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#craning my head to make stupid faces at them through the hallway before bed. never ever? :(?

notanotherreidgirl · 3 years

Text

Dreams Come True

Summary: Spencer is a tease and Reader teaches him a lesson

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+, thigh riding, oral sex (female receiving), spanking, choking, restraints (handcuffs), degradation, gagging, mommy kink

Word Count: 1460

A/N: This is a part 2 to Wake Me Up but it can be read as a stand-alone. It was actually requested by @thatsonezesty13 and I got a little carried away - I hope you like it!

Spencer had been insatiable after your confession. That day you had him in the kitchen, the shower, and a vacant office at the BAU. He couldn’t keep his hands off you. Usually, you wouldn’t mind at all but the team had been called away to Arizona for a case.

You had a strict no sex rule during cases, absolutely no exceptions. Lives were at stake and you channeled all your energy into finding the unsub. Also, the team didn’t know about your relationship and sneaking into each other’s motel rooms would be a dead giveaway. It wasn’t that you really wanted to keep it from them but there was something exciting about sneaking behind the backs of the best profilers in the country.

Spencer was not a fan of your rule but he knew to pick his battles. Normally, he used it as motivation to get the unsub as quickly as possible. Except this time. This time he couldn’t be in the same room as you for 5 minutes without having to physically restrain himself from kissing you. It was hot and you had exchanged your blazers and dress pants for sleeveless blouses and skirts. And this case was long. They had been there in the sweltering heat for a week. A whole week of sleeping alone in his motel room. So Spencer made a plan.

If looks could kill, everyone within a 10 foot radius of you would be dropping like flies including that pretty officer with the local police swooning over your boyfriend. He had been doing this all day - being overly sympathetic with female witnesses, asking them to call him Spencer, wearing those adorable glasses. At first you found it amusing and made a mental note to tease him about how transparent he was when you were back home but now he had you seeing red. You tried to act unbothered but you were seething and Spencer could tell. He knows you inside and out. The officer was leaning over his shoulder and asking idiotic questions like What’s a geographic profile? or So how high is an IQ of 187?

You finally had enough when she grabbed the end of his tie - the purple and white tie he had worn on your first date. You were out of your seat and across the room in no time. Spencer looked at you innocently but you weren’t having it. “Reid, I need to show you something.”

You never called him Reid but he was never such a brat. Smugly, he followed you to the end of a vacant hallway. “Are you enjoying yourself?” you asked.

“I don’t know what you mean” his mischievous smile gave him away.

“You don’t? And here I was thinking you were a genius. But you’re not. You’re just a dumb, desperate baby, aren’t you?” you toyed with his tie, tightening it around his neck until it was just a little uncomfortable. “You need me to remind you who you belong to? Have you forgotten?”

“No, Mommy” he gasped. You closed the distance between you, feeling his erection against your stomach. Satisfied, you undid his tie and harshly pulled it from his neck.

“My room. Tonight” you turned on your heels and left him there, breathless and hard. Despite the promise of punishment, Spencer was over the moon. He won. Or so he thought.

That night you absentmindedly flicked through case files while contemplating your plans for Spencer. In truth, you were excited. He had been such a good boy recently, you could hardly remember the last time you had to punish him. His knock shook you from your reverie. “Come in.”

As soon as he entered you were on him, harshly turning and pushing him against the door so you could deftly handcuff him behind his back. You pulled the cuffs back so they dug into his wrists and pushed him on the bed facedown.

“Is this what you wanted? You needy brat” you reached between his legs and palmed him over his pants, applying just a little too much pressure. “You think that little officer could do this to you?”

“No, she couldn’t. I’m sorry, Mommy. I don’t know what I was thinking” his earlier arrogance was nowhere to be found.

“You weren’t thinking. That’s the problem. If you want to be a stupid, little slut then that’s how I’ll treat you” you gagged him with the purple tie you had taken and threaded his belt from his pants before tugging them down. Without warning you swatted him with the belt and he lurched forward, struggling against the cuffs. With every blow his hips ground into the bed and the handcuffs chafed the skin of his wrists. When you were satisfied with your work you turned him over. He winced as his raw behind came into contact with the scratchy motel sheets. You slowly pulled the tie from his mouth. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, I have!” he squeaked, upset that he couldn’t touch you.

“Good, now you can make it up to me.” You pulled the hem of your oversized shirt over your head and straddled his face, holding yourself just out of reach. He craned his head up and his arms thrashed behind his back, the handcuffs digging into his wrists. Frustrated, he let out a pitiful whine. “Use your manners, baby. Or have you forgotten those too?”

“Please, Mommy. I want to be good. I’ll do anything” he had gotten himself so worked up over the course of the day and having you just out of reach brought tears to his eyes. As you lowered your dripping core to his face, you let a hand drift down and wipe a stray tear from his face. You knew your punishment was his fantasy brought to life but you couldn’t help yourself. The poor thing just wanted to get your attention, just wanted to be with you all the time.

He was ravenous, licking a stripe up your slit before pressing an open mouth kiss to your core. He loved eating you out - loved how your thighs quivered, how you tasted, how you pulled his hair and made incomprehensible little noises. His tongue found your entrance and he took his time licking around it before pushing in, savoring the string of curses you let out. You were unbearably close and you grinded down, practically suffocating him. Spencer latched onto your clit and sucked hard, triggering your release. You convulsed over him, having to brace yourself with your arms as you rode out your high. He hummed happily and made no move to stop. His head was off the bed at this point, tongue laving over your sensitive sex and drawing out your second orgasm with ease.

Shakily, you pulled away from him, pushing his face into the bed to keep him back. He looked at you with dazed eyes, his chin glistening from your arousal. Did I do good?

“There’s my sweet baby boy. I knew he was in there” you kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue as you undid the handcuffs. Immediately his hands came up around your face, deepening the kiss as if to say I want you, only you. It wasn’t a part of your plan but you pulled him up into your lap and slid a knee between his legs. “Go on, baby. Come for Mommy”

His eyes screwed shut as he rode your thigh. It didn’t take long, you had him on the edge nearly all day. Once, twice and then he was coming all over your thigh. You showered him with praise and reached over to the nightstand to grab some Kleenex and the bottle of lotion you had put out. You took your time, gently massaging in the lotion and pulling the covers up over him. He tucked himself into your side and rested his head on your breasts, his arms circling your waist and pulling you in close.

“I’m so sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I miss you when we’re on cases.” he murmured into your chest.

“I know, baby. I miss you too but you know why we don’t have sex on cases.” you sighed and threaded a hand through his hair. He gave you a reluctant nod and buried his face into your chest. You could feel your resolve crumbling. God, you were going so soft for this boy. Was this his plan all along? Probably.

“But maybe on long cases like this one or when you’re being especially good, I could make an exception. Does that sound ok?” He smiled into the soft skin of your shoulder and sleepily littered a trail of kisses up your neck.

“That sounds like a dream come true”

#spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid #sub!spencer #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfiction #mommy kink #mommy kink collection

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allthingskakashi · 4 years

Text

• Bells and Balls •

[ Kakashi x Reader ]

Tags : NSFW, Smut

Words : 4.8k

A/n: I wrote over 4k words just to get some dick.

Okay sbsbajash idk I'd been working on this for like a whole week and i couldn't concentrate on anything unless i finished this lmao so here it is whatever, I can't drag this around anymore. Uhhh hope you like it I'm still not very good at writing smut im sorry. This takes place in the post Anbu and pre team 7 era and Kakashi’s a bit of an asshole but you know you still love him. This is also a little similar to my other fic ‘Yearning’ but here you get the s e x and i’m sorry if the characterization is bad, i put more focus on making it hot i guess ok ill shut up now i hope you like it

You give the sheet of paper in your hand one final glance, and look around the room. There’s a long line behind you and you’re surrounded by your fellow jounins, each here to submit their respective lists.

You were extremely happy with the performance of your team and didn’t have to think twice before passing them. You had no doubt that they would make wonderful shinobi. You looked forward to teaching and guiding them, and judging by the chatter around you, most other jounins had passed their teams too.

The trouble, however, remains with Kakashi Hatake.

A few weeks ago, you had all been named squad leaders and put in charge of a squad, and today was your very first day with your assigned teams. As instructed, each of you conducted a test for the genin and depending upon whether they passed or failed, the final list would be announced.

No one till date had ever passed Kakashi Hatake's infamous test, and everyone was sure that no one would this year either. Most genin trembled in fear of him, being aware of his strict methods.

And as it happens, at this moment, this infamous man is right in front you, standing with his back hunched forward as he hands his paper in to the woman behind the desk.

You wait for your turn, your eyes fixating on the red symbol on his vest as you wonder, ruefully, about the fate of the students he must have failed this time.

You take a step forward as he turns around, having submitted his paper, and the line moves up behind you.

Kakashi peeks briefly at your paper as he passes, letting out an audible scoff at the list in your hand before walking on ahead, hands tucked in his pockets.

You’re momentarily confused by this sudden act, but something is already starting to boil up inside you. You aren’t exactly known for being placid, nor for sitting by and allowing people to give you crap. Your eyebrows furrow as you hastily thrust your sheet onto the desk, before making your way to follow after him.

“Do you have a problem?” you call to his back as a few heads turn towards you.

He stops, taking his time turning back to look at you, half lidded eyes looking as indifferent as always.

His demeanour pushes you further to the edge and you take a few steps closer, craning your neck to meet his eyes, waiting for an answer.

“Well?”

He peers down at you unfazed, completely oblivious to the audience around you, as if they are not even there.

“You’re too soft”, he shrugs. “You don’t know how the shinobi world works” he says bluntly, piercing you with his unwavering gaze.

You glare back at him, your mouth twitching with the sled of retorts forming at the back of your tongue.

“Who gave you the right to—"

But he’s already turning away from you, your eyes meeting with the red symbol of his vest once again.

“Hey don’t you fucking walk away from me!” you yell, going forward to stop him, but he saunters on ahead without turning back; his scent lingering in the air as you stand there, watching his figure disappear slowly along the hallway, your fury seething inside you.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

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

“Thank you! This is just what I needed.” you chime, digging into the hot bowl of ramen in front of you, your mouth salivating just at the look of it.

You take a big mouthful, revelling in the immediate burst of flavours on your tongue.

“Mmmm.” You moan, “You’ve outdone yourself, Ayame!”

The young girl smiles at you in delight, proceeding to serve you another helping.

You take another blissful bite, closing your eyes to relish the moment.

The streets are quiet around you except for the faint chirp of crickets, as is expected at this hour of the night. It must be past midnight by now, you’re not exactly sure.

You had been tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. For some reason, the encounter with Kakashi from earlier today had you feeling bitter and edgy. You hated that he was in your head, you didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like you to be this bothered by some mindless comments from someone. You’d had altercations before, worse ones, but they were never enough to steal away your night’s sleep.

And yet, this time…

You had to do something to take the edge off, ideally punch him in the face, but since that was not the plausible choice, you settled for the next best thing. Going for a run and treating yourself to your favourite comfort food later.

So here you are now, out at night all by yourself. The Ichiraku shop was still open, bless the lords.

You slurp some of the soup from the bowl and let out a loud smack of your lips.

You can feel your spirits lifting, and you’re glad for it. He wasn’t in your head after all, you were just having a bad day, that’s all.

You shift your focus back to the bowl in front of you, moaning and slurping as you go.

“Whoa there, Get a room.”

The sudden interruption of the familiar voice makes you stop cold.

Are you fucking kidding me?

You look up from your bowl, turning your head around to see none other than Kakashi Hatake, standing smug in all his glory.

The strange pang of bitterness is back in the depths of your stomach and you resist the urge to punch that smug look off his face.

“Ah, if it isn’t Kakashi Hatake, the all-knowing wisenheimer.” you say, your tone snide. “Say, don’t you have somewhere else to be? Some genin to fail?”

He comes around to take a seat on the stool beside you, a smirk evident through his mask, almost as if he’s enjoying this.

“I’ve already failed them” he smiles sweetly at you. “Worked up quite an appetite too.�� He says, looking away from you to place his order.

You notice as Ayame notes his order down, the distinct shade of pink that tinges her cheeks as does, before turning away and disappearing into the supplies room at the back of the shop.

Ugh. What is with this guy? Why is it so….

You don’t realise you’re staring at him until he looks back at you, raising a questioning eyebrow. You supress your startlement at being caught, pretending as if you’d meant to be glaring at him.

“What the hell are you even doing out here so late?” you spurt, trying to sound irritated but it comes out sounding almost…concerned?

Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. “I could ask you the same.”

You look away, unwilling to answer. You were out here to get him out of your head, and now here you are, sitting beside him in a ramen shop while the entire village sleeps.

It almost feels like you’re the only two people in the world. The feeling makes something churn inside your stomach.

You dab your mouth with your napkin, before swivelling on the stool to face him. You look at him intently, studying his features. He stares back at you, as if waiting for you to say something.

“Why?” you ask, catching him off guard with it.

“Why what?”

“Why does no one pass your test? What’s so difficult about it?” you ask, gaze fixated on him. You expect him to look uncomfortable but he just shrugs.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious” you reply truthfully, watching him smirk at your answer.

You hate it when he smirks, how his face looks when he’s being cocky.

Ugh.

He swivels in his chair now, turning his body towards you. “Is that so?”, he says through the smirk, resting his elbow on the counter and leaning in.

You don’t know why, but something about his tone and the way he leans in makes it difficult for you to breathe all of a sudden.

But you’re not one to be fazed.

“Yes” you reply, refusing to let yourself crumple under his gaze. Your voice comes out sounding hoarse, and you clear your throat.

He smirks wider at your reply and stretches the next words out.

“If you’re so curious…Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

Your heart thuds like clapper clanging against a bell. You resist the urge to gulp.

Was it this hot when I left the house?

You clear your throat again. “I don’t have the time to take part in your stupid games”

The smirk is adamant on his lips, his gaze unnerving.

He breathes, “Do you not have the time…or do you not have the balls?”

His tone is challenging. Or inviting. Or both, you’re not really sure, you’re not thinking straight anymore.

Your jacket is too hot against your skin, you writhe beneath the thick material.

Sliding off the stool, you walk slowly towards him, erasing the space in between you bit by bit with each step, until your bodies are a few inches away from touching. Your eyes bore into each other’s as if in silent battle. It’s your turn to smirk now.

“Training Grounds in 20 mins” you whisper. Despite the hitch in your breath, your voice is clear. “Don’t be late.”

You walk past him without breaking your gaze, brushing your shoulder against his arm as you walk by, perhaps a little harder than necessary, leaving Kakashi to stare after you.

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

You sit on the damp grass with your back against a tree, waiting. Your jacket lies in a puddle beside you.

You count the weapons in your bag, you hadn’t exactly come out prepared for a fight tonight. Two kunai knives, that’s all.

Would that be enough to take down the copy ninja? You hope so. There’s no way you’re letting him win. It’s time someone taught him a lesson and you would love to be that someone. The nerve of him…to actually challenge you.

He really needs to get a life. But then, here you are too…

Why am I here? What am I even doing?

You close your eyes and tilt your head back against the hard bark, your eyebrows furrowing the way they always do when you’re deep in thought.

Back at the shop… the way he spoke…the look in his eyes— God, Stop. Stop it.

Who the fuck cares about the look in his eyes?

Not me.

It’s okay. I’m good.

We’re here to teach this asshole a lesson. An asshole, that’s what he is. Insufferable and stupid and smug and ridiculously ho— horrible. Ridiculously horrible.

You take a deep breath, opening your eyes and standing up so fast that it makes your head dizzy for a brief second. You start walking around, jerking your arms and legs, stretching your neck, even slapping yourself a few times on the face to make yourself focus.

Yes, I need to focus. The lack of sleep is getting to me.

You crouch down to tighten your shoelaces, before getting up and starting some stretching exercises. Gotta loosen the muscles, make sure you have full flexibility. After all, taking on Kakashi Hatake all by yourself is probably not going to be a piece of cake.

You look down to check your attire: running shorts and a tank top, not fully ideal but it’ll do.

You’re bent over, in the midst of doing rotating toe touches when your eyes fall upon a silhouette far ahead, nearing closer and closer. You pause, standing up straight with your hands on your hips as the figure walks slowly towards you, a faint jingling noise ringing through the air, as Kakashi finally comes near enough for you to make out his face in the dim light.

“Late as always” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

Kakashi stands a few feet away from you, holding something in one hand, other hand inside his pocket. He’s not wearing his jacket anymore either, you observe.

“Sorry, had to go get this” he says, holding up what looks like two small bells with strings attached.

You squint at it, coming closer to get a better look. “What the hell is that?”

“Bells”, he smiles. “That’s the test. You have to get these bells from me. You can use any attack you want but… since you’re not a genin, I’ll raise the stakes a little higher for you. You cannot use ninjutsu or genjustu. It has to be purely physical attacks. You have till dawn.”

This little fucker. He knows taijutsu is not my strong point.

But fine. If that’s how he wants to play this, so be it. I’m taking him down one way or another.

“Dawn?” you chuckle, fixing him with your gaze. “I don’t need till dawn” you sneer, coming forward with a kick aimed to his head. He blocks it just as you’re about to make contact, grasping your ankle in his strong hold.

“I didn’t say start yet” he says through a smirk, letting go of your foot.

You take a few steps backwards, glowering at him as he ties the bells to a loop on his trousers. They hang over his thighs with a jingle, silver metal glimmering in the moonlight.

He looks back up at you, eyes twinkling with an unusual sparkle.

There’s that look again…

“Go” he commands, his body tensing up into a defensive stance immediately, ready for you.

You fix your gaze on the shiny metal of your goal and hurl yourself forward, your arms meeting each other’s in blows and defences. You throw a few kicks to his stomach, making him tumble but not enough to knock him out.

You shift your stance, before directing another punch to his face; he deflects it, sniggering.

Okay okay okay, I’m not focusing. I need to focus.

You take a deep breath.

Kakashi stands waiting, his features emanating pure amusement.

You feel a restlessness brewing within you, a strange energy buzzing through your veins. You’d been itching to punch him in the face and now’s your chance.

You watch him, mentally calculating all your options. His silver hair shines like moonbeams in the dark.

FOCUS.

Drawing a kunai from your bag, you lunge forward, distracting him with a kick to the head as your kunai slashes through the air, just about to cut across the strings when— your hand is caught in his grasp, a ‘slap!’ cutting through the air as his palm clasps around your wrist.

He bores into you, your wrist held firmly in his hand as he turns you around swiftly, gripping both your wrists at the back.

You feel the muscles of his chest against your body as he comes closer, the metal bells hanging over his leg brushing against your fingertips behind you.

You wriggle your hands, trying to break free but it’s in vain. His grip is firm, slender fingers digging into your skin as he leans into your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Not so fast” he whispers, his lips almost brushing the top of your ears.

The words send a shudder through your spine. You feel the black sky closing in on you, there’s a hum springing through your veins.

He loosens his grip as your hands fall, the kunai held limply in your hand. You turn around, your heart skipping a beat at how close he is to you. You feel your resolve weakening.

No.

Stop.

Your hand flies to the collar of his shirt, the other hand holding the kunai to his throat as you push him backwards with your body, your eyes blazing into his.

Keeping the kunai at his throat, you lower your other hand slowly, brushing it down his chest, his muscles taut under your hand. You trail your hand down along the line of his sternum, down the firmness of his stomach and further down, your fingers lightly caressing the bulge of his trousers before they almost make contact with the bells alongside, right there, just a flick away—

so close—

Before your wrist is caught in a sudden, fast clutch again.

His grip is much stronger this time, unyielding, hungry. Your bones ache beneath his hold.

You watch something ignite in his eyes as his shoulders rise and fall in rhythm to your heaves. You suddenly realise how out of breath you are.

In the flash of a moment, Kakashi grips your kunai holding hand, holding it away from his throat as he pushes you, the weight of his body pressing onto yours as your feet scrape along the ground, stumbling backwards till your back slams against a tree, the force making your body jolt. The kunai slips from your hand.

His arms pin you defenceless against the tree, his gaze holding you hostage, burning through your skin.

The touch of his skin against yours feels alien. When was the last time you felt the warmth of someone’s skin? You cannot recall.

He’s so close to you, you cannot see anything beyond him.

In the dark, under the moonlight, the edges of his face look softened.

A wind passes by, the sound of rustling leaves filling through the silence. A volcano erupts within you.

Now.

You gulp. Up this close, you can make out the outline of his mouth.

Now.

Your lips press into Kakashi’s in a desperate lurch, your neck straining to meet him as far as his grip on you allows. Your heart explodes like firecrackers inside your chest as your tongue pushes against the cloth of his mask, demanding to be let in.

You feel his grip loosen around your wrists as the mask is off and he reciprocates, his lips on yours, his hand gripping your chin up as his tongue moves in fervent swirls inside your mouth.

A thousand questions swarm inside your head, buzzing but you’re not being controlled by your head anymore. You can feel the thud of his chest against your own.

He trails his hand down to your throat, holding you in place, other hand exploring every edge and curve of your body before it snakes down the waistband of your shorts, down the elastic of your underwear.

You gasp, arching your back as you feel the touch of his long fingers down there, moaning helplessly into his mouth as he rubs along your wet entrance in rapid strokes.

Your head is a dizzy mess of jumbled emotions as yearning overpowers your senses, your previous resolve weakening into a mushy puddle with every stroke and thrum of his fingers inside you.

He pulls away from your mouth to leave sloppy kisses down your neck, his tongue painting patterns along your skin as you catch a glimpse of his face and you see it— his face, glowing under the moonlight. And you realise.

He’s…beautiful.

An overwhelming ache breaks through your senses, creating a frenzied whirlwind of passion and agony in your mind. Your detestation for him crumbles into pieces underneath the weight of your desire, as you realise…

You don’t hate him.

You never did.

Not even close.

Not even a little bit.

Not even at all.

You pull his face up to meet your lips again, planting urgent kisses on his mouth as your hands tease the hem of his shirt. His fingers slip out of you and you can feel the wetness of your panties, soaked through with arousal.

“Kakashi…” you whisper in pleasure as he looms over you, your foreheads touching, out of breath and heaving with exhilaration. His eyes burn with the same passion that you feel inside.

“We can’t…shouldn’t…here…people...” you mutter in struggled breaths, as he plants another kiss to your lips, the sparks from it fogging your mind

“Since when do you care about people?” he whispers against your ear, his raspy voice enough to strip you off of all your remaining sense and judgement.

You pull his shirt over his head in one swift motion, throwing it to the ground beside as he follows, taking off your shirt and then unhooking your bra, tossing both away as his hands reach for you in hungry clutches.

His hands caress your breasts, pressing them and pulling on your hardened nipples, his mouth following soon after. His lips lock around them, sucking hard as you bury your face into his broad shoulders, biting lightly to keep yourself from screaming.

You sink your fingers into his hair, tugging softly as his mouth moves in a wet trail further down your body, strands of his hair tickling your stomach as he goes, his hands tugging your panties, sliding them down the curves of your hips.

Your heart thuds in your ears as Kakashi sits crouching in front of you, parting your legs. He looks up at you, as if asking for your permission, and you give it to him by pulling the back of his head closer between your legs.

He puts your right leg over his shoulder, spreading you for him, his other hand clutching the back of your left thigh as his mouth teases you down there.

The tip of his tongue flicks at your entrance, before it finds your weakest spot, and you feel your body shuddering, barely able to keep your balance.

You tug at his hair harder as his tongue moves skilfully inside you, fingers rubbing your swollen clit simultaneously. You feel every nerve ending in your body come alive as you moan out his name “K-Kakashi…” through trembling lips.

Your insides shudder and a deep moan forms at the back of your throat, threatening to escape as Kakashi puts his hand over your mouth, before pulling you down on top of him with a sudden tug.

You come down with a thud on his thighs, your body jolting with the force as you watch him in front of you, the copy ninja… bare bodied and heaving in front of your eyes.

Who would have thought…

You straddle him, admiring his unclad torso, before pushing his shoulders down with your hands, making him lie back on the grass as you stoop over him. His eyes are fixated on you, pure pleasure making itself known on his face.

He really is beautiful.

You bend forward, your mouth exploring the smoothness of the skin on his chest, as a strange cold feeling down there distracts you.

You look down, squinting in the dark to find yourself sitting on two glimmering metal balls placed over his thigh.

The bells.

A thrill runs through your nerves as you smirk, glancing up at him.

He’s noticed it too.

His eyes return the same sparkle of mischief as yours as he lies still, waiting.

You press your hands down on his chest, locking your gaze with his as you position yourself over the bells, tilting your head back as you move back and forth over them.

The cold metal of the bells rubs against you, sending tremors through your entire body.

Your gaze at Kakashi again, watching him squirm at the sight of you, his hands twitching to feel your skin.

You keep your eyes on him as you slide down slightly on his thigh, tugging his trousers down as you go. Your hands find the base of his cock as you allow yourself to admire his throbbing length.

He leans his head back on the grass and you feel him getting harder in your hands.

Forming your hand into a fist around him, you move it up and down along his shaft in slow steady strokes, leaning down to bring your mouth closer to his tip, before swirling your tongue in circles around his skin.

His hips tremble as he clutches onto the grass, writhing.

Your lips clasp around his cock, mouth slurping up and down his length, taking your time sliding down to the base and back up, your hands following suit.

You tease him, switching between the tip of your tongue and your whole mouth, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through him.

He quivers and you sit back up, bending forward over his face and pressing your lips on his. A groan from his mouth erupts inside yours as he clutches your hips.

His hands guide your hips back and forth over his length, your lips trembling as he slips into you, his cock finally inside you, pushing into you, filling you as deep as you can be filled.

A new rush of pleasure burns through your senses, your insides stretching as you move your hips around him, back and forth and then in circles.

“A-a-ah...mm…yeah…”, your muffled moans cut through the depths of the forest in the silence of the night.

Kakashi breathes your name, the eruption of your name from his lips enough to send you to a frenzy, filling your heart with drunken fervour.

You moan his name back in reply, hopping up and down on him as his arm snakes behind your waist and he flips you over in a sudden, swift movement, the weight of his body falling over you now.

You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his, unwilling to break away even for a second.

You want him so, so bad.

The pointy peaks of grass underneath poke your skin, your nails digging into his back as he nibbles on your neck, thrusting deep, deep into you.

You feel the familiar shudder from earlier again, your mind getting clouded with waves of pleasure coursing through you. Kakashi’s grunts quaver in your ear as you feel his hips jerk in tune to yours.

There’s a tantalizing jolt of ecstasy through your body as you scream out, your quivering voice matching his grunts as you both put a hand over the other’s mouth, your muffled moans melting into each other’s skin. He quivers inside you for a final time before you feel him slipping out of you, as hot wet cum trickles along the insides of your thighs, dripping into the dewy grass beneath.

Droplets of sweat from his hair drips down on you, tasting salty in your mouth. You heave together in exhaustion as he plops down on you, before rolling to the side.

You lie on your back panting, your entire body damp with sweat.

Languor threatens to take over you as you struggle to keep your eyes open, looking up into the night sky.

You see a firefly glowing above your head. You lift a lazy hand to reach it, but it flies away far above, becoming one with the twinkling stars in the sky.

Soft sounds of Kakashi’s breath echo beside you, his foot still touching yours lightly as the both of you lie heaving under the stars.

He turns his head to look at you and you can feel his eyes on you as you try, with all the fibres in your body, to not look back at him.

You know you won’t be able to hold yourself together any longer if you do.

He extends a hand towards you. “That was…”

“Sshhh… Shut up” you say in a slumberous whisper, moving closer into his arm, putting your own around him, your head buried into chest as you feel your eyes getting heavy…not able to stay awake anymore. You feel Kakashi envelope you in his arms, the warmth from his skin against the cold air lulling you to sleep, your mind becoming foggy as you close your eyes, slowly drifting off somewhere far, far away…

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

Your eyes open to the chirping of birds perched on the branches above, rays of morning light casting a rosy glow in the horizon.

You watch the half light in the distance, rubbing your eyes, smiling to yourself.

The night had taken with it the black clouds of denial fogging your mind, your heart is as clear as day now.

You turn your head just in time to see Kakashi opening his eyes, his eyes puffy, imprints of grass marking his soft cheek.

You smile at him as he looks at you, lips curled into a sleepy smile. “Good morning” he yawns, tapping over his mouth with his palm.

“I won.”

“Hmm?” he asks groggily, eyes still adjusting to the light.

You hold up the two small bells in front of him, they jingle over his face.

He chuckles. “I don’t think so. It’s past dawn”

“I took them off before. I won.”

He laughs again, his face lighting up in a way you’d never seen before. He looks even more beautiful in the daylight.

“In all fairness y/n, there are no losers here.”

You laugh along with him now, reaching across and smoothening the imprints on his cheek, keeping your hand there, cupping his cheek.

“So, I passed?” you ask, looking at him, inching closer.

He looks back at you, with the same look from earlier in his eyes.

But you’re not turning yourself blind to it anymore.

“Top of the class” he laughs, pulling you closer, nuzzling your nose with his before pressing his lips into yours.

Notes :-

Did I quote 10 Things I Hate About You on a Kakashi Smut?

Yes, yes i did.

#kakashi #kakashi fanfiction #kakashi x reader #kakashi smut #kakashi x reader smut #naruto #naruto fanfiction #naruto x reader #kakashi fanfic #kakashi x reader fluff

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yorumiraki · 3 years

Text

“that’s just how it is”

jjk teachers x retired! reader

prologue

warning: jujutsu kaisen manga spoilers

[editing]

13 years ago

‘god, and to think he couldn’t get anymore worse’

y/n l/n. 19 years old. employed as a starting teacher at Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School, going on 2 years... and is currently watching one of her fellow students, gojo satoru, having... she doesn’t even know what to call it, an awakening? or maybe he’s just that much crazier after he was thought to be killed with a blow to the head. she was a bit surprised to see him standing behind her when she had went to confront toji fushiguro, his alleged killer, as well as the man who killed amanai, the star plasma vessel. he was clearly having what she could call one of his angsty episodes, spouting about how he’s the strongest and throwing in a little comment about how stupid it is protecting the weak here and there throughout his little rampage. gojo happily pranced around waving his arms around with a wide smile and wild look in his azure eyes“throughout the heavens and earth, i alone am the honored one.”

‘a-ah yes, there he goes again.... a bit of a god complex at the moment. i suppose i should stay out of the way. after all...

gojo continued to laugh and spout nonsense, drowning out her thoughts, making her frown in concern,

‘i would probably be the first to die here.’

she winced watching as blows were received and given from both him and the infamous sorcerer killer. in the midst of all this, she had somehow managed to doze off. ‘the star plasma vessel was killed... now what, wait another hundred or so years for another to be born? tengens spell will be even weaker then and-‘ she looked back up after another blast rang out and there was toji fushiguro standing in the smoke, a gaping hole on the side of his body. y/n watched the pain and regret flash through his eyes. he had clearly overestimated himself. him, against the six eyes? he had no chance.

she walked over slowly, her arms raised cautiously. only catching a quiet “...in 2 or 3 years my kid will get sold to the zenin clan. do whatever you want.” he craned his head towards her as he heard her footsteps, before his head slumped over. she put her arms down slowly as she moved closer, nodding over to gojo who stood there staring aimlessly at the man in front of him. his body was still standing. placing a finger on his neck, she felt no pulse. even in death, he didn’t wanna bow down to anyone.

her attention went from the cold feeling on tojis neck to the shuffling of gojo’s feet walking in the opposite direction. “wait, gojo-kun we need to....” he continued to walk away, and she sighed in defeat before making a phone call. ‘he never wants to listen to me anyway.... but what was that earlier?’ speaking to the caller on the other end, she orders for the confirmation of a clean up crew for damages and the body, hanging up after the request was approved. she looked at the body once more, before turning away to catch up with her student.

gojo rubbed his forehead after receiving a flick of your finger. you stood in front of your students, geto suguru, ieri shoko , and gojo satoru, nagging to gojo about not listening to you once more. it had been a year since the incident, and everything was continuing its slow pace back to normalcy.

“and that’s for walking away when i’m talking to you. i get that i’m not that much older than you kid, but at least learn to have some manners or at least like, i don’t know, some kind of restraint or respect when being talked to, especially by me. and no i don’t care that you are stronger than me because at the end of the day i’m your sensei, but please don’t-“

“yeah yeah don’t be like you we get it already, you lazy hag.”

“not WE. IM SPEAKING TO YOU GOJO... and just YOU.”

geto and shoko watched the reoccurring scene in front of them as they sat on cement stairs, stifling laughter from coming out as they watched y/n flick him again, an ‘ack’ slipping out of gojos mouth before he looked away with a pout.

“ now you three, get back to it... i’ll be laying over... i don’t know, i’ll be laying around somewhere but i’ll be watching you.” she said indecisively before glancing over to see shoko and suguru smile and nod, gojo still pouting before looking back towards you. his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, giving you a clear view of his eyes. you point to your own (e/c) eyes with your fingers, squinting before turning them and thrusting in the direction of a gojos, making it clear that you were watching them closely. in return, she earned an eye roll. the three blinked and once their eyes were open again, she was already gone.

y/n watched from the top of a tall building on the school grounds, her binoculars in her right hand as she laid her head in the palm of her left, laying flush against the roofing tiles. she had done as she said she would and laid, as she said before, “somewhere”, watching her students lazily through her binoculars. she smiled as she watched an eraser and pen being thrown at gojo, before freezing and being bounced away. ‘working on his technique i see, good.... soon he will be the strongest, no, he already is...’ she yawned before placing the binoculars down next to her. for a while now, more precisely a year, she has been watching gojo, her wariness and worry for him growing after the failed mission. amanai had clearly grown on the boys at the time, and it was a bit of a process to deal with them after she had gotten killed. she had remembered gojos words when they had returned, with amanai laying dead in his arms.

“should we kill these guys? if we do it.... i probably won’t feel a single-“

“stop gojo. there’s no meaning in doing that.”

“meaning... is that really necessary?”

y/n looked at him, not knowing what to say next before walking off in the direction they were going, suguru cutting in.

“it’s very important, especially for shamans...”

she noted that he had been very uneasy then and although he hasn’t fully recovered from it now, he was doing much better than before. but her new problem now, was geto suguru. he had been acting a bit strange as of lately, looking almost as if he was thinking over the same thing everyday in his head, being a little too absorbed in his thoughts. an attribute that was very unlike him. she sighed out loud before turning from her side and laying on her back and closing her eyes.

‘hope no one bothers-‘

“hime-sama.”

y/n opened her eyes, letting out a loud groan before snapping her head in front of her. there stood kana, her house attendant, staring down at her with dull eyes, hand over the other lightly in the front of her skirt.

“your family wishes to have you back now”

“....can’t you see i’m busy now. i’m working, now go...and stop calling me that already.”

“... i’m afraid i can’t don’t that hime-sama. well then, i will wait until the end of your shift, then i will bring you back-“

(y/n) stared at her blankly, not listening to anything she was saying before sitting up while shuffling away from her, bringing her binoculars up to her eyes to continue watching her students

‘....those two....goddamn hags.’

“....and what did we say about having sluggish posture (y/n). you’re not gonna be able to find a suitor if you’re gonna act... like some man or something, have some elegance for once. don’t think we are just gonna watch you do whatever you want while....”

(y/n) was currently sat down with her parents, them going on a rant again about her “unwomanly” way of doing things. anything.

she sighed in relief once her mother finished, her father giving her an unreadable look.

this is the (l/n) clan. full of hot headed men who only cared about themselves and power, while the women only cared about submitting to them and having children in order to keep the line going. stiff, strict and bland. that’s how it was. if you weren’t strong, you were useless. if you couldn’t bear children, you were disposed of. the second option being something she didn’t plan on doing in the future. she became a jujutsu sorcerer and a teacher soon after she graduated. she had expected her parents to be furious but surprisingly, they were quite satisfied,

“at least you’ll be useful to the clan.”

she clenched her teeth at the memory as she walked through the halls of the large manor, the moon shining down through the shoji windows. she had planned to go to sleep right after that nice little “meeting” with her parents. she couldn’t stand it, how goddamn stupid the clan was, thinking that they were advancing and getting better throughout time but in truth, they were holding themselves back, committing to the old ways, rules rules rules and more rules. the ground had rumbled quietly but (y/n) ignored it, brows furrowing in annoyance before turning the corner, approaching the door to her room. she notices kana standing beside her door, almost as if she was on guard. she scoffed before ignoring her and putting her hand on the door, beginning to slide it open when she suddenly heard strange noises echoing through the hallway. she stopped and listened, her eyes looking up to kana in question. she only blinked back with wide eyes, giving clear signs of bewilderment.

she grabbed kana’s wrist before making her way back towards her parents room where the sounds came from. they both moved together slowly as soon as they were outside of the door. (y/n)‘s eyes widened, hearing the distressed noises of her mother and naturally on instinct, opened the door immediately… only to be met with the sight of her mother’s shaking erratically on the bed, her father laying face down on the ground.

“(l/n) sama!”

kana had immediately sprinted towards your mother only to be stopped and smashed through the wall to the hallway by an invisible hand. (y/n) stood still, looking back at kana in shock before putting her hands at the ready as she looked around in the room, making her way around the bed before shaking her mother’s arm. no response, but she’s still shaking. “stay calm shit, what the fu-”

“there you are”

she turned around in surprise, only to be grabbed by the neck by a hand with long black nails, threatening to pierce into her neck.

“ahh it’s definitely you. you look JUST like them.”

she choked a grunt while staring at them, panic slowly taking over. it was a curse clearly, but it seemed to be intelligent, a mass of energy emitting from their cloak. ‘a special grade….’ they had a cape on, the sleeves long and loose, a hood covering their face. she couldn’t identify them. she grit her teeth at the hold on her throat. ‘s-strong’

“now as revenge to that pathetic old man on the ground there, you’re going —————. and i will ————, with nobody knowing hehehe. i ————- will be taking over now.”

(y/n) looks at the hooded figure with a confused look, unable to hear what they had been saying.“what- what did you say… get off me, who are you?!?! why are you here, let go!”

she breathed heavily as she wringles in his hold, punching and kicking at them, but they were quick to act, placing two fingers upon her forehead. her movement paused, and eyes widened as she felt energy surging through her, so much she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. she fought to resist the feeling of sleep, using her curse energy to attempt to overpower them but to no avail, as her captor pressed his fingers into her forehead even harder. unable to resist the strong feeling, her consciousness slowly slipped away and anything after that, a blank space.

“so you don’t remember anything…”

“...no.”

“nothing... nothing at all? come on.”

it had been like this for the last two weeks. staff of the school questioning her over and over again, only to get “no”s and “i don’t remember”s from her. she had been informed that the clan was dead. she really couldn’t remember anything. she could tell there was something different about her body, she just didn’t know what. and what happened before she was found passed out on the ground? was it actually her that did that? sure she hated her family and wanted to cut ties with them as soon as she could, but did she actually kill them? she hated this, not knowing things, especially about herself. is there something she doesn’t know? she shook her head, looking back up at the principal. kana was still alive, only managing to get away with a broken shoulder and was standing behind (y/n), a stoic look on her face.

“i already told you, i don’t remember anything…”

he looked at her before rubbing his head, contemplating what to do. kana had looked over at (y/n) to see her staring at her shaking hands. she reached over to tend to her before stopping herself and shook her head before straightening back up. ‘hime-sama...’

“(l/n), i need you to listen to me carefully. you have to....”

she looked up at him with her tired eyes, taking in everything he was saying. what had happened to her body. what was inside her. he was giving her a deal. with a certain condition. after listening to the suggestion in its entirety, her head slowly turned back up, a solemn look on her face. she reluctantly made a choice.

“...alright, fine then.”

prologue ... part i

i feel like this is bad i don’t know. a bit vague at the end i know, but i’m not gonna give everything away in the prologue hehe. i didn’t lie about the 2 chapters but i figured i should make a prologue so that’s what i did tonight. i also forgot to say i did end up changing some things.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk series #jjk imagine #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x reader #nanami kento x reader #utahime x reader #ieri shoko x reader #mei mei x reader #anime

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kaitsawamura · 3 years

Text

baby mine, don’t you cry

Summary: A quiet early morning moment between Reader and Deku and their newborn baby.

Pairing: Pro Hero Deku x Reader and newborn daughter

Warnings: None!

Tags: Just sheer baby fever fluff inspired by the movie A Beautiful Day. Aged Up Izuku Midoriya, Dad! Deku.

Notes: Short and sweet, I hope y’all enjoy! Not my best but I couldn’t get this beautiful little scene out of my head. Picture is not mine, it’s from Pinterest. I will be changing it, just wanted to get this up right away 😅

Links: AO3

Of all the things Izuku Midoriya thought he’d be doing at twenty-eight, being married to the love of his life and learning how to care for a newborn baby girl was not one of them. But here he was, exhausted, letting out a long-winded sigh through his lips as the baby fussed from the crib. You were blacked out next to him, thank god. You needed your sleep. He supposed he needed his too, but he had told the agency that he would only be coming in on an emergency basis for a little while. They had heartily agreed; the world was crazy and Pro Heroes needed love (maybe especially) too. It was only right that he got to be with his family at this crucial point.

Deku blearily looked over at the clock on his nightstand; the dimmed blue numbers read 3:53 AM. He tried to remain quiet, hoping for a bit that maybe the baby would go back to sleep but the minutes ticked by and her crying only grew louder and more frenzied. He pulled the quilt back from his body and sat up, bending over to let out a little groan. Everything in his body protested. The three of you had not gotten a whole lot of sleep recently while everyone acclimated to the new schedule. He carded his fingers through the curls atop his head and very nearly laid back down.

But then the baby let out a particularly strong wail and he rose on creaking knees to go to her crib. Even in the waning moonlight that ghosted through the window, he could see how red her cheeks were and with a lurching in his chest, he grabbed for her. Scooping her up into his arms and holding her against his bare chest. He walked back and forth for a moment before realizing she wasn’t quite done crying.

The wooden floor of the hallway shifted under his feet; it was spring and early mornings were still cold. His toes were a little frozen so he wiggled them as he walked. He rocked the baby, swaying his hips back and forth making little shshing sounds as he did but still, it was no use. Great crocodile tears etched paths down her chubby little cheeks and she drew in great hiccuping breaths.

“Oh, little one, ssh. It’s all right. Daddy’s here.” He resigned himself to no more sleep until his wife woke up for her “shift”. The rocking chair sat in the corner by the living room window. It looked very enticing right now; he was already dead on his feet. He turned on the little lighthouse night light that sat on a bookshelf near the chair and when the light bulb flickered to life, it cast a barely-there glow that just encompassed the chair. He sat, making himself as comfortable as possible, and brought his newborn daughter to his chest. She had just eaten an hour and a half ago; based on what he had learned so far, she wouldn’t be hungry just yet.

He rocked and hummed and hummed and rocked. She was so little, so tiny and he absently wondered if it was because of his own big shoulders or if all babies were like this. Tiny but willing to take on the world. And that’s what she sounded like as her crying gradually faded to whimpers, and then tiny little baby groans that matched her small fingers and toes. That she would take on the world if she had to had something cracking in his chest as he identified with that feeling. She nestled her face into his chest and his eyes near brimmed with tears of his own.

His life was nothing short of crazy. He was a Pro Hero. A Pro Hero mentored by All Might no less. A Pro Hero who had not been born with a quirk. A hero who had been a nobody. As his mind slowly edged between waking and sleeping, he realized that sometimes he still felt like a nobody. But with an unimaginable warmth seeping into his body from where his little girl lay against him, his heart skipped a beat.

Because he also realized that a nobody couldn’t make such a precious somebody as the little one he was holding in his arms.

---

You startled awake, the headache that had been threatening to hit from earlier finally gripping at the back of your neck. You had been sure you had heard the baby fussing a little while ago but now all was quiet. Deku’s side of the bed was empty, a ghosting of his scent and warmth still lingering on the sheets when your fingers brushed across them.

You sat up, squinting your eyes against the pain in your neck and shoulders. Ibuprofen would fix that but that was all the way in the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. Which really wasn’t all that far away but certainly felt like it at the moment. Deku must have gotten the baby but as your eyes blinked away sleep, you could see he wasn’t in the room. He must have gone out to the living room.

The pain in your neck radiated down your back and into your lower hips and lack of sleep made it feel near impossible to actually sit up and get out of bed. But your curiosity was piqued and the aches in your body were nearly growling. It was just 5:30 in the morning and you could hear the faint melody of birds chirping outside. You probably weren’t going to get any more sleep for a little while as it was.

You padded down the hallway, holding your hand against the small of your back, arching it in an attempt to eradicate some stiffness. The house was breathing all around you, making small noises as the world around you slowly awakened. It was still chilly; your feet protested the cold wood floor. A milky shaft of light flowed into the hallway from the kitchen. Another warmer light emanated from the living room. That must be where Deku was. Judging by the stillness in the air, he had accomplished what he came out to do.

You entered on a small gasped breath, placing your hand over your mouth as if that would help conceal the sound escaping your mouth. Deku was a stunning man. Even if he didn’t know it, you were always looking for chances to remind him and he was always doing things that just made himself a hundred times more attractive. Like the way his hair looked when he was straight out of the shower. Or the way he smirked when you told him a stupid joke. Or the way his hands looked when he was chopping vegetables for dinner. Or the way his smile looked when he caught you outside in the garden.

But he had never looked so good as he did right now and your heart bloomed on an almost painful balloon of happiness and love. The glow from the lighthouse night light was already weakening as the sun began its ascent but it was just enough to cast Deku’s face in a warm glow. He had a five o clock shadow now and was somewhere in between sleep and awareness; his foot propelled the rocking chair in a slow ambling rhythm but every once in a while it would stutter into stillness. You shook your head, a smile threatening to break across your face at the delightfully foolish man; he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt so your baby girl was skin to skin with him. Her eyes were shut and her little mouth was open just a touch.

You must have made some noise because his eyes fluttered open. He didn’t say anything just gently lifted a hand to beckon you over. The muscle memory of sneaking around whenever she was asleep kicked in though and this time you made it to him without making a sound. He closed his eyes briefly again as he took your hand in his own. It felt magical really to hold his hand. It was large and warm and callused. You brought it to your lips, pressing gentle kisses to the scars that crisscrossed his skin before leaning into his ear.

“Why don’t we sit back on the couch,” you whispered. At least the three of you could fit on there together and you had a creeping suspicion he wouldn’t go back to bed even if you suggested it. He lazily nodded his head before cradling the baby in his arms and rising, the breath whooshing from his lips as he attempted to move without waking her. You knew what it felt like to be held by him so you weren’t surprised when she didn’t wake from her slumber. After grabbing the much-needed painkiller for your headache, you settled in next to him.

He opened his arms and now was cradling two human beings. He was an expert at it really. You curled into him and listened with delight as the baby nestled even farther into the crook of his arm and let out a breathless sigh, the kind that only babies can make. Deku was already drifting back to sleep. You could tell by the way his breath deepened with each movement of his chest as your arm rested over his abdomen.

“I love you,” you murmured into his skin. He whispered it back against the crown of your head as the two of you floated into sleep and the world felt whole and good.

Early morning sun craned through the window; outside the city came to life. Spring danced on a breeze through the trees outside. All was well.

#izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aged up deku x reader #aged up izuku midoriya x reader #kaitsuki writes

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blonde-in-charge · 3 years

Text

Wildcard, Chapter Three

Words: 2.6k

Summary: Steve Rogers found you on the side of the road after a mission involving Hydra and convinced the Avengers to take you in. You have no name, no memories, and no idea of what you are capable of. All you know is that you are a super soldier with more hidden abilities than you care to admit. The first step to finding answers was to train you. Nobody, including you, knows what is up your sleeve.

Characters: Bucky x reader, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Random Hydra guy, Sam Wilson

Warnings: Mentions of blood/violence, brief unwanted touching, Cursing, Fluffy!Bucky, Flirting

Words: 2.6k

The table underneath you was frozen from the amount of stress you had been under. They just kept injecting things into you, hoping to get some kind of reaction from your body. You had stopped feeling the pain of the needle and experiments weeks ago, which just made everything worse for you in the long run. They were getting annoyed with the fact you had stopped reacting to whatever painful serum they had injected you with that day and it resulted in beating to get a reaction from you. You stared up at the cracked ceiling of your concrete room and counted each crack for the millionth time. You kept yourself company in your mind, getting lost in your thoughts to pass the time until your next beating. You shivered at the cold beneath you, the last serum made ice bleed from every one of your pores. You heard the shrill sound of the old iron door open from the side of the room, you didnt turn your head to see whoever came in anymore, they were all the same type of evil.

“Your wounds have healed very quickly, you are replicating the progress of our last soldier.” said the thick voice. You hated to think someone else had gone through this hell before you had. You wondered if they escaped or died before they moved onto you.

You felt a burn in the back of your throat, “What's on the menu today doc? Electro-therapy? Waterboarding? New superhuman power that causes injury to one of your minions?” The one fond memory in your head of this place, being your body set itself on fire as well as one of the more hostile minions of Hydra. You smirked fondly at the memory as the hydra doctor worked his way around you observing the healing process. Every wound that opened on your body disappeared within a couple of hours, which is apparently what they wanted.

“Nothing on the menu today, we are going to start to prepare you for the memory wipe.” Was all the man said and you felt your heart jump into your throat as the man chuckled, “You will do great things for us, American Girl.” You started pulling at your restraints for the first time in weeks, trying to fight your way off of the table once again. The man gave you a sickening chuckle while watching you struggle and you glared at him. He reached up to run a dirty hand slowly up your leg, “Such a pretty girl, such a shame you must-” He ended his sentence abruptly as you lit your body on fire, burning the man's flesh. You grinned at him as your body started to fizzle out. He held his burnt hand to his body and looked at you with rage, “You stupid slut.”

You continued to grin as he left the room, feeling somewhat accomplished. Your smile slowly faded as you thought back on the memories they would take from you. Y/N Y/L/N, you were a successful accountant in one of the most successful banks in Manhattan. You lived alone, you haven't spoken to your family since you lost your father. Your mom became an alcoholic after his death, the only thing you really regretted was leaving your little sister, Macy, behind. Your job would have already replaced you by now, and people would have stopped looking for you. You stopped fighting for an escape because you knew you had nothing to go back to.

You woke up slowly to the sound of soft snoring, your body tensed up, wondering who was in your bed. Then you realized this wasn't your bed when you looked up into the face of the sleeping soldier. Your body instantly relaxed as you lay your head back on his chest. His right arm was slung over your waist and his metal arm was holding your forearm against his stomach gently. You closed your eyes, replaying the events of the night before in your head. Hydra had come back for you, but for what reason? Then your eyes snapped open and you looked up at Bucky gently shaking him. He opened his eyes slowly and looked down at you, obviously confused about why he was holding you. Realization dawned on him and his eyes filled with concern, “You okay?”

“Y/L/N.” Was all you said to him as you continued to stare into his steel eyes.

“Who is that?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.

“I remembered my last name.” You said softly to him, “I remember my life before I was taken.”

He sat up quickly and looked into your eyes, “You remember now?” You nodded your head at him, unsure whether you should smile or cry. “Y/N, that's amazing.”

You looked away from him and sat back, “Is it?” you replied solemnly.

“Why wouldn't it be?” He tilted his head slightly, trying to read your thoughts. The sound of the door sliding open cut off your response as Steve came in. Steve stopped in the doorway and examined the scene in front of him. You were sitting to the side of Bucky, wearing his shirt with no pants on, with your legs strung across his thighs. Bucky had his metal hand resting against your calf and was leaning back against the headboard behind him. Bucky’s face turned a dark pink as he realized the situation before taking his hand off of your leg. You remained unphased as you looked over at Steve.

Steve watched you both and cleared his throat, “The safe house is all set up, can you both be ready by 0300?” You nodded at Steve, who glanced back at Bucky before leaving the room.

You both sat in silence for a moment before you crawled over bucky to the other side of the bed, his eyes perked up as he watched you unmoving, “Where are you going?”

“I have to pack my bag, don’t I?” You stood up and raised your arms above your head to stretch out your back.

Bucky started to climb out of the bed himself before he stood next to you, “I’ll go with you.” You laughed softly and chose to not object to his company. He followed you down the hallway to your room and you stopped in the doorway to survey the damage. Your bed hung off the side of the bed frame as if the mattress had been thrown. The drawers in your dresser were all thrown open and all of the clothes were spread around the room on the floor. You sighed quietly and started picking up articles of clothing. You searched around for the SHIELD duffle bag you had before shoving clothes into it. Bucky’s eyes raked across the room, he walked towards the bed and adjusted it to its correct position before picking up shirts and folding them neatly into the bed. You smiled slightly to yourself as you found a pair of leggings on the ground and started pulling them on and up over your thighs. You struggled slightly and then looked up to see Bucky staring at you.

He stilled, realizing he had been caught and looked down at the tee shirt in his hands, “Sorry, guess I got distracted.”

You laughed softly and patted him on the arm, “It's okay Buck, it's not like I don't stare at you sometimes.” You were unashamed of the confession. Sometimes while training you'll watch Bucky in the gym and sometimes, if you're lucky, you'll be able to see him lift his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face. You would never apologize for that.

Bucky looked utterly confused as you packed the last of your things and zipped up your bag, throwing it over your shoulder. He stood up with you and looked down at you. You weren't a short person, you were taller than most girls but still shorter than all of the male avengers so you barely had to crane your neck up at him. His steel blue eyes looked so much lighter in the moment. You turned away from him and started walking towards the door, looking back at him. “Ready?” You asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, go meet with Steve, let me grab my bag.” You nodded at Bucky as you walked into the living area, ignoring the shattered glass on the floor you followed the voices to the kitchen.

“So she just hopped up on this man's shoulders and took him down like that?” Sam snapped his fingers together to get the point across, “Did Natatsha teach her that?”

Tony shook his head and bit the fingernail of his thumb, replaying the 30 second hallway footage from the night before, “Natasha hasn't moved past the basics of fighting with her, we have been focusing on figuring out what she can do power wise.” Steve stood silently with the three, his arms crossed watching the looped video.

Sam shook his head at the screen, “This chick is a total wildcard.”

You dropped your bag on the ground behind them making them all turn around quickly. You stared at the projection in front of you, you barely recognized yourself. You have never been able to put Sam on his ass in the ring and now you're swinging your body weight around on some random guy? The temperature dropped a couple of degrees in the room as a result of your anxiety. The three men stared at you as you took a step back, you made eye contact with Steve, “Y/L/N.”

Steve looked confused, “What? Who’s name is that?”

“Mine.” You said quietly, “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I had a dream about it. I know my name.”

You sat at the table along with Steve and Sam. You were staring off at a wall while shoveling cereal into your mouth. You had only been at the tower for about two weeks now and had a good routine with the two men in front of you. You still didn't have a name. You have been going by kid, kiddo, chick, and rescue. You have been searching your brain for a hint of what your name would be. You tried making up names but none of them suited you the way you wanted it to. You listened to the two men bicker over different work out strategies. You stared off at the wall and thought about how you planned on changing your hair color to maybe platinum blonde. You reached out to grab your glass off the table and grunted when it wouldn't budge. You looked up at the two men staring at you with wide eyes before following their gaze to your hand. The liquid in the glass was frozen solid and the glass stuck to the table in a block. You removed your hand and looked at your palm, which was tinted blue, “Well that's new.”

Sam tapped on your frozen glass, “Holy shit, Elsa.” You rolled your eyes and rubbed your hands together trying to maintain heat.

Steve watched you, “Has this ever happened before?”

You shook your head and reached out to grab your glass again. Your strength became too much and the frozen glass shattered in your hand. You remained still as Sam hopped up from the table.

“Jesus fucking christ, kid.” Sam started picking up the larger pieces of glass

“Language.” Steve went into the other room to retrieve a handheld vacuum

You looked down at your hand and saw little cuts leaking blood in the palm, today just wasn't your day. You stood up from the table and walked over to the sink, running your hand under the water. You were getting really sick of this superpower thing. You have broken so many things so far due to the super strength you can’t control. You sighed as you watched the small cuts on your hand knit themselves back together, you would never get used to that. On the brightside, it didn't hurt. You have not felt the pain of anything you have broken or ran into, the only pain you ever felt was the headache that never went away. You dried your hand off and ran your fingers through your hair.

“Sorry guys… Still getting used to,” You held up your hands, “this.”

Steve smiled knowingly, “It's okay, kid. I remember when I received my serum, it took a minute to adjust.”

You gave him a small smile, “Why do you guys keep calling me kid?”

Sam and Steve looked at each other. Sam was the one who spoke first, “You don't really have a name right now.”

“Oh it's Y/N.” You shrugged at the guys and returned to your seat at the table as they stared at you.

“Did that just come to you?” Steve asked while looking at your seated figure, “It kind of suits you.”

“I think it's my name? It just came to me at the sink and its the only name that doesnt make me want to kill myself.” You smiled as the two men started chuckling at you.

“I think I will stick to ridiculous nicknames if you don't mind.” Sam said, smiling at you and ruffling your hair.

Tony wasted no time typing your name into the database to pull up a missing persons profile. A photo was pulled up onto the hologram screen and you silently stared at it. It was you, well at least a version of you. You looked so young, your face was effortlessly smooth with a light layer of makeup, and your mouth was pulled in an easy grin. Your hair was pulled back in a sleek low ponytail and you were wearing a white collared shirt with a blazer layered over it. You started into your eyes on the projection, it felt like looking at someone else.

“You were an accountant? That's boring.” Sam started while eye the photo of you

Tony scanned the photo and then started typing something into the projection. An article pulled up next to the photo, “Y/N Y/L/N, missing for two years, stopped coming into work and her apartment was empty… blah blah blah.”

“Tony.” Steve warned, coming to put a hand on your shoulder. You looked back at him before shaking off his hand and picking up your bag.

“We should go, right?” You ignored the look Steve gave you before you walked to Bucky’s room, knocking on the mangled door

Bucky met you at the threshold of the door, sensing your discomfort, “You okay, doll?” He raised an eyebrow at you

You raised your own eyebrow, “Doll?” Heat rushed to Bucky's cheeks and you smirked at him, “Grab your bag Buck, it's time to go.” You winked at him and turned away to walk to the elevator door. You rested your nag on the ground as you waited for Steve and Bucky to join you. You leaned back against the wall and sighed loudly, your headache returning.

The two men walked together side by side to meet up with you. Steve pressed the elevator button and debriefed you both about the agents who would escort you to the safe house. You and Bucky both nodded in understanding before stepping onto the elevator. Steve made eye contact with you before the doors completely shut.

“Be safe, kiddo.” You smiled at his words as the doors shut completely.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x avenger!reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel imagine

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nugnthopkns · 3 years

Text

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.

#the banner looks like shit but we don't talk about it #but in all seriousness emma i hope you enjoy ❤️#nathan mackinnon imagine #tyson jost imagine #cale makar imagine #colorado avalanche imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #the summer fic exchange 2k21 #cwrites

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babylooneytoonz · 3 years

Text

The Vessel. [ Pt. 8 ]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: Tissaia de Vries pays you a visit and you are met with a startling revelation that can change your life, and the Witcher's forever. How are the two of you going to act upon it?

Warnings: None

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

"Why won't this fucking spell let me in?" Jaskier whined; in frustration, having tried for perhaps the tenth time to step into your chambers, but the spell that Yennefer had placed, had not allowed him to enter. And even Geralt, for that matter. Geralt had already experienced it once, and his sensible self didn't try it again, but Jaskier was headstrong, not wanting to stop trying until he had found a way to break that spell.

"Jaskier, let it go. Will you let her rest? Yen's put the spell to protect [Y/N]." Geralt tried to intervene, but the bard threw out both his hands in the air; dramatically and glared at him.

"I mean her no harm, Geralt. I'm sure you are very much aware of that. I love that woman."

Although Geralt knew that Jaskier meant it entirely in a platonic way; given the fact that the two of you had developed a deep rooted friendship ever since the whole knock you up with the Witcher baby drama had begun; a part inside of him flared with jealousy.

Jaskier, on the other hand felt guilt pierce through his heart, ever since he had found out exactly what had happened through Geralt. A part of it was his fault— although the entire conversation in the celebration revolving around Henrik had been a sodden joke from his end, because he had seen Henrik's eyes on her; he had never thought he would go to this extent. He felt guilty, finding himself responsible to a limit for what you had gone through, and he had to talk to you, get it off his chest; but the damn spell.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier from the collar of his shirt and began dragging him away from your room, without muttering a word, when finally, you emerged from your chambers, your eyes sullen, sleep deprived and deep dark bags already formed under them.

"Geralt, [Y/N]—" Jaskier tried pulling his shirt off the Witcher's clutches, trying to bring to a halt to the Witcher's dragging, "—Gods, you're such a big grizzly bear, would you look? She is here."

Geralt's head turned towards you and he let Jaskier go, his facial expressions changing almost instantly, from cold and unemotional to soft, and concerned; the second his eyes landed on you. You looked like a wreck, and Geralt mentally cursed himself, and his inability in that minute to reach out and provide you with comfort, or anything that could make you feel better, made him feel worse.

Instead, he decided to keep quiet, and let the bard talk to you instead, as he was already hovering around you, like a mother hen, concerned.

"[Y/N], I'm really sorry, I didn't know, I had no idea he was such a pervert, I swear to the Gods, had I known, I wouldn't have made those jokes—" he began, and you gave him a weak smile, reaching out and letting your hand rest against the side of his arm, aware of Geralt's eyes fixed on the exchange between the two of you.

"You had no idea, Jaskier. Stop beating yourself up, I'm alright."

Jaskier looked visibly relaxed upon hearing those words although he still wasn't entirely convinced, but decided not to push you any further.

"Would you like some breakfast? I'll ask someone to bring something up here for you," Jaskier asked softly, to which you simply shook your head, and turned to Geralt.

"I want to go home, Geralt. If you don't mind, can you arrange for a horse for me?"

Geralt stiffened when he was addressed directly, and he immediately nodded swiping his palm over his jaw and looked at you, "Give me some time, I'll arrange it."

"Thank you, Geralt," you whispered, giving him a meagre smile, before the smile was overshadowed by a painful look in your eyes, and Geralt forced himself to look away as he left you alone with the bard.

The bard did leave you alone shortly, with a promise to come back with a plate full of bread and ham for you; and you conceded because, as much as it pained you to think of it, you did want to be left alone, and this was the only way to make the hovering bard leave.

You were thankful you didn't see the sorceress all day, for you weren't ready to deal with her. But, you were shocked to have a visitor on your door, and a person you had least expected to see— Tissaia de Vries. When she stepped into your bed chambers, Yennefer's spell being no barrier for her, you weren't surprised, because you knew who she was.

"My name is Tissaia de Vries—"

"I know who you are, you are a member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, you are a powerful sorceress who created Yennefer of Vengerberg," you stood up from the side of your bed, your palms reflexively fixing on your bump as you stepped closer to the woman, eyeing her carefully from the corner of your eye. You noticed her lips curl into a smile, and she nodded, bringing her palms together and rubbing them lightly.

"Indeed, but the girl grew her wings, and she flew away."

You watched, noting how her smile faltered for a bit, and her eyes grew distant, as though she was suddenly plagued by certain memories, before she blinked, and turned towards you again; smiling at the curiousity that laced the features of your face.

"You must have questions."

"Yes, what do you want?" You pointed out, bluntly, without leaving a room for any further blabbering.

"Straight to the point, I see. Which is good. Saves me the effort, and the time," she slowly stepped closer, her head turning slightly to look for any unwanted ears out in the hallway prying into the conversation. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed your wrist, although the grip was light; as she pulled you towards her, so her lips were lined to your ears.

"Yennefer hasn't been entirely honest with you. There are a lot of things you don't know, and you must know," you blinked, listening to her as she continued, "Now this mansion has ears, but if you wish to know more come find me, child. I will be at the tavern in the village below, just until dawn tomorrow."

Sneaking out of the mansion in the death of the night was easier than you had thought it would. Your face was almost covered, the cloak wrapped around your body, covering your face partially as you hurried down the secluded street of the village. You had walked for over a kilometer, and hadn't experienced anything dangerous so far, and you were thankful for it.

The village lights were finally in sight, and you breathed a sigh of relief, when someone caught your arm and pulled you to the side of the road. He pulled off the cloak off your face; and you were met with the Witcher's golden orbs, his lips pressed together in a firm line, that only told you that he wasn't happy with the way you had sneaked out.

"You followed me. All the way."

His nose twitched, and he let go off your arm, your fingers feeling tingling due to the lack of his touch.

"I wanted to see how reckless or stupid you could get," he mumbled, his voice raspy.

"And?" You parted your lips to let out your breath, still looking at him.

"You like to play with fire."

You rolled your eyes, and turned away as you began walking towards the village once more, and Geralt cursed under his breath, before he began following you.

"You think you can just leave in the middle of the night? I am arranging for you to leave, but like a normal human being, in the light of the day."

You let out a snort; your pace slowing down a bit to let the Witcher catch up with you, but you didn't stop walking. You turned your head slightly to look at him, "I'm not leaving, Geralt. I knew you were following me. I saw you."

Geralt's lips twitched, almost faintly but you caught it before he looked at you with all seriousness again.

"I'm sure you didn't want to just go out for a walk."

"Well—" Your hand flew to the back of your head, as you scratched it lightly, and pulled your gaze away. The village was already upon you. "— You wouldn't exactly have let me if I had asked for your permission."

"Fair."

Your eyes spotted the tavern, and a rush of adrenaline surged through you. You wouldn't lie; you were curious as to what was it that Tissaia knew, and you didn't.

"It's funny, Witcher, you barely used to say words to me. Look at you now."

He grunted in response to you, his own eyes now having captured the destination where you were headed; the tavern.

"The tavern?"

You ignored him as you stepped into the tavern, and your nose immediately scrunched upwards, as the horrid smell of ale; too much of it, filled in your nostrils. Ignoring the pang to throw up, your eyes began looking for Tissaia until you spotted her, sitting at the back, at a farther end, smiling and watching you. It was as though she knew you were coming.

"Tissaia de Vries?" Geralt mumbled, and you nodded. Before he could even stop you, you were striding towards her. He decided to simply follow you, now that he was here with you. It was better to keep his eye on you, in case she decided to pull up an antic.

"I see you're not alone, [Y/N]. Witcher." The sorceress nodded her head in his direction and motioned for the two of you to sit down on a bench in front of her. You looked at Geralt, and he craned his neck slightly, his eyes darting around, scanning the tavern for anything unusual, while you sat down. In a minute, he sat down too, the bench now feeling cramped with his massive frame just next to yours.

"Tell me what you told me earlier. About what Yennefer hid from me."

Geralt tensed beside you and you chose deliberately not to look at him, at the mention of her name, keeping your eyes fixed on the sorceress in front of you.

"I think it's time, Geralt. Yennefer's been keeping things from you, I thought you would have understood, but unfortunately—"

"Tissaia, I don't understand what game you are playing," Geralt leaned forward, his palm placed on the table, his eyes narrowed at her, his shoulders tense.

"Geralt," you whispered, "let her speak."

The White Wolf grumbled under his breath, but didn't say anything else. His shoulders remained tense, heat radiating from his body; that you could feel but you were too curious to listen to the sorceress to feel any different.

"There are certain spells that can take a human's life," Tissaia began, her solemn eyes now fixed on you, "they are strong enough to destroy a human body. Because a human body isn't strong enough to take it." She leaned forward, letting her elbows rest against the table as she picked a piece of red meat and tossed it into her mouth, chewing on it and swallowing it. "The point is, the spell that Yennefer used, to grow his child within you wasn't an ordinary spell. No human can endure the power of that spell, and come out unscathed. You did."

You turned towards Geralt and shot him a look, before turning back to the sorceress again, "I don't get it. I survived the spell. Which is why this happened," your hand flew to your belly, and you looked down at your stomach, feeling Geralt's gaze on it too, before the two of you turned towards her again and she nodded.

"You think it was a mere coincidence that Yennefer picked you, out of all the women in the world, to carry that baby?" She pointed to your stomach.

"I needed the coin."

"The coin was a facade, child."

She turned towards the Witcher and he blinked, "You didn't know it too, Wolf. She never mentioned [Y/N] before, did she? I doubt it. Yennefer never betrays her own plans."

"Get to the fucking point, Tissaia," Geralt growled, and you shifted uncomfortably towards him, agreeing with him on this. Tissaia was making you uncomfortable.

"Twenty five years back, Queen Calanthe gave birth to a girl, this was before Pavetta was born. Someone stole the baby the night she was born, but they never found her."

"I think we should leave." Geralt intervened.

You turned towards Geralt, confused and helpless, before turning back to the sorceress again.

"That baby had the Elder Blood running through her veins. She had immense power, power that could disrupt everything around her by just one scream from her throat."

"What happened to the baby?" You asked; your heart thumping wildly against your chest.

"That baby grew up until Yennefer of Vengerberg found her in Redania, and a Witcher put his child in her."

Tissaia found herself a smile, you couldn't help but gasp, and Geralt just deadpanned, "Well, fuck."

"You're telling me that I'm the Princess of Cintra? Gods you must be mistaken, I don't know anything about magic. I'm just a commoner that got trapped by these two for coin." You turned towards him, giving him a glare, and he grunted in response.

"You were never trapped, you chose to do it."

"You think Yennefer wants to be a mother?" Tissaia spoke again, but this time, her eyes were on Geralt. You glanced from him to her, and then back, until you had your eyes fixed on his uncomfortable form. His fingers had clenched into a fist. "Combine the Elder blood, with a Witcher's blood. No sorceress is powerful enough against that baby." She pointed towards your stomach, and instinctively, your palm flew towards it, trying to shield your bump from the woman's eyes. You felt Geralt stiffen too; as he shifted towards you, his own protective side spilling out at those words as he glanced at you.

"If you knew your lover well, White Wolf, you would have known. Her lust for power would never end. She wants that baby because that baby is the key for her to slide to the top."

Geralt swallowed thickly. His palm came to rest against the table in front of him, his grip tightening over it, his knuckles almost turning white. He knew Yennefer was power hungry; but never had he realized that her hunger was now out of control. He felt stupid now, and more than stupid, he felt relentless rage, because she had played him. All this while, he thought that she wanted his child— but all she wanted was a Witcher's child, mixed with the Elder Blood, so she could have, for herself, the most powerful magic yielder in the form of a child.

"It wasn't a coincidence then, that Yennefer wanted me to carry this baby," you whispered to Geralt who just looked at you blankly. You then turned to Tissaia, who tossed a piece of red meat into her mouth once again, her eyes fixed on you, "What power does Yennefer have over me?"

She smirked slightly, as though she had thought about this quite a lot.

"Well, your powers need to be harnessed, which is why she has an edge over you. Once you do learn to harness your powers, Yennefer wouldn't be a problem." She suddenly closed her eyes, and her lips started moving as she began chanting something and your eyebrow shot up. Within seconds, she was already done. "She wouldn't be able to track you for a while. You can go wherever you want. The effect of the spell should last five to six days."

Somewhere outside, a rooster suddenly crowed, signalling that it was morning. Tissaia de Vries suddenly lowered her cloak so that it covered her face.

"It's dawn, I will take your leave, [Y/N]. Find me whenever you need me," You watched, numbly, only nodding your head at her as she stood up, and placed her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it lightly until she was already out of sight. You kept sitting there, bellowed in silence, both of you breathing laboured, lost in your own thoughts.

Geralt finally pulled you out of your thoughts, "A Princess? I need a fucking drink."

Geralt stood up and walked away, to get himself a drink. You just kept staring at him, too shocked to even react, or process anything. This was all too much to process in a single night. You were a Princess, and not just any Princess, you had Elder Blood running through your veins.

Your baby —

You pressed your palm to your mouth, rather abruptly and stood up, dashing towards the exit of the tavern.

Geralt's head shot towards you like missile as he watched you leave.

You ran outside, Geralt's heavy footsteps racing behind you as you bent over in a corner and began throwing up.

Geralt's warm palm fixed on your lower back; and you felt him pull your hair away from your face, holding them up for you while his other hand ran soothing circles over your lower back.

You weakly stood up straighter, but your legs suddenly felt weak which is why you held on to the wall for support, as you wiped the corners of your mouth with your sleeve.

"Too much information for one night," You muttered in a low voice, your eyes not meeting Geralt's.

"Not the only one," Geralt responded, his lips twitching with humour, but that immediately washed away when you tried taking a step towards him but found yourself unable to hold yourself on your feet. He reached out, grabbing you by your shoulders to steady you to your feet.

Finally, letting out a soft exhale, the Witcher bent, and lifted you up in his arms, almost effortlessly, his hand holding you from the base of your thighs. Your hand wrapped around the Witcher's neck almost reflexively, as he held you against his chest and began walking back.

The first few minutes were quiet, until you finally spoke— your fingers unknowingly playing with the Witcher's hair.

"This complicates things."

He hummed in response but chose to stay quiet; so you continued.

"Where does this leave you, Geralt? Because I have .. already made up my mind."

A silence took over the two of you, causing you to flick your gaze to the side of his face. His lips were pursed together, as though he was thinking. You didn't stop toying with the strands of his hair, and neither did he stop you. Finally, he exhaled, and craned his neck slightly lower so he could look at you.

"And what did you decide?"

You bit the insides of your cheeks nervously. Geralt had been nice to you, until today, if you were to ignore the first few weeks you had known him. You had seen the change in the man; having grown from cold to lukewarm towards you, but that didn't mean you didn't know what Yennefer meant to him. Now, would Geralt really let you go? Especially.. if you were carrying his baby?

"I .. I want to go home.. to Cintra.. I want to see my mother, I want to.. see my kingdom, and I want to learn to harness .. my magic.." You whispered.

Geralt nodded, but he didn't reply.

He slowly let you down, and you looked up to realize that you had been so distracted talking to Geralt, you hadn't realized that you were standing on the bottom most step that led to the sorceress' mansion.

"I won't stop you."

You abruptly stopped walking when you heard those words, your legs almost freezing when you felt that he wasn't behind you anymore. You turned back around to find him standing on the bottom most step while you had already made your way to the door.

"Thank you, Geralt. For everything."

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @miss-emilia-cavill @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @fanaticnae @kmuir1 @little-jana @pineapplemama @auds24 @sassy-pelican @bitchynicole @cavillsim @ragamuffin285 @hista-girl @oliviali0930 @introvertedmouse @madbaddic7ed @libbymouse @nerra75 @maxineswritingcenter @superawesomegeek @waifu4lifeu @funalpaca @petitefirecracker10 @marantha @vikingsbifrost @babypink224221

Want to be added to the list? Plz let me know via my ask box, inbox or comments. ✨

#geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia works #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill x y/n

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maximoff-pan · 4 years

Text

Just Faking It? | Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summary: When you and Peter enter a fake relationship, what does that do to your friendship? Can you keep yourself from breaking the one rule you set? Do not fall in love. Can he?

Character: Peter Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Word Count: 2.9k

A/n: It’s been a hot minute since I posted, but online school has been Kicking. My, Ass. AnyWAy....I am back now! I’m really nervous to post this and I knowwww the ending is trash but it just kept getting worse so (please bear with me). Hopefully my writing will get better. Despite my shitty scribe, I hope you can enjoy this, and maybe, even possibly like it???

Comments and feedback are also very much appreciated! A girl needs inspiration to write (if ya know, ya know)....

You’re minding your business (in your room mind you) when your door flies open, and in comes a flurry of grey. As quickly as the door is opened, it’s slammed shut. You know exactly who the culprit is, that part is particularly evident to you, but what puzzles you is the absence of a reason for his dramatic entrance. It’s like he thinks you can read his mind or something....(you can, but that’s besides the point). That’s not really what you’re supposed to be using your mutation for and Peter knows that.

“I really fucked up.” He eventually breathes. But it leaves you with more questions than answers.

You tilt your head towards him, squinting your eyes as if to challenge a response from him. So?” You ask.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Widening his eyes, he appears in a minor panic. “I come rushing in here, telling you that I fucked up, and your only response is: ‘so?’”

“Peter, if I had a dollar for every time you told me you fucked up, I’d certainly be the richest telepath in this mansion, and Charles owns this damn place.”

He cranes his neck in frustration, a sigh falling from his lips. “Well this time, I really fucking mean it.”

He’s fidgeting a lot more than usual, and when you glance at him, his eyes dart from yours. If you know anything about Peter, and you like to think you know almost everything about him, you know that based on the way he’s acting, that he didn’t just fuck something up for himself, he’s also fucked something up for you.

Disappointed, but not at all surprised, you ask, “What did you do? And how does it involve me?”

*****

Peter Maximoff has always had a way with words. No matter what he says...nor how fast he says he it, he can always manage to get you to do whatever he wants. Sure, to the average person Peter may be incessantly annoying, but to you, he is overly charming. He’s always just been so....perfect...for a lack of a better term.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried to bury those feelings. You really really have. But every time you’re near each other, your heart beats a little bit faster and your eyes just fixate on him. He draws you in with his infectiously upbeat, care free - who gives a shit it’s the end of the world, let’s just have fun - kinda vibes. It’s intoxicating as fuck....and so, extremely bad for you. But it’s what you need. You actually need him.

So unfortunately (maybe fortunately...it really depends on the day), Peter Maximoff has you whipped like the fucking whiplash he’s always warning you about...and whether he knows that or not is the real question. You hope to God he doesn’t; you’ve tried so damn hard to hide it. It....Them...Your feelings....And this is the trickiest part. You’re not sure when you came to this realization, but: You’re in love with your best friend.....

And honestly....shit...what the fuck feelings??? That is not a good revelation to be having. That’s never a good revelation to be having. And that’s for many fucking reasons, including but not limited to:

He’s your best friend

Did you mention he’s your best friend? Did you?

To top it all off, your anxiety about what is justifiably a crapshoot of a situation (being in love with your best friend is no cake walk friends...don’t try this at home) has risen ten-fucking-fold. Because you’d do anything for him.

And that’s how you’ve gotten yourself into the inescapable shit storm you have now: fake dating Peter Maximoff....

Look, in all respects, it could be worse. You’re not really sure how, but that’s just what you’re telling yourself to make this whole thing feel a little better. Damn you and being a good friend...You should’ve just said no. But how could you have possibly said it without giving yourself away?

‘Sorry Peter, I’m too busy being in love with you to be your fake girlfriend. Maybe later.’

You just couldn’t do it to him. He needed your help, and there was just no way you could say no to him. He’s your biggest weakness yet your greatest joy in life. He’s your kryptonite.

*****

Peter feels like shit. He thought dating you would be the best thing in the entire fucking universe....and it is. Except for the fact that it’s not real.

When Scott and Jean had called bullshit on Peter for telling them he in fact, does have a girlfriend, (when he really, really doesn’t), he panicked. So he told them the name of the first person he thinks of, the first person he always thinks of: you.

If Peter’s being honest with himsef, the whole conversation was stupid to begin with, and he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. But Peter lives for laughter, particularly making his friends laugh, even sometimes at the expense of a couple of his other friends.

It started off as a slow bit of teasing, and Peter was getting laughs fromJubilee and Kurt, who were both quite enjoying his little comedy fest. Peter in his carefree manner, jabbed joke after joke about Scott being whipped by Jean, mocking their incessant pda and need to be around each other, when Scott threw it back at him.

“Have you ever even had a girlfriend Maximoff?”

And that’s when Peter fucked up.

That’s when he proceeded to say: “Fuck you Summers. If you must know, I have a girlfriend.”

I have a girlfriend...present tense. Which is nothing but a lie. A blatant, blatant lie. But it just slipped out of his mouth, and while Scott and Jean both called bullshit, he couldn’t back down at that point. It was far too late, and would be far too embarrassing to try and weave himself out of the web he had created. So he told them he was dating you, which...fair. You already act like you’re dating 99% of the time, and you are in love with each other (not that either of you knows the other’s feelings on the matter), so it would seem very believable....But the big problem with this blurting of words (as Peter had called it later), laid in the fact that Peter had to do this without your consent. You had no idea nor a choice in being brought into this, and that’s why Peter feels like he’s fucked up so much.

Because as much as he wants to date you, and as much as he loves dating you (even though it’s all pretend), he can’t help but fear that you resent him for bringing you into his problems. If you do resent it, you’re doing a pretty damn good job of hiding it. Every person that has passed by you, the news of your relationship spreading fast, has told you: it was only a matter of time. And then they’d smirk at you, seemingly proud that they had predicted this all along.

And yet, it’s all fake, and all your classmates and teachers, (except Charles...because he knows the both of you too well and honestly is too fed up with your shenanigans to intervene), are wrong. They’re being fooled...but Peter can’t help but wonder if he’s the one being fooled. Because it feels so real. Too real.

*****

He holds your hand in the halls, swinging your arm back and forth teasingly, telling himself that he’s only keeping up appearances, and yet his whole aura brightens. Peter’s not acting, and the fact that you are genuinely scares him. Because you’re so believable, and it hurts so much to have you, but to know it’s all a lie.

“I guess I owe it to you Maximoff.” Scott sneaks in between you two, breaking not only your hands apart, but popping the blissful bubble you had been in. “I’ve never seen two people so right for each other.”

The smile drops from Peter’s face, but like always, you’re there to save him. “I know.” You send Scott a sly grin. “You never should have doubted us.”

Us, Peter thinks. He knows you mean it, in the sense that you’re best friends, but it only hurts him more. The frown on his face tightens, as he attempts to avoid your gaze. He can feel you pulling him into your side, wrapping your arms around him. This action snaps an automatic response, and his lips pull into a soft smile, his face relaxing.

“Never will again.” Scott smiles fondly at the two of you, seemingly genuinely happy for you.

You place a kiss on Peter’s cheek, nearly grazing the corner of his mouth, and in that moment he wants you to kiss him, for real this time. It’s an urge he’s had before, but never as innate as this.

On instinct, he turns your body so that you’re facing him, and he kisses you. It’s instantaneous and it feels so so right. Your initial shock fades away and you lean into the kiss, your arms gracefully resting on Peter’s shoulders, slowly wrapping loosely around his neck. You raise onto the tips of your toes, desperately yearning for more. It feels like a tidal wave washing over you, soaking you in a plethora of feelings.

This has to be something, you think. What you have...it must mean something. Because you can feel his energy, his thoughts and desperations pouring into your mind. His exact thoughts are blurred, but you can feel the emotions that are flooding through.

“Jeez. Message sent.” Scott mumbles with a slight joking tone in his voice. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

By the time you let each other go, Scott is retreating down the hallway, and you stare sheepishly at each other, both of you wondering: what the fuck was that?

*****

Nearly half an hour later, you’re once again sitting on your bed, when Peter comes barging through your door. A strong sense of déjà vu washes over you, your eyes quickly darting to his. To Peter, that half an hour feels like multiple. You should have remembered that his internal clock works a lot differently than yours.

The expression on his face is pained. “I’m sorry.” He blurts out. “I know I fucked up.”

“Peter-“ you try to interject, but it’s no use.

“I don’t know what I was thinking (Y/n). I just...I didn’t mean to. It was a mistake and I didn’t mean to drag you into my shit...”

It was a mistake. Your heart drops. You could have sworn that there was something between you, that it wasn’t as one sided as you had once thought.

“Do you regret it?” You’re trying to convey a front on neutrality, but it feels like it’s faltering.

“Of course.” He replies, and your heart shatters further.

“Oh.”

Your voice sounds so dejected that Peter has to rewind the tone of your ‘oh’ in his mind. Did you think it meant something? Did it mean to you as much as it means to him?

“(Y/n).” His eyebrows raise in conflict. “I didn’t mean-“

“It’s alright Pete...I understand.” You’re warm with him. You think he’s just turned you down, and you’re being so kind to him, trying to make it easier for him. Little do you know about the war he’s fighting in his mind. Just how much he wants to tell you how he feels. “It was silly of me to even entertain that it meant anything.”

But it did! But it does! He wants so badly to say, but the words won’t come out of his mouth. Blurting words before he could think of the repercussions was what had gotten him into this situation, and now that he needs to blurt what he’s thinking, his mouth can’t seem to move.

You can see the look on his face. He feels guilty. He doesn’t want to hurt you. It was foolish of you to say yes to him, to being his fake girlfriend, when you knew this would happen.

“Peter, I’m sorry.” You’re really trying to demonstrate to him how much you hope this hasn’t ruined your relationship. “It’s okay. I’m so okay, as long as we can still be friends.”

“No!” That’s the one fucking word that Peter is able to get out of his mouth? No?

Your eyes drop to the floor, and you avoid his gaze. Just a few days earlier Peter had been talking about just how much he’d fucked up, now you guess it’s you who’s the one that fucked up.

“Oh.”

And there’s that dejected ‘oh’ again that has Peter reeling. “That’s not what I meant!” He pushes the words out.

You’re becoming more and more flustered, embarrassed, and confused by the moment. “I don’t know what you want from me Pete! Just be fucking straight with me. That’s all I ask.”

Your frustration is understandable and Peter knows it...does he ever. He’s thinking, trying to get the words to come out when an idea comes to him, and he finally is able to calmly state: “Read my mind.”

Now this is a complicated statement for a number of reasons. The first reason is quite simple. When you became friends, you and Peter had made a set of rules, promising to always be open with each other, and to never use your powers on each other. And that was Peter’s biggest rule: never read my mind. Now he’s telling you to, pleading you to, because it’s the only way he can tell you how he feels. His thoughts could never lie to you, they could never hide from you if you didn’t want them to.

And second, breaking that rule would mean breaking that promise. It goes against the very foundation of your friendship, and so for Peter to ask this of you, it must mean that he has something very important to say. You’re just not sure you’re brave enough to hear it...

“Peter,” you question, tilting your head in absolute confusion, as if to say to him, are you sure?

“Read my mind.” He affirms. A look of panic crosses your features, and when he sees the distressed you are, he nods gently. “It’s okay. I promise. You can do it.”

You nod your head, signaling to him that you’re going to do it. “Okay.” You say timidly, entering the complex of his mind.

You’re flooded with memories of the two of you together, laughing and beaming with happiness. Pushing through the visuals, you reach his thoughts, allowing your mind to hear them clearly. After years of blocking them out instinctively, it feels so foreign to open that door.

‘I love you.’ It’s Peter’s voice in your mind. It’s unmistakable, yet so surreal that you almost miss what he says...almost. ‘I’m in love with you.’

Your eyes blink open in shock, pulling yourself so suddenly out of his mind, the door to his thoughts slamming shut once again. He’s watching you patiently, waiting for your response. But Peter’s never really been one for waiting.

“I never wanted it to be fake you know.” He breaks the silence for you. “If I had known just how hard it would be to fake our relationship, I never would have thought of saying your name in the first place.”

A chuckle of relief bubbles from your throat. “You better not be fucking with me...”

“I’d never do that.” He says.

“I beg to differ.” You joke, eyes staring softly into his. “The amount of times you’ve fucked with me on shit is insurmountable.”

“Hmm.” He grins menacingly. “And yet, I’ve never fucked you.” He raises one eyebrow in a mockingly seductive manner. Only Peter would make a sex joke to lessen the tension...or to ruin what would’ve been a perfectly romantic moment....you’re not really sure which.

You nearly choke on your own laugh. “Already jumping to third base Pete? Last time I checked, you were only on first.”

“That’s cause I’m so fucking fast baby.” His wink sends you into an internal conflict. and you don’t know if it’s really funny, or really hot. His eyes are pouring into yours, as if daring you to just kiss him...

...So you do. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck as you pull Peter’s lips onto yours. He melts into your embrace almost instantly, a giggle bubbling in your mouth as he moves his hands up from your waist.

He pulls away with a dumbstruck smile on his face, his silver hair flopping in all directions. “I want to make this real.” He places a hand softly on your cheek.

“I do too.” You reply, hopefully.

His eyes soften at the sight of you. “Be my girlfriend? For real this time?”

“For real this time.” You nod, a grin stretching across your face.

And it’s truly the most at peace you’ve ever felt in your life. Which will probably last all of five seconds before Peter comes running back to you, telling you he’s fucked something up again, but that doesn’t matter to you, as long as you have each other.

“Maybe, for once in my life,” Peter’s voice is low and calm, “I didn’t fuck something up.”

Maybe for once in his life, Peter Maximoff had gotten something right...

*****

Tags:

@idjitdestiel @what-the-stories-have-foretold @lucyqueenofthestars @justsomerandomjunk @cherikxstucky @scorpionchild81

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff imagine #peter maximoff imagines #peter maximoff x you #xmen x reader #xmen imagine #xmen imagines

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professorkenobi · 3 years

Text

bathtime

read the previous part here!

The rush of running water echoed off the walls of Obi-Wan’s upstairs bathroom. He tested the temperature with a hum of satisfaction before flipping the brass lever that controlled the drain.

It was well past time that his bathtub got some use. The huge old thing had been touted as a selling point by his realtor, but he’d really selected the house for its proximity to work. He didn’t have the time or inclination to lounge about, preferring to stick to economical morning showers.

Hopefully Anakin would enjoy it.

Knowing the tub would take a few minutes to fill, Obi-Wan headed downstairs. The itch of apprehension whenever he let Anakin out of his sight was quickly becoming familiar— as was the wash of relief when he found him where he’d left him.

Approximately, anyway. He’d gotten up and was examining the sparse decorations on the fridge. At a small clear of Obi-Wan’s throat, his ears twitched and he jerked back with a guilty look.

Obi-Wan smiled gently. “Nothing interesting there, I’m afraid.”

“I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine to be curious; ask me anything you like.”

Even in the dim light, the conflict of opposing impulses was clearly visible on that expressive face. Obi-Wan had to stifle a smile.

Finally, inquisitiveness won out.

“Why do you have this?” Anakin jabbed a finger at his copy of the year’s academic calendar.

“Oh, that?” He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. “I teach there. I’m a professor of sociology.”

Anakin wrinkled his nose. “Really? Aren’t most professors, you know...”

“What?”

“Um. Old?”

This time Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Indeed we are. And terribly boring, I’m sure you’ll find.”

He’d hoped to draw out a smile. If he had, it was hidden as Anakin curled in on himself, beginning to shiver again. The sight was perturbing, unacceptable.

“Will you come with me? Your bath should be nearly ready.”

Anakin ducked his head and followed.

The air in the bathroom was muggy, the mirror fogged with steam. Obi-Wan turned off the water while his guest watched, fidgeting, from the doorway.

“There we are. If it’s too hot, you can just— well, I’m sure you know.” He winced internally. He wasn’t used to stumbling over his words like this, but then again he was hardly used to overnight guests, either.

“I got it,” said Anakin, taking a few apprehensive steps towards the tub.

“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” Obi-Wan promised. He turned to leave but paused at the threshold as a thought occurred to him. “Oh— if you leave your wet things outside the door, I’ll throw them in the laundry. You can borrow something of mine for the night.”

Anakin gave a jerky nod, still staring at the water like it might bite him.

“Remember,” he repeated, “Whatever you need.”

Obi-Wan closed the door, shutting in the heat and humidity. Right. Clothes. Pajamas would do for now. He walked purposefully to the bedroom, meaning to fetch them right away, but as soon as he entered his legs went oddly weak and shaky. His neatly made bed awaited him; Obi-Wan sat down heavily, fingers twisting in the duvet.

For the first time since Anakin had knocked on his door, he was alone. He pinched the bridge of his nose, doing his best to push back an impending headache as his thoughts raced to catalogue the implications of the night’s events.

He’d let a complete stranger into his home, his sanctuary, without even hesitating. Anakin had been far from forthcoming about his situation, but it was clear he was in some sort of trouble. Something serious, perhaps beyond what had landed him on the streets and in Obi-Wan’s backyard in the first place. He might be risking his own safety, all for a boy whose last name he didn’t even know.

Alone in the dark, Obi-Wan sat with these facts, turning them over and over in his mind. What was he doing? Was he being gullible, a fool?

A slight splashing, the sound of a body getting comfortable in a hot bath, filtered in from down the hall.

With a rising sense of certainty that he rarely experienced, Obi-Wan realized that he didn’t care. He didn’t care what kind of mess Anakin was caught up in. He didn’t care what he’d done to end up here, or what the consequences might be.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on Anakin, Obi-Wan had been seized with an inexplicable desire to protect him. To care for him. And Anakin... Anakin had asked him, begged him, for help.

To turn him away was, quite simply, an impossibility.

Obi-Wan breathed slow and deliberate, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until he felt calm again. His knees were still a little weak, but he felt much better by the time he’d managed to dig out his spare pajamas and return to the hallway.

Anakin’s clothes lay by the bathroom in a crumpled pile. As Obi-Wan bent to pick them up, he froze at a sound from the other side of the door. He almost thought it was his imagination until he heard it again, this time unmistakable— a small, hiccuping sob.

“Anakin,” He pressed his face to the doorframe. “Is something the matter?”

“‘m fine,” came the muffled response.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound fine.”

“It’s just,” he sniffled. “My hair, I can’t... it hurts.”

Obi-Wan frowned, at a loss. “What do you mean? Is there something I could do, bring you something or...”

A short pause, and then,

“Can you help me?”

“Help you?” He must be hearing things. Surely, Anakin wouldn’t want him to... “You mean, come in there and... and what?”

Anakin sniffled again. “I’m sorry, it was stupid, please just forget I asked—”

“No!” Obi-Wan interjected, far too sharply. He shook himself and tried for a softer tone. “No. It’s good that you asked. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Another pause. “...yeah, okay.”

“Alright.” This night was getting more surreal by the minute. He took a deep breath and put his hand on the doorknob. “I’m coming in now.”

Obi-Wan opened the door slowly, leaving plenty of time for a change of heart. He was determined not to look unnecessarily, but he could make out Anakin in his peripheral vision. His back was to Obi-Wan, his head hung on drawn-up knees. His tail hung over the side of the tub, slowly dripping water onto the floor. Every few seconds, he drew a ragged little breath that echoed too loudly in the tiny space.

Obi-Wan could scarcely stand it.

“What do you need me to do?”

Anakin glanced back over his shoulder with puffy eyes. “It’s all this,” he said miserably. “It’s a mess and I can’t, I can’t fix it.” He lifted a hand out of the water to run over the back of his hair. Obi-Wan’s eyes caught on the pale golden skin of his arm, the graceful line of it that bent to a broad back flushed pink with heat, the curve of his spine disappearing beyond— stop it.

He was here to help, not— whatever that was.

A few cautious steps put him within arms reach. “May I?”

“Yeah.”

A single brush of Obi-Wan’s hand made the problem clear; Anakin’s curls were snarled and matted, doubtlessly from the depridations of wind and rain. The process of detangling would be painful, perhaps downright impossible with the claws Anakin was sporting.

He tutted softly. “I see. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Obi-Wan fetched a bottle from the shower and rummaged in his grooming kit for a wide-toothed comb, grateful for a few moments where he didn’t have to rigidly control where his eyes were pointing.

“What’s that?” Anakin asked suspiciously, craning his neck to see what was going on.

“Conditioner.” Obi-Wan knelt on the bathmat and set the comb aside, again doing his very best not to look at Anakin’s shoulders. “I don’t have to use it, but it’ll ease the way quite a bit.”

“It’s fine, I’ve just—” Anakin looked down. “I’ve never really used stuff like that.”

“First time for everything,” Obi-Wan said lightly, dispensing a large dollop into his hand. “Ready?”

At a short nod, he began to apply the conditioner, starting at the crown and carefully distributing it through the messy locks. The parts that weren’t tangled were very soft, slipping pleasantly between his fingers. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about Anakin’s ears, which twitched slightly in response to each touch. It looked like Anakin had avoided them in his attempts to re-wet his own hair, so Obi-Wan tried to do the same.

After a few seconds, Anakin made a tiny oh.

“What is it?”

“It, um, smells like you.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “You can smell me?” He wondered if that was an ability that came with Anakin’s more... unusual features.

“Yeah,” Anakin admitted, dragging a finger along the surface of the water. “It’s nice.”

“Er.”

“The conditioner, I mean.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan cleared his throat awkwardly. “Good.”

Anakin’s hair was now covered in conditioner, as were his hands. Unwilling to dip them in the bathwater, so close to Anakin’s body, he opted to wipe them on the nearby hand towel with a grimace. Then he took up the comb, hoping for the best. It would be a shame to cut any of that beautiful hair.

As Obi-Wan gathered up the ends, his knuckles rubbed across the nape of Anakin’s neck. He felt rather than saw the damp skin erupt in gooseflesh, peach fuzz brushing softly against his fingers.

Anakin didn’t move, nor did he make a sound when Obi-Wan began to comb through the tangles. Though he was as careful as he could be, the sharp tugs required to undo the worst of them must have been painful. But Anakin made no complaint but an occasional quick intake of breath. He just stared down at the water, quietly allowing Obi-Wan to see to him.

For the second time that night, Obi-Wan felt unsteady with realization. It suddenly occurred to him how petty his concerns had been. Whatever fear he’d experienced was infinitesimal compared to how Anakin must be feeling right now, in the house of a near stranger with no way of ascertaining his intentions.

Anakin was hurt and alone. Naked and vulnerable.

And yet somehow he trusted Obi-Wan to be near him, to touch him.

He had to let Anakin know that his trust was not misplaced. That Obi-Wan would protect him, take care of him. That he was safe.

Still moving the comb in steady strokes, he searched for the right words.

“Anakin— I want you to know that, well... I’m in your corner, alright? Whatever is going on, whatever kind of trouble you’re in, you have me on your side.”

“No, you’re not,” said Anakin in a hollow voice. “You don’t know.”

Obi-Wan hummed as he finished undoing a particularly nasty snarl.

“I know you won’t give me details, but answer me this. Did you hurt someone? Beyond the bounds of self defense, I mean,” he added hastily.

“No, but—”

Obi-Wan continued, speaking over him. “And do you plan to hurt me?”

“Of course not.” The response carried just a tinge of defensive fire, making Obi-Wan smile.

“Then you have me on your side, for whatever you might need.”

Anakin flicked at the bathwater dispiritedly. “What does it matter? I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway.”

A sudden, overwhelming surge of protectiveness made his hand involuntarily tighten in Anakin’s hair. No, he wanted to say. You’ll stay here, with me, where you’re safe.

That was something he had no right to decide or even ask. Obi-Wan mastered himself, loosening his grip and clenching his jaw until he was sure something less wildly inappropriate would come out.

“That doesn’t have to be the case,” he said tentatively, beginning to comb again. He was working on the front pieces now, nearly finished. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“If you wish to leave, of course I won’t stand in your way. But should you need a place to stay... it can be here. For as long as you need.”

Anakin’s ears flattened. “Don’t say that!” he snapped, then almost inaudibly added, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” said Obi-Wan gently.

“You don’t,” Anakin whispered. He hunched forward in the tub, wrapping his arms around his knees in a tight, self-protective hold.

“I do, but there’s no need to decide yet.” Obi-Wan said lightly, setting aside the comb. “Let’s just get this all rinsed out, shall we?”

If Anakin wouldn’t stay, he could at least do his best to take care of him until he left. Obi-Wan opened the tap again, letting more warm water flow into the bathtub, and gently guided Anakin underneath. Anakin was pliant under his hands, allowing Obi-Wan to tilt his head this way and that as he rubbed gently at his scalp.

The ears presented a problem again. There was nothing for it but to carefully lift them, one by one, so he could scrub underneath. Obi-Wan thought they were by far the softest thing he’d ever felt.

His fingers moved of their own volition, stroking for a split second until the ear twitched under his touch and he remembered himself. If Anakin made a sound, it was lost beneath the roar of water.

Finally, Anakin’s hair was clean, hanging back from his face in a sopping curtain. Obi-Wan regretfully eased his head forward and let go, deprived of the excuse to touch.

What would happen now, he wondered. He could, should, dry off his hands and take his leave, show Anakin where to sleep and get some rest himself, and then...? It seemed all too clear, what he would find in the morning. An empty bed, an empty house. Anakin in the wind again, this time maybe forever.

The thought was intolerable.

Obi-Wan had to try. He dug deep to find the magic words, the perfect words that would convince Anakin to stay, and found nothing but the truth.

It went against every instinct to say it, but it was the only card he had left to play.

“About my offer,” he ventured, sitting back on his heels.

“Yeah?” Anakin mumbled into his knees.

“I wanted to let you know that, well... I would like it. If you stayed.”

“W-what?” Anakin’s head lifted and his ears twitched slightly.

“It would make me happy. I—” Obi-Wan took a deep breath. “I want you to stay.”

He pressed his lips together, leaving the words to hang without any qualifiers or equivocations, even as the seconds stretched with no response. And then, in the stillness, Anakin began to tremble.

“Anakin? What’s the matter, please tell me, I didn’t mean to upset you.” As if drawn by a magnet, Obi-Wan reached out a hand and rested it comfortingly on Anakin’s shoulder. It only shook more under his touch, and Anakin gasped in a harsh breath as silent sobs wracked his body.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan continued frantically, “You don’t have to stay, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want... I’m sorry.”

He knew he shouldn’t be touching Anakin, not when he’d overstepped like this, so he began to pull away— and froze, shocked, when a warm, wet hand wrapped around his own, keeping it in place. Holding it.

Without warning and far too quickly, Anakin spun to face him. A tremendous surge of water drenched the floor and Obi-Wan’s pants. But he barely noticed, not as Anakin, very wet and very naked, leaned over the side of the tub and threw his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck.

Anakin was hugging him. Obi-Wan froze in shock, but he didn’t seem to notice. He only sobbed harder, burying his face in Obi-Wan’s sweater.

Obi-Wan couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him this tightly. The sharp points of Anakin’s claws grazed his back, and a silky ear tickled his skin.

Slowly, tentatively, his arms lifted to return the embrace. He wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, and settled for placing one on the middle of Anakin’s back, the other in his hair.

“Shh...” he found himself whispering. “Shh... there, there.” He could hear Anakin crying now, choked breaths endlessly chasing each other out of his throat. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Obi-Wan ran his fingers through Anakin’s damp curls, over and over, scratching lightly against his scalp. He held him, with no thoughts but to comfort him, to soothe whatever pain had him so undone. Slowly, slowly, the wracking sobs subsided, leaving Anakin hiccuping and sniffling into his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, even as Anakin slipped out of his arms to curl in on himself once again, as floppy eared and despondent as before.

This time, though, something felt different. A lingering warmth, the ghost of a touch, that perhaps stood a chance at melting the many barriers between them.

Red-rimmed eyes flicked up to meet Obi-Wan’s, just for a moment.

“Okay,” said Anakin. “I’ll stay.”

#stray catboy au #the triumphant return!#sorry it's been so long but i think you guys will enjoy this one #obikin

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everlarkficexchange · 3 years

Text

Captain Strong VS The Mockingjay

Written by: @nightlock-1989

Prompt 170: Superhero/Catburglar AU: The jewel-thief Mockingjay has evaded The Capitol’s superhero, Captain Strong, for long enough, and the Merchants of the city have started putting pressure on the hero to bring the thief in for justice. The only problem? The Captain is the alter-ego of teenager Peeta Mellark, and his elusive nemesis is his high school crush, Katniss Everdeen. [submitted by @thelettersfromnoone]

@thelettersfromnoone I loved your prompt and I hope you enjoy what I did with it. This will have multiple parts. I’m not sure how many but we have to find out what happens next!

Rated T for language

Captain Strong VS. The Mockingjay

“PEETA, WAKE UP!” a shrill voice shouts from the other side of my bedroom door. Ugh, the opposite of what I wanted to wake up to.

“I’m up,” I holler. The pounding finally stops.

I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom I share with my brother Rye. He’s styling his hair and his eyes widen at the sight of me.

“You look like shit, Peet,” he says.

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter dripped with sarcasm while I reach for my toothbrush and toothpaste.

“Who did you sneak out to see last night?”

“I didn’t sneak out.”

“Yes, you did. You need to learn to be quieter.”

I lean my hip against the counter and point out, “Does it matter? Dad sleeps like the dead and mom takes enough sleeping pills that I’m surprised she isn’t dead. How she’s even awake right now amazes me.” I press my hand into the marble and hear a crack. Crap.

“What was that?” he asks.

I gently use my other hand to crack my knuckle.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “So which girl was it?”

“What girl?”

“The one you have been sneaking out to see?”

“I told you there’s nobody.” That’s a lie, there is. It’s the reason for all my sleepless nights.

“Fine, but one day I am going to wheedle it out of you,” he says with a gentle slap to my cheek.

“Driving yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Good, because now that I’m a senior, I can be having a junior cramping my style.”

“You don’t have any style.”

Rye brushes past me and I lift my hand from the counter noticing the crack. Great… I’ll find something acrylic to break and blame it on that or something. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before jumping in the shower. I do look exhausted. The bags under my eyes are making me look older than my sixteen-year self.

I decide I have enough time for a quick shower. The warm water is running against my back. I let the thoughts of last night roll.

In the last year, I have successfully defeated 9 supervillains. Not too bad considering I’m only 16 and have only possessed my powers for about as long. How a swarm of tracker-jacker stings caused me to develop super-strength and a host of other small powers I’ll never know.

The last 6 months, the Merchant sector of Panem has been hit with a host of robberies by a cat burglar called The Mockingjay. My mentor Haymitch says that from what he understands, she doesn’t possess any actual powers.

She’s been stealing things. I don’t condone it or anything but there are more severe problems that need to be dealt with than a bauble of Venia Stone’s. Since I’ve taken out The Crane, I find myself on a bit of a break which is why I’m sitting here, in Venia’s apartment, waiting for The Mockingjay. We have The Cornucopia Diamond in plain sight. I think it’s stupid, there’s no way she would be dumb enough to go for this. The most expensive item she has stolen has been valued at $150,000 and that was for a diamond and jewel encrusted white rose brooch from Mayor Snow’s penthouse.

This diamond is valued at $3.2 million. I sigh, sick of sitting in my corner blending in. I’m thinking about the first day of school I will be having tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll have any classes with—wait a minute, something is off. One of my other powers was slight intuition or something along those lines. I call it my mutt sense, pretty much since that time I realized I was being stalked by these weird hybrid mutts The Gamemaker sicked on me.

I slowly stand up. I may be good at blending in but I still stomp like an elephant. I slowly begin moving towards the other room when I spot her. I activate my forcefield. This is it; I’ve got her. I continue creeping towards her as she puts a ring in the pouch on her hip. She has on a dark gray, almost black skin-tight suit that fits her like a glove. It’s long-sleeved and has cloth draped from the arms that gives the appearance of wings. Her ass looks fantastic.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a loud gait?” the voice says smoothly.

Shit…. She continues perusing the small jewelry box, pulling out a diamond tennis bracelet.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re not as stealthy as you think?”

“Never,” she says still rifling through the box.

“You’ve been caught, you can stop you know.”

“And miss out on a chance of battling Captain Strong? Absolutely not.”

Her hair is in a braided bun, black mask of feathers covering her eyes.

“Let’s just make this easier on ourselves.”

She turns to look at me and I get that feeling of intuition again. There’s something familiar about her eyes, even if I can’t get a good look at them.

“Now why would I do that?”

I approach her but she dodges out of my way. Damn, she’s quick. I stalk towards her and we dance around each other.

We somehow make our way onto the balcony, it’s fine though the forcefield is around the perimeter of the building. If she jumps, she’ll just bounce right back. Suddenly, she opens her mouth and the voice of an angel comes ripping out.

No superpowers, Haymitch? I beg to differ because that powerful singing voice of hers could bust through even my strongest forcefield. Oh, shit it actually has. The damn mockingjays are carrying her off the 22nd story penthouse before I know what’s happening. The fucking birds have actually stopped to listen to her.

“Let’s do this again sometime, Captain Strong,” she teases.

I’m in the science hallway heading to my first class of my junior year. Chemistry. The bell already rung about sixty seconds ago so I hustle. As I enter the classroom, Mr. Latier says, “Mr. Mellark, how wonderful of you to join us.”

“Sorry, Mr. Latier.”

“Take the empty seat,” he instructs pointing to the middle of the classroom.

I glance towards the table and freeze with terror. Me…. Peeta Mellark…. Captain Strong…. a Victor of Panem…. is about to face his biggest fear…. being close in proximity to his lifelong crush Katniss Everdeen.

#nightlock-1989 #thelettersfromnoone #prompt 170 #springtime edition 2021 #submission

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nervousladytraveler · 3 years

Text

The Alibi: Chapter 2

A continuation of the the wee fic inspired by the kiss prompt: A + B are in an argument, then they stop, just stare at each other, and then crash their lips together, because, like i said... fuck this shit Ross and Demelza (Requested by the lovely @veryflowerobservation)

______

Ross woke just a little after 9AM. He’d pulled the thick curtains the night before--it had been dark then so the gesture had been solely for privacy. The morning light was largely blocked, save one stubborn sliver that succeeded in illuminating a patch of carpet in front of the bed.

He looked over at the sleeping woman beside him. Demelza faced the wall and had failed at fully covering her body with the hotel bed sheets, and as a result her glorious back and the very top of her bum remained exposed. She might have been turned away from him but that didn’t mean she had given up on him. He knew he could sidle over and press himself close to her, and that she’d receive him warmly, eagerly. She’d made her feelings quite clear.

It had been a complicated night--and yet so easy. To finally be with her after so many years of constant companionship. Yes, they’d had years of steady loyalty to one another but he could see now that their friendship the last few months had been fraught with unresolved tension, overpowering attraction, and something deeper still. It hadn’t been one sided, only he’d somehow been blind to it all until the truth hit him like a cricket bat to the head as she yelled at him in the dark car park. Then he’d kissed her and it was as if he’d always known.

And as they lay together, in between feverish bouts of love making, they tried to make sense of what had just happened. They didn’t talk about the near-miss with the cops or Trencrom’s betrayal, just the sudden, seismic shift that occurred between them. And what it meant.

He was glad that she’d been able to say what he too felt, since he’d never be articulate enough to find the words or have the presence of mind to speak them.

She knows what I’m thinking before I even speak. No wonder she saved my neck last night, he thought to himself with a soft laugh. Yet somehow he knew not to take that for granted. She was her own person and he’d have to work harder to demonstrate his respect for her. No, respect sounded such a cold and clinical word and hardly sufficient. He revered her, he admired her, he was captivated by her, he desired her…

His thoughts never reached their logical conclusion of what all those separate emotions added up to because she exhaled a long sigh and he could resist touching her no more. He ran the backs of his fingers down her spine, then along the gentle curve of her hip, and up to her breast.

She turned to him with a smile, her eyes struggling to open.

“You tryin’ to wake me, Ross?” she asked. Her voice was sleepy, raspy in an innocently sexy sort of way.

He pulled her closer at once and kissed her eyelids, in a tender attempt to keep them closed. He felt a strange sensation in his stomach, not just butterflies but a whole swarm of wings fluttering up, perhaps to carry off his heart. His hands gripped her upper arms--the same arms that seemed destined to deck him yesterday seemed warm and reassuring now.

“No, stay asleep. It was an exhausting night--you earned a lie-in.” He kissed her lips now. Her eyes remained closed but her mouth opened wide to receive him.

How could he have ever considered himself alive before he knew that kiss?

He realised he’d sighed like a love-drunk school boy but he had no shame.

“Yes, it was exhaustin’,” she laughed, “but are you referrin’ to the events before or after we went to bed?” She put her hand to his rough cheek.

He laughed too, as though he’d caught the urge from her, like a yawn or a sneeze.

Ross had no business being so happy. His world was crumbling around him--he’d most likely lose his business and the police’s interest in him had not yet been resolved. And yet...

Yet those things mattered little. Was that really what his world consisted of? Because being with Demelza, loving her and being loved, that seemed a most significant triumph.

“Demelza, I meant everything I said last night.” He’d grown serious again.

“I seem to recall it was me doin’ all the talkin’ and you said a lot of ‘me too’...” she laughed.

“Okay, I meant everything you said,” he teased back.

“You sure about that Ross? Because I also called you stubborn and stupid…”

“And ‘an absolute arsehole’ don’t forget…” he added and rolled on his back with a chuckle.

“Oh Ross,” she said. “I didn’t mean those things…”

“Yes, you did--because I am. Maybe not ‘absolute’ but I can admit I’m ‘somewhat’ of an arsehole…”

She kissed his chest before resting her head lower on his belly. “Then you are my favourite somewhat arsehole, Ross,” she said.

“And you are the most meaningful person in my life…” he said, reaching out to touch her soft hair.

“Thank you for sayin’ that,” she said softly.

“Those were your words, Demelza. So thank you,” he said and pulled her up again so she was level with his head on the pillow. He stroked her cheek and looked into her eyes. They blazed with an intensity he’d come to know well over the last few hours together.

He wanted nothing more than to spend the day with her bare body wrapped around him, with inspired caresses, endless kisses. Even the ancients knew that nothing succeeded at keeping troubles at bay--or at least out of mind--like the pleasures of physical love.

But just then the telephone rang--a rapid string of jarring bleeps loud enough to be heard in the next room. The only person who knew they were there was Jinny Martin.

Good god, was her night shift not over yet? Shit hours for a single mum with two small children. Hoping he hadn’t made trouble for her, Ross switched on the lamp and picked up at once.

“Sorry, Ross. The police are here and want to ask some questions. I told them to wait and I’d call you down but they’re on their way up.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said and rang off.

“What is it?” Demelza sat up in alarm and watched Ross furiously pull on his trousers “Ross?”

“It’s the police, they’re here. Apparently they want to ask me some questions...” He tried to sound calm.

“But how did they know where you were? What can this mean?” she cried and reached for her knickers.

“I don’t know. It seems so unlikely they’d find me...but stay in bed, Demelza,” he said and switched the lamp off again. “Pretend you’re asleep and don’t get up unless I call to you.” His voice was firm but gentle. He wanted to reassure her, to convince her he had a plan--though he most certainly did not.

He hadn’t fully buttoned his shirt when the knock came. It hadn’t sounded aggressive or urgent--was that a good sign? Or was Ross just reading too much into this?

“Just a minute,” he called gruffly, trying his best to sound as though he’d only just been roused. He put his fingers to lips and at his signal Demelza rolled over on her side facing the wall again. This time she had the covers pulled snugly up to her chin.

Ross ran his hands through his hair so it stood even more on end, then exhaled before he opened the door. He blinked his eyes at the glare of the hall light. It hadn’t been an act but added a convincing touch.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m PC Pendarves, and this is PC Bunt, ” the taller constable said then he looked at his notepad, “Mr. Ross Poldark, is it?” He still had youthful spots on his face that were barely concealed by the sparse beard he was trying to grow.

Ross was confused by the question--surely they knew his name--wasn’t that why they were there? The constable didn’t seem sharp enough to be putting him on. But Ross’s bewilderment worked in his own favour--he didn’t look like a man who, for the past seven hours, had been expecting the police to call.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” Ross asked then glanced over his shoulder at the supposedly sleeping form just visible in the dark room. He pulled the door behind him so it was only open a few inches, and stepped into the hallway. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to wake my...friend.” His hesitation at what to call her publicly was genuine but again fit tidily into his ruse. If Demelza and Ross were to have had a secret rendezvous, he’d hardly have announced it readily to the first person who knocked.

“Right, Mr. Poldark. Erm...the clerk said the other guest in the room is Demelza Crane?” This time it was PC Bunt, the squat bespectacled constable who spoke, trying not so subtly to get a peek at the woman in the bed.

“Carne,” Ross corrected. “Demelza Carne.” Instinctively he shifted his position to fully block any further view. “Do you need me to wake her…?”

“No, no sir. I don’t think so.” The first constable said and cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed for his partner. Perhaps he wasn’t so young after all. “Yes, well, we’re making inquiries about a missing person.”

“A missing person?” Ross asked and hoped the relief wasn’t visible on his face.

“A Miss Rosina Hoblyn. Her father reported her missing day before last.”

“Oh?” Ross wondered why they were talking to him about this. “I’m not sure how I can help you…”

“We’re talking to all the guests with rooms facing the road,” Pendarves said as if reading Ross’s thoughts. “You see, a neighbour ‘cross the way, saw a young woman who fit Miss Hoblyn’s description last night right out in the street. A bit of a disturbance it was--she seemed to be having a row with someone. Then left in the same someone’s car.”

“On Church Road?” Ross twisted his brow as he took this in, an expression of questioning concern, which disguised his renewed panic at the presence of traffic cameras. No, he and Demelza had entered the hotel from the rear and were never even on Church Road.

“Yes, this happened right in front of the yoga studio,” Bunt offered, unable to hide his smirk that such an establishment had recently taken the place of a perfectly useful off-license.

“I’m afraid we heard nothing. We’ve…erm...” Ross paused. His sheepish expression was both genuine and well-played. “We’ve been in all night.”

“So you heard nothing? All night?” Bunt said. “This would have been around 11:30 PM?”

“Yes...I’m not sure what time we checked in. You can check at the front desk or I can wake Miss Carne…she might remember.” Ross took a chance here. It was better to be honest that they hadn’t even arrived until quite late.

“No bother, Mr. Poldark, if you didn’t see or hear anything of note outside the room,” Bunt said and laughed to himself, apparently amused by it all. He seemed to buy that Ross had other things on his mind the night before--perhaps he’d even been imagining the scene in his head.

“And the neighbours?” Ross took another chance here. “Did they observe…?” It would be good to know who was up last night and what they knew.

“Nah, they didn’t hear anything either. Okay, thanks for your time, Mr. Poldark. Here’s our cards if you or Miss Carne think of anything later…” PC Pendarves said and fumbled in his pocket before PC Bunt beat him to the punch and triumphantly handed over his own slightly crumpled business card.

“Of course,” Ross said and nodded politely. He waited until they began their retreat down the hallway before he slipped back into the room.

Even at the sound of the door closing, Demelza remained motionless, as though she was holding her breath. Without switching on the light, Ross snuggled next to her and buried his face in her hair.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “They’re gone.”

She turned to him, and in the dim room he could see her eyes were wide--and wet.

“Demelza,” he said and wrapped her in his strong arms. “Don’t be scared. I’m still here.”

“I know, Ross,” she said bravely. “Tell me everythin’, I only heard bits. Is it true? The police are askin’ after Rosina Hoblyn?”

“You heard most of it then. Seems she’s missing--or so her dad says. I’m surprised he even noticed, the drunken lout that he is,” Ross said.

“Ross, did you tell them that you know Mr. Hoblyn? And you know her?”

“They didn't ask, and to be fair, I don’t really know Rosina—I know of her. I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged a word with her.”

“But Ross, you know she’s datin’ Charlie Kempthorne, don’t you? Or at least she was until recently. I think I just heard she broke it off with him.”

“I’d forgotten that. And it’s a connection I’m not happy to make. Ugh! I wonder what she was doing here in Truro?”

“And whose car she got into…” Demelza added.

“You heard the police say that as well?”

“Yes...Oh Ross, you don’t think Rosina could be in trouble, do you?”

“Well, if she is, at least the police are looking for her.”

“And not for you?”

“So it would seem…for now anyway.”

“Ross, I’m knackered as hell but my heart is racin’...I think we should go home.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree.” He kissed her lips, lingering for as long as he could, and dreading to pull away. “If you’re still tired later, we can take a nap together back at Nampara,” he suggested.

“No, Ross,” she said quickly. ”Remember we can’t be seen together.”

“What? That’s ridiculous,” he laughed. “The police now know we’re together and the whole point of you being my alibi is that people know about it…”

“Only some people--the right people at the right time. And we have to make it look like we want to keep it a secret. Otherwise why would we be out in the cover of night and sneakin’ off to a hotel in another town when we could just shag at your place or mine? Think about it, I mean, we both live alone…”

“I don’t. I have a housekeeper, remember,” he reminded her.

“Hmm...we have to decide if we tell Prudie, don’t we? No, maybe just leave some hints and clues. Better let her think she’s put two and two together on her own. She’ll probably start squawkin’ and she’ll want everyone to know she figured out our secret…”

“I don’t like this, Demelza. You know you’re not just my alibi, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I know you don't really think I’m ridiculous,” she said with a smile, reminding him of one of the insults he’d hurled at her the previous night that he’d repeated just now.

“But it is ridiculous that we’re together now…” he began.

“What?” she laughed and pretended to hit him.

“Let me finish.” He caught her hand in his and kissed her fingers.“We’re finally together, after months of idiocy…”

“Years,” she corrected him.

“Okay, years...and it’s ridiculous that we have to pretend to not be.”

“Not all the time,” she added.

“But to see you, to do this again,” he said, running their joined hands down her naked body, ”has to be secret? Or planned enough to seem secret? In any event I can't be with you freely, when I want, when we want. I think that’s going to destroy me.”

“No, Ross. Don’t you understand? It’s worth it to keep you safe--so we can be together. And it won’t be for long. As soon as this Trencrom business blows over, we can let the cat out of the bag.”

“Just so we’re clear, as much as I love the cat, I hate the bag. I hate it very much,” he said and laid his head on her chest.

“I know, Ross. Believe me, I want the whole world to know I’m yours.” She put her free hand to his head to play with his curls. A small gesture but one that moved him more than he expected.

“Me too,” he sighed, then not unpossessively put his hand on her hip. “And hopefully it will be over soon.”

“And no more Trencrom?”

“No more. We might be homeless and unemployed but…”

“Ross?”

“Never again. I promise you.”

----

DS Vage threw down his bacon sandwich with disgust when he saw PCs Pendarves and Bunt return from their door to door inquiries. He already knew what they’d say: No one saw anything, sir.

Oh, they'd swear they’d been thorough, but if they truly had, would they be back so soon? The door knocking, the questioning of witnesses--some of whom didn't even know yet that they were witnesses--that was real police work. And these idiots...what did they think the job was going to entail? High speed police chases? Suspects coming in willingly?

He glanced up at the photo of Rosina Hoblyn he’d pinned to the wall. She wasn’t a resident of his town but he’d be damned if she’d become a victim on his turf.

“Okay...what did you find?” he asked with a sigh.

“That yoga bird, she’s something, isn’t she?” Bunt laughed then turned serious when he saw his boss’s expression. “No sir, I mean Miss Rebecca Ellery said the same thing to us in person that she’d reported over the phone.” He looked in his notebook to get the exact words. “A young woman, blonde curly hair--dye job but with good low lights, approximately 5’4…”

“Oh come on,” Vage said with a groan. “That’s a bit specific, isn’t it? Did you question her on that? Did she tell you what shade of hair dye was? Icy Platinum or Natural Ash Blonde #004? Could she tell you what salon she’d been to?” he asked sarcastically. “And really...five four exactly?”

Everyone these days thought they knew it all. It came from watching too many police procedurals on the telly.

“No sir, I mean yes, sir,” Pendarves quickly interrupted. “Miss Ellery explained that she’d been a hairdresser before she opened the yoga business and it was her...erm ‘stock and trade’, she said. And she says she’s five four herself and this other woman was standing next to the lamp post under that rude graffiti so she could get a sense of her height. She also said she’d complained about the graffiti but no one has responded to her…”

“Alright...go on,” Vage said reluctantly.

“Yes, so the young woman was shouting at a man...Miss Ellery thought he was a man but she wasn’t sure how she knew it--she said that herself…”

“So this other person ?”

“Miss Ellery didn’t get a good look so she couldn't even say hair colour but they-him or her-- remained in the driver’s seat of a lime green Vauxhall Astra GTC.” Bunt was apparently very proud of himself for keeping an open mind about the driver.

“She was specific about the make and model of the car?” Vage raised a brow.

“Yes, she was, sir,” Bunt nodded. “And the lime green colour--she said it looked ‘super douchey’.”

Maybe Ellery was a reliable witness after all, Vage thought to himself.

“Okay, then the girl shouted something to the driver that sounded like ‘You’re a dickhead and you deserve what’s coming for you…’ But he--sorry, the person--didn’t say anything back, least not loud enough that Miss Ellery could hear from her window above the studio. But this person must have said something because Rosina...erm I mean the blonde girl, stopped shouting and got into the car...”

“Just got in? Signs of any coercion?”

“No physical force according to Miss Ellery. Do you think she knew the driver?” Pendarves asked.

“It’s possible…” Vage said.

“Then the Astra drove away north on Church Road,” Pendarves added.

“We’re checking the CCTV,” Bunt said quickly.

Bloody idiot. Of course the CCTV would be checked--DS Vage had already put in a request himself.

“And the neighbours?” he asked. He wanted to hear about the rest of their morning’s work.

“Only three residential flats on the east side of the road,” Pendarves explained. “One just above Miss Ellery--and they’re in Spain for the month. Another, number 74--Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Stephens heard some noise around 11:30 but it had stopped by the time they went to the front window--their bedroom is in the rear, you see. They saw nothing, closed the window, and went back to bed. Number 78, was Mister Bart Maddock, who openly admitted he’d been high--he said that--to the police!--and he was painting so he was ‘oblivious’ to what was happening on the street.”

“Painting? Like walls?”

“Naw, he’s an artist,” Pendarves explained. “That place is sorta a loft, big flat for just the one person but mostly taken up by what he called a ‘studio’. Two studios on one street--never knew so many arty types had moved in.”

“Rents will rise as a result,” Vage grumbled. “Okay and the hotel, the Star and Garter?”

“Three guest rooms faced Church Road. Ground floor is the pub, closed at 11 of course…”

“Of course…”

“Proprietor and night desk clerk heard nothing but their offices are in the rear. The rooms are all on the next floor up. Older woman at the end of the hall took her hearing aids out so she heard nothing and the couple next to her put their baby down to sleep just after 8, then fell right asleep themselves after that.”

“Poor sods. That’s family life, isn’t it?” Vague sighed.

“The couple nearest the stairs though…” PC Bunt let out a chuckle.

“Well? Yes?”

“They were busy shagging all night…”

“Aw c’mon, Bunt…” Pendarves groaned.

“What?” Bunt objected to being called out. “The man said as much as said himself! According to him, they were in all night and were ‘otherwise occupied’ so they heard nothing.”

“Nothing? Great…” Vage sighed.

“Lucky bastard, that one. I got a glimpse of the friend waiting in his bed,” Bunt chuckled then he saw his boss was not amused by tales of him leering at sleeping women.

Dance of Life, Vage was thinking. All the stages of love and life on one hallway. First there’s early love and passion, then settling down and starting a family, finally you’re old and alone. And behind which door is my life lived these days?

He really didn’t consider himself old, though he knew his colleagues did, especially the newly minted constables like these two. At least he was still fit and had all his hair--and his hearing. Could he still be considered a family man though? His own children were grown and far from home. He missed them but not the sleepless nights of teething and ear infections, or even the teenage years when they proclaimed how much they hated him right before they asked him for the car keys and 20 quid.

And door #1? He could barely remember the days of needing that sort of urgent and exhausting sex, but he’d certainly been there in his younger days, with his Tina. What a looker, she’d been. Blonde, curvy, with those great legs. His Tina who was no longer his--she’d left him right after their youngest went off to the army. He should have known she was slipping away from him when she’d switched her hair colour from Natural Ash Blonde #004 to Icy Platinum.

“Okay, and you got names and contact information of all these witnesses--or ‘not-witnesses’ as the case may be?”

“Yes, we got names,” Pendarves said quickly. He had not in fact gotten contact information but assumed he could request it from the hotel at a later time if really necessary.

“Deaf bird was…” Bunt began reading from his notepad again.

PC Pendarves coughed and shot him a look.

“Hearing impaired guest,” Bunt started over, “was Elizabeth Triggs from St. Just, the family with the baby were the Tregeagles--Benjamin and Sarah, didn’t catch the baby’s name…”

“Also Ben...Benny they said,” Pendarves added. “From Falmouth.”

“Right,” Bunt said, “and our ‘sex’ couple was Demelza Carne--we didn't talk to her, she was asleep--and Ross Poldark.”

“Wait a minute,” Vage said, a bell ringing somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Sorry sir. Thought it was respectful to let her sleep. Should we have talked to her?” Pendarves asked.

“No, that’s quite alright. But did you say the man was called...Ross Poldark?”

#poldark fanfic #poldark modern au #ross poldark #demelza carne #fake dating turned secret dating

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angstyaches · 3 years

Text

Drop

Again, this is quite heavy for this blog. Please heed the warnings! DM me for a summary, if you don’t want to actually read it because of any of the tags (I’ll make a post if anyone asks on anon). Stay safe, friends.

CW: disordered eating mention, alcohol, heights (inc. character struggling with fear of heights), angsty and dark thoughts, relationship problems being discussed, very brief but intense death ideation, mention of gore/injury (described by character, not real), danger of falling, mention of broken glass, emeto, food mention, blood mention

___

Shayne had hoped the bad thoughts would take longer to find him, but they were waiting for him just on the other side of his bedroom door in the townhouse. For the past two weeks, he’d eaten three meals a day with Charlie at his parents’ house, even if some of them were small, and he’d been imagining himself keeping it up once he got back, but now that he was alone, the shame and the feeling of helplessness that had always surrounded food came flooding back.

When dinner time rolled around that evening (he knew it was dinner time because his stomach remembered), he felt Madelyn’s phantom breath on his neck and ignored the hunger. He crawled into his bed and tried forcing himself to sleep before his body could realise it was being deprived.

But god, he was just a needy, greedy little black hole of a creature, a sap on the world so long as you’re not fulfilling your duty, an insult to flesh and bone, nothing but darkness and hunger and waste and –

Shayne sat up in bed and squeezed his head between his hands. He’d gotten so used to Charlie’s constant presence and warmth, that he was already feeling unbearably lonely without him.

Stupid Charlie, he thought, feeling a flutter of affection in his chest as he pictured Charlie’s head resting on his shoulder. And then, a sinking feeling.

In the absence of Madelyn’s voice in his head, Shayne realised how… quiet everything else was. Ryan and Nancy were probably still travelling in Europe, but Elliott and Felix should have been here.

He’d half-expected Felix to come pounding on his door around this time, raving about whatever he was cooking and asking questions about Shayne’s Christmas. But the fact that the townhouse was this silent was extremely unpleasant.

Shayne let himself into the hallway, pausing and holding his breath, scanning for any signs of life. He could have done this easily if he’d been in a forest, but houses and urban settings were always trickier. He picked up a flash of something, a thrum of a heartbeat, but it sent his head spinning and he had to stop concentrating. It seemed to be coming from Elliott and Felix’s room, even though he hadn’t heard a single stir in there since he’d gotten home.

“Hello?” he asked softly, pushing the door open slowly.

He wasn’t surprised that it was cold in the bedroom beyond, but a breeze took him right in the face. Papers had been gently blown across the floor, and a vase holding a fake rose had been knocked from the windowsill onto the floor.

Nobody was in here. This wasn’t where he’d sensed somebody.

The view of the town was incredible from this height, four storeys up. It was around dusk, so there were lights blinking to life in houses and office buildings even as Shayne stood by the open window and rested his hands on the sill.

“Elliott?” he called out quietly, leaning his head outside. The distance from his face to the street below was dizzying.

“The fuck do you want?” came a curt reply, which made Shayne look to his right. The moulding on the outside of the building was about a metre wide, enough for Elliott to slump against the brick wall with a glass balanced on his knee and a bottle grasped in the opposite hand.

His hair was loose of its usual ponytail, as well as being greasy and dishevelled from having fingers constantly dragged through it. He was scraping it back with his left hand at that very moment, eyes glazed over as he looked up at the sky.

“When’d you get back?”

“Uh, today. Earlier.” Shayne could hear how high-pitched his voice had gotten, but what could he do about it? He couldn’t stop wondering how Elliott’s weight wasn’t forcing him to slink further down, legs pulling him over the edge. “El, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna see you out there.”

“So?” Elliott shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become a Reddit legend.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Shayne sighed. “What’re you doing out there? Are you okay?”

Elliott blinked, the motion slowed by the darkness and an unknown amount of whisky. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Shayne would have really preferred not to, but it didn’t look like Elliott was coming to him anytime soon. He turned around and sat up into the windowsill, slowly shifting his legs around so his feet touched the moulding. He breathed hard, tried not to look at the fall below, and told himself that if it could hold Elliott’s weight, it could hold his.

“You know, inside, there are floors and – and chairs,” he stammered, edging closer to Elliott before lowering himself to a seated position. He didn’t slump like Elliott though; his hands were pressing the concrete, stiff as pillars. “Lots of nicer and safer places to sit and drink whisky.”

“Mmph.”

The words barely seemed to reach Elliott’s ears.

“So, what’s up?” Shayne asked.

When Elliott smiled, it was a sick thing that twisted the lower half of his face without touching the rest. He looked past the rim of his glass and out across the town. Shayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his glare had caused a sudden flash of lightning to tear through the clouds.

The silence seemed to press in further, the sound of traffic fading away as though a bubble had descended on the rooftop.

“Where’s… Felix?” Shayne already had the feeling that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“I don’t know.” Elliott pursed his lips. “Think he’s left me.”

A cold stone seemed to drop through Shayne’s stomach. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the equivalent of that felt like for Elliott. “What? Why?”

After a slight roll of his eyes, Elliott reached into the pocket of his trousers, fidgeting with something before pulling out a ring. He twirled it between his thumb and his figure, examining it up-close for a second before holding it out.

“Oh.” Shayne eyed the ring for a moment before reluctantly lifting one hand – one of his supportive pillars – and letting Elliott place it in his palm. “I take it he said no?”

“No, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say… anything.”

“Is that – is that better, or worse?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Sorry, El.” Shayne gulped and stared at the ring, only managing to hold onto it for a couple of seconds. Elliott had already taken his eyes off of it, his attention snagged by his drink again. A slight breeze across his skin made Shayne shudder, as though it could possibly throw him off balance. Mostly, it was just cold and unpleasant. “Here, take it back. I’m gonna drop it or something.”

“Why would you drop it?” Elliott asked with a grunt, reaching to pick up the ring. His fingertips lingered a moment as he realised how badly Shayne’s hand was trembling. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne put his hand down next to him again, fingers aching under the pressure he was putting on them.

“What’s up?” Elliott scoffed lightly. “You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe,” Shayne admitted. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

“Jesus, you’re such a drama queen.” Elliott planted a hand down and pushed himself to his feet. His movements were as swift and graceful as a panther, even while drunk, and he seemed to tower unreasonably high over Shayne as he straightened his back and stretched his arms over his head. He almost reached the roof tiles that jutted out over the top floor. A strong gust of wind could probably have toppled him, especially considering how much whisky was probably flooding his system.

Elliott’s feet made a scraping sound on the concrete as he lowered his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Elliott, stop! Just sit the fuck down.”

“Why?” Elliott’s voice was no stronger than a breath. He closed his eyes for a worrying amount of time, his shoulders swaying slightly as his arms hung by his side like weights. “Would you care if I fell?”

Shayne got a sinking feeling, for what seemed like the hundredth time in ten minutes. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think I’d die, actually?” Elliott perked up again, unnervingly so. He opened his eyes and lifted his glass slightly. He craned his neck to look over the edge of the moulding. He hummed, like he was pondering whether he should buy a pair of shoes in black or in brown. “I’m fairly sure that fully-developed vampires can only die if they’re burned alive, but… I wonder how thoroughly that’s been tested.”

“Elliott –”

“I’ve had a decent run. In human years, I’m almost seventy, you know? That’s longer than a lot of people end up with…”

Shayne didn’t know if he should have been trying to grab Elliott to stop him from teetering so close to the edge, or if that would make everything worse. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

“It’d still fucking hurt either way, though.” Elliott threw back the last mouthful of his drink and smacked his lips. “Bones poking up through my organs, probably bits of me exploding on impact –”

“Elliott, seriously, you’re just being an asshole now, just sit down!”

“Would it make him come back, if I was injured like that?” Elliott demanded, his golden eyes piercing and intense. He was beginning to lapse into clumsy arm gestures, his voice rising higher with emotion. “Would it put everything into perspective, Shayne? Would it fix everyone’s problems if I was maimed? Or if I was completely and utterly de–?”

Shayne’s stomach turned, his hands flying to his face, as the whisky glass shuddered and dropped out of Elliott’s hand. It disappeared from view, faster than the sick grin could fall from Elliott’s face.

The shatter was tiny; Shayne had to really strain his ears to hear it. He watched Elliott blink tears down his face and slowly lower himself to his haunches. He opened his mouth wide, like he was going to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Shayne whispered, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stretched out one hand, trying to gently catch Elliott’s attention. “El. Elliott.”

Elliott didn’t move. He stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the moulding, his face hovering over the side. When he blinked, tears fell and missed the building completely, dropping straight to the sidewalk that was four storeys down.

“El, come on.”

All the way down to the sidewalk –

“Elliott.”

He turned his head, swaying a little, and for a moment Shayne thought that was it, that he was gone, he’d lost his balance. Shayne sat forward on his heels, instinctively making an uncalculated grab for his cousin’s hand, but luckily Elliott was reaching back too; two fumbling hands happened to fumble in the right directions at the right time.

“Fuck,” Elliott whimpered, steadying himself on his feet again. Shayne could feel both their pulses in their joined hands, Elliott’s almost explosive. “We should… We should probably get off this thing.”

“Oh, you think?” Shayne snapped, though he clung to Elliott’s hand like a toddler to a parent as the two of them edged back over towards the window. He hopped in through the window first, turning to make sure Elliott was following him. The taller man hit his head on the open window, making the frame shudder as he shut his eyes and winced.

“Shit, are you okay?” Shayne held out a hand to help him make it the rest of the way.

“I’m fine, get off me,” Elliott growled, shoving Shayne away from him and storming over to the bed.

“Fuck heights,” Shayne murmured, pulling the window shut with more force than was probably necessary. It released some of the fear that had been pinching his nerves though, and his head felt clearer. “We should probably go down to the street and clean that glass up before someone –”

“Shut up.”

Shayne shrugged, gazing at Elliott as he sat at the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands. “Is – is your head okay, or –?”

“What’d I just say?”

“You said to shut up, but how the fuck do you expect me not to ask you if you’re okay? You almost fell off the fucking… roof!” Shayne smacked his hand on the bedpost as he walked by, partially on purpose. “Fuck you, Elliott.”

“Calm down, man,” Elliott snarled, his head shooting up from his hands. “Come on, you seriously think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying?”

“You can’t…” Shayne stopped by the door to the hallway, eyes lowered. “You can’t do shit like that, you can’t talk like that. I don’t care if he’s left you, if the world’s falling to shit, if you think nobody cares about you being around, you can’t…”

A sob broke the air, and Shayne froze, turning to watch as Elliott hunched over at the edge of the bed, his head ducking and disappearing from his silhouette.

“I’m… sorry.”

Having never heard such a heart-wrenching sound from Elliott before, Shayne found himself hurrying back to the bed. He sat down next to Elliott and let him sink his head against his shoulder and cry, his body convulsing with what seemed to be days’ worth of pent-up agony and sadness. Shayne felt utterly useless; he couldn’t guarantee that everything would be alright with Felix, because how the hell could he possibly know that?

“Ugh, fuck,” Elliott exclaimed, his shoulders jerking forward with a sob so deep that it sounded more like a hiccup. He clamped a hand over his mouth, the other lifting to tentatively cover the front of his head, where he’d hit it on the window.

“You okay, man?” Shayne asked hoarsely.

Elliott shook his head, face paling even in the dull light.

“You gonna hurl?” Shayne murmured, wondering if the irony would be lost on Elliott in his current state. He was already getting to his feet, remembering that Felix kept a metal bin under his desk.

“Mmmph.” Elliott nodded furiously, only releasing his mouth from his hand once Shayne had thrust the bin at him. Saliva glistened on his lips as he hovered, breathing heavily. His eyes were red and swollen and he was still gently kneading his head.

A deep retch rolled his shoulders and made him duck his head further into the bin. Shayne grimaced and almost put a hand on Elliott’s shoulder before remembering that that would have been a terrible idea. He stood by the desk instead, arms folded around his waist, flinching in time with Elliott’s horrifying gagging.

When Elliott’s face resurfaced, he was gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of thick bile and saliva, tinged only slightly with the golden hue of the heavy liquor.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “How hard did I hit my head?”

After a disbelieving glance towards the window, Shayne scoffed. “Your head? What about the god-knows-how-much whisky in your system right now?”

“Alright, whatever,” Elliott groaned. He pawed at a thick strand of his hair that was stuck to the side of his face and trailing into the bin itself, tossing it over his shoulder. Just in time too, since the next retch was deep and abrupt and dragged a rumbling belch up alongside a gush of foamy alcohol and stomach acid.

Between gags, Elliott let thick liquid drip from his mouth into the bin, body shivering with the effort it took to bring everything up. It went on for so long that Shayne was certain Elliott was going to fall asleep with his head in the bin.

Eventually, Elliott sat upright, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and dragging it across the lower half of his face. He tossed it into the bin and reached for another one.

“Want me to get you some water? Or, like, blood?”

“No.” Elliott sighed deeply, dropping the second tissue into the bin before he began to scoop his hair back from his face and neck. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for two days. I wanna go get chips.”

“Chips?”

“Yes. Can you grab one of Felix’s scrunchies from his side?”

Shayne did as he was asked, mostly in a daze, rounding the bed to get to Felix’s bedside locker. There was a pile of hair ties sitting alongside a handheld cassette player.

“Can you even eat?” Shayne asked, leaning across the bed to hand one of the hair ties to Elliott. “You know, with all of your full-vampire shit going on?”

“Seriously, you little asshole?” Elliott snapped, his voice scratchy and weak. “My life is falling down around me and you’re trying to deny me chips?”

Shayne quickly shook his head, a little bit grateful for the bloodcurdling glare that Elliott was currently treating him to. He got up from the bed again as Elliott tended to his hair. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

#idk how I originally wanted it to end but I can't look at it anymore #Swallow the World #StW Thicker than Blood #vampire emeto #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #angst fic #angst #death mention #death ideation mention #alcohol #alcohol mention

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problematicfavesareproblematic · 3 years

Text

The Splendor of These Exploding Skies (Yet All I See Is You)

Chuck Grant x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, drug use to combat PTSD (also y’all’re in California and weed just happens sometimes I’m sorry but it’s very true), light angst, light jealousy, fluff bc I’M FEELING LONELY AND COULD USE SOME CUDDLES, fireworks (both literal and metaphorical).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Even after knowing and loving you for almost half a decade at this point, Chuck Grant still found himself in awe of how beautiful you were.

Despite the fact that for the first year at Toccoa the two of you hadn’t been able to stand being in each other’s presence for more than five minutes at a time- he still was able to acknowledge how attractive he found you. If anything, that awareness only added to his resentment of you and anything to do with you.

You were too easy on the eyes to be as annoying as he found you. It just wasn’t fair.

In hindsight, he’d made a complete ass of himself during your first interaction- he’d been too drunk and too confident in his abilities to sweet talk women and too hyped up from his friend’s encouragement when he’d decided to make a move on you. Chuck couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but what he did remember was putting his hand on your ass and being slapped so hard his ears were left ringing for the next few days.

And, because he was young and cocky, he’d immediately labeled you as a prude and made it his mission to hate your guts. Even though he knew that he was in the wrong. Because that’s just how he was back then.

Had anyone asked Chuck then if he’d one day willingly share a home with you, let alone a bed, he probably would’ve punched them in the mouth. He imagined your response would’ve been similar.

My, how far the two of you had come.

Chuck leaned against the doorframe at the mouth of your bedroom, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling at the sight before him. As much as he knew that you got embarrassed by his open admiration, he still couldn’t find it within himself to curb this bad habit.

The vision of you at ease was a sight to behold- especially after seeing you on edge for years on end.

Right now, you were sprawled on top of the bed the two of you had bought a month ago, dressed in one of your old stretched-out t-shirts and thick-knit socks and a pair of black underpants that showed the cute divet where your buttcheek met your thigh (a part of you that you also scolded him for paying so much attention to). The window towards the foot of the bed was open and the cool air from the ocean delicately tossed the finer strands of your hair around your head, the lights of the city at night making each hair glow like some radiant halo.

All of the lights in the bedroom were off, the skyline illuminating the room in a warm blue cast that never failed to make him feel at ease. Your head was propped up on your hand as you gracefully brought your joint to your lips and took a deep drag, tapping the train of ash onto the clay plate you’d made at a pottery class sometime before the war. Purple grey smoke slipped through your parted lips attractively, and Cuck felt his chest ache at the knowledge that only he got to see you like this.

“Are you going to stand there like a creep all night, silly boy?”

When Chuck refocuses, he realizes that you can see his silhouette reflected in the window’s glass, and he can hear the teasing smile in your voice. Stubbing out the smoldering joint onto the plate, he watches you press yourself up onto your elbow and turn to look over your shoulder at him.

He bites back a smile of his own as he hits the light switch in the hallway so the room is entirely dark, closing the door softly behind him as he starts to toe off his shoes.

“Sorry, Dollface,” he says in faux seriousness, using the terrible pet name he’d called you the first night he’d met you. “Got distracted by the view…”

You snort a laugh at that, turning back to look out the window and shaking your head.

“Careful, buddy- my boyfriend’s got a mean right hook.”

He rolls his eyes despite the fact that he knows you can’t see it, stripping down to his shirt and boxers and coming to join you.

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I’ve heard you’ve got a nasty backhand as well.”

Using his hands to map out where your legs are, he carefully fits himself behind you like a familiar and comforting puzzle piece. While the side effects of his head injury were relatively minor compared to the severity of the wound, he still wasn’t always able to trust his eyes when it came to their depth perception. You didn’t seem to mind his way of accommodating this certain handicap.

You weren’t shy to admit how much you liked his hands on you.

With the sort of ease that only comes from years of routine, you turn your head at just the right time for him to pluck a kiss from your lips, the taste of chocolate and cannabis on your lips. Chuck lets his legs tangle with yours as he rests on his elbow beside you, bringing his other hand up to cup the back of your head and keep your lips on his for a few moments longer. When you hum happily, he can’t help but smile.

He knows that today is difficult for you- the noise and the bright light and the cool bay breeze bringing back memories of foxholes and biting frost and heartbreaking exhaustion. You didn’t smoke weed often, even less now that you’d been out of the military for a few years, so he knew that when you did that you just wanted to not remember for a little while.

You wanted to forget the bad and go back to the days when these festivities brought you joy and wonder. Chuck got that. The desire to shut it all off and just live was too familiar to him.

And if you were willing to be there for him, he’d be damned if he didn’t do the same for you.

Pulling back, he lightly presses his fingers to the base of your skull, chuckling warmly when you nearly moan in relief.

“Hey there.”

You slowly open your eyes at his greeting, gaze open and slightly lethargic.

“Hey yourself,” you say with a sigh. “I missed you today.”

Chuck knew what you meant. After living together day in and day out for so long, coming home and establishing lives and routines of your own had initially been difficult. He’d felt bad about leaving you this morning, knowing how difficult this day in particular was for you.

“Such a sap.”

Your easy expression twists into a comical scowl, your eyes rolling as you turn back to the window and make a sound of annoyance.

“Of all the idiots who propositioned me, I had to go and pick the most obnoxious—”

Chuck freezes at that, furrowing his brow in surprise and using the hand on the back of your head to gently fist a handful of your hair and turn you back to face him.

‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Your eyes scan his face before a slow smile breaks across your lips, clicking your tongue admonishingly at whatever it was that you saw.

“Charles Grant, as I live and breathe,” your voice has taken on a wicked quality, one that he both loves and hates at the same time. “Is that jealousy I detect?”

He frowns at that, hating how well you can read him- even in your slightly intoxicated state.

When he doesn’t reply right away, you purposefully lift your backside and press it against his stirring cock. God, you knew how to irritate him- you could be such a brat sometimes.

Luckily, he had learned long ago the most effective way of curbing your obnoxious provocations.

Tightening his grip on your hair infinitesimally, you let him crane your head back and hiss quietly at the sweet sting of it.

“Y/N, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you were trying to make me jealous.”

You smirk, wetting your lips before rolling your hips against him once again.

“Me? I’m just being honest- you can’t truly think you were the only one to make a move….shoot your shot, if you will….”

Chuck feels heat curl in his stomach, shaking his head at your insinuation. When he angles your head to bite at the lobe of your ear, you tremble beneath him with excitement- your antagonizing behavior had become a strange turn on somewhere between Alderborne and Normandy.

“Who?”

You said nothing, your breath hitching in your throat as you feel the press of him against your backside. You knew how much he hated when you did that- knew how frustrated your silence made him. It’d been your silence that had led him to kiss you for the first time- the arrogant way you’d held your tongue to his baiting teases driving him so crazy he was willing to risk your wrath just to get a response from you.

With an angry sigh, he fixes you with a glare.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I know how to get what I want out of that pretty mouth.”

Chuck swears he sees a self-satisfied glint in your eye, but before you can revel in your mirth he pulls away from you and makes you whine.

“Chuck, don’t go—oh!”

The feeling of his hands gripping your ass tears a gasp from your throat, your head bowing into the mattress as he grips your hips and pulls them up so he can reach beneath you and squeeze your sex possessively. As expected, you’re wet and warm for him- a confirmation of your desire for more.

His name sounds sweet on your tongue, your voice muffled in the soft down of the comforter as you arch into his touch. Chuck’s mouth waters at the sight of your shirt’s hem sliding up your spine and revealing the bare skin of your back to him, and he doesn’t hesitate to press hot kisses to the newly revealed skin by your hip bones.

“How about this, Sweetheart?” he asks innocently, using the hand not rubbing at your sex to yank your underwear down your thighs. “I’ll give you a name, and you tell me if they were stupid enough to try something with you, hm?”

Your groan is unintelligible and unclear but when he looks down the slope of your back he sees you nodding vehemently.

God, you were perfect.

Using his index and ring finger, he holds open the petals of your sex and begins to play with your clit.

“Luz?”

Even with your face in the blanket, he can make out your scoff of ‘no’. Good. he hadn’t thought so, but it still made him glad to hear it.

“Shifty?”

One of your hands swats at his thigh, and you turn your face so you can make your words clear.

“Charles, you were there when Shifty accidentally saw me changing- what do you think?”

Chuck chuckles at the memory of that- the poor kid had been so embarrassed that he’d nearly run into a wall in his attempt to escape the ‘improper sight’.

When you open your mouth to say something else, CHuck smacks your ass and your words are lost in a yelp of surprise.

“Chuck—”

“Bull?”

“No. Obviously no, geez…”

He goes through the roster of Easy Company, getting the obvious ‘no’s out of the way: Buck, Winters, Sink, Strayer, Sobel, Blithe, Lipton, Speirs, Welsh. With each negative response, he lets you roll yourself against his hand- the sight of you so desperate for him working him up so high that he knew he was going to have to get inside of you soon.

The first ‘yes’ you gave was for Talbert, which earned you a bite on the curve of your buttcheek despite the fact that Chuck had already figured as much. Same went for Christenson- which he’d known already because he and Pat had first bonded over the fact that you’d rejected both of their advances.

Then came the first surprise- Nixon.

“What?! Are you serious? Lewis Nixon?”

“Does that piss you off, Silly Boy?”

Your tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity in your voice that catches him off guard.

It did, actually- piss him off, that is. Chuck didn’t want to think too hard about why.

Not when this little game of yours just started to get interesting.

With another resounding smack to your backside, Chuck grips himself in his fest and coats his cock with the slick from your sex that had soaked his fingers. The idea of you with someone like Nix simultaneously inspired rage and pride in his chest- anger at the concept of a married man, your SO, looking at you in a way that was less than professional and pride at the fact that you’d still chosen him despite Nix’s advances.

“Chuck,”

When he looks back at you, he sees that you’re looking over your shoulder at him with desperation, your face flushed with arousal and subsequent denial.

“I want you, please don’t make me wait anymore…”

Well, he never had been very good at making you wait.

The sound you make when he slips inside of you almost has him bursting right then and there- the sound so broken and full of want and lewd promise that it almost hurts him to hold himself back. Your hand has reached up and behind your head to grip his hair, pulling him down and over you in a haunting pantomime of how he’d covered you from enemy fire in the hellish woods outside of Foy.

You’re chanting his name like a prayer, babbling as you slip into a state of carnal bliss. When he kisses you it’s desperate and messy but you are still craning your head back at an angle that must be painful in order to continue it.

All jealousy takes a back seat to the feeling of this- your skin under his hands and your breath on his lips and the squeeze of you around him. It doesn’t matter, none of those other men and their understandable attraction to you matters because you are undeniably his.

You chose him- you chose him when he was the picture of health and when he was nearly dead on an operating table. You’d held his hand as he healed and you’d taken him as your husband in a shelled out Austrian church with a priest and Ron Speirs and God as your witnesses.

You were his, and that was all because you wanted to be.

His throat feels tight with emotion as he slowly thrusts in and out of you, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades as you cry for more- taking each rough rut of his hips into yours with a beautiful moan and a challenge for another.

Sex with you was more than a physical release, it’s a renewal of unspoken vows of devotion and dedication despite the knowledge that neither of you had escaped your war unscathed. His promise that he’d be yours each and every night when the horrors of memory plagued your dreams, and your reassurance that you saw him for more than his experiences, his trauma.

It was more than he ever could have hoped for in this life. Pre and post war.

Your chest vibrates beneath his, and when he is finally able to refocus he realizes that you’ve been trying to talk to him.

“Look!”

The fireworks show has begun, the bursts of light looking magical and surreal over the glass surface of the bay. It’s beautiful, and he knows that despite your fear of the sound of explosives you cannot help but find yourself entranced by its splendor as well.

Chuck turns his face so he can see the reflection of your face in the mirror, the fireworks making the drawn pleasure on your face clear and coloring you in its brilliance.

When he makes you come apart beneath him, you’re awash in purple light and infinitely more glorious than the celebration outside. The bite of your nails into the meat of his thigh sends him tumbling into pleasure right behind you, and when he squeezes his eyes shut he feels like a firework himself- hot and infinite and sparkling in the cold air coming through the open window.

Your body is quaking beneath him, the electricity of your orgasm still dancing through you and making you clench around him painfully every so often.

Blind from his own pleasure, Chuck moves his hands up your sides to get a feel for where you are, repositioning his weight so he isn’t crushing you with his boneless body. The boom of the next firework shakes through his chest, and as he feels you coming down he smooths your hair from your face clumsily.

“You married me.” his voice sounds far away, his mind just as lost as he reminds himself of the most important part of his life. “You married me and you make me happier than I can say.”

The feeling of your lips kissing his palm has him opening his hazy eyes to take in your state of disarray. You were looking at him with more love than he had ever thought to wish for, and when you nod it brings tears to his eyes.

“Happy Fourth of July, Chuck Grant.”

Lifting his gaze, he looks back out of the window, where the firework show is coming to an end and soon the two of you will be left with the warm blue light once more.

You were right. This was a happy Fourth of July.

~ ~ ~

THIS IS JUST OKAY AND I UNDERSTAND THAT BUT THANK YOU FOR READING IT ANYWAY!

Taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite @happyveday @sunsetmando @teenmagazines @liebgotttme

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #chuck grant x reader #chuck grant imagines

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hanzimmer · 4 years

Text

powershift - kylo ren x reader

Summary: A bounty hunter gets tangled up with the First Order. She expects the worst, but with Kylo Ren, things are never as they seem.

Authors note: Okay so this is a re-edited version of my one and only one shot I wrote way back at the start of quarantine! Very small changes but they were bothering me so, lol. Please reblog/like and message me with feedback! 😊 ps: i have proof read but sorry if there are any errors!

Kylo Ren X Reader

Warnings: NSFW. 18+. Sexual tension, smut, female masturbation, voyeurism, use of a sex toy, orgasm denial. All the good stuff.

Word count: 4654

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact reason Ren decided to keep you around – maybe he had plans for you, maybe you had an insignificant role to play in his destiny. Maybe he needed some company.

It started a few months ago, when the first order raided the village you were passing through.

Talk about wrong place, wrong time.

A bounty hunter was not an occupation that brought you a lot of pride. It made for temporary homes, temporary relationships and the constant need to pursue your next target. You tried to live by a code, but as the years went on the more you realized that people aren’t just pure good or evil - some had made explicit choices that led them down a certain path, some were just born into a life of chaos.

You remember when you first set your eyes on Kylo Ren. You remember the feeling that washed over your skin as his presence infiltrated your every sense and when you first heard his velvety voice, a stark contrast to the cold and unforgiving black mask he wore.

“Don’t kill this one, take her prisoner,” he communicated to the trooper.

Thank you?

You wake in a cold, metal cell. Relieved to find your normal attire was still on your body, sans any personal belongings and weapons. The four black walls keep you company as you wait for your inevitable punishment or worse, execution.

But it never comes.

Days pass, then weeks. Only having contact with the troopers for your meals and washroom privileges.

Then one day a voice rudely wakes you out of your slumber.

“Get up,’’ you stir in your sleep, squinting your eyes towards the slit of light that lit up your cell. “Proceed to the door with your hands in front of you.”

You move your body to put your boots on and do as commanded. Some mechanical noises later, the hefty door slides open. The troopers’ stark, white armour combined with the fluorescent light burns your eyes. When you finally open your eyes, the handcuffs are already placed upon your wrists by another guard.

“Where are you taking me?’’ you aren’t panicked.

If he wanted me dead, I would be.

Two arms grab your biceps as the guards guide you down many hallways and corridors, like a cow to a slaughterhouse.

God this is a maze, no wonder no one escapes The First fucking Order.

You finally come to a door. The guard to your right reaches over and presses some buttons on the control panel. You aren’t sure what to expect but it isn’t this. A bed in the middle of the well-sized room. Adorned with black, silk bed sheets and a simple comforter.

It was sizeably larger than the cell you called home over the past few weeks. An armoire to the left of the bed, made to look vintage with its intricate handles. An opening to your right indicates what you assume is the washroom. It was a simple yet practical room, your favourite part being the glass above your bed, allowing you to watch as endless space passes you by. You don’t even realize the guard had taken off your handcuffs until the door closes behind you.

Wait…is this my room? Is this… Kylo’s room?

Don’t be stupid y/n, you think the commander of the First order sleeps on a bloody double bed?

You push the thoughts aside and decide a long, private shower is well needed.

Your interactions with Kylo Ren are limited and mundane at first. He comes to your door periodically, asking about you and attempting to make small talk. Always curious, you listen with intent whenever he speaks. He has that quality about him, you were drawn to him. You always feel somewhat vulnerable under his gaze, the way he unapologetically scans your body while he has the luxury of hiding behind his mask. You desperately want to put a face to his smooth, polished voice.

Even those in The First Order aren’t immune to participating in some workplace gossip; it doesn’t take long for you to find out what had happened with Han Solo. A pang of concern rises in your body. For Kylo.

This guy kept you in a prison cell for weeks. He didn’t deserve your sympathy then, and he doesn’t deserve it now! Snap out of it.

You can’t help yourself. You’ve gotten to know him through the small conversations you had. And you knew about his complicated past.

That night was when you finally got a deeper look into Kylo Ren.

Impossibly, you don’t notice him when you first enter the room. Turning to sit on the foot of your bed, the light catches the silver planes of his mask. Sat at the armchair in the corner of your room, the air around him is tense. Well, more so than usual.

“Kylo, I-,” you start. Mentally cursing yourself for the pity than laced your voice.

“I don’t want your pity,” he interrupts.

Shit, all right.

What could you say? What did he expect you to say? What did he need you to say?

There’s a long silence.

You have to say something. That’s what you’re here for, right? To converse with him. No agenda.

You decide to tell him about yourself. About where you grew up, your family, your friends. Stupid moments and accomplishments from your childhood. Tales from your days of bounty hunting.

He asks a few questions along the way, sharing some small memories of his childhood with you. It goes on for hours. You could tell you had distracted him, even momentarily, from whatever was conspiring inside his mind. The conversation comes to a comfortable end. As he approaches your door, you can’t seem to control what you do next.

“Wait, Kylo!” you stand from your bed. He comes to a halt and throws a glance over his broad shoulder in your direction.

Oh god, please don’t kill me for this.

You set your eyes on his gloved left hand. You slowly reach for it, giving him ample time to flinch away from you, until you feel the smooth leather on your naked palm. There is a slight warmth as he gently closes his large hand, completely enveloping yours. Your body simultaneously feels as if it could melt into the ground and as tense as a pulled elastic.

“I’ll be here if you need to talk,” you give a gentle squeeze before starting to retract to your hand

In an instant, he spins around. Your balance faults as he pulls your hand higher to his chest. His right arm snakes around your waist in a vice grip, your breaths become shallow as your ribs struggle against the hold he has on your torso. You know at a moment’s notice he could crush your hand for overstepping your bounds or tighten his grip and permanently halt your breathing. It’s electrifying.

You’ve never been this close to him before, you could feel his black robes brush against your bare feet, you swear you can feel the warmth radiating from his body with the rise and fall of his chest. He towers over you, the top of your head barely reaching his chest, his broad shoulders acting as a barrier to anything behind him. You feel utterly trapped within Ren’s hold. Craning your head to meet his eyes, you are dissapointed to be only met with his indifferent, hostile black mask.

God, when will he take that stupid thing off?

He pulls you closer to him, the fingers splayed on your back tensing as he does so. You become hyperaware of your body and his. The space between you two slowly getting smaller.

And then he’s gone. He withdraws all contact, all at once. When you come to, you catch a glimpse of his black robes as the door slides closed in front of you.

It has been a few weeks since your last interaction. He comes to see you more sparsely now and keeps the conversations short and simple. Back to how you were. Meaningless small talk, your body cried out to be held by him again.

You think back to that night… truth be told you thought back to that night more times than you’d like to admit. It was the first time you felt any kind of meaningful connection with Kylo.

Hell, it was the first time you…felt Kylo.

You’ve been with your fair share of men, being on the road was lonely at times. You welcomed having someone to share a drink or a bed with, it was comforting slipping into a stranger’s warm embrace for the night. Temporary, nonchalant relationships. If you could even call them that.

But no man ever had you reaching for the wetness between your thighs every night like Kylo Ren did. No man ever had you biting your pillows at night to stifle your moans and whimpers as you fervently chased the familiar rush of pleasure. You felt betrayed by your body; every time you had a fleeting thought of him, of his scent, of the way his strong body towered over you, you were compelled to brush your hands against your core.

And you don’t even know what he looks like, good one!

You ache for the day you could feel his powerful frame against you, for the day he could bring you to that edge of pleasure. Repeatedly. You allow your mind to wonder about his mouth, his tongue, his capable hands, what lies between his strong, thick legs-

The familiar sound of your door closing rouses you out of your lewd daydream.

Oh god… why the fuck is he here? did he read my mind?

Fuck!!

Your body is ablaze. It isn’t obvious what you were about to do but you feel caught, you feel ambushed.

“Kylo?” you ask cautiously as you dare to glance up at him from your bed.

Silently, he reaches for the armchair at the corner of the bedroom and drags it across the floor until it sits directly in front of your bed. He settles into the chair; his long legs spread out as you fight every fibre of your being not to glance between his thighs.

“Kylo?” you repeated. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

He cocks his head to the side, and you notice the light reflect off the silver of that damned mask.

“Spread your legs for me,” he commands.

Okay so I’m dreaming. Because Kylo Ren, the commander of the First Order and master of mood swings didn’t just order me to spread my fucken legs. Right?!

Your mind spirals as you instinctively clench your thighs together.

“What? NO! Are you crazy?” you ask defensively. “You shouldn’t even bother trying to use your powers on me, Ren.”

“I’m not,” he answers almost immediately, his voice calm. “I don’t need to use my powers on you… do I y/n?”

Fucking hell, he knew. Somehow. Shit.

“I ask you again,” he continues. “Lay back against the headboard and spread your legs.”

You aren’t able to see his eyes, but you knew where they were aimed. You can feel his gaze piercing through your body.

You scoot your body back until you meet the hard wood of the headboard, you raise yourself up on your forearms. It felt as if your body was vibrating.

“Your legs, y/n,” he firmly reminds you for the third time. You want to do as he orders; you really do. Clearly you aren’t thinking rationally.

Maybe I can get something out of this too…

“No,” you respond. You try to square off your shoulders and jut your chin out to more convincingly stand your ground. “This isn’t a fair trade, Ren,” you further explain.

You watch as one of his hands clutch the arm of the chair more tightly.

“You know I can take whatever I want.” His voice was alarmingly levelled and composed.

“You expect me to open myself up to you like this… when I haven’t even seen your face?” you rationalize. “Take off the mask, Kylo.”

You could hear the deep breath he took as it reverberates off the inside of his mask.

God damn it y/n! Why did you say that!? He’s just going to fucken leave and you’ll be left to your own devices… again.

He reaches for his gloved hand and take off the leather glove. And then the other.

God, how badly I want those beautiful fingers inside of me…

He reaches up and grasps the mask with both hands. You hear a click as the mask separates into parts. He brings the mask over his head and finally looks up at you.

Fucking hell… he’s gorgeous.

You can’t think of the words to describe him. Your eyes bore into his dark eyes, framed by long, beautiful black lashes.

You’ve seen him command the First Order to destroy villages and whole planets, seen him kill innocents in cold blood.

How does he look so innocent?

Images of him looking up at you from between your thighs flash across your mind. You take him in fully. Eyes scanning down to his full, pink lips, making a note of all the freckles that adorn his skin. You want to feel those lips everywhere on your body; licking, biting, sucking.

His hair…

So much longer than you had initially anticipated. Stars, to be able to weave your hands through his soft, black waves. You imagine what sounds he might make if you accidentally happened to tug on his hair.

You aren’t aware of how long you’ve been gawking at him, until he interrupts your vulgar thoughts.

“A deal is a deal y/n,” he sounds cocky.

Without moving your gaze, you let your thighs fall apart. You watch his eyes fall to your simple cotton underwear.

“Hmm…” he says, pleased. “I guess you’re excited to see me.”

You know what he’s referring to, you could feel the wet patch on your underwear growing in response to him.

“Your hands… rub yourself through your underwear.” How he manages to keep his voice so calm, you don’t know.

You feel your hands at your hips, slowly descending to your underwear. You rest one hand on your inner thigh as the other travels over the soft texture of the cotton, until your fingers barely caress your clit.

How am I so sensitive? this is going to be a long night…

A breathy sigh escapes your lips, hoping it didn’t make it to Kylo’s ears. The slight upturn of the corner of his lip says otherwise.

“Keep going,” he guides you. His voice sounding as if it was right beside your ear.

You slide your hand down further and slowly bring your fingers back up, spreading the wetness over your clit, over your underwear. You let your eyes fall close as you apply slight pressure, ready to get lost in that familiar high.

“Stop,” your eyes snap open.

No, Kylo…

“Glide your hands over your stomach… and your breasts,” you notice how his eyes have brightened.

You do as he says. The soft fabric of your shirt bunches up as you painstakingly drag your palms over your stomach. Goosebumps raising on your lower stomach as the skin is exposed to the cool air. Your hands travel to your sides, using your nails to apply gentle pressure to the skin as a chill travels down your spine. You bypass your breasts, deciding to slide your palms down your sternum to your stomach. Fingers hook onto the waistband of your underwear; you pull slightly, and the silence of the room is broken as the elastic slaps back against your skin. You roll your hips slowly, using a single finger to draw patterns on your skin as you slowly approach your breasts. Thighs rubbing together, you draw circles over your soft nipples. Looking back at Kylo as they come to attention underneath the flimsy garment.

He swallows, eyes completely trained on your writhing body in front of him.

You crane your neck and move it to the side while slowly allowing your eyes to close. Your hands naturally find their way to your breasts, squeezing roughly, as he would. You massage them, whimpers escaping your mouth as your back arches off the sheets beneath you.

“Squeeze your nipples y/n,” you’re pleased that he doesn’t sound completely unfazed by your little show.

You pinch your nipples roughly and pull, letting them spring back, more erect than before.

Let’s take some creative liberties…

One hand remains at your breast, toying with your nipples. While the other slowly travels downs your torso, coming to rest just above your clit.

“May I?” you ask with a soft voice, feigning innocence.

He simply nods as shifts in the chair.

You begin to rub tight circles around your clit, and you feel the waves of pleasure starting to rock through your body. Your movements become quicker as your eyes screw shut and your mouth falls open.

“Oh god… yes,” you breathe out, unable to keep quiet.

Hips bucking in sync with your fingers, your mind races as your body chases the high.

So close…

“Stop,” he interrupts. You had half a mind to just keep going, but you wanted to play his game. You pry your hands away as frustration clearly shows on your face.

He chuckles lowly, “don’t worry, I’ll get you there soon enough.”

You watch him as his hands rest suspiciously close to his member, you look up at him. Daring him to join you.

He waits a few moments, and you feel the waves of pleasure ebb away in your body.

“Again,” he orders. “Just like before… caress your body.”

Why is he doing this?!

You huff as your hands move down to your thighs this time, hands running over the goose bumps raised on your smooth flesh. Slowly moving up…

You don’t know how long it’s been. You don’t know how many times he’s brought you to the edge only to roughly tear you back from it. You’re dripping, the wet patch of your underwear dripping down into the sheets underneath you. You feel it rubbing against your folds, slick and ready. Not for your fingers, for the man sitting in front of you. For the man palming his growing erection through his pants.

“Good girl…,” You don’t know how much more you can take. “Again.”

How long was he planning on doing this? Is he ever actually going to let me cum?!

You feel as if you have no strength in your body, your body ready to melt into the sheets.

No y/n… you must play his game. Let him know he isn’t the one with all the power.

You cease the movement of your hands. Digging your palms into the mattress, you lift yourself up into a sitting position, realizing your back is slick with sweat. You breathe hard as tendrils of your hair stick to your forehead.

“Enough,” you strain. You revel in the confused expression plastered over his pronounced features. “You’re not the only one with power here, Kylo.”

You ungraciously throw your legs over the side of the bed and stand up on shaky legs. You sway your hips and saunter over to him. The apex of your thighs coated in your wetness. You want to so badly straddle his muscular legs, to feel him inside of you, hear his groans against your ear as he loses control.

No… you can’t let him win.

You place yourself in the space between your bed and him. He looks up at you; waiting, aroused, excited. You notice that the bulge in his trousers is more pronounced at this closer view. You turn sharply on your heels, so that your back is turned to him.

You take a deep breath in and hook your shaky fingers to the waistband of your underwear and peel them down your legs, making sure to keep your legs straight and back arched. Your shirt rides up to give him a perfect view of what he will be missing. The underwear pools at your bare feet. You step out of it, reaching to hook it onto your index finger.

You wish you could take a picture of him when you turned around. Brows furrowed, mouth agape, eyes trained on your dripping core. He could smell your scent too, you certainly could.

You hold the black fabric in front of his face as he finally peels his eyes way from your core. You raise an eyebrow, expectantly.

He brings a hand to lightly grasp the wet piece of cotton.

“Think of this as a souvenir, Ren.” You cheer in your head at your victory. You make your way to the armoire at the side of the bed.

You swing the doors open as you dig through the drawer looking for…

Perfect… time to give him a taste of his own medicine.

You grab what you need and close the doors, making your way back to the bed. You’re glad to see he’s still in his position, body locked into place.

You resume your position; your forearms holding you up, legs spread as your wetness shines in the light, his view now unobstructed. You knew that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t leave.

You bring up the object and examine it. His eyes dart to your hands, realizing what you were about to do.

You bring the toy to your mouth. He hungrily licks his lips as you give a coy smile. You start to kiss the head of it, and move down to the shaft, flattening your tongue and licking a stripe along the underside. All the while keeping your eyes trained on Kylo’s face, he looks hypnotized by your actions. You make sure the toy is wet enough, not like it mattered.

You lay back, propping yourself up on one elbow to make sure he could watch your face as you took yourself over the edge, finally. You slide the toys head along your folds, using it to part them open. You watch his eyes as you push the toy slowly inside of you, a moan catches in your throat. Your walls stretch as you enter it further into your core until it sits snug inside of you. You circle the toy inside of you, to make sure Kylo gets an excellent look at the juices coating the silicone toy.

You start to move it in and out, faster than you would have liked to, but you’ve waited long enough. The pressure starts to build quickly, within minutes.

“Oh… Kylo,” his eyes are wild, clearly regretting the games he played prior. “Faster… please Kylo.”

You fall back on the bed as you thrust the toy at an increasing pace, the pain of it budging against your cervix the perfect counterpart to the immense pleasure you feel building in your body.

“Ahh! Yes... Please don’t stop…,” nonsense pours from your lips as your mind numbs. “Keep going… please.”

“Y/N…,” he sounds almost encouraging.

Hips bucking wildly, your free hand comes to your breast, squeezing and massaging as roughly as you could. As roughly as he would.

Just a few more…

You pace is unrelenting, eagerly chasing the high.

You feel a slight scream leave your lips as it finally washes over you… after hours of torture at Kylo’s hand.

You turn your head and bite the pillow as you keep thrusting the toy inside of you, wanting to ride out your high for as long as possible.

You finally slow the movements of your hands. Your sex feeling swollen and well fucked. You bask in the aftershocks as your body comes down, shaking and spasming slightly. You try to close your thighs as you bring up your hand to your face, wiping the sweat from your brow.

As you struggle to hold yourself up on your elbows, you share a long look with Kylo. His jaw tight, knuckles white from clenching the arm of the chair while he roughly continues to palm his growing bulge through his trousers. You bring your eyes down to your core as you slowly retract the toy.

Holy shit…

Covered in your wetness and white, slick liquid. You have an ounce of shyness before you push it aside. You use every bit of strength you can muster to push yourself up from the bed. You walk over to him, with the toy in hand. No strength left in your body to be graceful.

“Would you like a taste, Kylo?” He looks up at you with those big dark eyes, black curls framing his features, as his plump lips part slightly.

“Yes,” the softest you’ve ever heard him speak.

You gather some of the wetness on your thumb and bring it to his awaiting lips, he cradles your wrist as he wraps his lips around your thumb. You feel his warm tongue snake around your digit, licking up all you had to offer. Releasing your clean thumb with a pop, you outline his lips with a feather light touch. How badly you want to feel those lips on yours, moving together perfectly.

You give him one last look and left for the washroom.

****

You wash and sanitize the toy as well as your sweat slick body. You allow your muscles to relax in the steam. Smiling, you re-live what it felt like to have Kylo’s lips wrapped around your finger.

You walk out of the washroom, perfectly content and ready to fall into a deep slumber and deal with the consequences of your little show later.

“How do you feel y/n?” His voice breaks somewhat startles you.

“Oh… I thought you had left,” you stuttered. What was he still doing here? “I feel…satiated.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

No thanks to you, Kylo.

You proceed with your normal routine, as you walk past him to the armoire and reach for the lavender lotion. You prop your leg up on the bed and lather your legs in the sweet-smelling lotion.

“Need some help?” It wasn’t a question as he’s already walking over to you. You notice he had taken off his cloak and robe, leaving him only in his black trousers and simple shirt. You were wrong when you thought he was well built before.

He stands behind you and reaches for the tub of lotion from you.

He harshly tugs the towel away; you stand completely naked in front of him as you feel your body heat up.

Wordlessly, he slathers the lotion on his hands, and you feel his large hands at your hips. You look forward, unable to move or say anything. So eager to feel his hands before, and now your body overwhelmed with the sensation. He squeezes your hips roughly, giving your ass light smack before moving up your back. You could feel his hot breath fanning over your shoulder as he had lowered his head to your ear.

“You disobeyed my orders, girl.”

Fuck.

His hands snake around your ribs and hold your breasts, instinctively you lean back into his chest. Giving them a rough squeeze, he twists your nipples, calling them to attention. You whimper as the skin starts to bruise.

His hands travel down your arms, gently grazing your skin. You were too distracted by his touches to notice him wrapping his hands tightly against your wrists. He pulls them behind you and pushes them into your back, forcing your chest forward and pushing your breasts forward. Your knees hit the bed and soon after you fall onto the bed. Kylo repositions you with your hands still held behind your back, so that your face was pressed against the still damp sheets. Your ass high in the air, to do with as he pleased.

“When you disobey my orders,” he whispers in your ear as your entire body trembles with anticipation. “You get punished.”

#kylo ren #kylo ren smut #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren oneshot #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x y/n #star wars #x reader #reader insert #star wars fanfiction #oneshot #fanfic #powershift #my writing

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rowanwhitethornisbae · 3 years

Text

Faking It Ch 5

Faking It Masterlist

Aelin groaned upon realizing that the last chocolate chip cookie was gone. She glanced towards the stovetop where another empty tray sat.

"Lys," she yelled, "what happened to all the cookies?"

Her best friend emerged from the bathroom with a wide grin on her face. "I think you ate them all."

Aelin laughed and slumped into the chair nearest from her, suddenly feeling the tightness in her chest back in full force. "I guess so."

Lysandra's smile faded slightly as she took in Aelin's tone. "What's on your mind?" She asked softly, pulling up a chair.

Aelin took a moment to think back on all that had happened. In all honesty, things had not been good. Rowan had pointedly ignored her after their hallway confrontation, to the point where Aelin hadn't even bothered merging their friend groups for lunch like planned. Instead, both of them just chose to pretend the other didn't exist. She texted Rowan last night to confirm that he was still picking her up for Dorian’s party tonight. All she’d gotten in response was that dumb thumbs up emoji he always used. The only other person she knew who used that emoji was Aedion’s literal fucking grandfather.

Aelin swallowed slowly and loosed a breath of air. "He still thinks I cheated on him."

Lysandra bit out a harsh and humorous laugh. “Of course he does. You told him that.”

Aelin flinched, surprised by her friend’s harsh tone. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Lysandra sighed. “I am,” she paused to think about her next words. “I am Aelin. But you told Rowan you cheated on him and then never bothered to tell him the real truth. If you want him to forgive you, than just tell him what really happened.”

Aelin willed herself not to cry. She’d done enough crying over Rowan Whitethorn to last her a lifetime. “I can’t tell him.”

Lys just shook her head in exasperation. “You can Aelin. You’re just too scared of what might happen.”

Lysandra was absolutely right, but Aelin would never admit it. Ever since her parent’s death, she’d spent the following years in a constant state of fear. Over time, she had just gotten better at hiding it.

“Come on,” Lys said, sensing the shift in Aelin’s body-language. “Let’s go get ready for the party.”

They got dressed quickly, Aelin doing Lysandra’s makeup and vice versa. She took a moment to examine herself in the mirror. She looked hot, even if she didn't really feel it. Her black mini skirt was unnecessarily short, to the point where one wrong move would have her ass falling out, and the red tank she’d pared it with left little to the imagination. Her lips were painted light red and silver eyeshadow had been brushed across her eyelids.

She fiddled with her hair before finally settling on just leaving it down. She couldn't find a hair elastic anyways. Aelin plopped down on her bed to watch Lysandra pick a pair of shoes. Aelin was wearing doc Martens - but when wasn't she - and couldn't really care less about Lysandra’s shoe choice.

“How about these?” Her friend asked, showing Aelin a pair that looked identical to the previous four.

“Sure.” Aelin nodded, and picked up her phone to scroll mindlessly through instagram. There was nothing of interest, so Aelin searched up Rowan’s name for the first time since their breakup.

Her phone slipped through her fingers at the same second Aelin took in his most recently post. She scrambled for the phone, picking it back up to stare at the post.

It was her.

She was in sweats and his hoodie, her hair up in a messy bun. She was rolling out the dough to make sugar cookies, using all different shaped cutters. Rowan must have taken the photo without her noticing, which is why she wasn't smiling at him. There was no caption, and the comments were off.

May 5th, 2019.

The date was the only thing under the picture, but it was enough that Aelin had to crane her neck to check in the mirror that the tears in her eyes hadn't smeared her makeup.

Two days after that photo was taken, on May 7th, Rowan had fucked everything up. At least, she liked to pretend that he was the one who screwed up. It made not hating herself a little bit easier.

Her phone buzzed and she looked back down at it. Aelin read the words and sighed, preparing herself for this dreadful evening.

“He’s here.” Aelin said, climbing off the bed.

“Fuck I don't have any shoes yet.” Lys squealed.

Aelin laughed and gestured at the piles of heels and platforms of every colour. Sighing, Lysandra grabbed the one closest to her and threw it on. They walked down the stairs, Lys nearly tripping, and opened the door.

Rowan’s black car was pulled up in front of her house. He was sitting in the passenger seat, glaring at the front lawn like he could still see their breakup taking place. Aelin walked down the porch steps and cleared her throat as she neared the car.

Rowan tore his eyes from the grass lawn to look at her. He didn't show any reaction to her appearance, merely nodded. Lysandra snorted softly behind her, and Aelin elbowed her friend subtly.

Rowan was in the passenger seat, which meant that considering Fenrys didn't have his licence, Lorcan must be driving. Aelin internally groaned at the thought of being in a confined space with the always brooding teenager.

Unable to avoid it, she backed away slightly so that Lysandra could climb in first to put separation between Aelin and Fenrys.

Fen, unfortunately, noticed and offered Aelin a pitiful smile across the seats. It was at that moment, that Aelin realized for the first time, that she missed Fenrys Moonbeam. When she’d been with Rowan, her and Fen had been nearly inseparable. He constantly made her laugh, engaging in whatever trouble making scheme she asked of him.

She’d gone to see him actually. Right after Rowan and her had fought on the lawn, she’d gotten in Aedion’s car. Her body was shaking with the weight of her sobs, to the point where she was barely able to see. For a reason she couldn't even figure out now, she’d driven to Fenrys’ house.

Aelin had gotten out of her cousin’s truck and made it all of three steps before she’d vomited all over Fenrys’ porch. He’d come out of the house then, but the normal playful look on his face was wiped clean. In it’s place, was nothing but hatred and disdain.

He’d picked her up and driven her home. When he thought she was passed out, he’d kissed her on the forehead and mumbled he was sorry.

As Aelin noted the slight tic in Fenrys’ jaw, she finally understood what he'd meant by those two words.

Fenrys’ wasn't sorry about something that he’d done. He was sorry because he knew what she’d done. And why.

Aelin supposed she should've known that Fenrys would've figured it out first. He wasn't clouded by blind love or hatred like Lorcan and Rowan. His view of her allowed him to think clearly. Work through the logic of it.

She’d pull him aside later at the party. For now though, she just smiled back and slammed her head against the back of the seat. Fenrys turned away from her to stare out the window, and Aelin felt like she could finally breathe again.

“So,” Lysandra began hesitantly, “Are we going to talk about this?”

Aelin’s head whirled in Lysandra’s direction, her eyebrows shooting halfway up her forehead.

“No.” Rowan answered bluntly, saving Aelin from speaking.

“Why not?” Fenrys whined before Lorcan turned his head to shoot him a glare.

Aelin watched Rowan’s knuckles go white from his grip on the door handle “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Lorcan made a sound that was some sort of cross between a laugh and a grunt. “Sure there is. You two,” he waved his finger between Aelin and Rowan, “are back together.”

“We’re - “ Rowan began, but Aelin cut him off.

“We’re not actually together. It's just an agreement that works for both of us.”

Fenrys let out a long suffering sigh. “Yes Galathynius, we are all aware.”

Aelin flinched at the venom in his tone when he used her last name. She adjusted herself in the seat and cracked the joints in her fingers. Tonight was not a good night for her anxiety.

“How do you plan on getting Rowan on the football team?” Lorcan asked, always the skeptic.

“Cairn.” Aelin told him, her toes curling and uncurling inside her shoes. Moving parts of her body helped to relieve the pent up tension swirling in her gut.

“Cairn doesn't do favours for anyone.” Fenrys replied, sounding slightly dejected. “If that's your plan, it won't work.”

“I’m not just going to ask him for a favour.” Aelin snapped back, upset at their lack of faith in her. “I’m going to offer him a deal.”

“You and your deals Galathynius.” Lorcan mused under his breath.

Aelin made the smart decision not to reply, and the rest of the drive was completed in silence.

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

She looked good tonight. Rowan wasn't stupid enough to deny that glaringly obvious fact. They’d walked into the party side by side, earning a few shocked glances from fellow classmates. Aelin had offered him a smile, one which he didn't return, and went off to get them both drinks.

She’d been gone for all of three minutes, and Rowan was already incredibly uncomfortable. This was Dorian Havillard’s party after all. Rowan and Chaol were high-school’s definition of mortal enemies. So, by association, he and Dorian were enemies as well.

The dark haired and blue eyed heartthrob hadn't ever been explicitly rude to Rowan, but he still got the feeling he wasn't totally welcome. Fenrys had gone after Aelin, mumbling some lie about not trusting her with his drink order. On another day, Rowan might've gone after them to eavesdrop. But not tonight.

Instead, he just slumped against a wall and glared at every human in the room. Music was blaring across the speakers, so loudly that he could feel the vibrations in his lower stomach. People all around were swaying awkwardly or chatting against the wall with plastic red cups in hand.

Rowan looked around for familiar faces, more specifically Vaughn or Gavriel, but found neither. For a brief second, he wished he was better at making friends.

“You look miserable.”

Rowan almost sighed in relief at the sound of Lorcan’s low and rough voice. His friend held out a cup of some sort of alcohol, but Rowan shook his head.

“Aelin’s bringing me a drink.”

Lorcan let out a breath through his nose. “I wouldn't count on it. I saw her and Fenrys heading up to the bedrooms.”

Rowan’s heart stopped dead in his chest for a moment as he processed Lorcan’s words. The loud music became nothing more than a subtle roar in his head.

“Fenrys and Aelin?” He managed to stammer.

Lorcan, realizing his mistake, swore under his breath. “Not like that, holy shit. Just to talk.” Lorcan paused. “Fenrys would never do that.”

Slowly, Rowan’s body began to function normally again and he managed to take a deep breath. His hands were shaking, so he took the solo cup from Lorcan in an attempt to calm them.

“Talk about what?” Rowan finally asked.

Lorcan shrugged. “I don't fucking know.”

“Whatever man. This party is shit.” Rowan took a long sip of the liquid in his cup and nearly spit it out immediately. It was some mixture of coke and beer that tasted like pure vomit.

Lorcan laughed at the expression of disgust on Rowan’s face. “Yeah it’s pretty bad. The brunette making it was hot so I couldn't really say much.”

Rowan involuntarily laughed at his friend’s antics. “You always were a sucker for brunettes.”

Lorcan’s jaw fell open in shock. “I don't have a preference.”

“Sure man. Whatever you want to tell people.” Rowan finally spotted Dorian across the room and his heart rate began to accelerate once again. “Kaltain, Nesryn, Maeve, Nehemia, Sar -”

“Okay okay,” Lorcan conceded, cutting Rowan off. “Don't pretend you don't prefer blondes.”

“I do prefer blondes.” Rowan’s eyes trailed from Dorian to the figure beside him. Chaol. “I would never hide that fact.”

Lorcan held up his cup in a mock cheers. “At least we’ll never fight over women.”

Rowan clinked their plastic cups together, happy for any excuse to celebrate something. Even if that something was that Lorcan Salvaterre had a thing for brown hair.

At long last, Chaol spotted him from across the room. His brows furrowed and he whispered something in Dorian’s ear, who then turned to look at Rowan. As the two friends continued to discuss Rowan right in front of him, Aelin Galathynius chose that moment to reappear.

---------

They were in Dorian Havillard’s bedroom. A place that Aelin was uncomfortably familiar with. She’d lost count of the hours she’d spent on Dorian’s bed, on the phone with Lysandra, as Chaol and Dorian played video games.

Now, her legs were cross as she sat against his headboard, Fenrys Moonbeam on her left.

“What do you want to talk about Aelin?” Fenrys asked, clearly anxious to return to his party.

Aelin figured there was no point to dancing around the truth. “You know.”

He stiffened, but let out a relaxed sigh all the same. “What do I know.”

“You know the real reason behind what happened last year. I never told you, but you somehow know.”

Fenrys, it appeared, also didn't see the purpose in faking dumb. “It wasn't that difficult to figure it out Ace.”

Her heart squeezed at the casual use of the nickname he’d given her. “Rowan and Lorcan couldn't do it.”

“Lorcan hates you and Rowan’s heart was shattered. Emotions can hold you back if you’re not careful.”

She elbowed him playful, and internally rejoiced when he smiled. “When’d you become so all knowing?”

“Probably around the same time you had a huge growth spurt. You’re a fucking giraffe now Aelin.” Fenrys’ tone was light and joking and a familiar hint of laughter was present.

“Five Seven,” she announced proudly, “and still growing.”

“Maybe Rowan was slipping some anti-growth potion in your drinks.” Fenrys joked.

Aelin chose to laugh, rather than dwell too much on Rowan. “That’s why water at his house always tasted off.”

Fenrys eyes widened and he turned to look at her. “It does doesn't it.” He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

Aelin laughed, a real laugh, and smiled broadly at Fenrys. For a moment, there was a tension filled pause, and then Fenrys spoke again.

“I get why you did it Aelin, truly I do. But don't you think he deserves to know the truth.” Fenrys’ eyes were full of pity, and Aelin had to turn away.

“It won't make a difference?” Aelin shot back.

Fenrys gave her an incredulous look. “Aelin you were scared. Your parents died and it fucked with your head. Rowan told you that he loved you, and you got scared.”

Aelin’s heart was racing, but she finished the story anyway. “I panicked. Thought that if I let myself love him, he’d hurt me just like my parents did. So instead, I hurt him first.”

Fenrys picks it back up again. “You told him you cheated on him, because you knew that was the only way he’d stay away.”

“Then I went back to Chaol because it was safe. Because I didn't love him enough for him to hurt me.”

Aelin felt like she was floating above her own body. She could do nothing but watch as the biggest secret in her life was exposed to Rowan’s best friend.

“Why didn't you tell him?” She managed to say through her own terror.

Her lips felt raw, and she realized with a start that she had been chewing on them with reckless abandon. A shiver ran down her spine and grit her teeth in an attempt to hide her discomfort.

“It wasn't my secret to tell.” A lock of Fenrys’ golden hair had come undone from his ponytail, and Aelin had to fight the urge to tuck it back. Aelin sometimes found herself jealous of just how pretty Fen was, if that made any sense.

Rowan and Lorcan were the type of heavily built males with hardened features and miles of muscles. Fenrys was prettier, with attributes so perfect that it hurt to look at him. Now though, it hurt to look at him for an entirely different reason. She felt exposed, like the barrier she’d crafted for herself was crumbling down. All her insecurities were on display for Fenrys to see, and Aelin fought the urge to flee the room.

Luckily, Fenrys made the decision for her. “Ill give you a moment. Meet me downstairs?”

The last part was a question, but Aelin couldn't bring herself to show any response besides a subtle nod.

He seemed to deem that answer enough, and left the room to rejoin the party. Aelin suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion take over her body. She lay back on the pillows, not bothering to climb under the duvet. With her baggage weighing her down, Aelin fell promptly asleep.

-----

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