A trail of cum still connected Dipper’s cock and Mabel’s ass. He watched was his own seed leaked from his sister's ass.

Dipper felt as if he should say something. "Mabel, I-"

She shushed him with a kiss. She gently laid him on the floor. Straddling him, she whispered, "Now it's my turn." She slid her wet pussy lips against his still hard cock.

They consummated their new relationship right there. Mabel dressed back in what was left of her clothes. Her shirt was too damaged to wear so it was just her black bra. As they walked out into the woods, Dipper teased Mabel about flashing the town. So Mabel slashed him so real, which lead to another fuck session out in the woods. Dipper almost had a heart attack when Wendy walked by as he was thrusting into his sister. She didn’t seem to notice. She was also naked, wet, and angrily marching with an ax, so she had stuff going on.

The made it back to the shack and once again find themselves fucking. The bed shook as Dipper fuck his twin in the ass again.

“Dipper, Dipper, Dipper!”

“Guh, Mabel!” He pumped another load into her ass. ‘Aw, I think I’m spent.”

“Well that’s good.” Mabel stood up, stretching. “I gotta go poop out your cum.”

“Mabel, don't put it like that.” She blew him a raspberry was she went into the bathroom. Dipper laid in bed, thinking. “Huh, what are we?” He asked himself.

“Boyfriend, girlfriend,” came Mabel’s voice. She waltzed in, still naked and laid next to her brother. “I know it’s…weird, but we’ve always been weird. Dipper, I love you, like I’ve never loved anyone else.”

Dipper kissed her. “I love you too.”

The two cuddled naked for the rest of the night. Later, the two would learn that incest was actually legal in Gravity Falls which meant that there love could flourish, if it they had to have some awkward conversations with their friends.

[shiningstages]

Mother’s Day in a month, and Father’s Day the month after...................*cackles at all my muses with dead parents*

[mellowswriting]

I saw that requests are open! would it be possible for you to write a follow up to Second Chances with javi and reader? Maybe you have another kid and this time javi is able to be there for you throughout the whole pregnancy, and get to experience the first kick, you giving birth, etc (I am a sucker for domestic!javi if you can't tell haha) I think it would be really cute!!

From the Beginning

pairing || Javier Peña x afab!Reader

summary || Javier gets to experience the chaotic excitement of welcoming a new baby to the family.

word count || 6,466 

warnings || kid fic, pregnant reader, non-graphic childbirth, some spiciness but no smut, dad!Javi being adorable 

a/n || I can’t even express how much I love writing about the boys as dads, especially Javier! I really hope you all enjoy this, it was so very much fun to write.

Main Masterlist  |   Join the taglist!

Early spring mornings always had a special quality about them. The air was never too hot, pleasantly warm with a hint of a cool breeze that still lingered from winter’s sharp grip. Plants were beginning to bloom, the trees regaining their bright green foliage that ruffled in a symphony with every pass of the wind. Spring was the bringer of warmth after the ice and snow, the nurturer that coaxed seeds to sprout and flourish, the guide for new life and hope.

Ironic, then, that those very qualities you had grown to love were the ones causing you so much inner turmoil that you couldn’t even enjoy the gorgeous morning happening around you. You hadn’t even realized what was happening at first. Mother nature hadn’t exactly gifted you with a cycle that could be easily followed and predicted. Instead you had the supreme pleasure of having to carry around menstrual products everywhere you went and having to replace your underwear far more often than usual. So when you went two months without the waves of cramps and frustration of your period, it wasn’t all that remarkable.

It was when you were doing some last minute grocery shopping the night before that you realized something was off. Well, more off than usual. The sight of the shelves of tampons made your stomach bottom out with realization. You must’ve made quite a sight as you stood in that aisle with a cart half full of food, just staring at tampons with dread. Two boxes of pregnancy tests got tossed in with the various other items in your cart and you hoped that Javier was too tired from work to insist he help you put away the groceries.

For once, the universe appeared to be on your side. Your husband was sitting on the floor with Elianna, a spread of coloring books and crayons scattered on the living room carpet, and he actually listened to you when you waved him off to carry the bags in yourself. The tests were tucked away in the bathroom behind your tampons - ironic, yes, but it was the one place Javier really wouldn’t be poking around.

Honestly, a part of you felt bad for not telling Javier right away. He had more than proven himself as a great father and husband in the nearly two years since he returned to your life. Those irrational little fears of him leaving you and little Ellie had been crushed into nothing in the wake of the role he readily took on with his daughter, but this was different. Maybe it was pretty naive of you to not have that conversation with him, but it was something you thought you still had time for.

The plus sign on the pregnancy tests told you the time for that conversation was now, apparently. You were grateful for the timing of your little realization. Saturday mornings saw the standing trend of your sister whisking Ellie away for some ‘auntie and niece time’, and you really didn’t want her to feel the tension you were carrying. She was such a perceptive little girl that had an eye for everything.

Javier was still asleep. You usually slept in with him on the weekends, but you were restless to find out if your period was just pulling a fast one on you or if you actually were pregnant. Now you had four positive tests sitting in front of you and a sleeping husband who you couldn’t decide whether or not to wake up. Luckily, you ended up not having to make that choice since two sharp raps of his knuckles against the bathroom door snapped you out of your trance.

The door opened a millisecond after you snatched up the tests and hid them behind your back, not so unlike Ellie when she was hiding a treat she wasn’t supposed to have yet. The difference was that you didn’t know if this would be a treat to Javier. He was still half asleep, his thin pajama pants slug low on his hips and his eyes squinted against the bathroom light.

“G’morning,” He grunted as he moved to shuffle past you. “Move over, I gotta piss.”

You were rooted to the spot, though, your brain floundering to gain control of your muscles. “Uhm…”

“What’s wrong?” Javier slowly perked up through his sleepy haze at the realization that you looked downright terrified. He put his hand on your bicep and squeezed slightly. “Is Ellie okay?”

“What? No, yeah, Ellie’s fine. She’s with Amelia.” You spluttered, cringing at your inability to function.

“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Javi pressed. There really wasn’t any hiding things from him. Ellie must get that sharp eye of hers from her father. “What are you holding behind your back?”

You tried to swallow down the thickness that enveloped your throat to form some sort of words, literally anything to convey to him what the hell was going on, but your body was seized with fear. So you held out the tests wordlessly. His eyebrows furrowed as he took the bundle of tests from your hand, staring at them with a split second’s confusion before it dawned on him. “This…? You…?”

“Yeah.” You whispered. The worry in your voice must’ve been obvious because Javier was on you in a second flat, his arms crowding you into his chest with a crushing strength.

“You’re pregnant?” Javier croaked into your neck and the dam of emotion in your chest crumbled. His voice was full of excited disbelief, and relief crashed over you.

“Yeah, I am.” You said with a tearful chuckle, winding your arms around him to burrow yourself even further into his chest. “I know we never really talked about having another kid but… is this something you want, Javi?”

“Fuck, this is ironic.” Javier laughed quietly and when you looked up at him, he avoided your eyes with an almost bashful look. “I was gonna ask you today if you ever thought about it. Do you have any idea how many times I went over it in my head?”

You couldn’t help it - you cracked up laughing. The whole thing was almost ridiculous - the both of you worrying despite wanting the exact same thing. Tears of relief and laughter soaked into his t-shirt as you both broke into chaotic laughter, fingers clutching at each other’s shirts as you tried to catch your breath.

“So, uh… are we doing this?” Javier sounded nervous, his hands rubbing up and down your back as if to reassure himself. “You really wanna have a baby with me? Again?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was choked with a tense mix of emotions, so you cleared your throat and tried again. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t… fuck, I can’t believe you - you’d… thank you.” He babbled, nearly unintelligible in his scramble to convey how fucking grateful he was, but you knew. It wasn’t the first time you had heard the desperate need to spit words he couldn’t really find, the words that matched the swell of emotions in his chest that still wasn’t used to voicing. “Fuck, Ellie’s gonna be such a good big sister.”

That choked you up more than you expected. She really would be, you knew that for a fact, but it was a dream you had boxed up and shoved on a shelf with all your other unrealistic dreams for your future. Never in your life did you let yourself really think you could have the whole package deal - the loving (albeit gruff) husband, the big house, the sound of little feet chasing each other through the halls…

“Wait, how long have you been…? Or do we have to see a doctor first? Oh shit, we have to find a doctor for you, what the fuck are they called..? A fucking... obstetrician!” Javi rambled in a mix of nerves and excitement, breaking from your embrace to pace the length of the bathroom. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help, because -”

“Javi, breathe!” You calmed him with both hands out to stop his walking and braced your hands on his shoulders to rub at him firmly. “We have plenty of time, okay? Let me go make some coffee for you and we can sit down and make a plan. First, didn’t you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh… yeah.”

----------

Javier couldn’t stop bouncing his knee. It was a subconscious thing, something he stopped the moment he realized but soon found it moving of its own volition all over again. He really was trying not to let his nerves show even though he knew that you could tell. It was all so new to him, which wouldn’t be a problem if the reminder didn’t gut him every goddamn time. He couldn’t imagine how alone you must have felt the first time around when you were pregnant with Elianna, especially in these cold, sterile doctors offices.

His grip tightened on your hand. The feeling of your fingertips pressed against the top of his hand kept him grounded, helped him remind himself that there was no going back and changing everything else that happened. All he could do was be there this time around, be the best version of himself that he could be for you and his kid - well, kids now. Plural. The excitement was almost enough to drown away the guilt. Javi really could barely believe that he was getting the privilege of experiencing this with you.

“I’ve seen files on drug lords shorter than all that.” Javier nodded at the pile of forms and paperwork you held in your lap and you laughed brightly. He preened a little at the sound. It was something he could never get enough of, that laugh of yours. “I love you.”

You looked up at him, the pen in your hand stopping its constant scratching for the first time in forever, and gave him a lopsided smile. “I love you, too.”

There was no way he wasn’t going to kiss you after that adorable little display. Your cheek felt soft against his palm and the little sigh of relief you huffed against him was addictive. Just knowing that he was an anchor for you made Javier feel so incredibly loved and important and all he wanted to do was imbue you with that same sense of security. He held you close, his hand slipping back to the back of your neck to keep you right where he wanted you, and gave you those soft little kisses that never failed to make you melt.

“Mrs. Peña?” A nurse called out and he had no choice but to let you go with one last peck against your lips. He followed you and the nurse into the exam room, nerves and excitement soaring even higher in his chest.

It was kind of fascinating, watching you answer the nurse’s barrage of questions. Questions about your medical history, how many pregnancies you’ve had, all about your menstrual cycle. The two of you went back and forth for at least fifteen minutes, tossing questions and answers back and forth like a tennis match. The nurse left with the promise of the doctor being in momentarily for an ultrasound.

“Come hold my hand?” You asked, and how could he deny such a sweet request?

“Of course,” He pulled a chair from across the room and settled himself next to the exam table, both of his hands wrapping around one of yours as he brought it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “So what happens now?”

“The doctor will give me an ultrasound. She’ll probably want to run some blood tests, too.” You sighed, obviously uncomfortable at the thought of needles.

“I’ll hold your hand then, too.” Javier promised.

“It’ll be good practice for you, ‘cause once I’m in labor I’ll probably break your hand.” You teased and yeah, broken fingers didn’t sound all that great but fuck, he was more than ready to let you do just that. Javier wanted to be your rock, wanted to support you through it all - especially since he couldn’t the first time.

Two quick knocks sounded against the door made Javier straighten up hastily. The doctor came in with a smile and a large machine wheeling in behind her. “Good morning, mom and dad! How’re we feeling?”

“All good here, Dr. Hall. A little nauseous, but still… good.” You gave Javier’s hand a little squeeze before letting go to unbutton your jeans and fold the waistband down, followed by pulling the hem of your shirt up. It was hard to believe that the beginning of an entire new life was right there between your hips.

“Good to hear!” Dr. Hall fiddled with the ultrasound machine for a moment before turning to you. “So today we’re going to take a look and find out how far along you are, make sure mom and baby both look healthy, okay?”

“Okay,” You and Javier said in unison, and he took your hand again, needing to feel you there with him.

The gel must’ve been cold based on the way you hissed slightly. Javier watched the screen as Dr. Hall trailed the wand over your belly, lips parting at the sight of the black and white image. It was hard to make out what exactly he was seeing at first, but the image shifted slightly and he could make out the tiniest, vague shape of the newest edition to his little family.

“It looks like you’re about ten weeks along.” Dr. Hall murmured without taking her eyes off of the screen. “Baby is about the size of a plum.”

Javier squeezed your hand lightly, the both of you sparing a glance at each other before staring back at the screen in wonder. The doctor pointed out the baby’s head and a little foot as she took her measurements, reassuring you both that everything looked perfect. He gave a rushed “yes, absolutely” when she asked if he wanted the ultrasound photos - there was a spot in his wallet that he had in mind for it already.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in situations that left him shocked before. This was Javier Peña, after all. Life and career experiences had given him plenty of moments where his mind was completely washed blank with surprise, but never had it been such a good thing. There were so many times that the shock was accompanied by grief or anger, but excitement? Gratefulness? That was new to him, left him reeling the entire drive home, all throughout dinner. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him that he couldn’t be like this when Ellie got home the next day. She was smarter than he could’ve imagined any kid being at three years old and even though he agreed with your assertion that no one should know about your pregnancy for a few more weeks at least, Javier was certain his daughter would be able to needle it out of him.

Those expert interrogation skills must be hereditary.

It wasn’t until he was getting ready for bed that it really hit him how real it was, that you really were sitting in the bed you shared with him, pregnant with his baby and making plans for the usual Sunday brunch and park visit you all did every week. As he set his wallet on the nightstand, he couldn’t help but pull out the little ultrasound picture. He had a feeling he would be doing that a lot, especially when the new cadets were driving him crazy at work. It all swelled up in his chest, the appreciation and excitement and disbelief, because holy shit, how did he get so lucky? One finger traced the little image in his hand, and he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Thank you.”

The confused look you gave him made him flounder for the words.

“I just… I know everything was fucked up the first time around but I swear, it’s going to be different this time. I am not going anywhere.” Javier slid closer at the sight of the tears in your eyes, easily welcoming your arms around his neck as you practically drug yourself into his lap. He held you close to his chest, trying to instill the certainty and promise of it all. “God, fuck, and I thought I couldn’t get enough of you before…”

“Javi…” You croaked, laughing wetly into his neck.

“I’m serious! You’re gonna have to tell me to fuck off when you want space because I can’t keep my hands off you.” Javi teased, relief washing over him at your seeming acceptance of his promises. “And now like this, growing my baby… fuck, I am in this with you. Me and you and Ellie… and our little plum.”

That night, Javier fell asleep with his head on your shoulder, his face buried in your neck, and his hand tucked into the waistband of your sweatpants to cradle that precious space that held his newest child.

----------

Ellie couldn’t stop touting her new title to anyone who would listen.

“I’m a big sister!” She told the cashier at the grocery store, the other kids at the park and their moms for good measure, and even the mailman when they came by each morning. The brightness in her eyes when she said it made your heart flip in your chest. You had expected some sort of confusion or even for her to be upset at the idea of a new sibling, but she launched right into a story about how her friend from playgroup has a baby sister, and you knew that she would be just fine.

With your sixteenth week rapidly approaching, you couldn’t be more grateful that Ellie was excited for the new addition to the family. It was one less thing for you to worry about amidst the chaos of bringing a new person into the world. The fatigue was something you definitely didn’t miss about pregnancy - it washed over you without warning, left you nodding off wherever you sat. Thank god Javier was such a hands on father. He had no problem herding Ellie off into the backyard or off for a walk to let you get some much needed rest.

You hadn’t expected him to be such a hands on husband, though. Sure, you knew he was excited and you knew he already loved everything about your body, but he really wasn’t lying when he said pregnancy made him want you even more. Every night, Javi’s hands gravitated to your body to ease the kinks out of your muscles, to rub your feet until the aches went away, to cheekily offer you an orgasm if you were up for one. It made you feel cherished, something you sorely missed the first time you were pregnant.

“Thank you, Javi,” You groaned lowly as those strong hands of his worked at your lower back. He easily hitched your thigh up slightly to ease some of the pressure on the new swell to your belly. There was a slur in your voice when you said, “Feels so good.”

Javier chuckled behind you, moving on to rub your feet. “Be quiet, you don’t want to wake Ellie.”

“Did you ever see this being our life?” You murmured though your voice was muffled by the pillows you buried your head in. “Telling each other not to wake the kids, making bacon smiley faces for a toddler’s breakfast?”

“I didn’t think I’d actually get it, but I wished for it. Dreamt about how pretty you’d look all full of me.” Javi placed a teasing kiss to the inside of your thigh. “The real thing is so much better.”

You could only groan under his praise. His thumbs dug into the arch of your foot and rubbed in methodical circles, drawing another pleased groan from you that you muffled in your pillow. The pain slowly melted from your tired muscles under his thorough ministrations, leaving a pleasant warmth in his wake that made you all pliant and drowsy beneath him.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Javi asked as he rubbed his hands up your calves and you smiled. You knew exactly what he was gunning for.

You eased yourself onto your back and reached out for him with both arms, bringing him forward with grabby hands that he could never refuse. Javier settled between your thighs, a knowing smirk on his face, and leaned down to kiss you deeply. “‘M feeling good, Javi.”

“You know I love making my girl feel good,” Javi murmured as he kissed down your neck, one hand trailing back and forth over your hip and thigh lovingly. “Can I make you feel even better?”

“Please?” You asked breathily and your husband was more than happy to oblige. The loose tank top you wore was the first to go, followed quickly by your shorts and underwear.

Javier set about lavishing your neck and chest with affection, his touch more gentle than usual on your oversensitive breasts, and once again you were struck by the surrealness of it all. The fact that this had begun in Colombia all those years ago as two coworkers using sex for stress relief and had blossomed into this beautiful life you shared together was a thing of dreams. But there you were, with Javier Peña making love to you, quietly as to not wake your daughter and gently as to keep you and your baby safe and happy, and you could barely believe it.

“I love you,” You choked out through the tears that sprung into your eyes and Javi sat up to look at you with a concerned expression.

“What? What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes roaming all over to find the apparent source of your tears.

“Nothing’s wrong.” You tried to pull him back down to you but he didn’t budge, the concern unwavering.

“Then why are you crying?” Javier brushed a thumb under your eyes to wipe away the evidence of your strong burst of emotion.

“Because I love you,” You chuckled as you held his hand close to your cheek and pressed a kiss to the middle of his palm. “And I’m pregnant, so everything is a thousand times more intense and you don’t get to tease me for that.”

“I would never,” Javi muttered but the mischievous grin on his face betrayed him. “Let me make you feel better, baby,”

“I’m already better, Javi - oh,”

----------

Two o’clock in the morning was not an ideal time to wake up, especially since Javier knew that Ellie would be awake and full of energy by seven, but something felt off. Even in his unconscious state, he could feel the absence of you in bed and his mind nagged at him to get up and find you. The hardwood was cold beneath his feet as he wandered from the bedroom, finding the bathroom empty before he made his way down the stairs. You often would rest on the recliner in the living room when your back was bothering you particularly bad, especially since your center of gravity had so drastically changed the further along you got in your pregnancy - but you weren’t there either.

Before Javi could start really worrying, he heard the refrigerator open and found you peering into the illuminated fridge in search of… something. A pint of ice cream was already in your hand, a spoonful of it hanging from your lips as you browsed with a frustrated look on your face, and honestly… Javi loved how you looked. It was so domestic and sweet, the sight of you in your pajamas that barely covered your belly as you raided the kitchen.

Thirty-six weeks and four days. He could barely believe how much time had passed since he saw those positive tests. It felt like forever and the blink of an eye at the same time, and he was beyond excited to meet his newest little one.

“What are you looking for, sweetheart?” Javi asked after a moment of watching you helplessly search around.

The sheepish smile you gave him made his heart swell in his chest and he automatically opened his arms as you shuffled over to bury your face in his chest. “Your kid is driving me crazy with the cravings.”

Javier hugged you tightly, relishing in the way you relaxed against him. “Well, if they’re anything like me, they probably want those barbecue chips, then.”

It didn’t take long for him to get you herded back up to bed with the chips in hand and the sight of you sleepily munching away while burrowed in the blankets eased an almost innate need Javier had to see you safe and happy, all nice and taken care of in his bed. He climbed into bed once he was sure you didn’t need anything else, settling on his side with his head propped up against his hand to watch you despite his own sleepiness.

“Let your mama sleep, troublemaker.” He murmured to your belly as he rubbed gentle circles over the spots he could feel the nudges of his little one retaliating to their father’s stern words. “Need some lotion?”

“Hmmm, please?” You hummed.

Rubbing lotion into your skin was something Javi had taken a particular liking to. The first time he had seen you doing it yourself, he was quick to take over. That was the first time he felt his little one kick at his hands and he fell even more in love - something he hadn’t thought was possible. It was a good way to feel closer to you both, to his wife and the baby you were bringing into the world, and the way you dozed slightly as he helped you relax made him feel needed, like he was doing right by you. That’s all he ever wanted to do.

A nudge to the edge of his hand made Javier glance back down to where his hands were running all over your belly, but it was the sight of the baby rolling that made him do a double take. “Holy shit,” He whispered, hands frozen as he saw what had to be the imprint of a little foot or hand poke out before disappearing. “There really is a whole person in there.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” You grumbled, grimacing slightly at the feeling. “It’s aerobics hour, apparently.”

“That’s fucking crazy.” Javi tentatively resumed massaging the lotion into your skin. It was hard to fathom, the idea that your body was so capable of creating and nurturing a brand new life, and for the millionth time he found himself thanking the universe for letting him have this second chance.

----------

Gabriel Peña came early, quick, and with a sharp cry you were sure could be heard throughout the entire hospital. His little nose was scrunched up, his face all red from his wailing, hands curled into angry fists over his sudden eviction from the warmth and darkness he was accustomed to. It was a short labor, so very different from your first with Ellie for so many reasons but the biggest being the strong presence of Javier at your side. The moment the contractions began at the crisp hour of six a.m., he was alert and full of nervous excitement.

True to his word, Javier let you clutch onto him through it all - every contraction, every push, every angered grumble you threw his way for getting you pregnant in the first place. That sharp mind of his kept up under the pressure. He spoonfed you ice chips and let you use him for support as you rocked your way through particularly bad contractions.

There were tears in Javier’s eyes as he carefully set his hand on his son’s head, carefully musing the shock of dark, wispy hair on his head. You leaned your head against Javi’s shoulder, exhaustion, relief, and happiness warring with each other after hours of labor. You felt his lips press against your temple before he sniffled and whispered, “Thank you.”

Javier stayed by Gabriel’s side the entire time the doctors checked him over and cleaned him up, per your instructions, and he was the one to return your son to your arms. It was the most careful you had ever seen him, his movements slow and deliberate, eyes on the baby’s adorable, chubby face.

“Seven pounds, nine ounces,” Javi murmured as he drug a chair as close to your bedside as possible and settled in, his hand resting on your thigh. A disgruntled whine came from the baby wriggling in your arms and you smiled, knowing he was hungry and could probably smell the milk your body had been preparing to make for his arrival. You pulled the gown down to expose your breast, propping your arm with a pillow to better support him, and adjusted his latch to settle in.

“Nice latch, mama,” One of the nurses said as she finished settling the blankets around your feet.

“Not my first time at this rodeo.” You chuckled quietly. It had been a while since Ellie weaned but you still remembered the struggle of figuring out how to get a newborn to latch properly when you had no idea what you were doing. You set your hand over Javi’s, smiling at him when he blinked sleepily up at you. Neither of you had gotten much rest before Gabriel decided to make his appearance into the world. “Can you hand me some water, honey?”

“Of course,” Javi perked up with the small task you gave him. There wasn’t much he could do at this point, but you wanted him to feel involved, to feel like he was helping you, and even though his mere presence helped you relax, you knew he was an ‘action’ kind of man. He needed something to do to feel useful. He held the straw steady for you and everything, your sweet husband. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired.” You answered honestly, leaning into his hand when he brushed stray hairs from your face.

“I know this wasn’t easy. I’m proud of you.” It was a simple statement but it hit you right in your chest. As excited as you were to have another baby, it was hard. Exhausting. He could see it all, how tired you were and how hard you were working just to carry on like normal through your pregnancy, and while he did everything he could to ease some of that burden, the plain acknowledgement of how hard you worked felt good.

“I love you so much.” You whispered, pulling his hand close to kiss his palm.

“I love you, too.” Javier leaned over the side of the bed and kissed you softly, careful not to jostle his son where he sleepily nursed against you. “How are our kids so damn cute?”

You huffed a laugh, which made Gabriel shift against you before settling back down, sighing suspiciously similar to his father. “It helps that their dad is incredibly good looking.”

“True,” Javi said, trying for that cocky tone you loved but you didn’t miss the pink tinge to the tips of his ears. Compliments always got him like that, all red-faced and adorable - though he would never admit it.

A short nap later and you had one very excited Ellie fidgeting in the chair next to your bed, impatiently waiting to meet her baby brother. Javier stood behind her, quietly reminding her to be careful as you helped keep the squirming newborn steady in her lap. Your heart damn near exploded when she began cooing at her brother and very gently touching his soft cheeks. She was enamored by him, asking so many questions that you and her father could barely keep up.

“Can we share my bed?” “No, he can’t sleep in your bed, baby. He has to sleep in a special bed in mommy and daddy’s room.”

“Does he get a special seat like me?” “Yep! Daddy’s putting his carseat in next to yours right now. You’ll get to talk to him the whole way home.”

“Is he gonna cry a lot?” “Yeah, he will. That’s how babies let people know they need something since they don’t have words like we do.”

“Can I share my crackers with him?” “Not yet! Right now, he only drinks milk.” “Milk? Like for cereal?” “Kind of, but it comes from your mommy.” “What?!” “You ate the same thing when you were a little baby, too.” “What?!”

The entire drive home was full of little Ellie chatting away at her baby brother, mostly about the stuffed animals she had at home that she promised to show him the moment they got home. There was a small smile on Javier’s face as he drove, his hand curled around yours on the center console. He practically radiated contentment and damn did it look good on him.

----------

For what felt like the millionth time, you woke before the sun had a chance to rise. Though this time, it was to the feeling of a full bladder rather than the sound of a hungry baby, so that could be counted as a small win at the very least. You tried to ignore the ache in your healing body as you stumbled your way to and from the bathroom, near silent in your movements even though you were half asleep. It was a well practiced dance, getting out and back into bed without waking your sleeping children.

But something was off. The sheets were cooler than usual, missing the fire-like heat that Javier radiated constantly. You sat up, blinking against the drowsiness and darkness to see your husband passed out on the rocking chair in the corner of the room with Gabriel curled up on his bare chest. Skin-to-skin contact was something Javier couldn’t get enough of. He told you how close it made him feel to his son and you couldn’t complain. It was a precious sight. Avoiding the creaky floorboards, you carefully covered Gabriel with a soft baby blanket and smoothed it down his back.

“S’wrong?” Javier mumbled, words slurred with sleep, his eyes barely cracking open. On instinct, his hands shifted over the little baby asleep on him to hold him closer, even more secure.

“Shh, nothing’s wrong.” You soothed as you gently tucked his curls back away from his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“M’kay.” And with that his eyes were closed, back to dozing like he was never interrupted in the first place. You were glad. Tomorrow was an early morning, and paired with all of the midnight feedings and diaper changes, you all could use some rest. So you laid back down, sleep dragging you back under swiftly.

Javier was practically bouncing with nerves just hours later, even though he was trying not to show it. It brought you back to that first appointment when you were pregnant, only this time he held a sleeping one-month old who he was trying not to wake up with his nervousness.

“I just want it to go well.” He grumbled when you asked if he was okay.

“It will.” You reassured him, rubbing circles into his knee. “They’re both perfectly healthy, the pediatrician will tell you that, too.”

You were right - then again, when weren’t you? Gabe was a healthy nine and a half pounds, strong heart and lungs, and good reflexes. Javier was hooked on the pediatrician’s every word, nodding along and giving you a relieved smile with each positive statement. And of course, Ellie’s rambunctiousness had the pediatrician and nurses completely captivated as she told them all about her preschool and the antics she got up to while they checked her over.

The pride on Javier’s face with every positive comment and reassurance that both of his kids were on track developmentally made your heart flip. You felt so beyond lucky to have this little family of yours, with two beautiful children and the man you always loved. It felt too good to be true sometimes, especially when Javi pulled you close for a tight hug and a kiss to the side of your head before he worked to get one wiggly Gabe back into his onesie.

One impromptu trip to the park later and you and Javier had two very tired kids on your hands. Ellie was already passed out by the time Javier pulled into the driveway but Gabe was quickly venturing into ‘overtired’ territory. He was grumpy, wriggling around in your arms like he couldn’t get comfortable, all the while giving little whines and grunts that threatened to turn into full on wailing. He didn’t want milk, he didn’t need a diaper change, he just wanted to sleep but was too frustrated to let a nap take him.

“Give ‘em here.” Javier offered and you freely handed him over. The postpartum fatigue was no joke, and even though it was lessening with each passing day, you were damn tired so you had no issue with letting your husband put the baby down for a nap. You curled up on the couch, not quite going to sleep but still letting your mind and body rest as you listened to Javi try to negotiate with Gabriel as if he were some sicario and not just a particularly stubborn baby.

“C’mon, little man. Just go to sleep. All of your problems if you went to sleep right now? Solved. Completely solved. Instead of crying you could just… go to sleep.” Javier whispered over the cooing and grunting of his son. “Oh, don’t give me that face, mister.”

You snorted a laugh - you knew exactly what face Gabe was pulling. His nose and eyebrows would scrunch up, lips pursed as he huffed angry breaths like a little baby bull. It was an exaggerated copy of the face Javier pulled anytime he was frustrated, which you found ridiculously adorable. Slowly, the grumpy grunts became more and more quiet until they disappeared completely, and a few moments later, Javier flopped down on the couch next to you with a sigh.

“Got him down.” Javi said as he pressed close to you, burying himself between the back of the couch and your body to press his face into your neck. A blanket of drowsiness must have settled over the entire house as both kids napped peacefully in their beds and you cuddled up to your husband in the living room. The both of you would doze until the sound of little feet on the hardwood or the sounds of a hungry baby woke you, and then it would be back on the grind of parenthood, but you knew… with Javier by your side, you could do it.

{Taglist}

@iamburdened @everyhowlmarksthedead @jenrebloggingfics @xserenax-13 @silverstarsandsuns @luminescentlily @peterpstuff @leonieb @lazybeeches @withasideofmeg @freeshavocadoooo @chattychell @ew-erin @i-ship-it-ironically @artsymaddie @mrsparknuts @wyn-dixie @notabotiswear @lunaserenade @jitterbugs927 @theorganasolo @the-witty-pen-name @northernpunk @lemonlime09 @la-lunaluna @andruxx @greeneyedblondie44 @bloodsuckingbastards @coldlilheart @gracie7209 @green-socks @paintballkid711 @lord-of-restingbiface @asta-lily @xgoldenjenny @mummifymecaptain @cjbtw @a-skov @himbotroy @xjsteph @marvelousmermaid @over300books @castleamc @darnitdraco @janebby @cannedsoupsucks @itssmashedavo @mtjoi @triggerhappyflygirl 

[lolita-lollipop]

yandere other mother x reader- Coraline au

warnings- yandere behavior, platonic yandere, manipulation, slight infantilism, mentions of neglect, false reality,

this one really isn't bad, but just to warn you, if any of these things trigger you, please don't read!

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“Y/n this is insane! Can’t you see that she’s crazy?!” Coraline yelled at you from inside the dusty room while the three ghosts watched, their mouths had been sewn shut long ago, so they weren’t able to intervene. You stood there, feeling like you wanted to cry, this “other mother” was amazing, your real parents never showed much affection, going far enough that it could be Called neglect, so when your other mother held you in her lap, and braided your hair, and gave you warm hugs, and kisses on the cheeks, you felt happy. Your other father was just as amazing, but still, their treatment of you felt similar to one of a baby’s, always treating you like a young child who can’t think for themselves. Coraline noticed this far earlier, while you remained happy and oblivious, the buttons for eyes were the last straw for her.

“I know okay! I just, she’s so nice, I don’t even know what to think anymore, you know what it feels like to actually have parents… I don't, my entire life I’ve been shoved in a little blue house down the stairs and told ‘don't disappoint us’ by my parents! I just want to feel loved… it’s just, it’s just not fair” you spoke, lip quivering, you couldn’t even remember the last time you allowed yourself to cry, you weren’t supposed to love the “other parents” but you did, they were the parents you never had, and you just had to live them. At this point silent tears were trailing down your cheeks, Coraline remained fuming at you, not even sparing a moment to acknowledge the two small black buttons that seemed to appear out of nowhere, peeking through the wall.

“That doesn’t matter, do you really want tiny little needles poking in and out of your eyeballs? Do you really want to leave your real parents behind? Do you want me to leave you behind?” She seethed, you shook your head, letting out a few small whimpers and sobs under your breath, you hated that she was right, you hated it so much, you couldn’t just leave everything in the real world for this parallel universe void of life, you should want to back there right? where no one cared about you, where no one loved you, where you were nothing.

“Coraline? Is that any way to speak to your friend?” A soft voice rang from behind your form, the few lost souls floating in the room ten up, showering to the far corners where the other mother couldn’t see them, then you felt warm hands engulf your waist, pulling you closer to the women’s chest, you subconsciously leave into her warmth, she glared down at Coraline, stoking your head lovingly. In reality, she hadn’t wanted for you to get pushed down here, but Coraline was getting in the way, and you just got caught in the crossfire, she did make sure that your landing was softer though, while Coraline's was harsh.

“You don’t get to tell us what to do, you aren’t her mother.” Coraline breathed out, slimming her eyes into a harsh stare at the woman in whose chest you were sobbing into. One moment, you were in the cold cellar-like room, the next, you were back in the baby pink room that was yours in this place, your true room was a boring white, with a ritzy mattress in the middle, and a small cabinet that served as a closet. Although you didn’t particularly like the color pink, it was nice to know that someone cared enough to bring true colors into your life. The other mother continued her embrace, picking up and cradling your head against her shoulder, you felt a wave of drowsiness overtake your senses, it hit you like a pound of bricks, and you squeezed the back of the women’s shirt to see if you were dreaming or not, her hold just felt so… comforting.

“Was she mean to you darling? Don’t you worry your little head about it, shhhhhh, just fall asleep, mother will take care of everything.” She spoke, bouncing slightly up and down with each step she took towards the large bed that was displayed in the center of the room. You barely muttered a small “wait” before falling asleep in her arms. She tenderly placed your body under the silky sheets, wrapping you up with the soft fabric and placing a small pig plushy next to you, keeping an eye on her precious’s little daughter while she tended to some “housework”.

The second you went unconscious you slipped into a weird dream, you were walking on a thin sheet of water, in a pitch dark room, it was so cold like someone had dunked you in a bucket of ice, you stared out into the nothingness, gradually growing more anxious, where are you?

“HELLO! IS ANYBODY OUT THERE!” You screamed, only to be greeted by the echo of your own words, nothing more, nothing less. You started to swivel around in a moment of panic, having just about no idea what could happen to you in this dark abyss. That was until you dek the floor below you disappear, and you popped into existence into a completely different place, it was a medium sized room, the layout was similar to a grocery store, multiple shelves made the room feel smaller, what was odd about it, was that all the shelves were packed with hundreds of snowglobes. You admired the pretty glass structures as you slowly walked down the aisles, each had a completely different design, with little figures inside, you found it adorable, ogling at the pretty things. That was until you heard quiet clicking of heels, and your other mother came into view.

“There you go, now don’t be rude to me! You are a very lucky girl that I’m even letting you live, you should know much better than to taint my daughter's mind with your filthy voice, oh you make such a great addition to my collection! Enjoy your stay, forever” she chimed, you were positive that she couldn’t see you, mainly because you were standing frozen directly in front of her, and she hadn’t acknowledged you. At least you weren’t freezing anymore! You tiptoed closer to the snowglobe that was just placed among the collections, wondering why your mother was so enthusiastic about it. And saw nothing special about it, other than the bright yellow raincoat that adorned the figurine.

you remained completely unaware. of the thousands of button eyes that watched you from the globes, begging to be shattered, and set free.

“Pretty” you muttered to yourself before the world faded again, and you were back into your body, snuggled up under the covers, clutching the pig plushy close to your chest, you felt awake, but also very asleep, forgetting your entire dream the moment your eyes opened, slightly surprised to see that you were still in the pink room, in the other house. You could hear the feint sound of your bedroom door opening, the creak rang through the room. And the other mother smiled softly at your lovable position, cooing under her breath, trying not to be too loud and wake you up.

“Darling, we have to get up now, oh I know I know your still tired, but it’s dinner time, you can’t stay in bed all night, little sleepyhead, my little sleepyhead.” She spoke, rubbing your shoulder while you groaned at the sudden speaking and noise. You didn't know how long that dream lasted, but you did know that it was odd, so odd that in fact, it made up your mind for you about the whole button eyes thing.

“Uhm- Mother? I-I’m sorry, but I- I don’t want to put buttons in my eyes.” You muttered, awaiting a harsh reaction, but instead, getting another one of her sweet smiles, she picked you up again and sat you in her lap, your small frame getting engulfed by hers.

“Oh is that what you were worrying so hard about? Don’t worry honey, you never were going to have to sow buttons in your eyes, it was just to see if I could trust you, and I know that I can trust you now.” She stated, calmly, a little too calmly. So… she lied? You got in a fight with your best friend because she wanted to “see if she could trust you”?

“Oh- okay, where coralline though? Can I talk to her? Please, mother?” You started begging after seeing her stoic expression, why did you want to see her? Was she not good enough for you? Coralline was mean to you, she hurt her little girl! Why did you want to see her? We’re you going to leave your mother for a snobby brat? She tightened her hold on you, pressing you closer to her, whispering little “shh” or “stay with me” in your ear, for some reason, you couldn't place what Coraline's face looked like, even though you had seen her just earlier, any memories of her were slowly dimming, fuzzy spots started appearing in any of those memories, and like turning of a staticky tv, they disappeared. You couldn’t even remember the name “coralline” after a few minutes of being cradled in this women’s lap.

“Cmon darling, let’s go eat dinner now, your father made it this time, I’m surprised he hasn't burn down the kitchen!” She spoke, getting a few sleepy giggles out of you. After helping you down the stairs she led you to the dining room, where you went on and sat at the large table next to your two parents. And so, you forgot about your “real” world, staying young forever here, even growing younger and smaller as time went on, forgetting about coralline, and your parents, and the small door, you lived your life happy, dressed in frilly pink clothing, learning to lobe your mother as she grew more obsessed with you, she got what she wanted in the end

You stayed mother’s little girl forever

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have a great day today :)

[hxlyhead-harpies]

The Only Exception

Request:   @durmstrange​ hello!! can I request a song prompt for George with the only exception by paramore? 🧡 love your work so much! 

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Summary: (Y/n) swears that she will never fall in love. George is determined to change that

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: None that I can think of

(gif from google)

You watched as George’s chest rose and fell in the rhythm of his breathing. His eyes were closed and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as he dreamt, the warm early morning sun gracing his features. You studied him from your side of the bed, one arm slipped under your pillow and one caressing George’s arm. You smiled as he slept, in awe of the fact that you were so lucky. And a warmth filled your body as you gazed at him, an indescribable feeling that filled your senses and made your brain and heart feel like they were on fire. It was a feeling that you had so long avoided and so long swore that you would never feel. But here you were, next to George, feeling overwhelmed by a feeling you had always said never existed. Love.

You were eight years old when your dad had left, leaving the broken shell of your mother behind him. He had cried as he walked out, regretting the action that put him in this position. A drunken night after work he had broken the vow that he had made to his wife all those years ago. Through broken sobs he swore that he still loved her and proclaimed it as she threw his belongings at him, screaming at him to get out of the house. You had watched from the top of the stairs, your head poking through the bars of the banister, tears sliding down your cheeks.

Your parents had always seemed so impossibly in love; the lingering touches and sweet kisses that they shared and the way they looked at each other led you to believe that they were the epitome of what love was. But you watched as they yelled and fought and decided right then and there that you were wrong. People who loved each other couldn’t cause this type of pain. And if what your parents had wasn’t love, you knew that the feeling didn’t really exist.

You stalked into your room and pulled out the storybook your father had gifted you for your seventh birthday. Your parents used to read it to you before bed, you snuggled between the two of them as they told the epic stories of romance and intrigue, always pointing to the princess and her savior and saying, “look! It’s just like Mommy and Daddy!” You threw the book in a box of your father’s belongings, waiting for it to disappear forever in the same way that your father had. Because that was all that love was, a fairytale.

Your father was gone from your life. You never saw him again. Your mother never remarried. She swore off romance and every night after her third glass of wine she’d stumble into your bedroom and reminded you that she would never ever fall in love again and that you should never let yourself try. You took her words to heart.

George had dropped, quite literally, into your life during your fifth year at Hogwarts. You were shelving books in the library when he turned the corner into the aisle you were standing in. He looked over his shoulder as he ran and turned just in time to see you pressed up against the shelf with your eyes wide. He tried to stop himself before he crashed into you but ended up slipping on the floor underneath him. He tumbled down, just barely missing you. You gasped and set the books down quickly. You reached down a hand and asked him if he was alright. He just looked up at you and beamed.

“I’m alright now that a pretty girl like you is offering to hold my hand,” he said with a smirk. You retracted your hand and furiously attempted to hide the heat that rose to your cheeks. George just smiled at you before hopping up and brushing off his robes. He sent you a cheeky grin before leaning against the shelf next to you.

“The name is George Weasley,” he said proudly, “what’s yours?” he asked. You ignored him, not trusting the fluttering feeling in your stomach.

“Oh come on now, what is it then?” he asked again. You rolled your eyes. Before he could push anymore, Professor McGonagall appeared behind him and pulled George out of the library by his ear. George laughed before sending you a pointed look.

“I’ll see you around!” he shouted at you with a wink. You froze, staring at the spot he once was for minutes after he was gone.

After that day, George seemed to become a constant in your life. He popped up everywhere; he waved hello to you from across the great hall and would flop down next to you when you studied in the courtyard. You acted annoyed when he would bother you, rolling your eyes at him when he tried to make you flustered and swatting his hand away when he tried to sling an arm around your shoulder. But secretly you enjoyed it and that scared you. You couldn’t let yourself get too close and you couldn’t let yourself feel too strongly for him. So you kept your distance. George swore that he would crack you one day. He longed for the moment you would truly laugh at his antics and not pretend that you hadn’t heard him.

Over the summer and winter holidays, he sent you letters. They were funny and full of jokes and stories of his family. You devoured them within seconds of them being delivered, soaking up every word that George intended for you. With the letters, you could be private about your affection towards him. When he spoke to you in person you hid your ever-growing crush, trying to protect your heart from inevitable heartbreak. But with the letters, you could hole yourself up in your room and be the true blushing mess that he made you. You never responded to his letters, afraid that you’d somehow admit that he was all that you thought about.

In your sixth year, George asked you to the Yule Ball. He had come up behind you in the library, not unlike the way he did the day that you met, holding a modest bouquet of daffodils. He stood in front of you, a stuttering mess, and practically begged you to accompany him to the dance. You said yes, but only under the condition that you’d be going as friends. George had frowned at that, it clearly not being the answer he had hoped for, but agreed.

You fretted for weeks about the ball. You were nervous, to say the least. You didn’t want your true feelings for George to be discovered. As much as you liked him, the memories of your parent’s final fight made you feel like you had to keep him at arms length.

When you had descended down the stairs in your golden dress, the look he gave you made all of that fly out the window. When you walked to meet him, he raised your hands to his lips and kissed it, murmuring that you looked beautiful. And as you spun around the Great Hall with George, you found yourself not thinking of the inevitability of heartbreak, but only of the feeling of his arms wrapped around your waist and the feeling of your head on his chest.

That night when he walked you back to the common room he told you that he wished that you could have come to the ball as more than friends. You shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before hesitantly agreeing. His face broke out into a gorgeous grin before he leaned down and ghosted his lips against yours.

One night towards the end of your sixth year you sat in the owlery with Geroge. His head was in your lap and he toyed with your fingers as you recounted your day to him. After four months of officially dating, you were still getting used to calling George your boyfriend and the little intimacies that came with giving him that title. The way he’s brushed your hair out of your face or put a hand on your knee when you sat near each other. You always felt startled by the way he looked at you, pure adoration shining in his eyes. You felt just as deeply for him as he felt for you, yet you couldn’t help but feel scared. Because deep in the recess of your mind you always reminded yourself that this type of feeling never lasted.

You continued to relay the story of how Snape had managed to make a cauldron explode during class when George sat up suddenly. You paused in the midst of your story, furrowing your eyebrows at his abrupt movement. George looked at you with a flushed face and nervous smile.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, the blush across his pale, freckled skin only deepening. You froze, your throat constricting with panic. He looked at you, waiting for you to reply, but you couldn’t. It felt like the walls were closing in and a hole began forming in your chest. The four-letter word brought back every painful memory of your past, reminding you of every moment that your parents had said it to each other before breaking their own hearts.

George’s face filled with concern as your breathing picked up. He cupped your face gently.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice was shaky with worry. He wiped away the tears that you weren’t aware had fallen.

“George I-” you said.

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything back,” he said quietly. You averted your gaze.

“Thank you. But I- I just can’t say that. And I don’t know if I ever will be able to,” you said tearfully, preparing for him to scoff and shatter your heart into a million pieces. Instead, he pulled you into a tight hug and stroked your hair.

“I’ll wait for the day that you’ll be able to. I’ll wait for forever if I have to,” he said softly.

George told you that he loved you often, never expecting a reply in return. He didn’t quite know why you couldn’t bring yourself to repeat the words back, but he loved you too much to worry about it. He knew that you felt deeply for him, and that was enough.

And with every day you felt yourself fall for him more and more. Somewhere deep inside of you, you knew that you loved him. But you didn’t know if you’d ever have the strength to admit it out loud.

The night before George left Hogwarts he had tearfully bid you goodbye, promising that he’d think of you every second that you were apart. He told you about the flat above the shop and how there was a space in his bed meant just for you. He’d slipped a key into your hand and told you that when you were ready, he was waiting for you. You had smiled at him and gave him a fervent kiss, hoping that it conveyed the words that you were too scared to say.

After you finished your final year you had shown up promptly at the front steps of your new home. After months of exchanging letters, you were finally going to see George again. You inserted your key into the lock and stepped into the shop.

“I’m sorry but we’re closed,” a familiar voiced called out. George sat behind the register, his back towards you.

“Oh, I guess I’ll have to come back later then,” you said with a smirk. George’s shoulder’s tensed at the sound of your voice and he promptly spun around to face you. A smile broke across his face and he hopped over the counter and ran to meet you. He scooped you up in a hug and spun you around. He peppered kisses across your face, murmuring that he loved you in between each one.

And now you laid beside him as he slept, his legs hooked with yours. You brushed your finger along the bridge of his nose, causing him to stir. His eyes slowly fluttered open and his gaze snapped to you.

“Good morning beautiful,” he said softly, rubbing his tired eyes with his hand. You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his nose. You took a shaky breath and looked him in the eyes, summoning all of the bravery that you could muster.

“I love you, Georgie,” you whispered. George’s eyes widened and tears began to form. He pulled you in, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck.

“I love you too, (Y/n),” he said softly, his voice airy. You had always guarded your heart and set rules to keep yourself safe. But every rule had an exception, and for George, you’d always make an exception.

[nugnthopkns]

find somewhere to grow

word count: 23.1k

warnings: fem!oc, platonic relationships (romance is not a central theme but there is some pining!), divergence from original movie plot, cursing, smoking, implied catholicism, strenuous parental relationships

recommended listening: it's a good life if you don't weaken' | the tragically hip

a/n: hi @ya-pucking-nerd!! the secret is out – i'm your partner for the summer fic exchange 🥰 this is an incredibly niche story but as soon as i found out you loved dead poets society i knew i had to do it!! it's half au half retelling with all of my dumbassery included but i hope you enjoy anyways. the biggest of thanks goes out to @antoineroussel for organizing this event, generally being amazing, and providing feedback to make this story the best it could be 💛

The only thing separating Fran from freedom is ten months at Hell-ton.

As soon as May comes she’ll be as far away as possible, hopefully somewhere in Europe, with no plans to ever return. Her parents agreed that she could spend the summer after graduation travelling the world if she maintained her straight A average at the best preparatory school in the country. Welton Academy is located on the edge of a small north-eastern town, with the only other building within walking distance being its sister school. It’s incredibly isolating, but luckily Fran has her friends to keep the loneliness at bay.

As her dad rounds the final corner of the school’s obnoxiously long private road, Fran’s stomach flutters with excitement. It’s been nearly two months since she’s seen anyone – Nate, Cale, and Tyson scattered like dust in the wind to various accounting firms across the country and Charlotte returned to England to spend time with her family. An eight week internship at a law firm kept her busy throughout the break, and Fran’s beyond happy it’s over. She has no interest in being a legal secretary, but her father is adamant. The car engine cuts off and Fran opens the door, running ahead of her parents into the auditorium. If she’s lucky one of her friends will appear and she’ll be able to sneak in a quick hello, hopefully losing her parents for good in the crowd.

“Francesca, that’s enough. Quit gallivanting around and walk beside us,” Fran’s father barks. A stern man overly concerned with appearances, he opens the car door for her mother and watches as the teenager sulk back to them.

Her mother shakes her head and tries to reason with him. “Oh Conrad, give the poor girl a break. She spent the entire summer cooped up at your brother’s firm. She just wants to see her friends.”

“She can reunite with them at the appropriate time. Right now she’s to sit with us at the ceremony. What kind of message does it send if we let her run about willy-nilly?”

The conversation ends right there, and the three of them enter the school in silence. Inside the auditorium the first three rows are reserved for senior students and family, so everyone finds seats in the middle. Fran begins to crane her neck to look behind them for a glimpse of her friends, but a swift elbow from her father has Fran facing forward in a millisecond.

Mr. Pratt’s bagpiping troupe comes bursting through the doors, and the sound echoes off the vaulted ceiling. Fran pinches her forehead in hopes of dispelling the oncoming headache she feels and prays to god and the saints above that this goes by fast. The countdown to graduation starts now. Headmaster Sakic struts up the aisle, robe swishing from the movement. The other teachers follow dutifully behind and once everyone is seated the address starts.

“Welcome back to another year at Welton, and if you’re new here we are pleased to have you,” the ancient-looking man drawls. Nate always insists that he’s a ghost, and from the angle she’s seated at Fran kind of sees it. Sakic looks about as old as dirt, and the rest of the faculty looks comparable. She sees one new face – younger than the rest with a slightly mischievous glint in his eye. Perhaps he’s the new English teacher, Fran thinks.

The speech continues, addressing parents about expectations and rankings within the country, but Fran loses interest rather quickly. It’s been the same thing since she enrolled in the sixth grade, surely they would have come up with a new format or something. Her father seems to be enjoying himself, beaming when the headmaster mentions that over half the graduating class will go on to attend an Ivy League. “That will be you,” he whispers. Fran isn’t quite sure how to tell him she doesn't plan on applying to any of them.

After what feels like a million years the ceremony is over, and she follows her folks out of the room. Headmaster Sakic stops the family on the way out. “Francesca,” he greets. “We’ll be sad to see you leave at the end of the year. Hopefully you’ll finish your time at Welton on a high note.”

She thought a simple nod of her head would suffice, but the glare Fran receives from her father says otherwise. “Yes sir,” she sputters.

The administrator quickly exchanges pleasantries with her parents before moving on to the next family. Thankfully no one speaks of Fran’s ‘disrespect’ as luggage full of her belongings are taken from the trunk and carried to the dormitory, but she imagines her mother will hear an earful on the way home. Fran can’t find the energy in her to care, even though she does feel bad about leaving her mother to deal with the monster that can be her father. Reuniting with her friends is the only thing she can think about, and besides, her father thoroughly enjoys having something to complain about.

Pushing the door of her room open, she sees Charlotte with her back to the door unpacking her clothes. Before Fran can help it, a squeal is falling from her lips and she drops her bags, immediately running into her friend’s arms for a hug.

“Fran!” she shrieks, just as happy to see the auburn haired girl with emerald eyes. “I’m so glad to be back, the weather in England was downright dreadful.” At the sight of Fran’s parents Charlotte backs away, offering them a tight-lipped smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Winters.”

They return the favour, nodding their heads in her direction before giving their daughter a final hug. After making her promise to call once a week, they leave Fran in peace. Charlotte flops on her bed, tie going askew, and Fran is quick to follow.

“Can you believe it’s our last year?” she asks, kicking her feet into the air and letting them bounce off the mattress when they come down.

Fran answers earnestly. “No. It seems like just yesterday we were moving in for the first time.”

Charlotte spills the details about how Tyson secretly came to visit her in the summer, and Fran gushes over their blossoming romance. The rest of the group clued into their feelings years ago, but she’s just happy they finally figured it out themselves and got together. Cale now owes Fran twenty dollars since he lost the bet.

Wanting to go and see her other friends as quickly as possible, Fran shoves clothes into random drawers and haphazardly makes her bed. She doesn’t even bother to set up her typewriter. Charlotte chuckles at the eagerness but she just shrugs. “Ready?”

The walk to the boys’ dormitory is a quick one. Located two floors above their own, the girls are there in no time. Finding their friends is the challenge, as neither Fran nor Charlotte have any idea what rooms they’re in. Fran hears them before she sees them, with Cale shouting as he chases Nate down the hall.

“Get back here you asshole! And give me back my book!”

Nate laughs and speeds up. “Never in a million years. I didn’t even know you could read Calesy.” The broad rascal sees Fran approaching and tosses her the object he’s holding. “Fran, catch!”

Feeling sorry for Cale, she sticks the book out for him to retrieve. “Thanks,” he huffs, slightly out of breath. “You ladies settle in alright?”

“Settle? Do you know our dear Francesca at all? As soon as her parents were back in the car she was practically dragging me here,” Charlotte says matter-of-factly, poking her friend in the ribs to continue the teasing.

Fran doesn't even try to refute the statement or defend herself by saying she let her spill some secrets before itching to get out. “What can I say? I missed my boys.”

It’s then the other young man comes into view. Stepping into the hallway, Tyson quickly jogs to where the rest of the group is chatting. Fran’s swept into a bone crushing hug by the Albertan and her feet lift an inch or two off the ground. A summer of training for the upcoming hockey season has Tyson extra muscular, though she isn’t complaining. He’ll now be able to boost her into the taller trees in order to win the stupid compitions Nate insists on having. Once he lets go, Fran waves hello to his roommate Ryan. He gives a quick hug followed by a pat on the head because he hit a growth spurt in the summer and is now a comfortable couple inches taller than her. The five of them leave Ryan in the hall and head back in the direction of the boys’ rooms, conveniently located beside each other.

One look at Charlotte has Fran realizing she’s itching for a proper reunion with her lover. “Nathan, would you care to join me for another installment of ‘Bed Jumpers’?” she asks, praying he won’t be able to turn the opportunity down. He’s always game for causing a ruckus and it’s one of the things that she loves most about him.

He shoots her a mischievous grin and does his best radio announcer impression. “On this week’s programme we’re taking a deep dive into the bed of Mr. Cale Makar. Will it pass the tests and get the bed jumpers seal of approval? We’re about to find out.” Nate grabs Fran’s hand and starts sprinting, hoping to get to the destination before his much faster friend. Out of nowhere butterflies appear in the girl’s stomach, and she can’t decide whether they’re present because she missed Nate or if they’re lingering from the former crush she had on the boy.

“Why does it have to be my bed?” Cale groans, following dejectedly. Only Tyson and Charlotte hesitate to follow, and Fran shoots them a quick wink over her shoulder as a ‘you’re welcome’ gesture.

The other two don’t notice their absence, and truthfully Fran doesn’t feel it for long. It’s so nice to share space again with the ones she cares about most. She tries not to focus on the fact that this is the last time she’ll be able to do this, insteading honing in on Nate’s laughter as he does a ridiculous dance with the sole intention of messing up Cale’s sheets. Eventually he stops reprimanding the two of them and climbs up – Fran offers her hand and Cale eagerly accepts. They’re still jumping when Charlotte and Tyson return, singing horribly off key to the Buddy Holly song that’s been atop the charts recently.

“I really thought you guys would have been over this by now,” Charlotte sighs, rolling her eyes. Her boyfriend just shrugs, not knowing exactly what to say.

She’s the first to stop jumping, plopping down in the middle of the bed. Everyone else quickly follows suit, and though it’s a tight squeeze, they all sit side-by-side. The twin bed frame groans in protest but no one pays it any mind. It’s as though everyone knows each moment together is precious, and they’re running out of time together. Nate and Tyson are set to become Wall Street investors, Charlotte will be going into nursing, and Cale is staying at Welton to assume a junior teaching position. It seems that only Fran’s future is uncertain – parents urging her to go into the legal field but she wants to do nothing more than write. Creatively, journalistically, it doesn’t matter to her. Fran finds the act of writing to be freeing, but her father has made it clear it will not be a fulfilling career. As if being cooped up in an office staring at court reports is any better.

“It’s too nice a day to waste inside,” Nate groans, “Let’s go to the lake.”

The lake in question is a glorified pond, but it provides a picturesque backdrop for Welton’s recruitment brochures. Located behind the main building, it houses a small dock where several row boats are stored. Crew rowing is quite a popular sport, and Welton has one of the best rowing teams along the Eastern Seaboard, second in prestige only to the school’s hockey program. The group isn’t the only one with the bright idea to soak up the sun’s rays on the last truly calm day, and the lawn is packed with students. The area they’ve inhabited for as long as Fran can remember is free, and the five of them race to claim it. An ancient weeping willow provides shade and cover from nosy teachers, but there’s also good access to the water to dip their feet in. Swimming is strictly prohibited, however most teachers would look the other way if the sun was being particularly cruel. Hours pass like seconds in the safe haven of the willow, and before Fran knows it all the students are being summoned for dinner.

“Hope they’ve got at least one good meal in them this year,” Cale grumbles. The rosy-cheeked boy has a point — Welton’s kitchen staff are notorious for providing lackluster nutrition. Everyone seems to be in agreement, and chats idly about potential food choices all the way to the dining hall.

The chefs must have decided to ease into the grim selection of overcooked meat and vegetables this year, because tonight they’re serving roast beef. Plate in hand, Fran waves goodbye to the boys and follows Charlotte to the table. For reasons unbeknownst to her, the dining situation is separated. It doesn’t make sense to anyone since classes are all integrated, but she supposes it’s the administration’s feeble attempt to maintain order. Too much contact with the opposite sex could detract from studies – Fran imagines the rule is in place for the benefit of the boys.

From dinner everyone is sequestered directly to their rooms. Charlotte quickly sneaks a final kiss from Tyson’s lips before the rest of the friend group continues to climb the staircase. Fran teases her relentlessly once inside the confines of their shared room. “God, you’re like a lovesick puppy!” The comment earns her a swat to the head with a pair of stockings.

“Shut up. You’d be the exact same way.”

She supposes Charlotte’s right. Perhaps she would be as loopy with love if there was someone to share it with. However, she has no intention of getting a boyfriend, even though sometimes she lays awake at night thinking about what it would be like, and several times Nate has been the object of those daydreams. Nothing is going to get in the way of making every last memory possible with her friends.

Sleep comes easy. She’s exhausted from the hustle and bustle of moving, but also from the content she feels being back at school. Though it isn’t always easy, Welton has become more of a home to her than the house she grew up in. This is largely in part to her friends but she wouldn’t change it for the world. That night she dreams of a life where the five of them are never separated.

Morning comes much too quickly for Fran’s liking. If it were up to her, classes wouldn’t start until at least ten. The ringing of Charlotte’s alarm clock jolts her awake, and she squints through the darkness to see it reads 6:45. There’s exactly half an hour before she has to be downstairs for breakfast.

“Ugh, why must we get up so early,” Fran groans, looking over to see that Charlotte is pulling on her sweater, already dressed for the day.

She laughs at her roommate’s sluggishness. “I’ve been up for ages. Suppose my body still isn’t used to the time change.”

“You think by now it would be.”

Charlotte just shrugs, not having an answer. She may be a science student, but even that knowledge evades her. The two of them finish getting dressed and rush to the bathroom. If they don’t get there before everyone else, the line to brush their teeth becomes unbearable. A few other girls are moving around, but the floor is mostly quiet. Fran doubts the boys’ floor is the same – they’re always jumping around and giving the Head Boy more grief than he deserves. The bell rings, signaling the dining hall is ready for students. Fran and Charlotte head for the stairs, and meet up with Cale.

“Where’s everyone else?” she asks.

He rolls his eyes and Fran knows he’s already had to deal with a handful. “It seems they’re a little slow this morning,” he sighs. “Oh, before I forget, we’ve got a table booked tonight for a study group. Eight sharp, don’t be late.”

After getting a verbal confirmation that both girls will be in attendance, Cale splits from them to sit with the other senior boys. Breakfast today is simple: eggs and toast, but it will keep them going until lunch. Charlotte chats excitedly about the new biology curriculum and Fran half listens. The only reason she’s still in science is because it’s mandatory. If she had the choice her timetable would be filled with English courses, but alas, Welton only offers standard English as opposed to additional creative writing courses. It’s not as though her father would let her take them anyways. Instead, Fran’s day is spent in a bunch of courses she could care less about.

Biology, Chemistry, and Latin pass without incident. Every class has the same spiel: students are to do well in order to get into Ivy Leagues and to keep Welton in the top spot of all preparatory academies in the country. The teaching staff don’t care if they learn anything — everything is all about keeping up appearances. Homework is piled on to maintain the rigorous academic schedule supported by the administration, and by the time lunch rolls around Fran’s collected a solid three hours of work. It’s all due the next day because doesn’t believe in easing students back into the swing of things.

“This is all so mindless,” she complains to her friends during the noon break.

Cale immediately comes to the defense of his future colleagues. “It isn’t them,” he explains. “The system is deeply flawed and needs an overhaul.”

“Shut up Calesy, you’re literally less than a year away from becoming one of them,” Nate pipes in. “I agree with Fran. Everything about this place sucks.”

“Except for us,” Tyson chimes.

Nate shoots his friend a toothy grin. “Right you are Tys.”

The five of them joke around until the bell rings, signalling the end of break and the start of the second half of the day. Trigonometry, Geography, and History are the same as every other class. The constant reminder of what they have to achieve is becoming unbearable, and by the time English starts Fran is so sick of hearing the same three sentences. It’s bad enough she’ll be letting down her parents with her decision to attend a publicly funded college, but now she’ll be letting her school down as well.

Fran shuffles into her seat behind Tyson and waits for the teacher to arrive. “I heard he’s new, fresh out of a post-doctorate program from Oxford,” he whispers.

“Maybe he’ll teach us something interesting,” she huffs. Tyson laughs, but knows she’s serious. The lack of originality in the English department has been a thorn in Fran’s side since ninth grade.

Without warning the overhead lights cut out, leaving everyone in the dark. Murmurs of what could have happened erupt but they’re turned back on just as quickly. Searching for the culprit, Fran turns in her seat to see the doorway and comes face to face with an exuberant man. He winks when they lock eyes, like the two of them are sharing a secret. “Follow me,” he cheers, and exits just as fast as he appeared.

The students look hesitantly between each other. No one knows what to do – teachers at Welton aren’t like this. They don’t spontaneously host lessons someplace else and certainly don’t get their pupils’ attention by rattling a lightswitch.

“Something about this doesn’t sit quite right,” Charlotte whispers, and others nod in agreement. Everyone stays firmly planted in their seats. Fran thought that Nate might follow, since he typically does things in reckless abandon, but even he looks uneasy. A knot in her stomach says that the man, whoever he was, is the teacher and everyone is putting themselves in a risky position by not following his orders.

Before she can commit to leaving the room he comes back. “Don’t you want today’s lesson? You’ll be awfully behind otherwise.”

It’s settled. With a bit more coaxing, everyone picks up their books and files out of the room. The whispers only increase as the students follow the teacher, wondering where he could be taking them. “This is how we die,” Cale mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets in frustration.

“We aren’t going to die Cale,” Tyson reasons. “Perhaps the lesson is better suited for outside.”

The rosy-cheeked boy isn’t convinced. “He’s taking us to a secondary location, Tys! That’s standard procedure for murders.”

“No one is dying,” Fran sighs, grabbing them both by the elbows in an effort to keep up to the rest of the class. “I think we’re just heading to the library. Makes sense for an English class, don’t you think?”

Sure enough, the group of teenagers grinds to a halt outside the library’s double doors. It’s silent as they wait for new instructions. Nothing comes – instead everyone is ushered into the room. Winding through the aisles and statue replicas, the front of the group stops at a section of study tables. The library is deserted so the class chatters freely, unable to disturb anyone. The still unidentified man clears his throat to get everyone’s attention. “My sincerest apologies for the kerfuffle. I just wanted us to talk in a bit more of a natural setting. I’m Mr. Bednar, though I also respond to ‘O Captain, my Captain’. We’ll be spending the year together. This is my first teaching position in a few years, but I’m very excited to learn together. Who wants to introduce themselves first?”

It’s silent. Despite all the curveballs Mr. Bednar has thrown today, it’s clear no one was expecting this. The other teachers don’t make attempts to know their students – all interactions are sterile and removed. Eventually the silence becomes too much and Nate speaks up. “Hello, I’m Nathan MacKinnon, but please call me Nate,” he says. Fran is glad he’s fearless because there was no way she was speaking first.

“Thank you for taking the first leap Mr. MacKinnon,” the teacher laughs. “Anyone else?”

One by one, each student rhymed off their name. Fran falls somewhere in the middle, not wanting to seem too eager but also not wanting to be seen as a slacker. English is the subject she enjoys the most, and she wants to develop a good relationship with the teacher. “Francesca Winters,” she sputters nervously, and Cale tries to cover up a laugh with a cough. Fran jabs him in the ribs in retaliation, and swears she sees the teacher’s eyes crinkle, hinting at a smile.

“Pleasure to have you, Miss Winters. I heard from some of the other teachers that you have quite the knack for writing.”

Fran blushes profusely and her friends snicker beside her. Charlotte whispers something in her ear, but Fran doesn’t hear, too focussed on trying not to curl into a ball from embarrassment. The last thing she wants is for someone to have high expectations of her and not be able to live up to them. Mr. Bednar talks for a bit about the structure of the course and it seems entertaining. Classes are to be discussions, not lectures, and she’s excited because it’s like no other course at Welton. The typical pressure of scoring high on tests is gone, allowing Fran and the others to focus on enjoying the content. Mr. Bednar makes it very clear that his sole purpose is to help them learn to think for themselves and expand their literary horizons. When the bell rings, signalling the end of day, Fran can’t help but be a little upset. At least there will be one class she won’t dread.

☼☼☼☼

By the time Fran and Charlotte get to the fourth floor common room, the boys look like they’ve already given up on work. Nate is deeply invested in building a transistor radio from scratch, Tyson is aimlessly looking at the ceiling, and Cale is pinching his brow in frustration. At the arrival of his girlfriend Tyson seems to gain more life, sitting up straight and offering her a bright smile. “Study group, eh?” Fran smirks as she sets her books down, shoving Cale’s shoulder slightly. He offers her a tense smile that looks more like a grimace and returns to his book.

“Calesy’s just upset that he’s the only one who doesn’t understand the trig problem,” Nate sing-songs. A death glare is sent his way by the other boy, and a snarky comment rolls off Cale’s tongue.

“At least I give enough fucks to try and figure it out instead of copying Tyson’s answer like you did,” he huffs. “Some of us actually care about getting an education.”

A scuffle breaks out amongst the two of them when Nate lunges at Cale, forgetting it’s no longer a fair fight. Though in good shape, Cale’s athleticism pales in comparison to his friend’s. Too tired to break up the fight, Fran opens her chemistry textbook and begins working on the problem set. Dr. Sakic, in charge of patrolling the floor tonight, hears the racket the boys are causing and rushes into the room.

“Mr. MacKinnon and Mr. Makar,” he booms, voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. The horse play ends immediately, and both of them sink into their seats. “I expected better from you both.”

“Sorry Sir,” they apologize in tandem, too afraid to meet the man’s gaze.

The headmaster gives them a sharp nod. “Any more nonsense this week and I’ll keep you here for the break. You’ll have a wonderful time cleaning the chalk brushes.” Without another word, he turns on his heel to exit the room, but spins around when a sound comes from the speaker that had hastily been shoved into Tyson’s lap to protect it during the scuffle. “That better not be a radio in your hands Mr. Jost,” Dr. Sakic says pointedly. “You know they’re forbidden at Welton.”

“Of course it’s not Sir,” Tyson stammers. “It’s a science project. A radar. Just want to get an early start.”

The old man nods in approval and leaves the room, but not before giving it another sweep with his hawk-like eyes.

Silence overtakes the table out of fear, and by the grace of god Fran doesn’t struggle with the problem set. Nate gets her to help explain the one question he doesn’t understand, and once the work is done they all relax for the last half hour before curfew. No one really talks, enjoying the silence that rarely overtakes the group. Tyson and Charlotte cuddle into the large armchair in the corner and talk in hushed tones, leaving the rest of them to their own devices.

Fran tries her hardest to commit every detail to memory. Sounds, sights, smells – anything to help her remember the joy and contentment she feels. Come this time next year things will be vastly different and she wants to have a bank of memories to escape to when things get tough.

☼☼☼☼

Routine paints Fran’s life a dull shade of grey. There isn’t much she can do to combat it – Welton prides itself on a rigorous schedule that leaves no room for imagination. All extracurriculars besides the annual yearbook club are professional and promote the school’s code of conduct. The school newspaper was to be her magnum opus, her lasting impression upon Welton, but she was forced to resign as editor-in-chief by her father. The phone call had been filled with tears as Fran tried to argue with him, to make him see reason. It was no use because he was convinced the paper was a waste of time and wouldn’t make her college applications stand out. Fran’s mother said nothing, choosing not to insert herself into the matter. There was nothing she could do except sign the resignation paper and clear out her desk.

September passes by in a blur. Homework keeps Fran busy and her friends do the best they can to keep the sadness of losing the editorial position at bay. Charlotte is at her side nearly around the clock, always with a smile and a shoulder to confide in. Cale keeps her mind active by giving book recommendations once a week, and the other two help in any way they know how, whether that’s stealing snacks from the kitchen or letting Fran borrow sweaters when she gets cold. The year would be much more challenging and lonely if she didn’t have them.

The only place she truly feels joy is Mr. Bednar’s English class. Unlike the other teachers at Welton, he allows her to think for herself and express different viewpoints. Classes are spent reciting passages from novels and dancing around the classroom. It’s a Friday before a long weekend and Fran’s expecting to be assigned a lot of homework. She grumbles with Nate as they step into the room, and to her surprise the desks are all pushed to the side.

“Place your stuff on a desk and then huddle around,” Mr. Bednar shouts gleefully, sitting on his own. Eager to see what he has in store, she and the other students follow his directions. Nearly a month with the unconventional teacher has them used to these random class setups, and Fran imagines there will be a useful lesson at the end.

“Today’s class is all about realizing what you want in life,” he explains. “Each of you has ten minutes to envision what you hope your life looks like in ten years. Then you’ll act it out to your peers.”

“Sir, what does this have to do with English?” Tyson asks.

“Ah Mr. Jost, always asking the important questions,” the teacher chuckles. “You’ll have to write me a paper about your realizations of course. Just a small one, one page will suffice. The purpose of this exercise is to help you think outside the academic lens. None of you will be in school forever, and I think it will be beneficial for you to start to think about your futures outside an academic context.”

Mr. Bendar whistles loudly, and the brainstorming time begins. Shrugging her shoulders in compliance to her friends’ anxious stares, Fran screws her eyes shut and lets her mind wander. Almost immediately something comes to mind: she hopes to be at a book signing for her latest bestseller with her friends in the audience. Her parents couldn’t make it, but that’s okay – she doesn’t talk to them often anymore. After the event she brings everyone back to her apartment on the top floor of a swanky building and they enjoy each other’s company until the early hours of the morning. Fran feels warm and content and wants to stay in the daydream forever, but another whistle jostles her free and reality makes its unfortunate return.

“Any volunteers to go first?” Mr. Bednar asks with a smile on his face. A boy who looks far too small to be in twelfth grade timidly sticks up his hand. Fran recognizes him to be one of the few transfer students the school accepted this year, and gives him a thumbs up in encouragement. He introduces himself as Nico and depicts a fantasy where he’s the youngest senator in the country’s history and has everyone betting he’ll be president once he reaches the age requirement. It seems like an awful lot of work to her, but at least he has a dream his parents approve of. Other students follow, but Fran zones out. It dawns on her that Welton sends monthly reports home and if her father finds out she’s propecizing about being an author he’ll pull her out of school without a second thought. She begins to brainstorm an acceptable answer, something about being a legal secretary.

Eventually everyone has gone but Fran. “Miss Winters, would you do the honours of closing out the exercise?”

A lump forms in the back of her throat, and it’s all she can do to push it down. “Of course Captain,” she stumbled over the words. Charlotte squeezes Fran’s hand to ground her, and she sends her friend a thankful glance. Her legs tremble slightly as she moves to the center of the room – she really has to sell this. “When I look ten years into the future,” she began, “I see myself balancing a successful career in law and having a family. Of course I’ll only be working part time, as the kids will come first. I’ll live in a quaint little house in my hometown and spend a lot of time helping my aging parents. It will be a wonderful life.” Fran picks her brain quickly for any other aspirations her father might have, but can’t think of any, so she begins to return to her spot on the floor.

“Why are you lying to us?”

Fran’s shocked – she thought she had done a good job at selling the fantasy she detests more than anything in the world. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Bednar gestures for her to return to the spotlight, and she dejectedly shuffles backwards. “Franecsca, I asked you to share your hopes and dreams, not those of your parents. Do you really think Nico’s dad wants him to become a crooked politician? Of course not, they want him to become a doctor! We all have our own desires, so what are yours?”

A quick glance at her friends lets her know they’re cheering her on, and Fran recounts everything she saw when she first closed her eyes. The signing, the party, the unbridled joy she felt – nothing is held back. At some point Mr. Bednar encourages her to share what the book will be about, and before Fran can stop herself she’s reciting lines from a novel that hasn’t even been written. It’s exhilarating to picture a life that’s completely her own, and she doesn't know if she’ll be able to stop. Once she’s exhausted every possible plot line and characterization, Fran sinks to the floor in a proud exhaustion. Her teacher sends a charming wink her way before speaking. “Well, that just about does it for today. I have nothing else planned. Want to go play a game of soccer?”

On the way to the field, Fran’s friends shower her with compliments and praise. “That was fantastic darling,” Charlotte gushes. Tyson agrees with her, applauding Fran’s bravery for being true to herself.

Nate chimes in. “You have to write that book! I won’t stop hounding you until it’s done.”

“I don’t know Nate,” she sighs. “It was just a dream. We all have a life planned out for us in the real world.”

“But that could be your real world, Fran!” Tyson argues. “You sound so in love with the idea, and you’re the only one I know who could pull it off.”

Fran’s cheeks blush rose at her friend’s words. Only Cale is yet to say anything, so she shoots him a quizzical look. “What do you think Calesy?”

“I think,” he states, a broad smile across his features, “That you’ve already sold five copies of that novel of yours.”

☼☼☼☼

A few weeks later, Tyson knocks ferociously on the girls’ dorm room door after the annual club meeting. He’s junior supervisor, second in command only to Mr. Arthur, the Latin teacher. It’s a Thursday night, and their room is the designated spot for unwinding because the matron, Nancy, is kind and lets the boys stay a few minutes after curfew, telling their supervisor they were assisting her. “Look what I found!” he says excitedly, flipping an old book open to a specific page that doesn’t make sense to anyone but him. Tyson softens once he sees Charlotte, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Hello dear,” he whispers tenderly.

His girlfriend giggles before pointing to the annual. “Tell us what this is about!”

“Ah yes,” Tyson says, finally getting on track. “This is the annual from 1943. Guess who was in the graduating class?”

The rest of the group studies the pictures and all shout the answer at the same time. “Mr. Bednar!”

“Yep. And look right under his name, which I didn’t peg him to be a Adam, there’s a club I’ve never seen before. The Society For Banned and Burned Books, what is that?”

No one has an answer. “We should ask him tomorrow,” Nate suggests. “Find him outside during the afternoon break. I’m sure he’d tell us what it’s about.”

A knock rings out for the second time that night. Nancy peeks her head in and waves the boys to hurry up. “I’ve kept you out later than normal,” she says kindly, “but it’s time you return to your own dormitories.” Goodbyes are said and a makeshift plan is hatched. Sleep doesn’t come easy as Fran is too excited to find out about the club that is no longer offered at Welton.

The Society for Banned and Burned Books is all Fran can think of. The name is so vague – it could mean a million different things. How is she to know the truth? She’s distracted the entire morning, losing focus as her mind wanders through the different possibilities. In chemistry she almost ruins the experiment because she isn’t paying attention, and the titration would have been ruined if Tyson hadn’t caught it in time. Judging by the absent stares that Fran occasionally catches, the rest of the group isn’t doing much better. The question is eating everyone alive.

After what feels like three years, the bell that signals the start of break chimes. Fran’s out of her seat in an instant, and the others are close on her heels. Once outside, she notices no one is there yet, and they all take refuge under the willow tree by the lake. Slowly students and staff trickle into the yard but Mr. Bednar still doesn’t appear. Cale has the genius idea that he might be supervising a different part of the grounds, and the five of them make the trek up the hill. The man in question is sitting on a bench near the edge of the property, watching a group of elementary kids play in the sandpit.

“Mr. Bednar,” Nate shouts, even though the group is still a hundred and fifty yards away from him, “We have a question!”

There’s no response. The older man doesn’t give them the time of day, instead focusing on a particular patch of flowers that seem to be dwindling in health. Tyson tries this time to get his attention. “O Captain, my Captain!”

The English teacher waves them over enthusiastically, chuckling to himself as he watches the boys race each other to see who gets there first. Charlotte and Fran are hot on their heels, not wanting to miss any information that might be vital.

“What’s going on?” The older man asks, looking for a reason to explain the sudden outburst of five students approaching him on the break.

Tyson pulls the annual out from his jacket and flips it to the page he marked with a piece of Fran’s stationary kit. “What’s the Society for Banned and Burned Books? None of us have ever seen the club offered at Welton?”

Suddenly, everyone is being pulled closer and Mr. Bednar is speaking in hushed tones. “Don’t you dare mention it to anyone,” he says, and the look in his eyes tells Fran he means business. “That little club nearly got me expelled, and if the administration catches whiff of it again my goose will be cooked. What fun it was, though, to sneak out under the cover of darkness and read things that actually expanded our minds.” When he realizes none of the children in front of him understand what he’s going on about, Mr. Bednar clarifies. “The name implies what we were all about. We’d read books that had been banned by the school board or things European regimes set ablaze. It was thrilling. I have a feeling I wouldn’t be the scholar I am today if it hadn't been for the Society.”

The bell rings again, signalling the return of classes. Everyone thanks the teacher for his honesty, and with a heavy sigh begins the trek back to the school building. When the group is almost within earshot of other staff they hear Mr. Bednar shout, “It met twice a month!”

Later in the evening, at dinner, a folded up piece of paper makes its way to the table where the girls were eating dinner. Charlotte opens it quickly, knowing it’s from the boys, and Fran presses against her side to read it. We’re resurrecting the Society tonight. You guys in? it says in Nate’s chicken scratch. Fran looks up to see them staring at her, waiting for an answer. Charlotte looks at her friend in silent deliberation, and a second later they’ve both made up their minds. Three nods, the group’s secret code for yes, is thrown in the boys’ direction, and she catches Tyson fist pumping out of the corner of her eye.

“How are we doing this?” Fran asks Cale as everyone exits the dining hall. “We barely know what it’s even about.”

He just shrugs. “There was a package on Tys’s desk when he got back from class. It had a bunch of books and a note signed J.B. We all just assumed it was from Mr. Bednar.”

It seems to be the only explanation Fran’s going to get. Honestly, the idea of breaking the rules for once in her life is incredibly enticing, so there’s no way she’s letting the boys carry on without her. There’s no doubt that Charlotte is already planning the escape route to the small cave just off Welton’s property, so it seems her fate is decided. As Fran climbs the stairs she discusses logistics with Cale and learns that Tyson has it all figured out – after all the staff have gone to sleep, everyone will sneak out of bed and meet in the dormitory’s west stairwell before running across the yard to avoid being caught. It will be easy enough and Fran isn't worried. As long as she brings a treat to distract Spot, Dr. Sakic’s dog, things should go off without a hitch. At the landing for her floor she says her goodbyes to Cale before skipping down the hallway.

Fran spends the next few hours pacing the length of her bed. Charlotte tries to calm her nerves, but it’s no use. She’s just as excited and keyed-up as Fran, so together they pass the time by making up silly songs. It takes them to lights out in the blink of an eye, and when Nancy comes in to give a final warning there’s a full blown concert in the works, complete with hairbrush microphones.

“Good night girls,” she says, a knowing smile on her face. She definitely notices the electric excitement running through the room, bouncing rapidly between the two girls, but doesn’t say anything.

Charlotte says good night for the both of them as Fran slips into the hall to use the bathroom. When she returns, her roommate is perched on the windowsill, book in hand. The pair of them have to find quiet ways to distract from the slow passage of time, not wanting to risk staff members staying up to check on them if they’re too loud. Sighing gently as she flops onto her bed, Fran begins to daydream about what it would be like to live the life she truly dreams of, the one prophesied in Mr. Bednar’s exercise. Apparently she spends longer than anticipated in the fantasy because Charlotte is trying desperately to get her attention.

“It’s been hours, everyone has to be asleep,” she whispers. “The boys are probably waiting for us. Come on.”

A quick peek out the door confirms Charlotte’s suspicions – slumber has overtaken the residents of Welton Academy. The pair of them slip on school issued coats and boots, and do their best to silence the door’s creaking hinges. Luckily they were given a room at the end of the corridor and they leave with little issue. Cale and Tyson are waiting in the stairwell as planned, but Nate is nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Nate?” Charlotte asks, pecking Tyson on the cheek in greeting.

“He went ahead to do reconnaissance,” Cale explains.

That makes sense, especially for Nate, and without another moment’s hesitation the group departs. They grab Nate on the ground floor and scurry through the darkness. No one speaks until the school grounds are well behind them, too anxious the plan would fail if even a peep was uttered. The woods offer a sound barrier and the friends chat freely, fretting about upcoming midterm examinations and the looming Ivy League application deadline. Fran’s insides twist slightly when Cale brings it up, worried about how her father will respond to her lack of applications, but the thought is thrown to the back of her mind when everyone screeches to a halt outside the final destination.

The cave they decided to sneak to is more of a large rock pile, but it will do the trick. It’s quite spacious – the five of them will fit without any issue. Nate’s the first one in, followed by Tyson. Charlotte and Fran scuttle in soon after, and Cale brings up the rear, rolling a small boulder over the ‘door’ to hopefully keep out animals interested in intruding. Once the dust settles and the group is comfortable to the best of their abilities, Tyson pulls the package left for him from his jacket and clears his throat.

“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the reinvisioned Society for Banned and Burned Books.”

The words send shivers down Fran’s spine. It’s thrilling to be here with her friends, doing something frowned upon by mainstream society. They’ll all be dead if anyone at Welton ever figures out what is going on, but she’d gladly sink all of her life prospects if it meant spending time with her friends. She can’t wait to see what the adventure brings.

Nate snickers from beside Fran. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it, Tys, just get on with it. We don’t have all night.”

The comment earns him a death glare, but Tyson continues with less performative lustre. “We were given this package, presumably by Mr. Bednar, to expand our minds and create memories that will last long after we leave Welton.” Sad smiles are shared, none of them wanting to think about the end of an era that’s drawing closer. There’s a slight voice crack as he speaks again, and it echoes off the stone walls. “Is everyone willing to take the oath so we can begin?”

“Jesus Christ, are we joining a cult?” Charlotte quips, but the smile on her face gives away the giddiness she’s feeling. Head nods come from the rest of the group, and the unofficial officiant gets started.

“It says to put up your right hand,” Tyson says, “And repeat after me. I solemnly swear to protect the secrecy of the Society. I swear to come in with an open mind, and let my potential flourish. I will use the Society to make lasting memories and to become a multi-dimensional person who thinks for themselves. The world is mine.”

Everyone repeats the words, voices mixing together until they’re indistinguishable from one another. With the first order of business out of the way, Tyson sits down and takes a deeper look at what was dropped on his desk – a worn paper explaining how the club works, a reading list, and a few books to get them started. Titles include The Grapes of Wrath, The Catcher in the Rye, Ulysses, and Animal Farm. Fran notices that all the books have been banned or burned in at least two countries: it seems the name of The Society is very literal. It also seems that Mr. Bednar hoped they would stay true to form as the club moulds to fit their needs and desires.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Cale insists. “We have to be back before everyone starts waking up. Sakic is an early riser.”

They spend the next couple of hours reading aloud and laughing together. After a quick vote it is decided the inaugural book will be The Catcher in the Rye since it seemed interesting, and then they will work their way through the others. Whenever it’s Nate’s turn to read he speaks in different voices and overextends his hand motions; it keeps everyone in stitches.

Before Fran can register how long it’s truly been, Cale checks his watch and alerts the group that it’s nearing three. If they want to get at least a few hours of sleep they need to return to Welton now. Reluctantly, everyone packs up. The trip back to school is silent, exhaustion seeping into their bones and making it hard to think about anything else besides sleep. By the time Fran climbs the stairs to her dormitory floor she can barely keep her eyes open. Charlotte says goodbye to the boys on her behalf, and Fran’s asleep before the other girl slips into their shared room.

A sluggishness encapsulates the group for the entirety of the next day. It seems that no one slept well, all tired eyes and slow movements. Strange looks are given by other students but they’re fairly easy to ignore – Fran is just desperately trying to get through the day so she can crash again. The years of strict, regimented routine at Welton have her circadian rhythm working in a particular way, and staying up late certainly did a number on her. Charlotte is faring better than everyone else– her body used to sleep deprivation on account of time change. It’s all Fran can do to stay awake during English, her final class of the day. If Mr. Bednar notices her wavering consciousness, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, Fran thinks she catches him winking at Tyson, as though he knows just what they were up to last night. Today’s lesson flies right over her head, and as soon as the bell rings she’s scrambling to pick up her books.

“Feeling a little bit under the weather today, Miss Winters?” he asks, closing his lesson plan.

Fran searches his face for any sign that he might snitch on her for being unresponsive in class but finds nothing. “Just a bit tired, Captain,” she quips. “Was up terribly late trying to get comfortable. My mattress has been giving me issues.”

“I’ll be sure to alert Nancy of your troubles. She’ll hate to know you’ve been uncomfortable.”

She knows damn well he won’t say anything, and that he truly knows the reason for her fatigue. However, she appreciates the game he’s playing. That way, if things don’t go to plan and the group gets busted by the administration, his hands will be clean. Fran would hate to see his teaching career blown apart by a group of raucous teens like her own dear friends.

As soon as she’s back in her room Fran crashes onto the bed with a thud. Muttering a jumbled package of words to Charlotte that resemble a request to wake her up for dinner, she climbs under the covers and falls asleep for the second time of the day.

☼☼☼☼

Fran’s body adjusts to the deficit in rest after the second meeting. It’s shorter, with Cale keeping a much closer eye on the time, but still fun. They’re nearly halfway through the novel, and votes are already being cast for what to read next. It’s getting easier for Fran to balance school and the club. The term has picked up, but despite the homework mounting on her desk she’s happy. Her grades are flawless, more than adequate for admission to an Ivy League, but she could care less. No one besides her friends know of her decision to only apply to other institutions, so Fran’s academic success gives her father enough false hope to let her live a mostly uninterrupted life at Welton. Things are good, and she often forgets that in a matter of months everything she knows will be completely turned on its head.

When Fran gets to Mr. Bednar’s classroom one afternoon, she’s surprised to find it empty. There’s no sign he’s been there for hours and worry fills her brain. What if someone saw the group sneaking out last night and is planting the blame on Mr. Bednar because he’s unconventional? Fran isn’t sure what she’d do if that happens, as he’s one of the only reasons she still shows an interest in school.

“Where’s Captain?” Charlotte asks the group, but no one has an answer for him. Tyson and Cale shrug indifferently, and Nate is too busy trying to catch the attention of a girl he’s been crushing on to pay any attention to the blonde. Fran rolls her eyes in disgust, upset Nate doesn’t seem to care about their missing teaching, and tries not to focus on the sting of him paying attention to someone that isn’t her

“I hope he’s alright,” she frets quietly.

As if Cale can sense how much worry is in her words, he places a hand on Fran’s shoulder in a comforting manner. “He’s fine, Fran. Probably just late returning from the bathroom.”

On cue, the eccentric English teacher peeks his head through the open door. “Well, come on! It’s one of the last nice days out,” Mr. Bednar chirps happily. “We’re outside today. No need to bring your books.”

No one even bats an eye at the instruction. Lessons like this occur at least twice a week, and Fran and all the other students look forward to them. It’s an invigorating and refreshing way to use their brains. The teacher leads everyone to the small courtyard that’s adjacent to the humanities wing, and stops in the middle. On instinct, the class huddles around him.

“I need three students to help demonstrate,” Mr. Bednar begins. “Mr. Makar, Mr. Jost, and Miss Tennant, care to do the honours?”

The three of them erupt into a chorus of yeses, eager to please their favourite instructor, though Charlotte shies away at the use of her last name.

“Well then, that settles it. Everyone else, please move to the sides,” he says, waiting patiently for any stragglers to follow instruction. “Now, you three, I want you to walk around the courtyard until I tell you to stop.”

On his signal, Fran’s friends set off, and she watches in confusion. At first, all three are walking in sync: turning corners at the same time and taking equal paces. Tyson is the first to break the pattern, widening his gait and letting his arms swing. Charlotte takes note of his divergence and begins to do her own thing. She twirls and skips about, giggling the entire time. Only Cale stays on the original route, looking every so often towards Mr. Bednar in hopes of positive feedback.

“That’s quite enough,” the older man says. “Thank you. Now can anyone tell me what happened?” It’s silent, his voice echoing off the stone walls and arches. “No one? Alright. What happened was an experiment on conformity. Our subjects started off the same, but soon after Mr. Jost got a little bored and became more relaxed. He walked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Ms. Tennant threw caution to the wind completely, dancing around. One could hardly call it walking. Only Mr. Makar stayed within what he thought were the parameters of the assignment. He was timid, searching for approval.”

The lesson continues, and Mr. Bednar makes a point of explaining that conformity makes things extremely boring, both in literature and life. Fran understands immediately and takes the message to heart. It would be so much better to live life on her terms, and from this moment forward she’s determined to put her happiness first. Near the end of class, everyone is unleashed to do their own walking. The class walks at varying paces, and Fran joins her roommate in skipping around in a circle. Only Nate refuses to walk, and when asked about it he shrugs.

“Exercising my right not to walk, Captain,” he says, which earns an eye roll and a smirk from the teacher.

“You’re certainly illustrating the point, Mr. MacKinnon.”

Later that night at the meeting, over pages of The Grapes of Wrath, Fran gushes about how Mr. Bednar’s lessons make her truly feel alive. Her friends agree, all particularly inspired by the passionate teacher. However, they share looks amongst themselves – proud Fran finally feels secure enough in what she wants to think about sticking up to her father. Although almost double in length than the previous novel, the group is making solid progress and is on track to finish the book before the holiday break.

Tonight Nate brought a saxophone, and after reading some of his own prose he breaks into song. The tune isn’t distinguishable because he isn’t much of a musician, but it still makes Fran laugh hysterically. Tyson joins in, crooning some words over the melody. Soon an impromptu jam session is in full effect: Cale works out a beat on a steel drum found just outside of their secret hideaway, and Charlotte and Fran provide handclaps and harmonies. The number ends in a fit of giggles tumbling from everyone’s lips, and Fran has trouble stifling them once she reaches Welton's property again. Sleep comes easy once back in her room, and Fran dreams of creating a lifetime of adventures with her friends.

☼☼☼☼

It’s a bright Tuesday when Fran spots the flyer on the bulletin board in the lobby. There, handwritten in large scrawling script, are the words Writing Seminar for Young Authors. She’s intrigued and reads all the information available on the sheet of paper. It seems to be taking place at Henley Hall, Welton’s sister school, and will run for nearly the rest of the year. Fran copies the contact information into her pocketbook and heads upstairs to compose a piece of literature worthy of admission.

Charlotte finds her there, several hours later, surrounded in a large pile of crumpled paper.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Fran slams her pen down on her notebook a smidge too aggressively, causing the other girl to flinch slightly. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I’m just trying to get this submission perfect before I drop it off in the morning.”

“Oh!” Charlotte chirps excitedly. “Your dad is letting you write articles in the school paper again?”

A silence covers the room like a thick blanket. “Uh, not exactly,” Fran murmurs. “Henley is doing a writing seminar and I’m going to apply. My father doesn’t know.”

Her roommate and closest friend of nearly ten years shoots Fran a nervous glance. “What are you going to do when he finds out?”

Frustrated, Fan pushes the desk chair out and tug at the roots of her hair. “Goddamnit, Lottie, can’t you just be excited for me? I’m finally doing something I want to do and not caring about what anyone else thinks. Who’s side are you even on? You gonna call up my folks, let them know my plans, and have me shipped off to a refining school? Huh?”

“Calm down, Fran. It was just a question,” she sighs. “I’d never fink. Just thought you should consider what would happen. What are you writing?”

She gestures to the scraps littering the ground, and allows Charlotte to read one of her many drafts. She studies the words intently before darting out of the room, most likely to read it to a crowd of students and embarrass Fran. She likes to keep her writing a secret.

“Charlotte Tennant! Get back here!” Fran screeches, tearing after her.

The blonde’s giggles echo off the walls. “Help! I’m being chased by Agatha Christie!”

Cale narrowly avoids a collision with Charlotte as he rounds the corner, and Tyson can’t get out of the way fast enough. She runs right into her boyfriend’s chest, knocking them both over. After explaining why she was running and urging the rest of her friends to read the piece, everyone returns to Fran and Charlotte’s room for a study group. They insist Fran has to submit the very version Charlotte read, saying it was the best one. Fran lets them flatter her, and decides to drop it off in the morning. After all, Henley Hall is just down the road. The rest of the night is spent collaborating on Latin and laughing at Nate’s antics. When Nancy comes in to remind them of lights out, she finds all five teenagers huddled at the small window, looking out at the small flakes of snow that are falling.

“Look Nancy, it’s the first snowfall,” Charlotte says as she beckons her over.

The older woman smiles fondly at the group before nodding her head. “Beautiful isn’t it?” she muses. “Now, the boys better scurry out of here before they get caught.”

With a chorus of jovial goodbyes and plans to make a snowman tomorrow at break, they leave to avoid getting in trouble from their floor monitor. Fran and Charlotte tidy up before turning the light out, and both fall asleep feeling hopeful for what’s to come.

The next morning before classes start, Fran runs to Mr. Bednar’s office to get permission to visit Henley Hall at lunch. Welton requires staff permission for students to leave campus, but it doesn’t have to be from the headmaster. There’s no doubt in her mind that if she goes to Dr. Sakic he’ll alert her parents of Fran’s newfound extracurricular activity and it will be kiboshed before she can even begin. The beloved English teacher is enthusiastic in his approval, and kindly demands that Fran keeps him updated. She sits the rest of the morning with a mixture of anxiety and excitement bubbling in her stomach.

As soon as the bell signifying lunch rings, Fran’s throat goes dry. What if her writing is terrible and the coordinator laughs in her face? She’s not sure she could handle the rejection.

“Don’t worry about it, Franny,” Tyson comforts. “They’d be stupid not to accept you.”

“You’re the best writer I’ve ever seen,” Cale chimes in.

Nate turns around and ruffles her hair. “Who’s F. Scott Fitzgerald? I only know Francesca Winters.”

The praise boosts her confidence, and by the time Fran waves them farewell at the gates she’s walking with her head up. As long as she gives it her best shot, Fran decides she’ll be happy with the results. The short walk is idyllic – freshly fallen snow coats the trees, and it doesn’t look as though anyone has driven down the road. Even Henley Hall looks nice. It’s smaller than Welton, and in Fran’s opinion uglier, but also has high academic standards for its students. From what she’s heard though, the staff members are kinder. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible place to receive an education.

Once inside, Fran looks around aimlessly, trying to find a clue that would lead her in the direction of where she needs to go. A middle-aged woman, far younger than most of her teachers, approaches Fran with a kind smile. “Are you lost dear?” she asks, waiting patiently for a response.

“I’m afraid so,” Fran says, “Could you point me in the direction of Ms. Robertson’s office? I have a submission for her seminar to drop off.”

The woman laughs heartily, and it echoes slightly in the emptiness of the entryway. “You must be from Welton.” When Fran nods your head, she wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulder and begins walking. “I’m Ms. Robertson, and I’m pleased to say you’re the first from Welton to show any interest.”

Fran isn’t surprised by this. Headmaster Sakic assigns all extracurriculars, and she lets the teacher know this as she follows her. Ms. Robertson nods in understanding, but her lips are pursed in disapproval. It’s only then that Fran realizes Welton’s practices might not be as common as she once assumed.

The teacher’s office is tucked in behind her empty classroom, and Fran pauses to examine how she chose to decorate the space. Pictures of Walt Whitman line the walls, along with other notable poets. “I primarily teach poetry,” Ms. Robertson explains. Fran can’t help but think that she’s the Mr. Bednar of Henley, even though she hardly knows her. The teacher just exudes the same kind of energy.

Once inside, Fran tentatively hands her the paper – even though she seems friendly Fran is still nervous. She’s the first adult to read any of her creative writing.

“This is good. Really good,” Ms. Robertson praises. “You’re in.”

Fran is dumbfounded. Sure, there was a good chance she would have gotten in anyways because she isn't the world’s worst author, but to have someone other than her friends say she’s good at writing is affirming. “Th-thank you,” she stutters.

“No, thank you for bringing this to me. I can’t wait to see what else you’re capable of. The first meeting is on Monday, and when you come I need to see letters from your parents and Dr. Sakic saying you’re allowed to participate.”

Fuck. It slipped her mind that they might need permission from guardians. Fran will just have to figure something out, some way of getting around it. If her father ever found out she is doing something expressly against his orders he’d disown her. Oh well – now that she’s had a taste of success Fran is determined to see this through.

She explains that it won’t be a problem, and that she’s excited to be a part of this. After getting instructions on how to find the exit Fran leaves with a pep in her step. Once outside, she skips the entire way back to Welton.

☼☼☼☼

Somehow Fran manages to make it through nearly the entire weekend without someone bursting her bubble. It’s Sunday afternoon, and she’s planning how to forge the letter of permission from her father. She can’t risk sounding too youthful, but also doesn't want to appear too formal. Getting to work, Fran loads the typewriter and begins writing. Imitating her father is easier than she thought, and when Cale pokes his head through the open door she’s almost done.

“You coming to today’s meeting?” he asks, entering the room to sit at the foot of Fran’s bed.

She continues to clack at the keys of the machine. “Of course,” Fran replies. “Just need to finish this up.”

The pair of them sit in silence as she works, and a few minutes later Fran is placing the letter in an envelope. “Do you mind if we stop at Dr. Sakic’s office? I have to get a letter of permission from him.”

“Sure. How’d you get your father to say yes? He practically kicked you off the paper.” Cale’s question is legitimate, but surely he had to know Fran didn’t ask her father. That would have been an automatic rejection.

“I didn’t,” she sighs. “I wrote the letter myself. Sakic won’t call to double check with him. Besides, my parents live just too far away to want to make the trip here unless they have to.

Fran doesn’t miss the pointed look her friend gives. Cale’s a stickler for the rules, sure, but Fran knows he’s worried for her. If her father finds out she disrespected him like this, on top of not applying to any Ivy Leagues, she’ll be in a lot of trouble. Cale stays quiet while Fran chats with the headmaster, only offering a polite farewell. As the two of them walk to the cave to meet the others, he speaks.

“You better not get caught.”

The five words send chills down her spine. He’s right and Fran knows it. If she doesn't play her cards right it could end badly. Fran begins to regret her decision, but then she remembers how Mr. Bednar constantly encourages her classmates to be their people and do what they want. Whatever happens, she’ll never go back to living anything other than the life she wants to lead.

Conversation pivots when Fran doesn't respond, and the pair discuss what Tyson will bring to this week’s meeting. He’s tonight’s moderator and is known for picking obscure short stories to read after everyone has gotten through the assigned chapters. Cale bets nothing will be in English, and Fran can’t help but agree, because Tyson likes to expand everyone’s perceptions while being a little ridiculous. It’s good though – without him Fran would have a much harder time being exposed to new things. Between him and Mr. Bednar she’s doing a pretty good job learning about the world outside the traditional American viewpoint.

The meeting lasts a few hours, long enough for the sun to have disappeared and the moon to peak up from the shadows. The five of them have a grand time laughing and reading. Welton has a relatively relaxed weekend schedule, so Fran isn’t worried about being caught off school grounds. In fact, most of the staff members travel home if they can, leaving only essential personnel. Society meetings never fail to put Fran in a better mood, and she leaves feeling hopeful about the week to come. Besides, tomorrow she starts learning how to make her dreams a reality with the start of the writing seminar. When she bids everyone but Charlotte goodnight, pep returns to her step. The Brit sees it but chooses not to comment, secretly excited to see Fran unlock her potential.

☼☼☼☼

With the addition of Henley Hall’s writing seminar into Fran’s schedule, things change slightly. She manages to stay up-to-date on coursework, still excelling in all of her classes. What free time she has is now split between working on the rough draft of her novel and attending Society meetings with friends. It’s challenging at times, but there’s no other way she’d rather spend her last year of secondary school.

Mr. Bednar continues to provide thoughtful lessons that inspire. He is, by far, Fran’s favourite teacher at Welton, and she’s a tad upset she won’t get another year with him. It doesn’t matter much though, because Fran is positive he’ll stick with her for the rest of her life.

☼☼☼☼

December is approaching fast, and it’s now pitch black when Fran returns from Henley Hall. Other students are returning from their extracurricular endeavors or using the evening free time to play in the snow so at least she isn’t alone in the dark. As she approaches Welton’s dormitory wing Fran pushes her hands deeper into her pockets. It’s chilly – much colder than any other night this year. Just as she reaches to open the door, Fran hears sniffles from just around the corner. The culprit is a curly-haired brunette she could recognize from a mile away.

“Tys?”

He looks up, eyes brimmed with tears. Fran racks her mind to remember why he would be out so late, and she recalls Tyson saying there was an extra practice tonight before the tournament on the weekend. Despite how her joints seize from the cold, Fran drops to sit beside her friend. Tyson leans closer, resting his head on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?” she asks, pulling his much larger body closer to wrap in a tight hug.

“My parents don’t even care about me enough to send me an original birthday gift,” he chokes out. “The got me the same fucking desk set as last year.”

Her heart breaks for her friend. The Jost’s have always been detached, but this is an entirely new phenomenon for them. How could they not remember what they got their only son for his birthday last year? This is a whole new level of not caring. Fran had celebrated his special day at lunch with the rest of the group, and had plans to give Gwilym his gift after she got back from the seminar.

Hoping to find something to improve her friend’s mood, Fran stands and pulls him to his feet. “Well you know,” she says, tapping her fingers on her chin in faux thought. “This deskset looks extremely aerodynamic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In fact, it looks like it was destined to fly.”

Tyson looks at her like she has three heads. “Go on,” Fran urges, “I present to you, Tyson Jost, the world’s first unmanned flying desk set.”

With a scream that verges on primal, Tyson throws the package over the edge of the walkway with fervor. The two of them watch as its contents spill onto the ground, both shocked he actually completed the task. A sideways glance at the boy standing beside her lets Fran know he feels better. They both head inside then, laughing once she remembers how Nate nearly singed his eyebrows off in chemistry earlier in the day. The rest of the night is surprisingly relaxed, with Fran making sure to properly celebrate her friend and catching up on the study hall she missed while at Henley. Nate is still working on that godforsaken radio, and his obsession with it is becoming concerning. He chimes in when something gets particularly interesting, but otherwise doesn’t say much, too concerned with rerouting the contraption’s cabinet wires.

The next morning, at the daily assembly, Dr. Sakic lets it be known that the first round of Ivy League acceptances have been released. A majority of Fran’s classmates have their names called, some of them multiple times, and her stomach sinks slightly. She isn’t upset that she didn’t apply. No, she’s upset because it means she’s going to have to start dodging the topic around her parents. None of Fran’s friends are mentioned, but that’s because they all have jobs lined up for after graduation.

As she shuffles out of the chapel, Mr. Pratt, the spry music teacher, pulls Fran aside. “There’s a call for you,” he explains. “It’s your parents. They’re on line three, so you can tell that to Sylvia.”

Fran’s hands shake and she climbs the stairs to the main office as slowly as possible. What could they possibly want? After repeating the information Mr. MacInnis told her, Fran is given a phone receiver with instructions to keep it under ten minutes.

“Hello?”

The deep boom of her father greets Fran’s ears. “Francesca,” he says, not nearly as cheery as she hoped he would sound. “I was speaking to some friends of mine and they informed me the first round of Ivy acceptance notices were released. Did you hear anything?”

She sucks in a breath, letting it burn her lungs. “I didn’t,” Fran admits. It isn’t technically a lie, but it also isn’t the whole truth. “Not many people did though. I’m sure they just haven’t gotten to my application yet.”

Her father lets out a noise that’s a mixture between a hum and a rumble. “With your grades I’m sure you’ll hear soon. Which did you apply to again? I’m not sure you ever told your mother and I.”

All the moisture leaves Fran’s throat. “All of them sir,” she croaks, praying he doesn’t catch her in the lie.

“That’s my girl. Bet you’ve got your eyes set on Harvard.”

“Of course sir.”

The phone call ends a few moments later when Fran hears the bell signalling the start of class. She’ll get a slip from the secretary to excuse her tardiness, but Fran doesn't want to listen to her father gloat about how she’ll be the first child in the family to attend a prestigious university for another second. After saying goodbye Fran is left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Eventually he’s going to find out, and she isn't sure what will happen then.

By the time the weekend rolls around Fran is exhausted. Though she’s handling everything well, sleep is pretty far down the list of priorities and she definitely isn't getting enough of it. She sleeps well into the morning, only being woken up when Charlotte whacks her with a pillow.

“Get up you lame duck, we have to be at the cave in fifteen minutes.”

Fran groans, a strangled sound that bounces off the furniture. “Can I just skip this one meeting?” she asks. “I’ll attend the next six in a row.”

Charlotte sees right through the ruse. “Fran, we attend every meeting,” she sighs. “Besides, you’re the moderator today. What kind of meeting will it be if you don’t show up?”

Begrudgingly, Fran shuffles out of bed. With help from Charlotte, who tidies her space while she gets ready, the pair are only a few minutes late. Had she been by herself it would have been well over thirty minutes before Fran made an appearance.

Everyone else is already there, smoking the pipes Nate smuggled from his father’s collection the last time he visited home. “Look who finally decided to show up,” Tyson quips, coughing as he exhales.

“Shut the fuck up, Jost,” Fran huffs, stepping over the boy to sit in her regular seat, only to find it occupied.

A girl she’s never seen before is sitting beside Nate, gripping his arm excitedly and hanging on every word he says. The sight makes her stomach twist into an intricate knot, and looking at the two of them cuddled against one another makes Fran realize her feelings towards Nate might not be strictly platonic for the second time in their relationship. She shoots a questioning glance at Tyson, who just shrugs. On the other side of him, Cale’s got a girl with strawberry blonde hair perched on his lap. Neither of them look like they attend Welton or Henley, as they’re dressed very casually, in clothing that would never pass inspection at the boarding schools.

“Oh! Am I sitting in your seat?” Nate’s girl asks. “Nathan said it was alright.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fran grits, turning her attention to the tall boy who strives to make her life as difficult as possible. “Want to tell me what this is about MacKinnon? You’ve got a lot of gall co-opting my meeting.”

Nate stands dramatically, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and getting giggles from the newcomers. “This,” he begins, “is my attempt at breaking down the barriers between public and private schools. Marjorie and Annabelle are from Ridgeway High, and Cale and I thought they might like to see what life at Hell-ton was really like.”

“Plus,” the one Fran assumes is Annabelle says, “We might be joining The Society.”

The comment causes quite the upheaval among the group. Tyson stands up immediately, furious with both Nate and Cale. “You didn’t think to let us know?” He seethes, arms failing as he speaks, and Fran feels a little smug that he’s defending her meeting with such fervor.

Charlotte stands gingerly beside him, guiding him to sit back down. “Tys is right, boys,” she says gently, ever the peacekeeper. “You should have brought this up beforehand. We can’t have anyone really knowing of this little club we have going on.”

The other one, Cale’s current object of affection, goes to speak but Fran cuts her off. “Please don’t say you won’t tell,” she sighs, “Because there are a million other ways it could get out. And I for one don’t want my father to pull me out of Welton and ship me off to refinery school because he found out I was reading unauthorized books.”

Everyone agrees with her. It’s agreed upon that the girls will leave after the meeting and never return. They’re to pretend as though they have never met a single member of the Society, regardless of how friendly they’ve become with Cale and Nate. The boys look sad, but Fran can’t find it in her to be sorry for them. Adding members was never discussed, and the two boys most certainly shouldn’t have been so reckless. Word travels fast in the real world.

After the sudden housekeeping issue Fran leads one of the funnest society meetings yet. Ignoring the framework the group had originally set, no chapters of a published book are read. Instead, each member takes turns coming up with bits of prose on the fly. Eventually the girls get tired of the group’s antics and leave, once again swearing they won’t tell anyone. The five original members continue on for a while longer, making sure to head back to campus early. Tonight the kitchen staff are serving spaghetti and meatballs, and Fran will be damned if she misses out.

Fran awakes the next morning to find that all students are to report to the auditorium for an emergency meeting. A throng of tired teenagers follow the much more alert group of young kids. She shuffles into a row of seats with Charlotte and tries to search for the boys. Due to the suddenness of everything, the roommates couldn’t meet up with them, and find the spots they would usually sit quickly occupied. It doesn’t matter much though because if any of them were caught talking there would be serious repercussions.

“Good morning everyone,” Headmaster Sakic addresses the crowd. “It was brought to my attention yesterday evening that there is an unauthorized club of sorts here at Welton. Known as the Society for Banned and Burned Books, its sole purpose is to disobey the rules and curriculum. Anyone who knows about it or is associated with it is to report to my office immediately and turn themselves in. A thorough investigation will be conducted, so it is advised you heed this warning carefully.”

“Those fucking bitches,” Fran seethes. “I’m going to murder Nate.”

Though just as pissed off as her friend, Charlotte handles her emotions with much more grace. “Relax Fran, and don’t go doing anything stupid. We just have to think about what we’re going to do next.”

Fran knows exactly what she’s going to do. The next time she sees Nathan MacKinnon and Cale Makar she’s going to punch them in the teeth. Somehow Charlotte talks her down, but she’s still irate. How dare they be so careless? Fran spends the rest of the day ignoring them. No one goes to turn themselves in to Dr. Sakic, but she almost does it out of spite so she can implicate Cale and Nate. Fran decides against it of course, knowing it would only hurt her, but she’s definitely going to spend the next few days thinking of how to get them back.

It turns out she doesn’t have to find a way to make them feel bad about their actions. Mr. Bednar comes and finds them in the afternoon and expresses his disappointment in them. After a short lecture on how they put their friends, and themselves, at risk, the teacher leaves them to reflect on how to apologize. They show up on the girl’s dormitory floor later in the evening with a plate of cookies.

“The chef supervised us in the kitchen,” Cale explains. “We’re really sorry. It was dumb of us to invite those girls. Will you be able to forgive us?”

Nate nods, tacking his own statement on to the end of his friend’s. “We never wanted to put you guys in danger, especially you Fran. I don’t want anything to get in the way of those fancy author dreams of yours.”

Fran blushes at the comment, but lets them come inside. Their apology is sincere, and all is forgiven with laughs over milk and chocolate cookies. Nothing comes of Dr. Sakic’s threat in the coming days, so clearly the investigation was not thorough. Perhaps the girls were better at keeping their mouths shut than Fran previously thought. Wanting to still play it safe, the group decides to not host any more meetings until after the holiday break.

☼☼☼☼

It’s a lonely break for Fran, spent mostly alone in her bedroom. At every opportunity her father is boasting about her academic achievements to anyone who will listen through the various holiday parties he corrals the rest of the family to. The whole town seems quite impressed that Fran is poised to attend an Ivy League, though it’s a ruse. No one knows that of course, and they all except she’ll be making an announcement on which school she’ll attend shortly. The holidays pass slowly, and Fran eats more than her fair share of mashed potatoes and gravy. Since her father must still work throughout her time at home, Fran is left to her own devices throughout the day. Though her mother loves Fran she’s docile, and often doesn’t talk to Fran unless she has to.

Fran spends an enormous amount of time writing. When she returns to school there’s only three weeks before she has to turn in the first draft of her novel. Hours are spent crafting scenes in painstaking detail – writing and rewriting until she’s happy with the quality of her work. At night Fran plays board games with her family, and makes up lies for her father’s questions. He’s becoming more creative, asking ones that demand specific answers. However she’s able to manage, mostly thanks to Cale’s insane wealth of knowledge on countless educational institutions. Without him she’d be lost at sea.

She’s extremely happy to be back at Welton, so much so she rushes ahead of her parents, not heeding her father’s warnings. Once sequestered into the auditorium, Fran tries to get permission to sit with Charlotte, but is immediately rejected.

“Sir, why can’t I? Other students are sitting together,” she states, and the glare you receive from her father could pierce a soul.

“After the stunt you just pulled?” he grits. “You’re lucky I don’t wheel you out of here and take you home. You will sit beside us. That’s final.”

The call of his name has him put his focus elsewhere, and Fran’s mother gives her a sympathetic smile. “He means well, dear,” she says. “After all, your father is right. We have certain appearances we must keep up since we aren’t of such high status.”

Before Fran can try and make a rebuttal, the procession enters the auditorium. Headed by her three male best friends and Tyson’s roommate Ryan, who have been tasked with carrying the banners, the teaching and administrative staff shuffle into the room. It’s silent – everyone not-so-patiently waiting for this assembly to be over. Undoubtedly Fran’s least favourite part of attending Welton, the term's opening assemblies are extremely dull and have made her consider leaving on multiple occasions.

“Welcome back to another term at Welton,” Dr. Sakic preaches. “We’ll be sure to have an excellent time. Now students, I must ask you the most pertinent of questions, one that’s asked at the start of every academic season. What are the four pillars?”

The voices of hundreds of children mingle together. “Tradition, honour, discipline, excellence,” Fran mumbles, slouching slightly. A swift nudge to the ribs from her father has her standing straighter than a board. She cannot wait to be rid of him.

After what feels like two hours of listening to Dr. Sakic and other distinguished staff members speak, everyone is finally allowed to leave. Bidding her parents a quick farewell, Fran clambers up the stairs to reach her room before Charlotte. Though she loves her dearly and the blonde never fails to lift your spirits, Fran needs alone time to quickly cry. It seems no matter what she does she’ll always be a disappointment to her father. The only thing he attributes to her is receiving acceptance to a prestigious school, and she refuses to give him that.

The reunion between the group of friends is much more relaxed this time around. Everyone had only been separated for a few weeks, not months. There’s still a small level of dramatics of course. When Nate sees Fran in the hallway he tackles her to the ground in a hug.

“Nathan, get off of me!” she squeaks, words punctuated by giggles. No one seems to notice, too caught up in their own reunions and settling in for another term, but Fran catches the way his eyes soften when he looks at her and it causes heat to rise to the top of her skin. She thought the weeks spent apart would help her silly crush go away, but it’s reared its head in full force and Fran doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Never,” he shouts, dragging Fran to her feet and sequestering her up the stairs. When they arrive in his dorm room, the rest of the group is already there. Details of holidays are shared, as are hopes for the school semester. It’s their final one at Welton, and Fran wants to make it count.

In just over five months she’ll graduate, leaving behind every comfort she’s known for the past six years. “Hell-ton has been our home for so long,” Fran sighs as she rests her head on Tyson’s shoulder. “What are we going to do once we’re gone?”

“Do whatever the fuck we want without teachers breathing down our necks.”

He has a point. For so long they’ve all been forced to act in a certain way that it will be nice to do as one pleases.

Charlotte hums in agreement, standing to stretch her legs. “Come on Fran, we should get back to our room. You’ve got to finish writing that one scene.”

Begrudgingly she untangles herself from Nate’s covers. She’s right, but Fran would rather not think about it. “Char, it’s killing me,” she whines. “Can I just not think about it for a while?”

She carefully reminds her of your deadline, and it’s enough to have Fran bounding down the flight of stairs. She really does need to get to work. The rest of the night has her stooping over her typewriter, clicking at the keys incessantly. By the time she falls asleep Fran has finished the scene and written at least three more, pushing her even closer to the finish line.

She finishes her draft a few days early, and hands it to Ms. Robertson after the workshop one night. She’s thoroughly impressed and is sure to let Fran know. The girl preens under her compliments, sure to downplay how happy she truly is. When she lets Mr. Bednar read the corrected version, he too showers Fran in praise.

“This is phenomenal, Miss Winters.”

Once again Fran is blushing, cheeks feeling much too warm for the cold winter afternoon. “Thank you Captain. It isn’t much though,” she says softly.

“Nonsense. It’s a masterpiece. Do you think I could commission you to bind me my own copy once it’s finished? I’d love to have it on my shelves.”

Fran is dumbfounded. “You want a copy of my book? But you read the greats like Twain and Fitzgerald!”

“You’re destined to be one of them, and I want to commemorate it.”

It’s then that she invites him to the final workshop in a few months' time. All participants will have their finished published works, and will take turns reading excerpts and answering questions. It’s supposed to be a mock book signing, and Fran is beyond excited. There’s nothing she wants more than for him to be there.

☼☼☼☼

Life begins to pick up speed, and Fran feels as though she’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Between academics, licensed extracurriculars, and society meetings she barely has enough time to sleep. It’s exhausting, but Fran feels completely satisfied. Not everyone gets the same experiences she’s been afforded, and she’s determined to make the most of it.

Mr. Bednar’s classes are still her favourite. This term the class is focussing on poetry, since the prose units were completed before the break, and every day Fran craves more. She finally learns the origin of the nickname ‘Captain’ with the reading of a particular poem, and everyone in the class increases their use of the term exponentially. Classes are spent reciting giants like Whitman and Frost, but also so-called ‘beat poets’ like Ginsberg and Kerouac. It’s easy to lose the stresses of life in their fantasies, and Fran always feels lighter when she leaves the room.

Some of her favourite lessons of the year have happened recently – namely the one on perspective. Ever the revolutionary, Mr. Bednar had everyone take turns standing on his desk, surveying the room before jumping down. A handful of students didn’t understand, but Fran found it incredibly eye-opening. Suddenly she understands why writing is so powerful – it can mean a million different things to a thousand people.

The Society for Banned and Burned Books starts to become less structured, and truthfully Fran doesn't mind. Most of the time everyone sits in the cave and discusses the ideas Mr. Bednar plants in their heads. Not many books are being read, but she’s glad. They were beginning to become a bit dull and the group was running out of titles – authors are being much more careful these days so as not to offend governing bodies. No matter what lens the club has taken, Fran is glad it exists. She’s spent countless hours fooling around with her dearest friends while enriching their minds. What more could she ask for?

Her novel is coming along swell. It passed the first and second revisions with flying colours and is now off at the printers. When Fran asks if she can print two copies, and that she doesn't mind paying the extra, Ms. Robertson is shocked.

“There’s no way you’re footing that bill! Especially because you’re giving it to someone,” she says, putting a cork in the matter. “Mr. Bednar will be delighted.”

The young mentor knows of Fran’s beloved English teacher, and is touched that she wants to do something so special for him. No one else in the group is as excited as Fran. Most of them are involved simply to pass the time or stand out on college applications, but not her. Fran is in the seminar because her soul yearns to write and she’d be a fool to deny its wishes. Writing is what she wants to do for the rest of her life, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t seriously pursue it.

☼☼☼☼

The day Fran gets her book back from the publishing house, the final round of Ivy League admissions is sent out. Her name is, of course, not on it. However, Ms. Robertson got in touch with a friend who teaches at Bryn Mawr college, and they’ve extended an offer into their creative writing program. Fran is delighted, and accepts almost immediately. The school is prestigious enough that hopefully her father can overlook the fact it’s not an Ivy.

Life goes as usual, with the day passing slowly. Tonight is the first time she’ll get to see her finished work, and will prepare for the showcase tomorrow night. She’s ecstatic, practically bouncing off the walls the entire day.

“Slow down,” Cale huffs, trying desperately to keep up with the jovial pace Fran has set.

She turns around to flash him the biggest smile she’s ever mustered. “I simply cannot, my dearest Cale, because I’m now a published author. My joy knows no limits.”

“You better not get a big head and a terrible ego,” Nate pipes in, joining the both of them in walking to the willow by the lake. He ruffles Fran’s hair and she swats his arm away.

“Shut up!”

The three of them join the other members of the group, who were able to weave through the crowds faster to claim the best spot on the grounds. Everyone spends the break joking around and chattering about tomorrow night. They’ll all be in attendance, along with Mr. Bednar. Somehow Fran has managed to keep her admittance to the seminar a secret to anyone outside of Welton and she’s quite proud of herself.

At Henley Hall, she feels electric. Seeing words that she wrote on a page, bound in leather, puts butterflies in her stomach. For possibly the first time in her life Fran feels like she’s on the right path. Reading a piece of the story out loud is exhilarating, and she can’t wait to see how the crowd responds. The question and answer section allows her to really delve into the creative process, immersing audience members in the story even more. It’s an evening spent having the time of her life, but something feels the tiniest bit off. Fran’s brain tells her something is going to go wrong when she returns to Welton.

How right she was. When she finally reaches her dormitory floor after swimming against the current of hungry teenagers, Charlotte is standing anxiously at the end of the hall.

“Your father is inside our room, and he looks absolutely peeved,” she whispers, hugging Fran tightly before running to join the others downstairs. If she’s caught loitering, detention will be her home for the next few weeks.

Taking a deep breath, Fran does her best to mask her anxiety before stepping into the room. He’s sitting at her desk, tapping his foot impatiently, and sporting a grimace that makes Fran’s stomach contract.

“Father, what are you doing here?”

It’s a dumb question – she knows exactly why he’s here. Her father doesn’t buy the weak question and chooses to ignore it completely.

“How dare you,” he broods, “Defy me and then lie about it?”

There’s no beating around the bush tonight, and Fran wishes she could be anywhere but here. “Sir, I can explain –”

“There’s nothing to explain! You made me look like a fool, telling everyone in town that my daughter, my Francesca, was going to attend an Ivy and study to become the best legal secretary in the goddamn county. That she had the pick of litter and would choose whichever offered her the biggest scholarship. Do you know how I stupid I look?”

Tears prick at the corner of Fran’s eyes, but she will them away. “Father, please,” she whispers, trying to stay strong but her voice betrays how she truly feels.

He doesn’t let up, continuing the rather one-sided argument. “And then I hear from old Mrs. Perkins that her granddaughter is coaching you in a writing seminar at Henley Hall? I told her she must have confused you with someone else because writing is a waste of time. She was incessant, and showed me the letter her granddaughter had mailed her, detailing how wonderful your novel was and she was so excited to get you a spot in a creative program at a women’s college. I was appalled.”

Now is the one chance Fran has to defend herself. “I never wanted to attend an Ivy, Sir,” she tries to explain as calmly as possible. “That’s what you wanted for me. Bryn Mawr is just as prestigious, one of the Seven Sisters. I’ll be happier there, doing what I love. I want to be a writer, Father.”

“Nonsense, Francesca. You’re seventeen, you don’t know what the hell you want.”

It goes like that, back and forth, for a while as she tries to make her father see reason. He isn’t having any of it.

“Did that new teacher, Mr. Bednar, put you up to this?”

Where her father got that notion Fran isn’t sure. “Of course not, Sir,” she exclaims, “I’m simply doing what’s best for myself.”

“What is best for yourself, huh?” he seethes. “You don’t know what’s best for you, but I’ll tell you. You’re going to drop out of the little writing program and tell Bryn Mawr you’re reneging your acceptance. Next fall you can apply for Harvard.”

Fran tries to explain to him that she can’t do what he’s ordering, that the signing is tomorrow night and they’re counting on her to be there. Her father simply does not care and after screaming at Fran some more leaves her dorm room in a flurry of anger, slamming the door behind him.

As if she is Atlas and the weight of the world has crushed Fran, she curls into a ball on her bed and sobs in pain. She’s absolutely heartbroken. Why can’t he just let her do what she wants? Too tired to eat, Fran stays in her room and eventually cries herself into a fitful sleep.

Fran is in the same position hours later when her friends peek through the door to check in. Without a word, the four of them surround her in a group hug. Nate’s hands find a way to her back and rub soothing circles in an attempt to calm Fran down. It helps slightly, and she eventually gets the sniffles to stop. No one speaks, but it’s comforting for Fran to not be alone. She knows that when she does want to talk about what happened they’ll be there with open ears.

At the urging of Tyson and Charlotte, Fran travels to the teachers’ quarters and knocks timidly at Mr. Bednar’s door. “Come in,” he says breezily, and she carefully steps around the pile of worn novels on the floor.

“Captain, I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says earnestly, “But I really could use some advice.”

He ushers her to sit down, and pours a cup of tea that he sets gently in Fran’s hands. She explains the entire situation, sparing no detail. Any memory that vaguely relates to her terse parental relations is also brought into the mix – if this man is going to know anything, he’s going to know everything. The conversation then moves into how much Fran loves writing, and how she feels as though she’s nothing without it. Mr. Bednar sits quietly and nods as she talks, not speaking until Fran winds herself.

“Can you tell him what you just told me?” he asks, leaning over to refill her cup and pass the sugar.

Fran scoffs, though the tears threatening to spill after sharing her heart show that she isn’t as aloof as she hopes to be. “Absolutely not. I can’t talk to him like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t see me as a person! To him I’m just a canvas he can project his dreams onto. There’s nothing I could say to make him see that he doesn’t always know what’s best for me.”

The room goes quiet. It isn’t uncomfortable, but Fran is waiting for the older man to speak again. Mr. Bednar stands and walks to the small window beside his desk. “I think you should try,” he theorizes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently. “If you tell him everything you just told me, your father will see the passion you have for writing, and will let you stay enrolled in both the workshop and Bryn Mawr.”

She stays with the teacher a little while longer, discussing poetry and prose. It’s nice to talk to someone without them having preconceived notions of how she’s meant to behave and who she’s supposed to become. When Fran walks back to her dormitory she still doesn't feel as light as she hoped. There’s absolutely no way she can try and convince her father to let you stick with writing. Fran’s only hope is to disobey his direct orders. If memory serves her correctly, Fran’s father will be leaving for a three day business trip to Chicago in the morning. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.

The rest of the night is spent with her friends doing everything in their power to keep Fran’s mind off the situation. At the suggestion of Cale, everyone dresses in their robes and sneaks to the cave, having an impromptu Society meeting. It’s nothing serious or official, just the group telling ghost stories and poking fun at each other.

After an hour or so of enjoying each others’ company, Nate abruptly stands. “I think everyone knows what time it is,” he grins.

Everyone else looks at him as if he has three heads, but then Tyson suddenly remembers something and joins the taller boy in towering over the group. He then turns around to pick up a small bundle of mangled wires and boxes and passes it to Nate. “I present to you all our now fully functional backyard radio!”

“Holy shit, you fucking did it,” Cale exclaims, profusely shocked. Charlotte just lets her jaw drop open in astonishment. Fran is speechless too, unable to believe her friends were actually able to pull their crazy invention scheme off.

No one speaks for a few beats, astounded, but Charlotte breaks the silence. “Well, are you going to turn it on you tossers?”

After a speedy setup that doesn’t look particularly safe, Nate sticks the antenna out the hole in the cave’s roof while Tyson fiddles with the dials. It takes a second, but soon enough music flits through the speaker. The voice of Elvis Presley meets everyone’s ears and Fran’s foot involuntarily taps along to the beat. Laughter and shouts of encouragement echo off the stones until it’s so loud she can no longer hear the music. No one seems to care, and Cale doesn’t refuse when Fran grabs his hand and invites him to dance. At some point Nate sweeps her into his arms to do a ridiculous step pattern, and Fran giggles loudly at the gesture. Despite everything that happened earlier in the evening, she ends the night feeling genuinely happy.

☼☼☼☼

There’s about ten minutes until Fran has to leave for Henley Hall. Charlotte has her practically tied to the desk chair and is in the process of taking the rollers out of Fran’s hair. Honestly, Fran doesn't care too much about her appearance since the event is nothing official, but her best friend insists she look the part of a glamorous novelist.

“Stop moving your bloody head,” the blonde grumbles.

“Sorry Lottie,” she apologizes sincerely. “Just a little antsy.”

It isn’t a lie. Fran has been a jittery mess all day. Not one of the lessons given stuck in her brain, and her left knee has been constantly bouncing.

Charlotte places her hand comfortingly on your shoulder. “I know darling.”

She gets back to work setting the curls, and Fran takes a second to look at herself in her small desk mirror. Charlotte has completed the seemingly impossible task of making her look elegant – painting her lips a beautiful cherry red and ironing the prettiest dress in their combined closets so there wouldn’t be any misplaced creases. A few spritzes of hairspray and she’s done, letting Fran stand up to see the finished product for the first time.

She looks herself up and down, trying to recognize the person staring back at her. It isn’t that she looks like a completely different person. In fact, Fran looks like a more sophisticated, well travelled version of a seventeen year old. She can picture herself employing Charlotte to help her get ready before any other major event she might have in the future – perhaps she’d prefer styling to nursing.

Before Fran can say anything a low whistle comes from the doorway. “You sure clean up nice, Francesca,” Nate grins, using the girl’s full name in an attempt to make her squirm.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, MacKinnon,” she says, walking breezily over to him and straightening out his bowtie. Everyone in the group is travelling to Henley in Mr. Bednar’s car. The audience doesn’t need to be there for nearly forty-five minutes after the call time, but Fran’s entourage wants to get good seats.

The other boys round the corner then, and compliment her profusely. It makes Fran blush, if only because they’re being uncharacteristically sincere. No comedic jabs follow, and she feels incredibly loved. The four of them sit patiently while Charlotte finishes her makeup, chatting amongst themselves. As soon as she’s done the door is shut quietly and the group tomps down the stairs to meet their teacher in the lobby.

“Looking sharp, kids,” Mr. Bednar exclaims jovially. “Like proper literature enthusiasts. Shall we go?”

Henley Hall isn’t a far walk, perhaps ten minutes, but riding in the back of her teacher’s car makes Fran feel important. He makes pleasant small talk with Charlotte and shares crude jokes with the boys, but asks Fran an earnest question.

“Did you tell your father what you told me Fran?”

She gulps. Of course she hadn’t called her father, not wanting to make matters worse. “I did, this morning,” she stutters. “He won’t be able to attend though, left for Chicago as I called. I think he’s going to let me stick with it.”

In the rearview mirror Mr. Bednar smiles brightly. “Glad to hear it.”

After parking the car out front of the building, the group walks into the theatre together, and Fran leaves them to slip backstage. No one else is, unsurprisingly, in the audience, but they’re more than content talking amongst themselves.

Ms. Robertson quickly goes over the speaking order and answers everyone’s questions before allowing time to practice answering questions one last time. It’s fun for Fran to chat with her fellow writers, who over the past few months have become friends, and hang out with them one last time. No one else from Welton ever joined, making her the lone outsider, but they took her in with open arms. It will be sad to leave them, though once she leaves for Bryn Mawr – if her father allows her to stay enrolled – some of the girls will be joining you.

A quick glance at the clock lets Fran know it’s go time. At the cue of the stage manager, she and the other participants file onto the stage. The one nice thing is that she isn’t out there alone and can lean on the support of her fellow creatives if need be.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to our annual Writer’s Showcase,” Ms. Robertson announces. Applause and cheers erupt from the crowd, with Fran’s little group making the most noise. She waves shyly and sits down, awaiting the prompt to begin speaking. When it’s finally her turn it takes a second for Fran to gain her voice, so petrified that something will go wrong, she mumbles the first few words of her introduction. After a second she’s fine, and continues speaking with ease and zeal.

Presenting her work to everyone important to her is the best moment of Fran’s entire life. The entire audience is on the edge of their seat, hanging off her every word. It’s empowering – for the first time in her life Fran feels special. She reads a short passage to much acclaim, ending with a deafening roar of applause. A broad smile finds its way onto her features and it seems as though it will be permanent.

The rest of the students finish their readings and the group move on to the question and answer section. This exercise is open, but each participant gets the same number of questions so as not to upstage anyone. However, it’s clear that Fran is the one most people are interested in. She ponders the questions and gives thoughtful answers. After a particularly tricky one, she hears Cale shout encouragement in her direction.

“That’s it Fran!” he yells through cupped hands, adding a whistle for extra effect. Her other friends join in, and soon so has the entire auditorium. Fran stands up and awkwardly bows before allowing another person to answer a question.

Everything is going well until she watches her father slip through the doors. He’s wearing a wicked scowl and has his brows knitted together. Whatever is about to happen won’t be pretty. Instead of causing a scene, he perches against the back wall and folds his arms over his chest. Fran gulps. Jeremy, the last boy to answer a question, finishes up. Everyone stands and bows, but she’s in such a daze that she has to be pulled up by those on either side of her. The noise is overwhelming and Fran is beginning to find it hard to breathe. As soon as it’s possible, she darts off the stage and out of view.

“Fran? What’s wrong?” Ms. Robertson asks, concern lacing her voice.

“Nothing,” she lies through her teeth. “Just a little overwhelmed by it all.”

She smiles and wraps her arms around Fran’s shoulder in a hug. “I know. Come on, let’s go celebrate.” Much to her chagrin, Fran is pulled into the crowd of people waiting to see their loved ones in the lobby. Sifting through the mass, she tries her hardest to find her friends before her father finds where she is. Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

“Francesca,” he shouts, reaching through the crowd to grab Fran by the wrist. “We’re going home right this minute.”

“But I have to return to Welton, Sir,” she protests.

Fran’s father sends her a look that could turn Medusa to stone. “Car. Now.”

It’s a hassle to keep up with his blistering pace, but Fran knows things will be worse if she keeps him waiting. The walls seem to cave in around her and tears flow without regard to who could see. Fran is legitimately terrified.

She hears her name being called as she reaches the door. Charlotte spots her and ducks under a man’s arm to catch up. Fran shoots her a warning look but she either doesn’t see it or pays it no mind. The rest of the group follows her. Too scared to look at them, Fran remains mute as they call out to her.

“That was simply wonderful, Miss Winters,” Mr. Bednar exclaims. “You’ve got a real talent for writing.” Fran blushes at his words, and hopes it conveys how much they mean to her.

Knowing this is probably going to be her only chance, Fran shoves the copy of her novel into the teacher’s chest. It’s got his initials embossed on the front cover and includes a handwritten dedication explaining how much his encouragement means to her. “Take this,” Fran mumbles, unable to look him or her friends in the eye.

Her father doesn’t miss the interaction. “Get in the car,” he orders. Fran follows the directions and presses your face against the glass, worried for her teacher. When he wants to, her father can unleash his wicked temper with unyielding cruelty.

“Stay away from my daughter, Bednar,” he seethes, grabbing the other man by the collar of his sweater. “You’re the one that put her up to all this nonsense.”

“He didn’t!” Nate protests, preparing to give Fran’s father a piece of his mind but Mr. Bednar stops him.

“That’s enough, Nathan, we don’t need to make it worse.”

With nothing else to say, Fran’s father storms to his side of the vehicle and slams the door. Turning the engine on rather aggressively he zips out the parking lot, leaving Fran to stare out the back window and watch her friends shrink and disappear. It’s so tense the air between the two of them could be cut with a dull kitchen knife. The silence is deafening and Fran wishes he’d just start screaming now to get it over with. Instead, he doesn’t speak or look at her, focussing on the road ahead of him. Though she doesn't live terribly far from Welton and Henley, the ride is long enough to spike Fran’s anxiety.

Fran’s mother is standing on the porch when the car pulls into the driveway. She pushes off the column to meet her family at the car, but stops in her tracks when her husband breezes past her. Fran hasn't even had time to open the passenger door.

“Conrad,” her mother sighs, following him into the house and trying to calm him down.

“No, Barbra, she’s gone too far this time.”

If driving away wouldn’t make it worse, Fran would be halfway to Welton by now. Her father had taught her to drive in the evenings during the summer, and it’s late enough that no police would be patrolling. Besides, if she told them the truth they might let her off the hook.

Instead, she rises out of the car with shaking knees. The front door is still open, so Fran slinks through and shuts it quietly. In the office beside the entryway her parents are arguing, though it’s mostly her father doing the talking. He often overpowers her mom and she’s too fragile to speak up for herself. That door is open too, which Fran finds strange. Normally their arguments happen in private.

“Come in,” her father says gruffly.

Fran enters cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Considering he almost assaulted her English teacher it probably won’t be very good. The chair directly across from her father is open, and she sinks into it, refusing to meet his gaze. Across the room her mother is perched delicately on the edge of the desk, chain smoking cigarettes and twirling the pearls of her necklace around her thumb.

“We’re trying very hard to understand why you insist on defying us, defying me.” His voice is eerily calm, and truthfully that upsets Fran more than if he were to scream at her. “And though I suspect that no good, idyllic teacher is behind it, we aren’t going to let you ruin your life. You’ll no longer be attending Welton. Starting first thing in the morning you’ll be enrolled at Balthasar’s Refining Academy, where you’ll finish the year and study to become a legal secretary.”

“But Father, that’s a lifetime of unhappiness,” Fran protests. “I don’t want to be a secretary.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad!” he screeches. “Because that’s what you’re going to be. It’s not a death sentence.”

Her mother says nothing, just sits and stares blankly. Fran can tell she’s afraid of him, her father, but won’t ever leave. That’s simply not the way things work.

“You don’t understand, Francesca” he continues, “You have opportunities your mother and I could never have even dreamt of. I can’t let you waste them.” With a sharp turn on his heel he faces the window, his back to Fran signaling the conversation is finished.

Adrenaline courses through her veins, and Fran seizes the only opportunity shemight ever get to tell her father how she truly feels. “I need you to know what I feel!”

Not appreciating the young girl’s challenge to his authority, Fran’s father turns on her with a wicked gleam in his eye. “What is it that you feel?” he snarls. “What is it!”

Facing him diminishes her newfound confidence. There’s no doubt he’ll pick the argument apart, berate her for having aspirations based on passion instead of security. It’s a fight Fran won’t win, so she backs down entirely.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispers.

A triumphant smirk appears on her father’s face. “That settles it then,” he exclaims, and promptly strides out of the room to get ready for bed.

Fran falls back in the armchair feeling incredibly defeated. Tears begin to fall, and soon sobs are wracking her body. In an effort to be of some comfort her mother places a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn’t help. She’s just as much to blame for Fran’s sorrow as he is.

“I was really good out there. I truly felt happy for the first time.” Fran’s voice breaks as she speaks, unable to continue for fear of breaking down completely.

Her mother stands and finishes the rest of her cigarette in a single drag. “It’s been a long night, let’s get some sleep.”

There’s no way Fran will be able to sleep. The events of the past few hours replay in her head on a loop, and she tries to find things she could have done that would have made the outcome different. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to her friends or Mr. Bednar, and that’s what stings the most.

She stares at the ceiling for a few hours, and when that doesn’t settle anything Fran gets out of bed to stare out the window. The night looks peaceful and quiet, unlike the sea of sadness swimming in her soul. In an attempt to find a solution to the swirling of her mind, she opens the window and allows the air to flow in. It’s warm, a tad bit sticky for April, but it calms her down for a split second. There’s a moment when Fran feels free, when the moonlight hits her skin just right and she’s glistening like Selene herself, before the weight of everything settles on her shoulders again. Fran is unhappy, and she will be unhappy for the rest of her life.

There’s only one thing left for her to do.

She slips into actual clothes and grabs a jacket from the small wardrobe in the corner of her room. Propping open the window with a piece of wood she found on the floor – her parents are in the middle of remodelling the house – and slipping on shoes, Fran looks around the room for a final time. If she plays her cards right, this will be the last time she’s ever in the building.

Carefully, Fran slips out the window and perches on the large branch. It’s strong enough to hold her weight if she wanted to close the window, but she doesn’t bother to hide the escape from her parents. They’ll know as soon as they wake up anyways. She quickly scurries down to ground level and takes off without a look over her shoulder. Sprinting as fast as she can, Fran makes it down the road and into the nearby village rather fast. The darkness of the night covers her tracks, and besides, no one is out at this time anyways.

There’s a payphone on the corner across from the post office, and Fran steps into the booth as soon as she possibly can. Her hands shake as she picks up the receiver. Thankfully the telephone operators won’t be able to tell who she is and alert her parents, since Fran’s calling from a public line.

“Operator,” the woman says flatly.

“Hello,” Fran rushes the introduction, skipping over a few formalities. “I need to speak to Mr. Jared Bednar of Welton Academy.”

With an unamused grunt the operator switches the phone over to his line. The dial tone begins to ring, and Fran feels anxiety settle into her bones. What if he decides not to help?

“Who is calling at such an ungodly hour?” he yawns, and she feels bad for waking him.

“Mr. Bednar, I ran away from home,” Fran cries, finally allowing tears to escape and too upset to use the nickname she often calls him by. “Can you come pick me up?”

His response is immediate. “Of course, child. Where are you?”

She explains to him where she is and, after promising not to move, hangs up. There’s a bench beside the phone booth, so Fran sits patiently and waits for the teacher to arrive. The wind no longer feels warm, and she curls the light jacket she brought tighter around her shoulders. Thankfully, no one approaches her while she sits alone. Fran is in a very precarious situation, and doesn't know how she would survive a kidnapping attempt.

Mr. Bednar’s car pulls up alongside the curb and he jumps up before the gearshift settles into park. His arms are around Fran in a nanosecond, comforting her and leading her to the warmth of the vehicle. Once out of the elements Fran feels slightly better, but is still exhausted from the roller coaster that has been the past few hours.

“Let’s get you back home,” he says, and she begins to panic. “To Hell-ton.”

Her heart rate steadies, and Fran finds enough energy to half-heartedly laugh at the use of Welton’s absurd nickname. This drive is also silent, but extremely comfortable. Eventually Mr. Bednar reaches over and turns the radio on, and she falls asleep to the voice of Sam Cooke.

When Fran arrives at Welton, she doesn’t go back to her dorm. Instead, Mr. Bednar sequesters her into the teachers’ quarters. “Your father will be here in the morning to try and find you and it will be the first place they look,” he explains. “You’re safe up here.” At Fran’s request he grabs Charlotte, and she collapses into the blonde’s arms when she steps in the room.

“Shh Fran, it’s alright,” she soothes. “You’re okay. And you’re safe.”

The two girls sleep curled together on the small couch in Mr. Bednar’s living room while he paces back and forth trying to figure out what to do. He should report the incident to the administration, but he knows that Dr. Sakic will allow Fran to go back into a dangerous situation without care for her safety. There’s nothing he would want less in the world, he decides, and doesn’t care if his credibility is ruined while trying to protect her. He doesn’t sleep a wink, keeping an eye on the door in case someone saw him bring Fran in – Welton’s staff is full of greedy opportunists who will do anything to get ahead.

He was right. The next morning Fran’s father is at Welton, demanding she return home with him. She’s nowhere to be found of course, tucked safely away in Mr. Bednar’s room, but Fran watches him stomp around the grounds from the window. It’s terrifying, knowing he could find her at any second. Never has she been more scared in her life.

Fran’s friends come to see her whenever they can spare a moment, though never all together. Cale comes the most frequently, but that’s because he’s positioned to be a staff member in a few months and the old men don’t mind him being in their quarters. He brings with him sweets and stories of other students misbehaving in class – most of the time it’s Nate. Since she’s technically a fugitive and can’t attend lessons, her friends take turns breaking down the material so Fran doesn’t get too far behind. When the anxiety of getting found out gets to be too much, Charlotte comes to braid Fran’s hair and shares fantastical tales of her European adventures. Nate stops by as often as he can, letting Fran know he’s there for her in every sense of the word, and she feels herself yearning for him once again.

After three days her father stops coming to Welton. Fran assumes he’s moved on to looking in other places, and becomes a bit freer in her movements. Late at night she sneaks out to join her friends at the regularly scheduled Society meetings. Mr. Bednar doesn’t say anything, sometimes helping Fran escape by distracting those who might see her in the hallways. This works for a week, but eventually she’s found out.

Fellow student Nico Sturm finds Fran sneaking back into Mr. Bednar’s quarters one evening. Nico is in that section of the school for chemistry tutoring, and sees her pass by in a flash. Immediately after realizing it was the missing girl teachers have encouraged students to look for, he travels to Dr. Sakic’s office, where the old man works until well into the night. The young man takes the opportunity to also reveal the names of the other students involved in the Society for Banned and Burned Books. Apparently he’s been watching the group for quite some time, waiting until the time was right to present the information. He’ll make a great politician indeed.

Three raps at the door are followed by Sakic’s booming voice. “Jared, open this door or so help me god.”

Fran looks at her teacher with an absolutely petrified gaze. “What do we do?” she asks, voice small.

“Whatever we can to minimize the damage,” he replies grimly.

Dr. Sakic stands in the doorway, broad shoulders making it so much of the space isn’t empty. He invites himself in, peering around the room for Fran. When he spots her he speaks. “Christ Jared, you can’t kidnap children.”

The English teacher calmly explains that he had not kidnapped Fran, but that she had called him for help after running away from home. Apparently that wasn’t the answer Sakic was looking for. The older man explains that Fran’s parents are on their way to the school and that the three of them should make the journey to his office.

The entire time Fran waits for her parents to arrive she’s a nervous wreck. Her teacher does his best to comfort her from a distance – it was made very clear that the two of them were to be separated. Both men let Fran cry freely, which she appreciates, because once her father enters the room she’ll be forced to show no emotion.

He’s a force to be reckoned with when he arrives, arms flying and tongue lashing. It’s all Fran’s mother and Dr. Sakic can do to stop him from tearing Mr. Bednar’s throat out. “You no good son of a bitch,” he screams. “You kidnapped my daughter!”

“Lower your voice, Conrad,” Dr. Sakic advises. “It’s better if we solve this matter privately. We don’t want a scandal.”

Her father huffs gruffly before agreeing. Fran doesn't dare look him in the eye and he pays her no mind. Though her mother does come over to quietly ask if Fran was safe, she’s quickly called to her husband’s side.

The adults deliberate for hours, never once stopping to bring Fran into the conversation. Mr. Bednar gives her a look that says he would if possible, but she knows he can’t ask for her input on the matter at hand. His career is already on the brink. Fran’s father is adamant on having Mr. Bednar fired and pulling her out of Welton.

“It’s clearly not safe for her here,” he argues. “So it’s best we put her someplace else.”

Dr. Sakic disagrees completely. “You’ll never be able to find a school to take her for a month. Plus she’s graduating. Let her remain here, and then send her wherever you’d like.”

Fran’s parents deliberate for a short time. It’s mostly her father arguing that she must leave and your mother agreeing with the headmaster. “He’s right dear, it would be detrimental to her education if we send her someplace else,” she says quietly. He mulls it over for a minute before conceding.

“Fine. But Bednar is gone.”

Fran can’t help her face from falling into a frown. It isn’t fair he gets punished for trying to help her. “Father –” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I advise you not to speak unless called upon, Francesca,” he says cooly. “When asked, you will verbally confirm that Mr. Bednar kidnapped you and held you hostage. You’ll also sign a paper saying that he encouraged you to enter into unauthorized extra curriculars.”

The tone of his voice tells Fran those orders are final and she’d be a fool to try and defy them. Left with no other option she agrees, though Fran hopes the fingers you have crossed behind her back will help to lessen the guilt. “I don’t see that I have any other choice,” she sighs. “So I have one request.”

“You’re not in a place to be asking for anything,” her father spits.

Dr. Sakic stops him from continuing. “Mr. Winters, we try to keep this school as democratic as possible. Let her speak.”

The floor is hers and Fran’s throat goes drier than a desert. “I don’t want Mr. Bednar in the room when I say these things,” she stammers, heart pounding in her ears. She’d rather not say them at all, but her hand is being forced.

The request is granted, and Fran’s beloved English teacher nods his head once before slipping out of the room. Tears stain her cheeks and blouse as she repeats the words she’s prompted to. Her voice is barely above a whisper and riddled with hiccups, but they don’t let Fran stop. Eventually the excruciating process is done, and it feels like her soul has been crushed. In a way it has – Mr. Bednar gave Fran the tools to feel like her life had purpose and now he’s gone.

Without acknowledging her parents, Fran turns on her heel to return to the dormitory wing. They’ll stay for a while longer, discussing with the headmaster on how they want to proceed legally. At the last second she decides to turn around, speaking to them for what will hopefully be the last time.

“I never want to see either of you ever again.”

Charlotte is waiting for her with open arms. She lets Fran cry herself to sleep, and even then she doesn’t dare move a muscle. The other girl needs her to provide love and stability, even in an unconscious state, and she understands. Sleep doesn’t come easy, or for long, but Charlotte’s there with Fran every step of the way.

☼☼☼☼

Fran is empty. Everything feels like it’s underwater, and she spends most of the morning distant from almost everything. Her friends are there, cracking small jokes and offering comforting touches. It’s much appreciated and Fran hopes they know this, because she’s too exhausted to tell them herself. The events of last night, and the weeks and months before, play on loop in her head. She feels personally responsible for the destruction of Mr. Bednar’s career, and though she knows he doesn’t blame you, Fran can’t help but blame herself.

No one pushes her much, which Fran appreciates. The other teachers know what happened last night, and don’t call on her for answers. Other students whisper but she does her best to ignore them, and when they get a little too rowdy Nate quiets them down with a quick-witted insult. Fran never liked most of them anyways. Nico is nowhere to be found, but she’d be the last person to get your hands on him. Nate, Tyson, and Cale have already said fighting him is worth the risk of getting expelled.

Luckily none of Fran’s friends get punished for The Society. The school administration places all the blame on Mr. Bednar, though that isn’t much of a conciliation. Everyone feels terrible, but the others are keeping their spirits up as much as possible for Fran.

“Look at this origami swan,” Tyson says, dropping it into Fran’s hands. “I figured out how to do it in trigonometry.”

It’s obvious he’s trying to distract her from the fact the pair of them are entering the English classroom. For the first time all year Mr. Bednar won’t be waiting, encouraging everyone to go after their dreams while talking about literature. Fran is grateful for the effort Tyson’s putting in, especially because today has been difficult for him too.

When she slides into her seat behind him, she notices that Dr. Sakic is writing on the blackboard. Once everyone is in their seats and the bell rings he addresses everyone. “I’ll be teaching you for the rest of the year, and we’ll hire a replacement in the summer,” he says. “Though, I suspect the only person in here who will care is Mr. Makar. Perhaps the position will be yours, young man.”

“Possibly Sir,” Cale says shyly, blush creeping onto his cheeks.

The lesson the headmaster turned substitute teacher gives is boring. Apparently very little Mr. Bednar taught was in the curriculum, so he plays catch up as quickly as possible. Fran barely pays attention, wondering what her old teacher is doing at the very moment. Could he already be out of the state, driven out by shame? A knock at the door pulls her from the daydream.

“I left some personal belongings in my office. Should I collect them after class?”

The voice of Mr. Bednar rings out through the room, and Fran whips around in her seat. There he is, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink, but still here and present. He lets the class have a small smile, informing them all he would be okay without having to say anything.

Dr. Sakic doesn’t look thrilled. “It’s fine Bednar, grab them now,” he sighs, corralling the class’s attention back to him.

Too afraid to meet his gaze, Fran stares at her textbook while he passes by. There’s some rustling in the small room behind the main classroom, and then her former teacher emerges. Knowing it’s the last time she’ll ever see the man, and that the guilt will eat her alive if she doesn’t, Fran speaks.

“Mr. Bednar, they made me sign those papers. Made all of us sign them,” she explains, words so rushed they jumble together.

He smiles kindly. “I know.”

“Miss Winters, that’s enough,” Dr. Sakic shouts before narrowing his eyes at the other man. “Your time has expired Mr. Bednar. It’s time for you to leave.”

Mr. Bednar heads for the door. No one else looks at him, too afraid of getting reprimanded by their new teacher. The lesson continues around her but Fran isn't paying attention. Suddenly there’s more rustling, and Tyson is standing on top of his desk.

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” he yells, completely disrupting the studious atmosphere.

The phrase stops Mr. Bednar in his tracks, and he turns around.

“Mr. Jost, get down this instant,” Sakic screeches.

Nate follows his friend’s lead, popping up and repeating the words. “Oh Captain, my Captain,” he says, adding a small salute for flair.

The courage of her friends nestles inside Fran’s stomach and pushes her to act. She rises in solidarity with them, and Charlotte and Cale follow suit. Dr. Sakic yells at the group repeatedly, threatening disciplinary measures that won’t be fun, but Fran could care less. All that matters to her in the moment is letting Mr. Bednar know that she’ll never stop caring about him or forget everything he did for her.

“Thank you kids,” he whispers, a single tear rolling down his left cheek.

Only the five of them stand in sendoff, but it feels like the entire world is on their side. Fran realizes that this is her world – her friends, her idol, and the wealth of memories and possibilities made possible because of them. That will always be enough.

[shutupanakin]

Wasting Your Time ch.1

“Wh— what?” Tommy choked out, his voice hoarse from the lack of use all day.

The man rolled his eyes, as if he didn’t just ask a completely impolite question. “I said, do you have any booze?”

Tommy sat still. He reached into his jacket pocket, his hand finding only a plastic pen. Could he stab this man with a plastic pen?

Tommy pulled said piece of plastic out, visibly holding it up. “I have a pen.” Something about the bemused look on the man's face made Tommy click it, and again, repeatedly.

click click click click click click click click—

...

or; Tommy planned on dying. He meets Wilbur instead.

crossposted on ao3 here

Tommy stared at the yellow line, centimeters away from his feet. The announcement of the incoming train ringing in his ears, feeling the approachment of the vehicle vibrate the concrete under his feet. He forced his head up, glaring at the incoming lights.

Tommy squinted. He threw a glance at the only other person waiting on the 11:25 pm train— a little old lady, Tommy was sure that he had at least a foot on her. Her wrinkled hand clutched a brown cane, the other one on her ruby red purse.

Tommy would hate to inconvenience her.

Tommy stepped a few inches back, safely behind the yellow line. The train slowed to a stop, waiting a few moments before the metal doors pulled open in front of him, clicking with a metallic sound. There were a few stragglers at the front, where the elder woman had gotten, and a couple sitting in the midsection. Tommy ducked his head and grabbed a seat at the back.

Tommy threw his feet up on the empty seat next to him, resting the back of his head against the warm glass. Another few seconds and the doors hissed shut. The train pulled away, the lights in the tunnel buzzing past him.

Tommy mentally tallied how many people were in here with him; the three at the front, with the elder woman who was with him on the platform, and the couple. Six people who’s nights he could've possibly ruined. Delaying a train at this time of night would be rude.

Sam would be sleeping, he had morning classes that he couldn't afford to stay up late for. When Tommy slipped out of their flat his older brother had been snoring away peacefully in his room. The thought of Sam makes Tommy pick at a loose thread on his jacket, pulling it with his fingernail. He didn’t want to think about Sam right now.

Tubbo would be up, definitely. His absent sleep schedule sucked. He was probably in a discord call with Ranboo, talking or playing CSGO or messing around in Minecraft , he didn’t know. On a normal night he’d probably be with them. Laughing so hard and loud that it makes the neighbor's dogs bark. Falling over in his chair… and Sam would sleep right through it, like he always did.

Wasn’t exactly a “normal” night, though.

Honestly, he hasn’t had a normal night in a while. Tubbo, often Ranboo, would text him; “wanna play?” Or “why aren’t you in vc?” And Tommy would reply, “sorry, don’t feel like playing”, or,”can’t, got a bunch of homework.” Sometimes that wasn’t a lie. Then, Tubbo just stopped asking. And of course, Tommy couldn’t blame him, it hurt, yeah, but Tommy unintentionally ghosted them.

He just couldn't stand to be in that call, after the last few times. Tubbo and Ranboo giggling at each other, poking fun with inside jokes that Tommy didn’t understand. Little moments like those would have Tommy faking a yawn and saying goodnight. He didn’t want to ruin their fun.

Tommy’s phone buzzed, the little bit of reception that he got down here snapping him back to his current reality. The train had stopped at the next station, the couple standing and the old woman following. Tommy’s eyes followed them as they left, debating if he should follow. Another buzz. Tommy turned his attention back to his phone.

Tubbo at 11:30 pm

Toommy

Tubbo at 11:30 pm

do u wanna play Terraria

His fingers started typing, beginning a message, but shook his head, shoving his phone back in his pocket. His activity on discord was already invisible. Tommy didn’t know what to say to him. He didn’t want his last possible text to Tubbo to be something as simple as a turndown to play a game.

A thump from across Tommy startled him, the cause of the sound being a man with a mess of curly brown hair mirroring his position across the aisle. His leg up and arm resting on the top of the seat. Brown eyes framed with round glasses met Tommy’s.

"Got any booze, kid?” The train was pulling away.

For no particular, definitely unrelated reason, Tommy wished that he had just gotten off.

“Wh— what?” Tommy choked out, his voice hoarse from the lack of use all day.

The man rolled his eyes, as if he didn’t just ask a completely impolite question. “I said, do you have any booze?”

Tommy sat still. He reached into his jacket pocket, his hand finding only a plastic pen. Could he stab this man with a plastic pen?

Tommy pulled said piece of plastic out, visibly holding it up. “I have a pen.” Something about the bemused look on the man's face made Tommy click it, and again, repeatedly.

click click click click click click click click—

The man waved his hand, leaning forward. “Fucking— stop that! You are annoying.”

Tommy grinned, it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” He said, pocketing the pen. “and you are a loser.”

The man gasped in a show of dramatics. Bringing his arm up to his forehead, the brown fabric of his coat covering his eyes. “Oh, woe me, the tragedy, meeting my end to a child!”

Tommy scowled. “You’re a real prick.”

The older man didn’t falter, continuing his tirade. “Poor, poor me. All thy’ve ever wantedth was thy vodka.”

Tommy didn’t know why he egged this on. He could pull out his earbuds and tune out his nonsense until Tommy or him got off the train, whichever was coming first. “Your Shakespeare sucks,” Tommy grunted. “ Wantedth isn’t a word, bitch.”

“Then you know Shakespeare?”

Quickly, Tommy shook his head. “Absolutely not. None of that nerd shit. I just paid enough attention in Lit to know you’re a fucking moron.”

His eyes narrowed at Tommy, or more so, what he was wearing. “What sport do you play?”

Tommy’s eyebrows shot up, what made him ask that? “Pardon?”

He groaned, rolling his shoulders. “Your jacket, you insolent toddler,” He gestured vaguely at Tommy. “what sport?”

Tommy looked down, glancing at the red thread he was picking at earlier. “Oh,” That came out quieter than Tommy wanted, a whisper. “it’s my brothers,” There was Tommy’s voice. “Got it when he was visiting the states.” Tommy shook his head, brushing the thought of Sam away. “And my names Tommy, dickhead.”

The complete ass, he had the audacity to hum at him . “Wilbur Soot,”

Tommy scoffed. “That’s a stupid fucking name.”

“You are a child.” Wilbur chided, there was no true heat behind his words.

Tommy shrugged. “You’re a bitch.”

Another stop, Tommy tallied that as the third one; another stop he hadn’t gotten off at. This wasn’t meant to be a trip, he remembered. The ticket, which sat folded in his pants pocket, was one way. Tommy had bought it out of... what was it? Courtesy? He hadn’t intended to survive long enough for the ticket collectors to come around.

Excuses. Excuses, that’s what this was. Tommy was making excuses, simple as that. He wanted to go through with this, he was sure of it. He’d thought about this for weeks, planned this out for days, he figured out which day and which time of night would have the least people. But there were still people, there was the old lady and couple who had gotten off earlier and the four people at the front and the—

Well, there was Wilbur Soot, who for whatever damned, unknown reason, had sat down across from Tommy. Now Tommy was stuck with him until either of them get up and leave. He silently wondered who would go first.

No one had gotten on, or left. The train moved on.

“So uh, where—“ Tommy stumbled, swallowing. “Where you headed?”

Wilbur shrugged, Tommy furrowing his eyebrows. "Nowhere in particular, just felt like getting on. You?”

The fuck did that mean? Tommy thinks. “So you just... got on, no reasoning. Just like that?”

“Just like that. You didn’t answer the question.” Tommy groaned. Tommy was edging back to wanting to punch his stupid face.

“Not when you answer so vaguely,” Tommy cried. “I’m not going anywhere in particular either, for your information.”

“Really?” Wilbur pushed, incredulously. Like he had the right to be skeptical.

“Really.” Honestly, who did this irritable dickhead think he was? Tommy shuffled, folding his arms. Maybe he will get off at the next stop, he won’t ever have to ever see the enraging presence that was Wilbur Soot and his stupid Reagan and Bush sweater again.

Reagan, Reagan… that was an American President, right? The more and more he observed the man, it could be concluded without a doubt that he was a loser. Not only that, but an irritable one. An irritable loser. What a fate, worse than death. He’d say it was a cursed existence, if you asked Tommy.

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, becoming too aware of the hard plastic seat underneath him. “I just needed to get out tonight. Don’t know why.”

Wilbur rapped his knuckles against the window, in a rhythm that Tommy didn’t recognize. “Running from something? School? Parents?” He grinned. “Girlfriend?”

Tommy’s face twisted in disgust. “I— no no no. To all of those! Down the list, no, no, and no. ”

“Running to something then?” You could word it like that. Tommy frowned, decidedly not answering. “What, were you gonna jump then?”

Tommy knew that Wilbur was joking, but he couldn’t help the way he flinched. “I wasn’t going to jump, bitch— do you do this to every stranger you meet on the rails? Interrogate them for their life story?”

Wilbur pointed his index finger towards the front of the train. “They would not care, you know,”

Tommy’s mouth was dry. “What?”

“Them,” Wilbur gestured. “everyone, they would complain about the delay, they— they would be at best inconvenienced. At worst angry at you .”

“You’re real emo, you know,” Tommy deadpanned. “A right gothic.”

“I prefer poet,” Wilbur corrected. “I am not wrong though, the people here, no sympathy. No empathy. Just inconvenienced.”

“You’re inconveniencing me.” Tommy expressed.

“Because you were going to jump?”

“ Oh —“ Tommy snapped. “That’s none of your business! Stop trying to psychoanalyze me you pretentious prick, what I came down here to do is none of your busin—“

“So you were going to? That is what you came down here to do?”

Whatever battle they were fighting, Tommy was losing, and he was exasperated . “Oh, so, what if I was? Why do you care?”

“Come on,” Wilbur said, swinging his legs over the seat and standing up. How his legs weren’t asleep, Tommy didn’t know. Tommy hit his asleep leg, silently cursing it.

“Wha’?” Tommy asked, narrowing his eyes. “What makes you think I wanna get off with you?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Well, I have nowhere to go, and you have nowhere to go, and to be honest this is getting depressing. And, I would rather not leave a possible suicidal teenager alone. Also, I know a store outside this station.”

Tommy groaned. “Oh no,” He said. “I’m being kidnapped. No, stop, someone help please.” He stood up, shaking the static like feeling out of his left leg. Begrudgingly following Wilbur when the sliding doors pulled open. “Is this the part where your gang comes around the corner in a white van and shoves me in?”

“I don’t have enough friends for that.” Wilbur insisted, leading Tommy up the concrete stairs of the station. Tommy couldn’t help his smile. “I believe you.” Wilbur blew air out his nose, hopefully in amusement.

Tommy checked his phone, the bright light illuminating his face as he and Wilbur stepped out of the tunnel. 12:22 am stared back at him, along with a few more texts from Tubbo. Tommy pocketed it.

Tommy breathed in the crisp midnight air, after almost an hour in the underground, the fresh air felt nice. The area was rural, decently lit for the middle of the night. Tommy turned to look at Wilbur. “So where we goin? Pub? Club? I don’t have a fake ID, big dubbs.”

“No,” Wilbur shook his head, starting his trekk up the hill. “Store, if you can call it that. He is open until three.”

They crossed the street before Wilbur came to a stop, tapping his foot against the ground. “This it?” Tommy asked, reading the sign. Wilbur giving a mmm hmm — in response.

JACK OF ALL TRADES

That was… lame, Tommy thought. “I can’t go in though.” Tommy double-took, stepping back.

“What do you mean you can’t go in?!” He hissed.

“Got banned.” Wilbur replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“How?”

Wilbur slapped him on the shoulder. “Story for later, my young friend. Maybe refrain from telling Jack I sent you in, though.”

Tommy huffed. “You suck.” He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket. “You’re not gonna ditch me here are you?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, holding up three fingers. “I swear on it.” His smile grew, eyes shining.

He sighed. “Why am I going in again?” It seemed rather pointless, to take Tommy to a store he wasn’t even allowed in. With a quick glance through the windows Tommy guessed it was some sort of gift shop, snow globes and odd looking jewelry lining their respective shelves.

Wilbur tilted his head. “Because it will give you something to do other than to ride the tube to the end of the tracks trying to make up your mind.” He answered.

“When you put it like that,” Tommy grumbled, pushing open the door, triggering the bell at the top to ring. The inside was small, and warm. It was definitely homey.

“Hello!” A heavy accented voice greeted Tommy looked up, a shaved headed man wearing a striped hoodie smiling at him. Jack, he assumed. He sat behind the counter, his legs perched up on the counter. He put down the magazine he had been reading. “What brings you here this time of night?”

Tommy’s mouth formed into a ‘o’, he didn’t expect to have to make conversation with another stranger tonight. “Oh, um,” He cringed, running his hand through his hair. “out for a walk, saw you were open.” He lied, Wilbur had said not to bring him up.

Starting to pick at the thread again, his eyes scanning over the snow globes and miniature statues. His attention fell on a bowl of pins, some were round and others were shaped. The scan bars on the back faded or scratched out.

He reached in, moving around the pins. He wasn’t really searching for anything specifically. Tommy rubbed his thumb over the bee shaped pin he had pulled out. “How much?”

“The pin?” Tommy nodded. “Two pounds.” Jack answered.

Tommy blinked. “That’s ridiculous.” He grumbled, opening his wallet. He handed it to Jack, fiddling with the bee pin.

“Have a goodnight now!” Jack called as Tommy left, stepping outside. Wilbur was there, like he said he’d be.

“Did you get banned for complaining about his obscure prices?” Tommy sneered, making Wilbur laugh. “Absolute ridiculousness.”

“What did you get?” Tommy opened his palm, showing the bee. He attached it to his jacket, the needle clicking into place.

“Jackets blank, thought it could use something.” Tommy explained, walking beside Wilbur. “I’ve been completely ripped off, though. You did this to me.”

“No no, mister Jack Manifold did that to you. Not me.” Wilbur expressed. “I merely brought you there.”

“To be scammed.” Tommy insisted.

Their walk back to the tube station was pleasantly uneventful, Tommy didn’t comment on how Wilbur got on the opposite platform they got off of. He guessed that was the sign that this night was coming to an end. They were going back in the direction they came.

Tommy silently wished that they didn’t, that they kept going. The idea of returning home was becoming less and less appealing. The robotic voice echoed through the speakers, announcing the incoming train.

Tommy resisted the urge to make a jumping joke, knowing that would earn him a smack against the head or something. So he stood behind the yellow line, Wilbur at his side. The inside had a single man, at the front alone. Tommy ignored him, hitching his seat at the back, Wilbur sitting across from him.

“This wasn’t how I planned my night, by the way,” Tommy grumbled.

“I know,” Wilbur told. “I am sure this had the better outcome though. I will make you a deal, okay?” Tommy nodded, starting to play with the edge of his sleeves. “If you can make it to the end of the week without, trying to jump in front of another train, or try to kick a chair out from underneath you—“

“That would be a really lame way to die,” Tommy interjected.

“I am giving an example, Tommy,” Wilbur huffed. “If you make it through the end of the week, come back here. Same day.”

Tommy considered it. “Same time?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Sure, although I would not recommend making a habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose, contemplating. This offer— there was no reason he had to take it. He could get off and never see Wilbur again, it wouldn’t change anything. The world will continue spinning, they would both move on, Wilbur would eventually forget about this strange encounter, and so would Tommy.

They stopped, again, no one getting on or off. Wilbur was still waiting for his answer. Tommy didn’t have it.

This was nice though , Tommy thought. It was nice to leave that flat, to get off his mattress. To have a reason to ignore the discord messages from Tubbo and Ranboo. He didn’t have to lay in bed, dreading going to his classes the next day, because he was occupied. He had something to do.

“Alright,” Tommy said. “I’ll take that bet, big man.”

“Deal?” Wilbur reached his hand out, Tommy leaned forward, shaking it.

“Deal,” Tommy gave a toothy smile. “I’ll try not to become a tubeline statistic until next week.”

“That is not funny,” Wilbur warned, although there was no true malice in his tone. “I will have you know statistics are no laughing matter.” Tommy barked out a laugh, the serious expression Wilbur word dropping. If the stragglers at the front were giving bewildered stares at Tommy, he didn’t notice.

“It was…” He wheezed. “It was kinda funny. If anyone gets to joke about that it’s me, alright? Isn’t that some, therapist shit or something? Using humor to cope? That’s me. I’m doing that.”

“You should try that, seeing a therapist,”

Therapy was useless, at least to Tommy. He didn’t need someone in a fancy office to tell him something was wrong with him, he knew damn well what was wrong with him. No pens, or clipboards, or uncomfortable couches, or ticking clocks and judgemental eyes will be able to tell him something that he didn’t already know.

Tommy thinks Sam knows one, or at least she’s studying to become one. A school friend that Tommy’s met maybe twice. The mere idea of dumping his shit on her, he almost felt bad! No thank you , Tommy thought. He would be avoiding that.

“Nah,” Tommy brushed it off. “I don’t do that. Don’t need that. Won’t do anything for me.”

Tommy didn’t realize how long they had been talking, because when the train slowed into a familiar station, Wilbur pulled himself up. Tommy frowned, watching the man stand next to the doors, waiting for them to pull open.

“So, see you next week Toms?” He teased.

Tommy groaned in annoyance. “We are certainly not at Toms yet, big dubbs.”

“I will get there I’m sure,” He said, stepping out. “Farewell Tommy!” He waved, Tommy’s urge to punch those stupid glasses off his face coming back.

Tommy flipped him off, watching the curly mop of brown hair disappear as the train started moving, the platform and the man with it being replaced by the cement walls.

His stop was next, he realized. Tommy would get off, he would walk home and slip into his bed and would have to pray that Sam’s heavy sleeping habits had not changed; that he hadn’t gotten up and realized that his bed was empty, or that the door was unlocked. The thought of Sam sitting there on the couch, waiting for him to enter the door like some sort of walk of shame—

Tommy quickly checked his phone, looking at the notifications. He breathed in relief, no notifications from Sam. No missed calls, no voice mails, no worried text messages; all things that would indicate Sam was awake and that he knew Tommy was out.

Shakily, Tommy stood up. The doors clicked open, waiting for him to exit. He could just keep going the other direction, he thought. He made no promise to Wilbur to return home.

Tommy stepped out, the doors hissing shut behind him. Wind bristled through his hair as the train moved again, almost taunting him. Look at me! Look what you missed!

He chose not to, though. Tommy didn’t because of a bet, and he didn’t even place money on it. A simple bet of wills was supposed to keep Tommy running till the end of the week. It wasn’t like Tommy didn’t enjoy Wilburs company either, it was… nice, having someone to just talk to, to engage with. He didn’t have to raise his voice or make a scene to get him to listen to him.

He would never tell Wilbur that, though. He was fucking irritating enough.

Tommy shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving the station. He’d come back, alright. If not just to prove something to Wilbur but to himself, maybe.

He really should've put money on it, though.

[seventytwoowls]

It is a new day for Julia Argent.

She is starting a new job. A new, very secret job. And, as she stands in front of what, to any passerby, looks like an abandonned bouthouse, built before the rivers dried and this boom city because a ghost town, part of her worries that she has misremembered the detailed instructions for navigating the labyrinth that lies within heavy doors with rusted locks. She could take a wrong turn and be trapped within those hallowed halls for the rest of her days, with no escape from the trap or the screams. Besides death, that is.

As she pops open the ancient lock and slides behind the heavy doors, she reflects on this insecurity, of her memories and of her mind, in an attempt to calm herself. She often finds herself possessed with the notion that her memory is poor, despite the fact that she could not remember ever forgetting something in a particularly significant or inexcusable way.

She does not remember because what she has forgotten, she has not been pressed to recall. Because it is easier, and safer, if those memories stayed buried. For herself. For the world.

She does not remember being eight years old, in the woods where she was warned never to go, watching their friend bled out by a creature she did not recognize but reeked of fear. She does not remember her friend kicking, screaming, and punching at the great beast before his resistence faltered and his eyes slid shut. She does not remember her own screaming as the beast turned on her, its cold and unfamiliar grip, her heart beating faster at her helplessness at being weak and utterly alone. She does not remember the gunshots behind her, and she does not remember being pulled from that chilling grasp by hands much larger that her own, but still warm and presumably human. She does not remember the hours of interrogation by people in official looking outfits, exasperated by their own hysterical demeanor at what they had witnessed. They do not remember being finally restrained and poked with something long and sharp. They do remember waking up in their bed the next day, but to them it was a normal day, with no memory of the hours before. She does not remember her friend.

She does not remember being fifteen, hanging out with friends from school and stumbling upon a strange mall. She does not remember stumbling through corridors piled high with furniture, frozen meatballs becoming warm in her hand, stomach sinking and feet sore as she looked for the exit. She does not remember being split up from her friends while being pursued in the darkness by strange monsters with no faces. She does not remember taking the hand of a stranger much older than her and being pulled into a new area, one less like a store aisle and more like a city. She does not remember weeks spent in that place, mourning her lost companions and strengthening connections with new allies. she does not remember first kisses and new experiences in that strange place, the result of desperate souls frantic to do whatever they can in a place where their days are numbered. She does not remember beckoning towards unfamiliar people one morning, believing them to be lost just as she was a mere month ago, only to realize that they did not wish to seek a new home in the labyrinth, but to take her from it. They do not remember pleading with them to not leave their friends behind, only to be refused that service. They do not remember how they felt at knowing they were leaving their allies to die in that place because they were not given the privilege of remembering the strange store with its faceless creatures and other people like them, lost and scared and alone. As far as they were concerned, they spent a month studying abroad in France.

They do not remember what did not exist. she does not remember seeing it with its dimensions and interactions with her senses. They do not remember being told by official-looking people in lab coats and suits what this could mean for them. They do not remember their confusion and their fright at realizing the implications of their memory of such a thing. They do not remember eagerly taking the pill that would wipe their memory. It was in sharp contrast with how they acted before, but she did not remember all the times before. They do not remember the dullness that overtook their senses and returning to a time that, to them, was uninterrupted by creatures that must not have existed.

But to them, they never forgot any of these things because they did not happen. And they were not supposed to know. No one ever reminded them.

It is up for debate, as she travels down twisting hallways, guided by well-remembered instructions they were told to burn, whether what Julia Argent is about to see will remind her of the truth.

of what she forgot.

of who she lost.

of what she is truly capable of.

It is a new day foe Julia argent. But the secrets that are harbored in her mind, just beyond where she can reach them, are as old as time.

[witcherslittledove]

Home is Where the Heart Is

A Joey/Henry lockdown fic - AO3

Rated: T

Words: 7k ish

CW: RPF, covid, far too much pining?

_______

“I’m sorry, Joey,” Madeleine sighed again, pressing her head into the crook of Joey’s neck, her hair tickling his cheek.

It was pulled back into a messy bun, flyaway strands surrounding her face in a halo, and as the sun shone from behind her, she looked like some kind of angel. Joey wondered, not for the first time, how he’d even been so lucky to have Madeleine as a friend. She truly was a wonder, his favourite person and light of his life. Everyone should have a friend like Madeleine Hyland.

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple as he pulled back from her embrace. “Nah, it’s alright, Madeleine. Your parents need you, much more important than little old me.”

“Oh fuck that, you bastard, stop fishing for compliments,” she laughed, swatting him on the arm.

“Aww,” he pouted, “Oi!”

She’d hit his arm again, barely a tap but he pretended it hurt, rubbing his arm and pouting even harder at his friend.

“Come off it, Joey. You’re staying with Henry for the rest of lockdown, that’s hardly a trial,” she teased, poking him in the chest.

Ah yes.

Henry.

The bane of Joey’s existence, mostly because of the fucking ginormous crush he had on his co-star. He hadn’t known Henry had been signed on for Geralt until his audition, really he hadn’t known much at all, just that he’d be auditioning for a bard and that he should probably take his lute to the audition. A spur of the moment decision that had turned his life upside down. He’d gone from a nobody to... well, not exactly famous but people had started to recognise him, much to his despair.

And then there was Henry.

He’d been admiring Henry from a distance for a few years now, watching him in the Tudors had sort of been Joey’s bisexual awakening, and then he’d suddenly been thrust into the most bizarre experience of having to work fairly closely with the man.

Joey would never forget the feeling of Henry throwing him over his shoulder as if he wasn’t almost the same size as Henry.

Fuck, that had been hot.

And now, Joey had to cohabit with said crush for an indeterminate amount of time, preferably without making a fool of himself.

He was doomed.

Of course, he could have said no when Henry had offered his place when Joey was grumbling about being alone during lockdown after Madeleine's parents got sick, but no… Henry had stared at him with such shining hope in his eyes that Joey never stood a chance.

Joey just needed to keep reminding himself that Henry was straight. He was practically the poster boy for heteronormative; classically gorgeous, action star, gymrat, lover of sports and building fucking computers.

Okay, maybe Joey was generalising a tad, but it was a form of self-defence.

Christ, the mere thought that Henry could be interested in men… interested in him.

It was too much.

So here he was, saying goodbye to his best friend whilst waiting for his biggest crush to pick him up. Madeleine bundled into her car with the last of her bags, and Joey was left waiting on the pavement. In all honesty, he would have preferred to drive to Henry’s place himself or at least get the tube, something where he felt like he was actively doing something. The waiting was killing him, making his thoughts run out of control. Maybe he shouldn’t have packed his guitar. He could have at least been tuning it, or plucking out some meaningless melody, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted.

When the black car pulled up, Joey let out a sigh of relief before realising that it was very much frying pan, fire. Luckily, before he could really start to panic, the back door opened and Joey was almost bowled off his feet by a large bundle of fur that Henry claimed was a dog and not, in fact, a bear.

“Kal!” Joey greeted warmly, burying his fingers into Kal’s neverending fur, and letting the dog lick all over his face.

“He’s missed you,” Henry called in lieu of a greeting.

He was wearing a grey henley that looked like it was two sizes too small and his dark blue jeans seemed to strain against his quads. Henry’s arms were crossed in front of his chest and he looked down at Joey with a blinding Hollywood smile that made Joey’s heart flutter. Dark curls seemed to have finally recovered from the weeks stuck under Geralt’s wig and they fell in front of his so very blue eyes.

He was bloody gorgeous, and it wasn’t fucking fair.

So Joey did the only logical thing, and started to coo at Kal instead. “I’ve missed him too,” he trilled happily into the dog’s fur, scratching Kal behind his ears. “Such a good boy! The bestest, cutest doggo.”

“He’s not the only one who’s missed you, you know,” Henry groused, although when Joey looked up, he was still smiling so Joey didn’t feel too bad for paying far more attention to Kal than the gorgeous specimen of a man that is Henry Cavill.

“Aww, you sap,” he chuckled. “Well, I still haven’t forgiven you for those cruel and terrible words you cursed me with the last time we met.”

It wasn’t the last time they’d met. They’d had a few scenes after the argument in episode six. Scheduling had meant that it wasn’t filmed entirely in order, and then there had been reshoots and post-production parties, premieres and the table reads for season two, but it was a sort of in-joke. Joey liked to tease Henry about the argument, they’d both lurked enough online to know that ‘the mountain’ was a big fucking deal to the fans of their characters.

Henry rolled his eyes and opened his arms out for a hug which Joey eagerly returned, inhaling the soft musky cologne that Henry wore and enjoying the strongs arms that wrapped around him. He loved hugs, but most of Joey’s male friends would do that god awful hug and pat thing, then pull away too soon. Henry had never been like that and it was delightful, even if it really didn’t help the not so little crush that Joey had on the man.

It was cliche but it really did feel like coming home.

Fuck.

He was utterly screwed… and not even in the fun way.

The drive to Henry’s place was quiet, Joey spent most of the time watching the streets of London roll past as they weaved through bendy roads that webbed across the city. The traffic was weirdly non-existent, a side effect of a global pandemic, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the ghost towns from films and books.

It was truly haunting, spooky in just the right way. Horror and the Wild had very much had woodland magic vibes, but driving through the dead streets of London, Joey wondered what happened to the fae when a city sprung up near their home. Did they adapt like the wildlife did? Urban spirits that lurked in the shadows, in the alleys, behind the bins and cobbled streets at the back of theatres.

Most theatres were supposed to be haunted, Joey had always wondered just who the spirits were that glided through the aisles when the shows went dark.

Henry didn’t feel the need to fill the silence which Joey was grateful for. On set, with Jaskier on his fingertips, Joey was happy to joke about and laugh and banter, but he was nervous about the move to Henry’s and the silence gave him time to get lost in his own imagination, a reality that wasn’t quite the one they knew.

He was almost disappointed when the car pulled to a stop in front of a rather grand house. It was part of a terrace but that was unsurprising, most places in London were, but it was much nicer than the shitty little flat that Joey shared with Madeleine.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

They were poles apart. Even being friends was unrealistic. How the hell was Joey supposed to even pretend they were in the same league? It was fine. Everything was going to be fine. Joey just had to be a perfect house guest, no clumsy mistakes, no setting fire to any ovens, and no slipping in the shower and messing up his ankle.

He’d just have to spend all his time with Kal lest Henry find out just how much of a walking disaster he could be.

Henry had only offered because he was a caregiver, selfless and kind in everything he did. He would have done the same to anyone else if they’d mentioned spending lockdown alone. Joey was just the lucky one.

Or unlucky.

He hadn’t quite decided yet.

Yes, he would just have to spend his days with Kal and his guitar, stay out of Henry’s way and then everything would be fine.

Right?

___

Joey’s plan went according to plan for almost an entire week. He mostly kept to his room and occasionally the living room. Henry wanted to show Joey some films he liked and it would have been rude to say no, so Joey curled up with Kal on the floor to keep some space between them. That way he wouldn’t be tempted to snuggle up against Henry’s chest the same way he did with Madeleine, only it wouldn’t be the same because Madeleine was his best friend and Henry was… well… Henry.

It was such a mess.

And he was probably being an arse.

They’d gotten along so well on set in between takes, but now, without Jaskier there as a crutch, Joey’s anxiety was getting the better of him, and all because of a stupid crush. This would all be a lot easier if Joey were straight; no awkward crushes, no pining for a man he couldn’t have, no… whatever this was?

He could flirt and tease and banter just like he would with any of his friends because it was harmless.

If only.

No.

He had to do better. The reason Henry had invited him to stay was so neither of them would be alone, and despite all his cuddles with Kal, Joey was really starting to feel touch starved. He’d never gone so long without human touch.

The problem was that Henry was just so fucking sweet. He was so bloody understanding that it made Joey just yearn even harder. There was never any pressure to hang out, just gentle suggestions, and the most amazing home-cooked meals that Henry said could be heated up another time if Joey wasn’t hungry. The wine Henry picked out to go with the meal was heavenly, and fuck, the man could cook.

He felt like he was being seduced; wooed with the most gorgeous culinary delights that were truly to die for.

What was a poor bisexual to do?

So every evening Joey would sit across from Henry at the table, trying to joke and laugh just as they had before, but even to his own ears it felt flat. Madeleine’s voice in his head reminded him that that was probably his anxiety speaking but, of course, he ignored it. They ate their food and then Joey would either retreat to his room with his beloved guitar or Henry would suggest a film.

Until Henry decided enough was enough.

Joey was lured from his room with the sweet delicious smell of pizza, and when he came down the stairs he found Henry already on the couch, two boxes of pizza and a couple of beers already opened and ready to go.

There was no sitting on the floor, not with pizza and a Kal. Joey wouldn’t get to taste the greasy wonders of his takeaway if he sat on the floor, and the pizza box was already being guarded by Henry on the couch.

He had to break his rule.

Fuck.

“Kitchen table not good enough?” he teased with a quirk of his lips.

Henry scoffed. “Who eats pizza at the table?”

It was a fair point and sighed, resigning himself to an evening pressed up against his friend when his cuddle instincts got too much. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, maybe it would help get him out of his head and into the moment… maybe he should just let Jaskier out of the box and pretend that all was fine?

No.

He could do this. Just… be himself?

“Before I open this box, there is one very important question I have to ask,” he said far too seriously, barely able to hide a smile as he scooped the pizza box into his lap and sat down next to Henry, keeping a safe distance between them.

“There’s no pineapple.”

“Oh thank fuck for that,” Joey laughed and opened the box. It was a standard pepperoni pizza, not his go to, but it was a safe option and one that was always yummy regardless of the restaurant. “Garlic dip?” he asked with a cock of his head.

“Damn, I hoped you wouldn’t like it,” Henry grumbled and pulled a small green topped tub from inside his own box.

“You!” Joey said in mock outrage, “keeping the beloved dip from me. It’s like the mountain all over again.”

“It’s not like the mountain,” Henry grumbled. “I didn’t make the script, you can’t keep blaming me for that.”

Joey’s heart sank as he wondered if he’d taken the joke too far, but when he met Henry’s gaze he saw the man was smiling despite his grousing. “I can,” he insisted.

“Hmm,” Henry replied in his most Geralt-y voice.

And with an internal sigh of relief, everything seemed to be okay. Yes, Joey was pulling some of his energy from his beloved character, but so was Henry, and it seemed to smooth out the edges of his anxiety. The beer helped and everything seemed a lot more relaxed with the takeaway pizza and the film already starting to play on the TV.

“I’m sorry,” Henry whispered after the pizza was finished and the credits had started to roll.

Joey’s head was resting on his friend’s shoulder but he’d managed to keep himself from koala hugging… so far. The vulnerability caught his attention though, and he sat up wearily to peer at Henry.

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by inviting you here.”

Joey wanted to swear, to stomp around the room and tear the place upside down. He’d fucked up. He knew he’d fucked up, his damn anxiety keeping him from being the person he wanted to be, the person he knew he could be if his head just shut up! He didn’t do any of that though. Instead, he slumped back down to lean against Henry and took a deep breath.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. I’m just- it’s hard for me, being somewhere new,” not a lie, not entirely the truth, “and I didn’t want to encroach on your space. This is your home, and I- umm- I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Henry laughed, running a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back off his face, and Joey was entranced for a moment, wanting to reach out and feel the soft hair between his fingers for himself. It was a miracle that he managed to keep his hands in his own lap.

“Joey, this is our home, for now at least,” Henry said with such conviction and warmth that Joey made a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Our home?”

“We have no idea how long this nightmare is going to last. It could be months, Joey. I want you to feel like you can relax here,” Henry insisted, wrapping his arm around Joey’s shoulder and pulling him into a sideways hug.

“Right- yeah, no, I know,” Joey mumbled, trying and failing not to blush.

Now that Henry wasn’t really having to watch what he ate and stay dehydrated for dear old Geralt, he was big.

And Joey was weak.

It was like all his wet dreams were becoming a reality, one by one.

He was just monkey-braining over the fact that Henry was one big, large, strong man that wanted to take care of him. It was pathetic. Joey wasn’t exactly small himself, and he could, should the role require it, hold up pretty well in a sword fight with Henry and not look entirely ridiculous.

“And I know Kal is very cute,” Henry teased, nodding to the dog who was sprawled on the carpet in front of them, “but if you ever need a hug, he’s not your only option.”

Joey definitely didn’t squeak this time. Instead, he finally let himself snuggle up to Henry the way he’d been wanting to all evening, every evening since he’d arrived. “Like this?” he teased.

Henry chuckled, and just squeezed his arms tighter around Joey, “Exactly.”

“I’m sorry,” Joey mumbled. “I was being an arse.”

“No, it’s not your fault.”

Joey scoffed.

“I should have been clearer on day one,” Henry sighed, “although seeing as you live here now, maybe you should cook?”

Joey laughed nervously, burying his face into Henry’s jumper. “Neither of us want that,” he muttered. “Trust me.”

“I’ll help?” Henry suggested, which of course brought forth a dozen images of cooking together, dancing in the kitchen to whatever songs fell past Joey’s lips, lazy early morning kisses as they waited for the coffee.

He swallowed, blinking away the fantasies. “How about you cook, and I’ll help?”

“Lazy,” Henry said with a chuckle but just pulled Joey closer.

“Only trying to keep you safe, darling.”

Darling.

Fuck.

“I mean, Henry, sorry, slip of the tongue. I mean- fuck. I call Madeleine darling all the time?”

“Joey, it's okay,” Henry reassured him.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

With a sigh, Joey untangled himself from Henry’s arms and gathered up the pizza boxes and empty beer cans. Booping Kal on the nose as he went past, he busied himself with clearing up. It wasn’t much and didn’t take long, so sooner than he would have liked he poked his head back around the door.

Henry was sitting on the floor, rough-housing Kal, chuckling as the dog kept licking at his face. The sight made Joey smile softly, and he almost didn’t want to leave, but he was getting tired and he really didn’t want to slip up again. He couldn’t blame every mistake on Madeleine. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his hair. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”

_______

After that, things started to get easier. Joey would flop down onto the sofa next to Henry in the evenings regardless of what they were doing. Sometimes he’d lie with his head in Henry’s lap whilst they both read a book, other times he’d pluck at his guitar and laugh over stupid limericks that he could make up about his co-star. True to his word, Henry made Joey start helping with mealtimes, although he soon regretted that decision but refused to back down. The food still tasted good but the presentation was lacking. They spent an afternoon trying to bake bread together… Joey’s did not turn out so well and Henry’s attempt was thankfully less than perfect but still edible. The little flaws made Joey feel a little less inferior, and made Henry seem all the more human.

Kal still got a lot of Joey’s attention. How could he not? He was just so fluffy and adorable, plus Joey loved the little pout that Henry did whenever Kal got more hugs than he did. Joey could pretend that his friend was jealous, and that just helped him sleep a little easier at night.

Cuddling on the couch had become their usual routine, and it settled something deep inside of Joey that had been becoming restless. Mornings were spent watching Henry workout. Joey joined in occasionally but usually he would just cheer Henry on from the sidelines sipping his cup of tea. It was a sight to behold, and Joey thanked the lord that the gyms were currently closed otherwise he would never have been allowed to enjoy the view.

Henry’s arse was truly spectacular.

Despite his morning workouts, Henry had definitely gained a rather lovely layer of fat over his previously tightly toned muscles. He looked stronger. He looked cuddlier. Joey’s crush was only getting worse by the day, wanting to run his hands over the broad muscles of Henry’s back, thighs, arms… wherever he was allowed, but he just settled for the cuddling each day.

Joey tried not to think about the fat building over his own stomach and filling out his cheeks, barely noticeable unless you’d had a lifetime of his mother breathing down his neck about his weight. He was cuddlier too, that’s what he told himself whenever the familiar buzz of anxiety started to build up.

And anyway, Henry didn’t seem to mind.

Kal certainly didn’t. The beast of a dog had started to share the sofa with them in the evenings, squishing between them for maximum cuddle potential until eventually he got bored and retreated back to the floor.

It was really starting to feel like home. There were signs of Joey around the house, sheet music left on the TV cabinet, a set of spare lute strings in the kitchen, the bastard instrument tucked away in the corner of the living room until Joey could bring himself to pick it up. Two sets of keys now hung up by the front door so they could both take turns walking Kal without having to worry about getting locked out if the other was busy. A fluffy worn blanket was now strewn over the big armchair where Joey liked to sit during the day. Even the fridge now stocked Joey’s favourite rosé wine.

All in all, Joey wasn’t hating lockdown. It was frustrating but he enjoyed being inside anyway, and well, the company was pretty great.

The two of them were curled up on the sofa watching the Great British Bake Off on netflix, gin and tonics flowing a little too freely, and Joey felt like he was on top of the world. He had the best cuddler in all of England, nay, the world, a big fluffy puppy to boot and some bloody brilliant booze in hand.

The best thing was that Henry’s hoody had shifted up at some point during the evening, and Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the soft but defined muscles that were often hidden under Henry’s clothes. The dark hair that dipped beneath the exposed band of Henry’s boxers was tantalizing, and Joey longed to reach out and touch…

Only he was drunk enough that his inside thoughts had his hand moving before he could realise, landing on Henry’s stomach.

He froze and stared up at his friend with wide eyes.

“Oops,” he slurred.

“That’s my stomach,” Henry pointed out.

And still Joey didn’t remove his hand, relishing the bare skin beneath his fingertips, but he knew he needed an excuse, so he did the only logical thing and launched his attack. Henry was stronger than him, but Joey had the element of surprise as he tickled his friend, fingers dancing across the exposed skin as Henry desperately tried to shove Joey away. They were both laughing, too busy pushing and pulling at each other, that neither of them quite registered that at some point in the tussle, Joey had straddled Henry’s waist in an attempt to keep him pinned down.

Until suddenly their lips were barely a breath apart.

Oh.

“Hi,” Joey mumbled, smiling coyly down at Henry, the longer strands of his fringe falling into his eyes.

“Hi.”

It wouldn’t take much to lean down and kiss him, maybe Henry would even reach up first. There was no denying the sudden pull between them, and god, Joey wanted it. He’d wanted it for so long now.

So close.

The warmth of Henry’s breath brushing against his lips.

Eyes closed.

Hearts racing.

A soft whisper of a moan.

And then a bark rang out in the room, startling Joey and shattering the moment. He cursed as he fell to the floor, the world spinning from the gin and giddy burst of adrenaline. Kal jumped up into Henry’s lap, barking and whining excitedly at his owner, checking that he was okay following Joey’s tyrannical tickle attack.

Joey felt like an ice bucket had been dumped over his head, feeling far too sober, far too fast.

He’d almost kissed Henry.

He’d almost kissed Henry.

Fuck!

“Right,” he slurred as he pushed his hands back through his hair- too long, needed a haircut. “Bedtime, sleep. Yup.”

“Joey?”

“See you in the morning?” he mumbled, although glancing at the clock, he wondered if that was a little optimistic. “Tomorrow,” he amended.

“Tomorrow,” Henry agreed, looking a little disappointed.

Joey refused to think about it. He wouldn’t start to hope. It would hurt too much if this all went wrong.

______

They didn’t talk about it.

Or rather, Joey, didn’t talk about it.

Henry tried to bring it up the next morning but Joey just laughed it off before his heart could get torn to pieces. He didn’t need confirmation that his crush was a no go. He already knew, but he really didn’t need to hear the words. Not to mention his hangover was an utter bitch and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and feel sorry for himself, which is exactly what he did.

After a few days, or was it weeks, months, years? Time seemed to stop existing, all Joey knew was his clothes seemed to be tighter than before and he was in desperate need of a haircut, but after a lockdown-eque period of time, all was forgotten. They fell back into their usual routine, and Joey’s crush continued to simmer just below the surface, unnoticed by Henry.

He’d started to facetime Madeleine most evenings just before bed now that the novelty of living with a bloody filmstar had worn off. He missed her terribly and she seemed to be going crazy at her parent’s house. There was a twinge of guilt stabbing in his chest when he realised he’d all but forgotten about her the first few weeks of lockdown, but it was nice to catch up with her again.

Henry was brilliant, but he was no Madeleine Hyland. He wasn’t Joey’s best friend.

And sometimes Joey just needed to vent about Henry’s stranger habits. Like seriously, why wass there that weird sponsored water just stationed around the house? And what was with the weirdly staged selfies on instagram. It made Joey feel a whole lot better about his own lack of media presence. He’d rather be a mystery online than this boomer energy than Henry had going on.

Venting to Madeleine helped too, he got less frustrated about the shit hole that was life during a pandemic. A little less angry, a little less depressed, and a little less pathetic with his pining over Henry, although Madeleine would probably disagree.

She was probably right.

The sudden cold turn in the weather hadn’t helped. It wasn’t too bad but Joey had mostly brought summer clothes with him because he honestly hadn’t thought he’d be staying more than a couple of weeks. Thankfully he’d thrown in a couple of onesies for comfort reasons so he spent most his days dressed like a tiger and hoping that Henry would find it endearing. The best part was his onesies were a bit looser and fit him more comfortably than his normal clothes. A lockdown diet was brilliant, but not exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d gone shopping all those years ago.

What he hadn’t expected, was for Henry to rock up to dinner wearing the stupid bunny onesie that Joey had left in his room.

“There,” Henry greeted him with a broad smile, “Now we match.”

It wasn’t fair. Joey wanted to kiss him so badly. The white onesie was a little short on Henry, pulling up just above his ankles, and it still managed to stretch at his shoulders, but it was so fucking adorable and Joey could pin point the exact moment his crush tumbled over the edge into love.

It was the crinkles at the corner of Henry’s eyes as he smiled, the slight tilt of his head, the sparkle in his ocean blue eyes.

Except they weren’t just blue. No, there were specks of golden brown in one eye, that were just captivating. Joey felt like he could so easily get lost in Henry. Every time he looked at the man he found something new and exciting.

“Darling, you look adorable!” he cooed, before he could get too distracted by the fluttering of his own heart. “Very cuddly.”

Henry chuckled and opened his arms wide, allowing Joey to barrel into them. “That was the idea.”

“So, what’s for dinner?” he asked, hoping that Henry would have forgotten that-

“It’s your turn to cook.”

“Bugger,” Joey whined. “Cheesy pasta?”

“You made that last time,” Henry teased.

“I’m very good at carbonara!” Joey countered.

“Melted cheese on pasta isn’t carbonara.”

Joey scoffed. “Eh, close enough.”

“Fine, make your cheesy pasta.”

“Carbonara,” Joey said with a wink. “I’ll add bacon this time.”

The pasta was overcooked and the bacon was a little chewy, but it was dinner, and afterwards Henry made them both extravagant hot chocolates made from actual chocolate rather than powder shit that Joey used. It was covered in whipped cream and marshmallows and had a healthy amount of Baileys to top it off. They curled up on their usual spot on the sofa, buried under blankets and held the warm mugs close to their chests.

If it had been snowing, then Joey would have thought he’d walked into a Christmas film, all it needed was a fireplace and some fairy lights. It was cosy and warm, and a little bit romantic, or it would be if Henry was interested in men and Joey was his type.

No, he couldn’t think like that.

They were friends, good friends, good friends that liked to cuddle and almost kiss if the dog hadn’t interrupted.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

He took a long gulp of his hot chocolate to stave off his anxiety, not noticing when his nose dived straight into the whipped cream until he looked up to find Henry staring at him with a fond expression. Warmth flooded through Joey’s chest as he returned the smile, feeling high on love and sugar.

“Hi,” he breathed, sounding as love sick as he felt.

Henry’s smile brightened, filling the whole room with light and Joey could have sworn he could hear the swell of violins in the soundtrack of his life.

“Hi,” Henry replied easily as if he hadn’t stolen Joey’s breath, heart and soul. “You- umm, cream, here!”

Henry tapped his own nose.

“Oh cock!” Joey hurried to wipe his nose, almost spilling his hot chocolate in the process, “Fuck! Bugger, shit balls!”

Henry, the bastard, just laughed, his arms reaching out to steady the mug and stop Joey from falling to the ground. “I think you made it worse.”

Joey snorted “I got that, yup, thanks.”

This time he could feel the sticky sweet cream clinging to his cheek, the subtle taste of vanilla on his lips. He pouted up at Henry, gazing through his eyelashes in a way that he hoped could be played off as friendly, but also maybe a little bit seductive. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he barely resisted the urge to wink.

Maybe there had been more Bailey’s in his drink than he realised.

Instead, he just wiped his face and snuggled back up to Henry, pulling the blanket up to his chin. They settled on watching Always Sunny, so Joey didn’t really have to concentrate. He let the tension drain from his body as he listened to the familiar TV show and then closed his eyes. Warm, happy and wrapped up in the arms of the man he loved-

Joey fell asleep.

He didn’t notice the way Henry was staring down at him as if he hung the fucking moon and stars, or the inner turmoil his friend was plague with as Henry resisted leaning down to kiss Joey in his sleep.

No, Joey was blissfully ignorant, sleeping better than he had in weeks.

________

The rest of lockdown went by in a blur. Their routine started to seem normal and any doubts Joey had about spending so much time with Henry faded away. They bantered easily like they had on set, laughing and giggling over whatever stupid thing one of them had said. Henry would spend hours playing his video games whilst Joey zoomed Madeleine to work on their new album together. When the regulations relaxed they started to walk Kal together, enjoying the quiet summer days and fresh air. The cuddling never really stopped, and some mornings Joey would wake up still curled up against Henry’s chest, their limbs tangled from the night before.

Those were Joey’s favourite mornings. He’d be stiff all day from sleeping on the couch but he could pretend, for just a few moments, that things were more than they were.

The pining never went away but it was truly the sweetest torture that he’d ever had to endure. The domestic bliss being barely a step away from everything he craved.

And when the time came for Joey to return to his flat with Madeleine, he felt like shit. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in the strange fantasy world he had with Henry, eating too much food and drinking too much wine, cuddling and watching crappy Netflix shows.

Which was why he was sat, staring at a messy pile of clothes on his bed, clothes he’d not worn in weeks. Over the chair were his onesies and a collection of jumpers and hoodies that he’d stolen from Henry over the last few months and weeks. Kal stared up at him from the floor, tail thumping against the carpet.

Joey sighed and ran his hand through his hair, trying desperately to ignore the ache in his chest that was growing more painful with everything second that passed. “I don’t know, Kal. I should be happy about going home.”

Kal didn’t respond, his tail still wagging away just like it always did whenever Joey paid attention to him.

“I miss Madeleine, of course I do, but living with Henry has been great. And you, I love you, big fluffy puppy!” He cooed with a big smile as Kal barked happily and jumped up onto the bed. Joey laughed as he tried to keep his face away from the attack, wrapping his arms around Kal’s neck and pressing his nose into the fur.

“If I tell him how I feel that’s just going to make season two really really awkward, but I just feel like I’m missing a chance, you know?”

If Kal knew, he either didn’t care or just enjoyed watching Joey suffer. There was no reply and Kal just rested his head in Joey’s lap.

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, still running his fingers through Kal’s fur. “You’re no use.”

Kal snorted at that and Joey rolled his eyes.

“But I love you anyway, yes I do!”

“Ready to go?” Henry asked from the door.

“Shit!” Joey yelped. “How long have you been standing there?!”

Henry chuckled, striding into the room and perching on the bed opposite Joey. He reached out to scratch Kal on the head with a dazzling smile. Joey felt his cheeks warm up and he buried his face in Kal’s fur to hide the blush. So many months and he still couldn’t stop his heart from racing whenever Henry smiled. He was pathetic.

And he was running out of time.

He knew it was a bad idea, even entertaining the thought of dating a co-star, but he’d regret it if he didn’t give it a shot. I mean he could always blame the mixed signals if it went wrong. They’d nearly kissed twice and Joey didn’t even cuddle Madeleine as much as he’d cuddled Henry. They were probably the only people that were less touch-starved during the lockdown than before.

So Joey was going to tell him.

Just three words.

He could do that.

Fuck!

He couldn’t do that.

“Joey?” Henry said, reaching out to squeeze Joey’s shoulder.

Joey blinked. Had Henry been talking to him? He’d asked a question so that would make sense. God, his anxiety had gone through the roof, it was like that first day all over again.

“Need to pack,” he mumbled, gesturing at his clothes.

Henry let out a long and heavy sigh, sounding just as thrilled about the idea as Joey did. “I suppose you do, yeah. When is Madeleine due over?”

Joey hummed, glancing at his watch. “Ten minutes ago. Lockdown traffic must be a thing of the past.”

“Pity.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Henry sighed.

Neither of them moved, both staring glumly at Kal who was happily nestled between them. It was strange but Joey had almost begun to think of Kal as his, theirs. Their home, their life, their dog. He would miss Kal very much.

He would miss Henry even more.

“Do you have a start date yet?” Joey asked, the restrictions were lifting and there were talks about getting back to work again, but it was all up in the air.

Henry shook his head. “Should be getting a call from my agent some time this week. I need to make sure my other projects can work around the schedule.”

Joey smirked, “Or my dear witcher will have a new face next time we meet,” he teased.

Henry scoffed. “Not a chance, you’re stuck with me, bard.”

“You still owe me an apology,” Joey shot back, not quite realising how close they’d gotten during their mock argument.

He swallowed and licked his lips, one hand reaching up to scratch the stubble on his cheek. His face was burning right up to the tips of his ears, his heart thumping in his chest. There was a spark of electricity crackling between them, the scent of coffee lingering on Henry’s breath.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Henry promised, voice hoarse and low, making heat spread through Joey’s body and the world around them seemed to disappear.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Henry breathed, the words shaky.

Joey longed to reach out and brush his fingertips along the strong line of Henry’s jaw, to feel the scratch of stubble beneath his skin. He longed to tangle his hands in the dark mess of curls, to see if they were really as soft as they looked. It felt as if there was a magnetic force pulling them closer, a string tying their souls together, binding them as one. Joey couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to, and he was over that. He couldn’t live inside his head any longer, not when there was a chance.

Hope.

Deadly, poisoning his very soul, until he could think of nothing except Henry’s lips on his, hands roaming bodies, pulling at hair, unable to resist the promised pleasures of sin. Tongues tangling. Hearts singing. One breath shared between two. Heat. Lust. Love.

Just Henry.

His love.

Joey closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Henry’s, their lips barely ghosting over each other, you really couldn’t call it a kiss; not yet. One more breath, a millimetre to close the gap.

A horn honked from outside and they pulled apart before they could cross the bridge, past the point of no return.

Joey let out a slightly manic laugh and ran his hands through his hair, whilst Henry went back to stroking Kal as he cleared his throat.

“Bollocks, I still haven’t packed.”

“I’ll invite Madeleine in for some tea,” Henry chuckled, stretching as he stood up.

Kal barked happily and jumped down, wagging his tail as he sniffed at Henry’s socks.

And Joey was left alone once more.

“Fuck!” he groaned, covering his face as he flopped back onto his pillows.

By the time he finished packing, Madeleine and Henry were laughing away in the kitchen like old friends.

Like Joey and Henry had so many times.

He wasn’t special. Henry was just that guy.

Hope.

Dangerous and lethal, stabbing into the heart and tearing the soul apart.

“Ready,” Joey mumbled, holding up his suitcase and guitar. “Might take a couple of trips, I have another bag upstairs and the damn lute.”

“Not sure I ever heard you play the lute?” Henry teased.

“Yeah well,” Joey grumbled and turned away from the kitchen before he could start crying.

He really really didn’t want to cry in front of Henry. What was a little heartbreak between friends? At least he could channel that into Jaskier whenever they finally got back onto set. God, he was a fucking mess.

“I’ll help you,” Henry volunteered because of course he would. He probably just wanted Joey gone sooner.

The poor bloke probably couldn’t wait to have his own space back without Joey’s inedible attempts at cooking, non-stop music and chatter, lazy slobbish evenings in front of the TV.

He wasn’t going to cry.

He wasn’t.

Fuck!

Joey sniffed and stumbled out the door, his hands gripping his suitcase so tight he thought he might break the handle. Back home with Madeleine, to his life, and his bed, and nights spent drinking too much wine and lurking on social media.

He’d just about managed to throw his suitcase into the boot when he heard a loud bark behind him, followed by Henry grunting. Joey was almost knocked off his feet as Kal bundled into him, circling around as he jumped up, winding the lead around Joey’s body and pulling a poor Henry with him.

Not that Joey was particularly complaining about having Henry pressed up against him, but did it have to be when he was crying?

Henry cursed, struggling to keep hold of the lead. Their faces were close and they had to wrap their arms around each other to keep steady. Joey laughed through his tears, reminded of a similar moment from one of his favourite Disney films.

Only Kal was a lot bigger than a Dalmatian.

“I don’t think he wants you to leave?” Henry said, smiling sheepishly.

Joey smiled back despite his broken heart. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“I- I don’t want you to leave either,” Henry whispered so quietly that Joey wasn’t sure whether he’d heard it at all. “I- umm, I like having you here… with me.”

“Oh,” Joey replied stupidly.

“Fuck, I- Joey… Can- can I kiss you?”

The world turned upside down. Joey's heart stopped and everything started to spin. He tried to process the words but nothing seemed to make sense. There was no fucking way that Henry had said that, that he wanted to- wanted to…

Fuck!

“Oh,” he repeated, blinking at Henry as he licked his lips. “I mean. Fuck. No, I mean… Christ. Yes. Please. Yes.”

Henry chuckled and cupped his cheek, pressing their lips together in the most tender of kisses, taking Joey’s breath away right there on the pavement. Joey just giggled when they parted and then swooped back in for another kiss, and another-

And he never wanted to stop.

He didn’t need to breathe, he just needed this; Henry’s lips on his.

Henry had other ideas though, pulling away with a blinding smile.

“Stay with me?”

Joey nodded and threw his arms around Henry’s neck. “God, yes.”

And then they kissed some more. They had months of lockdown to catch up on, after all.

[novelconcepts]

fic: the shape of it

for a prompt from @karatam

They expect the Lady to come, one day. They expect the Lady to take Dani, in the end. 

They did not expect it to go like this.

“She’s going to take me,” Dani says in a voice so thick with resignation, it nearly kills Jamie outright. Says it like a foregone conclusion, like something biblical ingrained in her from childhood. Jamie looks at her, and thinks, She believes it. Nothing else matters. She believes this with her whole heart.

Jamie takes her hand anyway. Offers her company anyway. Loads up the car with bags and dreams of outrunning all of it anyway. The way she sees it, it’s the only path forward. Anything less would leave bits of Dani--bits of Jamie, too--behind in this house forever. 

They are not running away together, exactly. They are moving slowly, carefully, checking the road ahead for obstacles and cracks in the pavement as they go. Slowly, the distance between the pair of them and Bly Manor expands. Slowly, the world stops looking so much like a ghost story. Jamie, more and more every day, thinks, She believed it with her whole heart, but maybe not so much anymore. Maybe not so much. 

Even so, even as the months turn to years, Jamie can’t forget the certainty in Dani’s face that day as she said it. She’s going to take me. The most certain Dani has been about anything except Jamie herself. Though the days are gorgeous, long and lazy, stretching on like there will be millions more ahead, Jamie can’t forget. She’s going to take me. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she murmurs, brushing Dani’s hair back. She’s fallen asleep on the couch again, her head in Jamie’s lap, and though it’s well past midnight, Jamie can’t bring herself to wake her. Moments like this. Moments like this are so many, and so precious, and so much more than how very small they seem. 

Dani thinks the Lady will take her, someday. Jamie thinks Dani knows her own mind better than anyone. In two very different ways, they’re both primed to fight. 

And even still, when it begins, it’s a blind strike to the side of the head. 

***

Dani has lost her key. 

It sounds so small, so nothing. She turns up at the shop an hour after she’s gone home to get dinner started, looking more than a little sheepish. Jamie, wrist-deep in repotting some of the hardier flowers, cocks her head. 

“What’re you doing back? Don’t tell me the apartment caught fire.”

Dani, head bowed, sits behind the counter. “Can’t get in,” she says miserably. “Left the key somewhere.”

Jamie smiles. Dani hates making silly mistakes--she sometimes thinks it’s this vaguely type-A attitude that drew her toward teaching in the first place, toward helping kids not screw up the little things in life. It’s endearing, the rare occasion Dani lets her see a side of error not confined to her tragic inability to make a hot beverage. 

“I’m sure it’s in with the laundry or something,” she says, brushing off her hands and setting aside her trowel. “No worries, I’m just about finished here anyway. You want to pick up tacos on the way?”

No worries. That’s how it feels, as a pouting Dani tucks her arm through Jamie’s bent elbow and follows her out of the shop. People misplace things every day--it’s not like Dani pitched her key down a gutter or something. It’ll turn up.

And, within an hour of arriving home with the best Mexican food suburban Vermont has to offer, it does: under Dani’s purse, dead center of a couch cushion. Jamie produces it with a flourish, dropping to one knee like a knight of old and raising it upon her palms like a magic sword. 

“M’lady,” she drawls. “Your treasure.”

Dani laughs. She plucks the key from Jamie’s hand, tucks it into her hip pocket, pulls Jamie into a giggly kiss--and just like that, the matter is forgotten. A nothing. A moment. 

If she looks a little puzzled, a little irritated with herself, it passes before Jamie can even comment. 

***

The plants in the back are wilting. 

Jamie stands, hands in her pockets, regarding them with some alarm. Shouldn’t be a problem, she thinks, running through the possibilities. Roots should have plenty of space. Lights are working fine. No sign of rot anywhere to be found. They just look a little...

“Dani,” she calls, eyes still on the yellowing leaves. Dani pokes her head through the door, a bundle of roses in her hands.

“Yeah?”

“Have you, uh. Watered these recently?”

She waits for the obvious answer. Dani always waters this side of the room. She takes the left, Jamie takes the right, and everybody gets the nourishment they need. 

When Dani doesn’t answer for a full ten seconds, Jamie turns to her with a frown, surprised to find Dani’s brow furrowed like she’s thinking hard. 

“I...thought I did,” she says slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I must have.”

“How many times this week?” Jamie asks. Dani closes her eyes as if counting. 

“I...” She steps into the room like she’s half-asleep, staring at the plants so hard, it’s a wonder the flowers don’t burst into flame. “Twice? Three times, maybe. Or...”

More than that, Jamie thinks, gently lifting a drooping leaf and inspecting its unhealthy pallor. If she didn't know better, she’d say Dani had watered this poor thing twice a day for the last week. 

“S’okay,” she says, though a faint bloom of annoyance is opening in her chest. “It’s salvageable, I think. Just so long as we let ‘em dry out some. Leave this side to me, okay?”

Dani is staring at the plant nearest to her like she’s never seen one before. Whatever annoyance Jamie feels at having to quite possibly start over with previously-perfect plants vanishes at the sight of her expression. 

“Hey,” she says, taking Dani’s hands and squeezing. “Honestly, Dani, don’t worry about it. These things happen.”

Dani’s frown deepens as if to say not to me, they don’t. Jamie gives her hands a gentle swing from side to side until that frown lightens. 

“Maybe I take care of the watering for a bit, yeah? You can supervise.”

She doesn’t look too closely at any of it, at the way Dani’s brow creases like she’s still trying to keep track of how many days are in the week. She doesn’t look too closely at why she’s just heard herself say “supervise” instead of “keep the books”, as she normally would. Don’t look at it. Dani’s fine. 

Just a little scattered today, is all.

***

“It’s, uh...hang on...”

Dani is scowling at the ceiling, racking her brain for something Jamie can’t help with. There was a woman, a woman in the grocery store, who spoke to Dani as though she’d done it a hundred times. 

“Barb?” Jamie suggests, plucking a name out of thin air. “Carol. Monica.”

Dani shushes her, flapping a hand for silence. Jamie shuts up, her mouth pulling into a relaxed grin she doesn’t quite feel. 

Dani’s been doing this more and more lately--stopping mid-sentence to grope for some detail Jamie can’t see behind her eyes. It shouldn’t worry her. She doesn’t want it to worry her. 

These things just happen, she tells herself, watching Dani bend forward to press her face with frustration against her knees. They’re getting older--have been together almost ten years now--and their lives are busy. Busy brains are easily worn out by an abundance of minor details, and sometimes, the less important stuff slips. It’s okay. It’s nothing to be concerned about.

Except Dani looks like she’s on the verge of tears, scraping around in her head for the name of some woman they ran into in the bread aisle. Dani is dragging deep breaths in that old familiar way that says the trigger is small, but the imminent explosion could take out the whole night.

“Poppins,” Jamie says, prodding at her ribs until she sits up and stares with wet eyes into Jamie’s face. “Is this a woman I’m meant to invite to dinner?”

Dani shakes her head. Jamie shrugs. 

“Then I’m going to go right ahead and call her Honeywheat, and we can just be done with it.”

Dani laughs--not a real laugh, but a huff through her nose to tell Jamie she’s trying. Jamie smooths a thumb across her cheekbone, pretending this hasn’t been happening more and more frequently. Pretending she hasn’t noticed just how badly it pulls at Dani’s threads, each time she loses track of something small. 

“Charlene!” Dani says, half an hour later, practically shouting the word into the silence of the living room. Jamie jumps, losing her place in her book, looks up to find Dani staring at her with a fierce sort of pride that scares her. It’s a look that says I did it, and I’m okay, goddammit, and this is not happening. 

“Charlene, hm?” Jamie repeats. “I think I prefer Honeywheat.”

***

The day of the fire, she has to admit there’s cause for concern. 

She thinks, at first, it’s just her. That she’s had such a long day at the shop, been yelled at by far too many young men who didn’t understand why it’s less than appropriate to give your spouse flowers by way of asking for a divorce, and her brain has been scrambled. It’s the only explanation, she thinks, for smelling smoke the minute she walks into the apartment building. 

Except it gets worse as she heads up the stairs. Worse still, until she’s fitting the key into the lock, opening the door, realizing with a jolt of horror that the smell is both very real and very much coming from the kitchen. 

“Dani?” she calls, and her voice sounds to her own ears like a scream echoing over a moonlit lake. She forces the panic down, forces herself to walk--not run--to the kitchen and survey the damage. 

A plate of something undefinable is sitting in the microwave. It is no longer on fire, she notes, but the microwave is still, as she wrenches it open, counting down. The little green numbers flash 40:03, blinking at her, waiting to resume their cook time. 

“Dani!” she calls again, jamming her thumb into the Clear button and slamming the microwave shut on a wall of acrid smoke. 

“Yeah?” Thank Christ. Dani, poking her head out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body. “You’re home! ...what’s that smell?”

“You tell me,” Jamie says, more sharply than she intends; her heart is in her throat, blocking off anything resembling restraint. She staggers toward Dani, whose face is the picture of bemusement. 

“It’s not...coming from our kitchen?”

“Dani.” Jamie takes her by the shoulders, reassured by the soft slide of Dani’s skin against her palms. Real. Here. Okay. “You had something cooking. Did you...”

Forget, she doesn’t say. The color pours out of Dani’s face, answering the question so completely, Jamie sags against her. 

“Threw it in,” Dani says slowly. “Leftovers. Just...”

Jamie thinks she can guess. Threw it in, walked away, forgot it completely. Would have been fine, if that had been all. If Dani had simply spaced on the idea of retrieving the dish before it grew cold, if she’d opted for a shower instead, there would have been no harm done. 

Except that counter was so high. Except Dani had, plainly, set the timer for nearly an hour. 

Dani is looking at the smoke hazing the air, polluting the hall, with an expression of such grim anxiety, Jamie nearly forgets to breathe. Pull it together. She needs you to keep focus. 

“I’m sorry,” Dani says, so softly, Jamie would have missed it if not for staring at Dani’s face like it might slip away at any second. “I don’t know how...”

“It’s okay.” Jamie pulls her close, struggling to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. So much could have gone wrong. If they hadn’t gotten lucky. If she hadn’t gotten home in time. So much could have-- “It’s okay.”

“Jamie?” Dani’s voice is tiny, her face turned against Jamie’s neck. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

***

She calls Owen after Dani falls asleep, careful to keep her voice down. France is six hours ahead, and it’s clear her call catches him still in bed, but his voice is cheerful all the same.

“Jamie! Big surprise. How’s everything--”

“How did it start?” Jamie keeps her voice low, her eyes on the hall. She doesn’t like leaving Dani alone in the bedroom, doesn’t like the idea of Dani waking and not knowing where she is. Make it quick, then.

“Sorry?” Owen sounds confused, and rightly so. “How did what start?”

“Your mum.” She can’t think of a cleaner way to approach it, a nice, easy route to opening Owen’s old scars. “How did it start, with her?”

He’s silent for so long, she wonders if the connection has severed. Finally: “Jamie, what’s going on?”

She can’t. She can’t get into it. If she says too much, if she explains what she’s been seeing in drips and drops over the past few years, it might cement the whole thing into reality. She can’t. 

“Please,” she says, hearing her own voice break with exhaustion. “Just tell me.”

***

There are tests. Dani doesn’t want to take them, and Jamie quite frankly doesn’t want to force it, but there are tests all the same. CT scans, and doctors who ask probing questions that grit Dani’s teeth and put fire into her eyes, and Jamie thinks for a hopeful few minutes that this is stupid. That they don’t need to be here. That Dani is okay, and fierce, and strong, and here. 

“I’m not going to say there’s no cause for concern,” the doctor says, when Dani has jumped through all his hoops. “But your scans don’t show much yet, and your grasp on those questions seems strong. Keep an eye on it, all right? Call me if there’s any change.”

He’s looking at Jamie like he knows why she’s here, why she’s standing just a few inches from Dani’s side. She nods once, sharp, and he pats Dani lightly on the shoulder. 

“You’re young,” he says, like youth means anything at all where tragedy is concerned. “I have a good feeling about this.”

***

Jamie starts coming home when Dani does, starts waiting for her to get ready before going into the shop. She can’t help when Dani loses track of details inside her head--the date, their plans for the weekend, a longtime customer’s name--but she can help with other things. With knowing exactly where Dani’s purse is at all times. With knowing exactly where Dani’s favorite earrings are. With knowing exactly when Dani last ate.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dani says in a voice like iron. Jamie raises her head from the salad she’s preparing for lunch. 

“Don’t have to...?”

“Fuss,” Dani says, almost coldly. “I’m fine, Jamie.”

It hits her like a punch, almost doubling her over, the look in Dani’s eyes. Some horribly chilly combination of frustration and anger, maybe not at Jamie, but directed her way all the same. She pauses, setting the cheese grater down, looking Dani in the eye. 

Really? Only, the last time I didn’t set us up with a timely meal, you went ten hours without eating anything and nearly passed out on me.

She doesn’t say the words. Instead, she says, “I love you.” It’s become a mantra in moments like this, when Dani is so not herself, it’s like staring at someone else in a mirror. I love you. I love you on bad days, and I love you when you remember every detail of our first kiss, and I love you tomorrow.

The fight goes out of Dani’s body, her hand cupping around her eyes. The gold of her ring stands out in the afternoon sun, and Jamie thinks, It’s still her. It’s still her. 

“I’m sorry. I just...I feel...”

Jamie moves toward her slowly, like approaching a trapped animal. She's never moved like this with Dani in all the time they’ve been together, never felt the need, but lately, Dani is so unpredictable it hurts. 

“Trapped,” Jamie suggests softly. Dani nods into her hand. “I’ve been hovering.” Dani nods again. “Too much?”

Hesitation. A final nod that is also sort of a shake. Jamie sighs. 

“Just want to make sure I don’t--” Lose you. “--miss out on something important, is all. I’m sorry, too. I can back off some.”

It terrifies her to say so, to promise that when Dani sometimes looks around the living room like it’s brand-new. But Dani’s right. She isn’t a child. She doesn’t need Jamie to treat her as such. She’s okay. She’s still here. 

“I love you,” she says again, and Dani walks into her arms like she’s the only thing in the room not spinning. 

***

She tries not to panic, when Dani doesn’t come home. Tries to will herself back to ancient therapy techniques, to breathing rituals, to steady reminders that Dani is okay. Dani is fine. Dani has had a really good couple of weeks, in fact, and when she told Jamie she wanted to stop off at the store after work, Jamie had agreed. 

An hour passes. Two. Jamie’s pacing, doing fevered mental math: the shop is a ten-minute walk from the apartment, the grocery store a five-minute walk from the shop. How long does it take to pick up eggs, cheese, tomatoes? Half an hour? 

Okay, she thinks, forcing a calming breath through her nose. Okay, so that’s five--fifteen--forty-five minutes...

Not five minutes after this less-than-bracing thought, she’s throwing on a jacket and storming out the door. A fifteen-minute walk to the grocery store, she completes in eight. The cashier is a teenager in an outdated Nirvana t-shirt, looking at her like she’s out of her mind when she blows through the doors and says, “Blonde woman, brown jacket, one blue eye, one brown. Seen her?”

He has not. She forces herself not to sprint through the tiny store, peering doggedly down each aisle in turn. No sign of Dani. 

The shop, then. She makes her way back, cups her hands around her eyes as she leans into the dark window. Door is still locked, and not a light is burning.  Dani wouldn’t shut them off unless she was at the door--no matter what happens, no matter how confused she gets, she never plunges herself into darkness until she’s ready to make an escape into light. 

Breathe, Jamie thinks. Breathe. Maybe she’s just taking a stroll. 

She walks for blocks, her legs carrying her at twice the normal speed, looking around every corner with absolute terror. When she finds Dani at last, seated on a bench outside their favorite Mexican restaurant, the relief almost stops her heart. 

“Dani.”

Miserable eyes turn up to her, Dani’s face shell-shocked. “How long,” she says brokenly, “have we lived here? In this neighborhood.”

Jamie swallows. “Fifteen years.”

Dani nods, like she’s just given a complicated multiplication problem to a student who got it right on the first go. “Fifteen years,” she repeats. “Jamie. I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember--”

Jamie drops down beside her, arms wrapping tight, not caring who might be looking. Dani is so small, hands gripping Jamie’s shoulders, shaking all over. 

“I’ve got you,” Jamie murmurs. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

***

“It’s her,” Dani says. They’re laying in bed, Jamie’s head on Dani’s chest, Jamie trying desperately not to count all the things that have gone wrong in Dani’s head this week. How Dani stared in confusion at an order she’s put together a hundred times. How Dani snapped at a customer, who looked at her like she’d just stabbed his mother. How Dani had been midway through a joke when she lost track of the punchline, and looked ready to burst into tears. 

“It’s her,” Dani repeats. Jamie raises her head. 

“Dani...”

“It’s. Her.” Dani reaches for her hand, fingers pressing down on the gold band she once hid in a plant. Jamie closes her eyes, inhales. 

“Dani, I don’t want you to--you can’t go thinking--”

“Every day,” Dani says, her eyes on the ceiling. It’s like she thinks looking at Jamie would splinter her self-control. “Every day, I feel it a little less.”

Jamie waits. She’ll go on, eventually, explain herself. Jamie hates cutting her off, hates stepping in the way of a thought, lest Dani never quite get it back again.

“Every day,” she says at last, “we’re here. Living our lives. I see that, I feel...I feel you touching me, I feel how much we...and still, it’s like...like someone’s putting up glass. That fogged-up glass you can only see shapes through, you know? I can see us through it, but every day, that fog gets a little thicker.”

Her voice trembles, her throat working. Jamie shifts until her fingers are threaded with Dani’s, clenching tight. 

“You’re here,” she says, unable to think of anything more reassuring. It’s what she’s been telling herself about Dani for months. Years. That Dani, no matter what else is going on, is still here with her. Still smiling at her. Still whispering her name in the dark. 

“What if I’m not?” Something in Dani’s voice wavers to breaking, a hairline fracture in the words. “What if I’m looking at you, and I...I...”

Jamie can’t breathe. A muscle is jumping under her jaw, straining against the sob she’s been holding back for days. 

“What if I’m looking at you when she takes me,” Dani whispers, and Jamie breaks. Can’t not. She presses her face against Dani’s skin, tears coming hot, and Dani holds fast to her like they both know the ship is going down. 

“I love you,” she says, that same voice Jamie’s been leaning into for almost twenty years. “I love you. I love you. I love--”

***

“How is she?” Owen crosses his legs, sips his beer. Jamie’s own leg is fidgety, sock-clad foot hammering a mad rhythm against the floor. 

“She’s...”

“How is she?” Owen repeats before she can polish off a pretty lie. She shuts her eyes against his too-kind stare.

“Told the same story four times yesterday.”

He’s nodding, sympathetic. “Mum used to get stuck on one about the best dinner she ever made. How she rescued it at the last second from burning. Proudest moment of her life, I think, except for the day I got into culinary school.”

Jamie sighs. “It was about the kids.”

“Ah.” He leans back, surveying her as though looking for cracks. If he finds any, he wisely keeps it to himself. Jamie, bottle still angled toward her lips, leans a little to look down the hall. The bedroom door is shut, no sign of Dani waking.

“I tried to get her to stay up,” she says, wondering why she feels the need to convince Owen, of all people. “She does miss you.”

She doesn’t tell him about the heartbeat of confusion, the way Dani’s brow had knit when Jamie mentioned he was coming into town. How, for a second, Dani had seemed uncertain if she knew Owen from Bly, or from Iowa. 

“There’s always breakfast,” he says, placidly keeping tempo with this song they’re tossing back and forth, the one that goes everything is okay, everything is just fine, so long as we don’t look at it. 

It’s good to be around someone who understands, even if she doesn’t really want to talk about it. Good to know Owen, who is watching her with knowing eyes, remembers all too well what it feels like to watch someone slip away. 

“Seem to remember,” she says, taking the last swig and dropping the bottle against the breakfast bar, “saying once that this was a just shoot me situation. That it wasn’t fair.”

“And now?” He unfolds from his seat, moving in three strides to the fridge to replace her drink. Owen Sharma, at home in any kitchen without even trying. 

“Now,” she sighs, “I don’t care about fair. I don’t care about burdens. I don’t care about anything except making sure she still....she’s still...”

He hands her the bottle, leans his elbows against the counter. There’s an abundance of gray in his hair these days, and contacts in his eyes. He smiles like Owen, though. Always that familiar, warm smile. 

“She’s still your Dani,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Even on the days she isn’t. It’s the hardest part, maybe, remembering that. When she slips up, or can't remember the apartment number, or gets angry because you’ve reminded her of a gap she knows shouldn’t be there. But, Jamie, remember. She is still Dani.”

“I know.” Jamie scuffs a hand under her nose, rubs hard against her wet eyes. “I know. And sometimes she is so Dani. As if she was never anything else.”

As if, she doesn’t add, there wasn’t something else in there with her. Wiping her away a little at a time. Something else, matching her movements. Waiting. 

“To Dani Clayton,” Owen says, raising his bottle and clinking against her own. “Your anchor.”

***

She thinks she’s getting used to it, if this is something one can get used to. Thinks she’s building a rhythm, a routine, around Dani’s bad days. Little jokes work sometimes. Little kisses and touches. Dani responds to Poppins better than her own name now, and Jamie leans into it, trying to pretend that doesn’t tear at her. Trying to pretend she can go back to a time when safety was a nickname, a silly joke on her lips to keep the well of feelings from overwhelming her good sense. 

She says, “Morning, Poppins” and “I love you, Poppins”, and “G’night, Poppins”, like she hasn’t mostly been calling Dani by her real name since the day she admitted just how in love she was. 

Even so, it’s a method of getting by. Dani is still Dani, after all, just as Owen said. Maybe sometimes she thinks it’s 1987, and maybe sometimes she thinks there are ghosts in the mirrors, and maybe sometimes she looks sharply up from a movie with the name “Eddie” harsh on her lips. Sure. Sometimes. But, mostly, she is still Dani. 

Jamie is prepared, most days, for the mood swings and the bewilderment. For finding Dani’s toothbrush in the bedroom, or relocating Dani’s wallet back into her bag. She’s prepared for almost all of it, after so much time. 

Nothing. Nothing can prepare her for the day Dani forgets her name. 

They’re setting about readying for the day--readying themselves for the plane, in fact, which is slated to leave in three hours--and Dani has gone off to the bathroom to shower. She returns in one of Jamie’s softest shirts, her legs bare, her hair dripping. Jamie raises her eyes from last-minute packing, smiling. 

“Nice and clean, then?”

Dani freezes. Turns slowly on her heel. Stares at Jamie like she’s never seen her before. 

Something in Jamie cracks. Something in Jamie, something she didn’t even know could break, splintering wide open. 

“I--who--” Dani, backing up fast, backing toward the door. It’s like she walked into her apartment to find some burglar lurking at the foot of her bed. Her hand extends, warding Jamie off, and Jamie realizes she’s been trying instinctively to move closer. To take Dani into her arms. To remind her. 

“Dani. Poppins. Hey.” Each word, a knife turned back on herself. Each word, a question. She’s never said Dani’s name like this, with so much uncertainty weighed into each letter. “Dani, please.”

It’s the please that really breaks her. The please, like begging Dani for the kindness of her own name on Dani’s lips is something she ever thought she’d need to prepare for. 

Dani blinks. Blinks again. Raises her left hand, stares hard at the band wrapped around her third finger. As Jamie watches, she touches the heart, the hands, the crown. 

“Jamie?”

She’s on her knees, she realizes, on her knees on the floor with her arms wrapped around herself, and Dani is all but running to her. She’s on her knees, sobbing, feeling as though she could not be more wrung out if she’d walked in to find Dani cold on the bed. 

Don’t let me find out, she thinks desperately, please, fuck, don’t ever let me find out how that feels compared to this. 

“Jamie,” Dani says against the top of her head, holding her, “Jamie, hey, shh, come on...”

She doesn’t know, Jamie thinks wildly. She has no idea where she just went. No idea what almost washed away just now. She doesn’t know. 

“Still here,” Jamie rasps through a sob. “You’re still here?”

Dani is silent a moment, and Jamie knows she’s heard it: the question at the end of the sentence, placed there for the very first time. Her hand tucks beneath Jamie’s chin, guiding her face up until her swollen eyes are staring into Dani’s tired ones. 

“Still here,” she says softly. “I promise.”

***

Twenty years. It’s been twenty years, almost to the day, and California is glorious. Vermont is home, and Jamie would never trade it, but there’s just something about California she loves. The air is sweeter, somehow. The people, warmer. Or maybe they just care less. 

Dani holds to her arm like a life preserver as they make their way through people much younger and more aloof than they’ve been in years. Jamie tries to stand taller, tries to look as though she belongs among Flora’s friends. Flora, who barely knows who she is, even--her eyes coasted right over Jamie when she walked up, right past Dani’s smile, the polite disinterest of a stranger. 

It’s different than what she’s been watching with Dani. Different--but no less harsh, in its own quieter way. 

Miles, practically a man now, shakes their hands with undue formality. Henry, just this side of relaxed, kisses her cheek. Embraces Dani. Jamie tries not to notice how her wife goes stiff in his arms, like there’s some part of her that can’t quite put a finger on why he feels entitled to such friendliness. 

“Flora’s uncle,” Jamie whispers against Dani’s hair under the guise of a kiss. Dani nods once to show she understands, smiles at Henry like it’s summer, like it’s ‘87, like she couldn’t forget her past no matter how hard she tried. 

“Lovely to see you both,” Henry says, oblivious to it all. Jamie’s glad she kept this to herself, kept it between Dani and her and Owen. No one else knows Dani here, anyway. No one needs to pry into the battle she’s been waging for two decades. 

The rehearsal dinner is pleasant--everyone drinking a little too much, Flora beaming up at her groom-to-be, Owen telling bad jokes and advising them both to run off to Bali. With Dani’s hand gripping hers on the tablecloth, in full view of the world, Jamie almost feels at home. If she has to lean over from time to time to whisper a name in Dani’s ear, if she has to gently guide Dani to the bathroom, it all feels fitting of an out-of-town wedding. It’s fine. It’s okay. They can do this.

They’re sitting in the parlor of a presumably-haunted wedding venue, Dani leaning out of her chair to hold Jamie’s hand, when Jamie hears herself say it. She hadn’t planned on it in advance. It feels like flirting with fire, somehow, something that might keep them all warm or burn them all down. 

“I have a story,” she says, Dani’s fingers warm around her own. “Well. It isn’t really my story...”

She glances up, catching Dani’s eyes, and for a heartbreaking moment, finds them blank. Dani, looking at her with jaw clenched and brow furrowed, trying to place herself. Trying to ward off the thing still working so hard to take her from all of them. 

“It isn’t my story,” Jamie says again, a question, seeking permission. Dani’s face clears. She smiles. Nods once. 

Jamie leans forward, takes a steadying drink. This may not do anything, she cautions herself. May not matter beyond the scope of a single night, with a room full of strangers waiting on her next words. Tomorrow, Dani might wake and not have the first idea whose bed she is sharing. 

That, Jamie thinks firmly, is tomorrow. 

“The teacher,” she begins, squeezing Dani’s hand, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”