#Each word lost in the echo [Conrad]

[chaosfindsaway]

@theresastargirl

Conrad strolled up to Ophelia, a bag slung over his back. He'd overheard her conversation with Rick and spent the better part of the afternoon packing. If they were going to save the dinosaurs, there was no way he'd just sit back and do nothing. His kind were on that island; he had to do anything he could to save them. "Alright, I'm ready to go. I've got everything I need, including my toothbrush. Deeno's gonna babysit my egg, he said."

[grapejuicestyless]

Can you please do a conklin oldest sister x Conrad in a best friends to lovers. Like the four times you almost kissed and the one time you did.

I was thinking maybe for one time she’s cleaning him up after the bonfire fight and he’s sorta drunk and thanks her for always caring for him or just ask her why she does it and it gets all tense and then obv they almost kiss and then they get interrupted. And maybe another one in their tween years. The other two can be whatever you want. Also childhood flashbacks and fluff, probably Susannah sorta knowing and shipping too. A tiny bit of angst too. Sorry if this is a lot like your Back to You one! Thanks <3!

Don’t Go.

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Flangst

Summery: The THREE times you almost kissed and the one time you did.

“Con.” My voice was soft. His bedroom was quiet, even the softest of whispers echoed through the four walls. Bouncing around and ringing back into our ears.

He hummed in response, eyes stuck to the ceiling. We counted each bump, each paint stroke. Not out of boredom, but because the idea that we could be together, just the two of us in our own little peace was comforting.

“Do you think we’re best friends in every universe?” The question was stuck to my tongue like glue. It almost hurt coming out that way. A double edge sword, in some ways.

In my head, I’d always entertained the idea of Conrad and I. A pairing that just worked. The idea that I could call him mine, his mornings and nights. I enjoyed the daydream of his arms around my own. His shirt in my closet. Not because I stole it, but because he wanted me to have it.

Swallowing, my eyes flickered back over to his face. When I pulled myself from my head, I saw him. His eyes bright, serious and looking deeply into my own. The soft smile on his face said it all, the gentle touch of his shoulder brushing my own. We were so close that his deep breathing caused our skin to touch. Our arms bumping into each other smoothly.

“You trying to get rid of me already? I thought we had a good thing going?” He faked offense, a coy smile on his face turning into one that was purely cheeky. I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t unusual for Conrad to avoid deeper questions. It wasn’t because he couldn’t answer them. No, Conrad was one of the brightest people I knew, if not the most.

So, I pushed at him. Nudged him so he shook. I needed to know. In my eyes, all I could ever see was Conrad. What if he never imagined the same?

His deep sigh sounded distant. I knew then that he understood why I even bothered to ask. He wasn’t annoyed, he never was. It was just a calming pause as he thought of what to say. My breath caught in my throat, there was a pregnant pause. His eyes stuck to ceiling, my hands intertwined over my stomach.

I couldn’t pull my eyes from his face. How beautiful he looked in the setting sun. The rays of warmth dancing through his cracked window, leaving a warm spit on the bed. We soaked it up. I watched how his face never lost the glow of happiness, a gentle smile forever stretched across his calm face.

His smile was always evident, even when he was serious. He once said it was because there was nothing I could do to make him upset. That I was a radiant ball of sunshine, a shot of expresso. I took it as an insult then, I thought he was calling me annoying. Now I understand I was far too immature to understand how poetic he was.

“In every universe.” Again, he looked to me. His eyes were certain of it. Like even if it was unsure that any other universe existed, if one did he was positive that we would be just the same. Laying in the quiet in the warm sunlight, taking in the peace of each other’s presence.

Boundless. Infinite. The only words that could accurately describe us, I believed. The possibilities of what could be. With each passing second, the invisible string that tied us together, tethering around out hearts grew thicker. Tightening between them, the distance left little room to get away.

If I ever decided I hated him, which I understood now would forever be impossible with how grand the impact his love had on my heart was, even then I would forever be tied to his pinky. Stuck to him like glue. We would forever be connected. We were infinite.

And for that time, I swore I could feel some energy pulling him closer. His soft breaths escaping his nose tickled my own. He looked concentrated, almost like he was preoccupied with something. Something that was tugging at him ferociously. For a moment, his bright eyes lowered, darkened by the heaviness of his eyelids. We were stuck, forever inching closer. I wondered if this was really happening.

“Do you ever think of death?” His cheeky smile pulled me again from my overly sentimental ideals. He was serious, he always was when he needed to be. But then again, I know my best friend, I know my Conrad. Its only so long before he retreats back to the warm hug of his poorly timed jokes and mediocre humor.

“Shut up!” I laughed. Even though I had pushed him, the rush of laughter weakened my muscles. Even with all the force of my arms he barely moved. So, collapsed on his bed, we laid in our own shared joy until it faded into another quiet nothingness. And still, we were never bored, but instead basking in the other’s presence. Happy to be able to sit so close and call the other their best friend.

At the time, I prayed he would have kissed me. The thought of it kept me up some nights. What was he playing? What was his reasoning. I realized now that Conrad may not have been going in for something so intimate. He got lost often, trying to find some comedic relief. It was more Jeremiah’s speed, the light hearted jokes and the idiotic tendencies. But we were only fourteen then. Back when the invitation to his bedroom felt like a golden ticket, a privilege to be seated so close to the boy I swooned so horribly over in my prepubescence.

What I didn’t know then, something that was uncertain I certainly knew now. Conrad wasn’t trying to kiss me, and he never would. He was my best friend, my buddy. I was the girl who would stand beside him and wish she could be the girls he fell for each time. We were best friends, in every universe. Infinite.

The grass was wet. Dew covered the blossoming slopes of green, sand packed into the roots, picking up in the gentle breeze. The radio from the ruby red Jeep crackled with the early morning birds. August humidity, blue jays and seagulls singing and squawking. If you moved in the right way, bending your arms outward, the air would fill your shirt and the flapping sound would fill the car unbearably loud. I knew that because Y/n insisted it was freeing. My bare chest in the ocean wasn’t subjected to the same heat she endured. Our clothes didn’t stick the same.

It was a routine now. Every Wednesday, just before the sun fully broke the horizon, Y/n and I would tiptoe as quietly downstairs as we could, simply to be able to refill the muffin tray. Neither of us enjoyed the raisin ones. Laurels favorites, though her sour expression seemed to say otherwise. Maybe it was a health thing, she would never tell us. She was stubborn, and strong. It was obvious that Y/n was her daughter.

The pebbled driveway felt much louder without the accompanying screaming of children and loud engines of lawnmowers. Each step was followed by an apologetic hiss, we would spend a few minutes just getting to the car. The tradition seemed stupid after the first month, but it was so ingrained into our minds, it felt wrong to just rush to the car. It was less fun without the thrill of sneaking out.

She’d always wait until the silent street turned into bustling town roads, families ready to work, friends ready to leave. Once my hands were tied she would roll down her window and shift her body. She would smile at me until I acknowledged it. She was cocky, smug about my growing annoyance.

And at first, it really got on my nerves. Yet, the more and more she did it, the less I cared about the reasons, the more the sound drowned out with the townsfolk laughing just a little too loud for the early morning and the barking dogs and hissing cats.

I never fully enjoyed it. Every sharp corner still hurt my ears, but I never minded it. Her laughter and ease put my mind to rest. More so, it reminded me that this was something only she would do. Only she would think to annoy me with.

My heart fluttered, pathetically at how simple her teasing was and how much it affected me. How her laughter cured any headache. How the leather seats smelled less like the beach and more of Y/n’s summer scents.

She worked two jobs. A coffee shop in the winter and a small ice cream hut in only July. And with each place she visited, she changed ever so slightly.

In December, she smelled of coffee grounds. It was something usually so bitter, but something that mixed so perfectly with her vanilla perfume she’d worn since freshman year, it balanced into something delicate, delicious. It was intoxicating, almost as much as she was.

In the summer, she smelled of strawberry and something sweet. Not quite vanilla, but closely related. It was refreshing, never overpowering. All of the winter washed away, you could practically smell the sand stuck to our skin and salty hair from the water.

I loved how I could smell it. I loved how I knew the difference. It reminded me of all the time we spent together. How lucky I was to have her so close. Even if our time was always so limited. I knew the difference because I payed attention. She was my favorite person, without a doubt. I knew her through and through. Her shampoo, her favorite tops. I knew everything because I loved her. Held her close with no room to let go.

And the more I came to terms with this, the less resistant I became to her teasing. The less resistant I was to the sound of her shirt violently shaking in the wind. The windows being down and letting in the morning chill no longer phased me. It was routine, one I’d grown to love endlessly. One I couldn’t ever part with.

Pulling up to the small bakery that sold the muffins, I could always predict the order. Two chocolate chips, three blueberry, two raisin and one plain. I knew that on the way back to the car, she would be balancing the boxes in her arms, begging me to not help and just open the damn door.

When we’d get back into the car, she’d immediately open a box. Then, we’d split a blueberry muffin. It was tradition.

Always the messy eaters, soon the evidence was left on our faces. Crumbs stuck in the crevices of the leather seats, blue smeared by the corners of our mouths. I couldn’t help hut laugh at her ridiculousness. Her furrowed brows and happy smile. She looked so soft like this. The morning glow and her determination to finish the muffin quickly. It put everything into perspective. A reminder of why I felt so strongly stuck to her.

“You have a little something.” She teased, finger pointing, ironically enough, to a splotch of blue painted on her own face. She was unaware, yet so sure of her own joke she hadn’t gone to wipe her own face prior.

“Oh yeah?” I challenged. She nodded, “Where?” I persisted, I leaned in closer, riling her up. Her hand smeared across my face. Harshly wiping at the crumbs until it was just a faint line of blue from my lip to my cheek.

“Got it.” I pushed away, spitting at her stupid jokes. Truthfully, if it had been anyone else I would’ve yelled. It was childish, annoying. But this was Y/n, so somehow it became rather endearing, sweet.

My eyes locked with the blueberry by the corner of her mouth. She didn’t notice how my face had relaxed into a gentler smile, how my shoulder settled and breathing calmed. As she was thrown into her own laughing fit. Her hands guarded her body and her eyes were teary. It was my chance.

With revenge in my sight, my hand slapped across her face smoothly. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her eyes snap open and laughing to calm. Smearing her own mess around her face, blue gathered around her skin like a violet tinted lipstick. She looked shocked, only for a minute.

I saw the way her mouth quivered, I felt her heart face. But it all stuttered to a stop when the first laugh escaped her serious gaze. A silent admittance that U had gotten her back, a playful game between the two of us that ended in spilled baked goods and messy skin.

“Truce?” She called in the cool down. My eyes found hers then, and in them held a honest truth, no tricks hidden behind them or malicious intent. Oddly enough, the foolish game between made my body feel warmer, fuzzy. My heart raced. It was something so secretive in a way. Nobody would know what happened here, it was a memory between just us. Something that I only we could smile about.

My head was stuck in a lavender haze, so much so I fell oblivious to the way my hand barely traced her lip. My hands curled into a fist, I rubbed away some violet from the corner of her mouth. It was gentle, feathery light even.

I am reminded every time I touch her that I do not have her, and blinded by the possibility that one day I could. Her skin feels natural under my fingers. Maybe its the fact I’ve known the girl for my whole life, or maybe its my own unshakeable love for her. Still, for some reason I am stuck with my hand by her cheek, with my eyes concentrated on the way shes smiling while I do it.

“Conrad?” Her voice is soft, nervous almost. I look to meet her eyes, but I keep my hand still, slipping just below her jawline. There I swipe my hand under it to cradle her head by her ear. I leave a trail of evidence in my wake, it reminds me of how playful we were, how painfully platonic her jokes were. It almost burns to hold her now, so my hands fall to my sides.

In my little resistance left, I held back. But more than anything, I wanted to place my lips against hers. She looked so much like home. She was everything to me. But her voice and her concern reminds me that her lips are not mine to kiss. I clear my throat, trying not to seem so flustered.

“Sorry, I spaced out.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Y/n was guilty of having a magnetism that felt almost obnoxious. It pulls you in, and once your in its hold, its impossible to remember reality.

“Yeah, yeah. Its fine. We should probably get back.” I nodded in agreement, but even with my eyes pulled away from her, all my willpower used up on trying to not look at her, I notice her hurt tone. How she seems almost distant, disappointed. She shifts in her seat when the car starts again. Suddenly the muffin tastes bitter under its sweat exterior. And I am filled with regret.

“Conrad, I’m going to grab a drink, you want your usual?” I nodded, eyes watching how she weaved between the crowd, her shoulders shrink and her waist turns until shes gone into the night.

I forget how many people are around when shes so close. It’s embarrassing how obsessed I feel around her. I can feel how my heart beats aggressively whenever shes around, I wonder if she feels it to. I think about taking her hand, placing it on my chest and asking her. Its a thought that comes solely because I am drunk. I know it. Sober me would never have to courage, the audacity to go onto her so quickly. But the liquor is the microphone and I am projecting my feelings more openly than ever before.

I think of all the times we came so close. How when she asked if we would be forever together, I choked and pushed away what was presented. It was romantic, and we were so young. Then I had never felt more confident and I held back. She gives me another chance, as I wipe away all crumbs and I fold again. I am conscious of my surroundings, of my feelings. I am aware of the consequences.

“…Y/n.” The name is fuzzy, I am still coming out of my daydreams, my head is clearing again when the sound of her name comes up out of the blue. When I turn I see a scattered group of younger boys. High schoolers, no doubt. I see the way they search into the distance like I had. Not seeing anyone but wishing they could.

Its a blur, how it happens. One of them says something stupid, horny and drunk and suddenly we are in the sand. My knuckles are bloody, my nose is bleeding. I hear him grunting underneath my body, I am suddenly aware that I am winning.

“Conrad!” Her voice is heavenly, but I don’t pull my punches. I am angry, defending her like I owe it to her. I don’t even know if he’s hitting back anymore. I can’t feel it, I’m going numb.

“Conrad!” Her hands yank at me until I stand. He’s still swinging, but he’s missing. Bruises are forming, his mouth is bleeding. I feel no remorse. I am not sorry, not until I turn around and see her.

Her eyes are glistening, and her nose is scrunched. Whether from her threatening tears or the stench of sweat and smoke. I cannot tell. But I know how her lip is quivering, how hard she is holding back. Whether it is sadness or anger, I do not want to know.

Watching her stare me down, its like letting the high come down. The numbness fades, turns out the boy had gotten some punches. My body is littered in bruises and cuts from his nails.

When she drags me away, I understand how naive I was for thinking she would appreciate the violence. All of this happens so quick, I didn’t even get to tell her it only happened because all I want is for her to be respected. I did it to defend her. Shes silent, breathing heavily to make the escape, nobody has to know what happened but us.

Shes a good friend to me, shes always there. Its stupid how my heart flutters again, how it drops into my stomach and back up again. I want to hurl, I am so anxious of her reaction. And all I want is for her to hold me and tell me I did her right.

The stench of smoke was stuck in the air. Even in a ventilated room, one filled with cracked open windows and boundless moonlight bleeding across the floor. The white tiles speckled with crimson red dots, a reckless line to the toilet.

I had him in my hands, cheeks squished under my palms, toilet paper held against his nose. His breathing was stuffy, heavy. All remnants of the evening.

If I knew how much trouble he would cause, I wouldn’t have walked away. No, if I knew he would suffer, I wouldn’t have left.

His eyes are shifty, glossy and wide. He is drunk, and emotional. He wouldn’t ever tell me why, but I assume its because the bruises that make him flinch each time he stretches too far out.

He hiccups, groaning and holding his side. I almost roll my eyes at his stupidity.

“Hold still.” I say it under my breath, focused on prying away the tissue from him nose. I blot at the crimson that stains his peachy skin. His eyes shut tightly, tears fall from the corners. He hasn’t cried in front of me in awhile, it makes my heart stop.

His hand fumbles for mine, and once its found, suddenly I’m holding it. He’s not squeezing, but I can feel how he resists the urge to. He does one time, squeeze my hand. When I hiss, he apologizes repeatedly.

“It’s okay, I know, I know.” I plead for him to stop so I can finish. He is drunk and I an no better. I am halfway to where he is, a red solo cup spilled on the beach that would’ve led me there.

“See? All done.” Tossing the red wine stained tissue into the trash, his eyes open. They are foggy, and he is quiet. For a minute I think he might vomit, but it never comes and the floor is just as clean as it was when we came.

“You always take care of me.” He breaks the heavy silence. Neither of us are sure if Im angry or not. Neither of us can decide it.

“No I don’t.” I remember the time he fell of the monkey bars in pre-school and I laughed until he got so angry that he shoved me into the grass. I remember how in middle school, when a girl had a crush on him I told her he still slept with a night light. It wasn’t a lie-but it was cruel.

“Yes you do, you always do.” He thinks of the time when I got the last chocolate soft serve and he wanted it so desperately. How he didn’t even beg me, I wanted to see him happy so I shared. He thinks of the time his first girlfriend dumped him so we called the entire night until she was a distant memory. He thinks of all the good, while I only see the bad.

“Why do you do it?” Because I love you, you idiot. What I want to say, but never will. Because with each chance that I think he might feel the same, with every chance we have at becoming more, he slips away. And my heart breaks.

“I don’t know.” I wonder of he can hear how fast my heart is beating. I feel it in my stomach, it’s in my ears, ringing.

His hand is hot on mine when he changes the way it fits against his. He no longer cups my palm out of stress in pain, but intertwines our fingers.

“You’re always there for me.” He’s drunk rambling now, he still has that same drunken expression stuck to his face. I nod, I feel him pull me closer.

My body slots between his thighs, I am looking down at him. His breath is heavy, I can feel his palms getting sweaty.

“Conrad, we should really get you to bed.” I try and keep us apart. Truthfully, even with the stench of beer on his breath and the unbearable heat of the summer night, my knees are still weak and my heart is still racing.

I try and pull away, removing myself. But I become a rubber band. My arm extends, and he’s pulling me right back to where I was before. It’s like we haven’t moved.

“Don’t go.” He says it quietly, but the way he says it makes me want to stay forever with him just like this. His eyes are glossy, searching my face. I feel how his other hand fingers its way to my jawline.

He doesn’t ghost over my skin like he did in the car, his touch is heavy, firm. The rest of my body feels cold without his touch. His fingertips set my jawline on fire.

“Con.” I plead. I want it more than anything, to be held by him so intimately. But he’s drunk, he doesn’t truly want this. He’s horny and I made the mistake of getting too close.

“Y/n.” He smiles devilishly. His face is so much closer before. I’m aware of that now that I’m truly paying attention. His hand is behind my ear, fisting at my hair. It doesn’t hurt, physically.

When our foreheads bump, I become stuck. He’s so damn magnetic, I cannot move away.

“Don’t go, okay?” He asks again, breathlessly. My hand is dropped, my waist is being cradled and I am fully committed to him.

Nodding, I cave but I can’t stop shaking. I want this, but if we kiss and in the morning he decides he doesn’t want it, it would shatter me forever.

His nose bumps mine clumsily, and his breath is heavy. He doesn’t seem anxious, scared. But his heart isn’t beating like mine. He’s sweating not from fear, but from the alcohol. Suddenly I want to escape. I can’t be here any longer.

“Y/n? Conrad! Are you in there?” Belly knocks on the door frantically and I pull away so fast, he can’t grab me and beg for me to stay. He can’t trap me.

Shes confused, face illuminated by the light of the bathroom. The hallways is dark behind her and our shoulders brush.

I don’t trust myself within the walls of this house. I walk away from it with all my willpower. I’m gone and I don’t stop going until the road stops curving and I am in the middle of a patch of unclaimed land. Where the grass is untamed and the moon is darker behind the trees.

Its overdramatic, the way I struggle to breathe. Its like his hand wasn’t just there on my jaw, but squeezing. My skin hurts where his body touched mine. He doesn’t want me, I am reminded. He is drunk. Why else would he suddenly present himself and beg for me to stay.

I know it only hurts so much because it’s Conrad. My buddy, my best friend. The love of my life. I remember how he begged me not to go, how he praised me. Buttering me up just for him to leave in the morning.

I held my breath just a little longer than I should have. Waiting for him to chase after me. Tell me one last time to never leave him, that he really did love me. That he really did want me.

But I am not naive, or stupid. I know he is fast asleep by now. I imagine Belly tucked him into bed quickly after I left. He is sleeping peacefully, and while I rip out my hair, he will be blissfully unaware in the morning.

 “Why are you angry?” Susannah pried, flipping through her magazine. She was slouched on the couch, a sundress draped over her body. She was glowing, unbothered completely by my sour mood.

“I’m not mad.” I sat next to her, stiff. If I were to sink into her shoulder, surely I would crack. I stared at the blank TV, too scared to make another sound or to move.

When I heard the crinkle of the paper and a soft slap against the wooden table, I silently cursed myself.

“Y/n, honey.” God, I wanted to punch her in her perfectly white teeth then. How kind and observant she was. She was almost condescending when she said my name again. Neither of us were idiots, neither of us oblivious.

I had been avoiding Conrad like the plague for the past week. When he woke up the next morning, unaware of what happened, confused about why I looked so exhausted, so frustrated I finally bent too far and snapped.

Looking into his eyes made me feel nothing but guilt. I swore to keep that night out of sight then. If he didn’t know, then nobody had to. We could go back to normal. But still, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t forget the way his breath was warm against mine, how his hands felt under my shirt. How he begged me to stay. It was all I ever wanted.

I didnt tell her, still. And my lies were shallow. Unbelievable.

“Did something happen between you and Conrad?” Her voice was innocent, light, airy. And her touch, the exact opposite of her sons, was so confident, so sure. Like there was nothing I could do or say to change how she saw me. And though she played coy, her smile told me she knew. She’d known for awhile.

I stuttered on my breath, only able to shake my head. My cheeks heated and lips bitten raw.

“Honey Im no idiot, I know you just like I know my son.” Her hands stopped running through my hair, falling to her sides. She sympathized with me, and the look in my eyes told me she knew more than what happened that night.

“So you know, then.” And silently, we both understood that we weren’t talking about the late night rendezvous and blood staining the bathroom tiles.

“I’ve always known.” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. My shoulders felt heavy then. Maybe he knew too, maybe thats why I freaked out.

Her hand rubbed my cheek, it felt nice to not shy away from her. Melting into her shoulder, I let her hold me like her daughter while we stared into blank space.

“What if it’s never the same?” It was my greatest what if. Determining if my confession I had been secretly brewing for years would ever be able to be taken back. If we could ever go back to the simplicity of our youth.

“Somethings are worth the risk.” Her words stuck to me like glue. And though I knew she was right, I couldn’t help but run away from the elephant in the room, I couldn’t help but abandon Conrad.

When the house is cold and empty later, I come out of my room and into the light. It is when everything is silent and untouched that I allow myself to bask in the warm setting sun in the kitchen. I let the summer air kiss my skin and I clear my head.

The pans in the sink clank behind me and the refrigerator opens. Its not dark quite yet, but its dimmer out, so the light from the refrigerator illuminates the countertops, signaling it was opened. However, whoever had entered hadn’t said a thing yet, I can’t help but hold my breath.

“Can I sit?” His voice is low, unsure. It reflects the exact opposite of our last night together. I want to run again, my skin suddenly feels too tight over my bones, everything is caving in. But then I remember what Susannah said. He would be my greatest what if of my life if I never tried to mend and move forward. Conrad is the biggest risk that I am forever willing to take.

“Yeah, of course.” Its awkward between us now, and I am aware that everything is already never the same. There is no going back. I want to leave now, now that I know what he feels like. But my heart aches and my mind won’t stop screaming at me to ask.

I fiddle with my hands, looking outside, I can feel his eyes on mine. I decide then to screw it all, I have to leave. Screw the plan, screw my brewing confessions, screw mending and forgiving and forgetting. I can’t. I’m lost and so is he.

When the chair slides out from under me, I don’t expect the other to hiss across the wooden floor behind me. I don’t expect him to grab my wrist and pull me back.

“Don’t go.” It was quiet, but it was confident. He was sure for once. And I could see it in his eyes that he remembered. That he understood why I was running. More than that, I could see how he was hurting just as I was.

“Why’d you do it, Conrad?” My mind is silent after the echoing words come out of my mouth. He shakes his head, and I try and break free. He’s not really hurting me, but he is and he refuses to talk to me.

“No, Y/n…” He pulls me back. I don’t stop trying to escape.

“Tell me and I’ll stop, tell me and I’ll stop.” I beg, my throat is sore, and my eyes ache from holding back my tears. It’s pathetic how quickly I am worked up over him. When I was the one to leave in the first place.

“Stop. Stop it.” I am struggling against him, his hands try to find my wrists desperately. When he finds them, I am stuck in place, his hands like shackles.

“Stop it!” He yells, his voice rings in my ears.

“Why didn’t you tell me!” My tears are falling quickly, and they are hot with how angry I am.

“I don’t know!” He begged me to understand, to see his side. But all I can remember is how stupid I felt all these weeks. How the flashbacks of the times it almost happened haunted me. How I believed he never really wanted me.

“You knew, you knew and you made me feel like an idiot!” I pushed him back, but with his hands on my wrists I only went back with him.

“Y/n.” He’s patient, he always has been, but I’m wearing him thin. I know it. I need him to snap, I need it.

“Why didn’t you tell me! Why!” I begged him for an honest answer, I pushed him and I didn’t stop until he was just as desperate.

“I was scared!” He said it like it was a solution.

“So was I, you asshole!” We were out if breath, sitting in a brief silence. I looked away to collect myself, catch my breath but the second he was back in my eye sight, all my composure was gone again.

“You never gave me the chance.” He says it softer than before, but its just as vicious.

“Was I supposed to wait for you to get the balls? You came downstairs perfectly fine while I was tearing myself apart with guilt! Me! When you were the one who was begging me to stay!” I match his tone. Its frantic, I’ve never felt more stressed.

“Y/n, please.” The more he says my name, the more angry I get. The less patient I get. And I am not patient.

“Can you not see how in love with you I an you idiot! Are you that blind or do you get pleasure from ripping me apart?” My confession weighs on him like a ton of bricks, I feel his hands stutter on mine. I see his mouth freeze and the color drain from his face.

If I didn’t feel stupid before, I feel it now. I feel more than stupid, I feel crushed. Completely shattered by his silent rejection.

He drops his hands, too in shock to keep such a strong grip. Tears are welling up again, and my lip refuses to stop quivering. I can’t hold it together and I’ve already made enough of a fool out of myself. I have to leave. Its the only thing I’m good at.

Turning swiftly on my heals, I make my escape, eyes set on the door ahead. But there it is again. His hand on my wrist. And its yanking at me more than ever before. It’s spinning me around until I am secure in Conrad’s arms and his lips are pressed to mine so quickly, there is no time to second guess it.

Its heavenly, the way his mouth molds to mine, the way its not rushed. Even after all this time, he is patient. He is playing it out and we are both enjoying it. His kiss happened in a way that nobody else would ever be able to recreate. The sparks were deadly, it was all too much for anything to ever be the same.

We were breathless then, when he pulled away and the look in his eyes was sparkling, almost as beautiful as his smile.

“Conrad, I…” He’s smiling at my shock and his hands are on my cheeks now. His touch his firm and he’s never letting go. We don’t have to speak to understand that this is what we are now. Silently, we are agreeing to be more, and I understand that he’s not going anywhere.

And he kisses me in a way that would screw me up forever.

[violetmuses]

Flashbacks - A. Aretas 🔥

Title: Flashbacks - A. Aretas 🔥 

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe 

Character: Armando Aretas 

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Seeing you again could drive Armando over the edge. 

Author's Note: Here's another request! Enjoy. 🖤 @thedarkworldofhananerea

=====

2024

Damn!

When Armando Aretas crossed paths for the very first time, your own presence nearly slipped his cool during another plot for his mother Isabel. 

That night, he snuck over to you and exchanged his phone number, yearning through dreams as you swayed past others with a gorgeous smile. 

After leaving the club, you text Armando back and take one chance with that handsome stranger. 

Now, years later, Armando drifts memories while grounded in this cage cell and missing you like crazy. 

Back then, you understood his late nights and nursed each wound, ironically convinced that he worked for one of the law enforcement agencies. 

His current prison sentence broke your heart this time and landed crimes regardless. Armando even lost his mother through burning flames. 

Detective Mike Lowrey, Armando's biological father, enters this darkened space. 

How you doing?“ Mike crossed both arms while facing his son. 

“It's a prison.” Armando grumbled without really making eye contact. 

“I know.” Mike agreed with this point for obvious reasons. “I have an opportunity to cut down your time here. Are you interested?”

“Yeah, man.” Armando nodded, ready to leave as soon as possible. 

______

“Let me get you some clothes. Can't look dingy out here, remember?” This transfer took loads of work, but Mike pulled strings and Armando could join the Miami Police Department with the AMMO team. 

“It's a thrift store.” Armando nearly chuckled while glancing out the passenger seat window. 

“Jailbird fool.” Mike put on sunglasses. “I'm shopping alone because your orange uniform doesn't help anybody feel better.” 

When Mike slammed the door, Armando realized this perfect moment. 

Lowrey somehow dropped his personal phone in the car. 

Dumbass!

Glancing around for privacy beforehand, Armando picked up the device and immediately dialed your number. 

But once Aretas heard three rings, your voicemail echoed instead: 

“Hi! It's me. I can't answer the phone right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Take care!” Your sweet voice nearly prompted tears when Armando listened. 

My lady. He thought, still desperately in love with you. I'm home. 

Just when Armando could surprise you with a message, Mike returned to the car holding several bags.  

Hanging up Mike's phone, Aretas placed the device near one open spot and quietly laughed to himself once more. 

“Make your choices later. We gotta go.” Mike placed everything in the backseat and set to drive off, but finally acknowledged his phone. “Oh, damn, who called me?” 

“Okay.” Armando then nodded toward Lowrey once more. 

Soon fighting this smirk though, Aretas remained silent and waited for the next possible move. 

“Must be Spam. I don't even recognize this number.” Shrugging, Mike deleted that call and simply headed to the Miami Police Department.

Though saddened, Armando refused to show disappointment. 

_____

Wearing this somewhat decent Bud Light shirt, Armando chose one trucker hat that veiled his face. Jeans covered both legs and boots stepped along.

“Me veo tan estúpido.” Aretas casted both eyes toward the ceiling and grumbled Spanish, feeling stupid anyway. 

Even you would've laughed out loud while Armando checked his reflection in one public bathroom mirror. 

Sighing, he washed his hands and left, ready for the assignment. 

______

Tragedy struck. Following Captain Howard's death, intelligence whispered that Conrad muddled darkness with the cartel for years. 

Shocked beyond words, Mike and his longtime partner Marcus Burnett stood tall against those unexpected rumors.

In short, the team wanted to prove Cap’s innocence right away. 

“We're clubbing to gather info tonight. Don't act up.” Lowrey turned near Armando while driving and offered this warning. 

“Pointless advice, Mike.” Marcus chimed in for a second. “Your son is a stone cold killer that rotted in prison for years. Probably touch-starved with his nasty ass.” 

Knowing so much better than to respond, Aretas just sat there and thought of you.

_____ 

Tabitha stood as a character this evening. Skilled but wild, this woman styled cropped blonde hair while cash almost popped right out her own bra. 

During this spoken plan to trade items for the mission, one upcoming silhouette caught Armando's eye. 

“Another round ladies?” You smiled toward another group of Miami's finest and nearly everyone stepped out like Tabitha here. 

Though Armando locked down eye contact, you glanced up, but quietly greeted Mike and Marcus first, not recognizing Aretas in person yet. 

When you finally noticed him, Armando jutted his chin and moved away from the propped seat, walking in your direction. 

“Can I help you?” You speak up while facing Armando and grinned toward this man. 

“Hola, mi amor.” Aretas stepped closer and took off his trucker hat, revealing dark hair. 

“Armando?” As the realization hits, you pull your best friend away from this VIP section. 

Mike and Marcus yelled in the background, but Aretas couldn't care less. 

_____

Shadowed through hallway lights of the nightclub, you can't help kissing him over and over again. 

“How did you do it?” You ask, trying to have this conversation. 

I'll explain later.” Armando licks your neck and his clothes nearly heated up as you whimper. He's yearned beyond words. “Te extrañé mucho.”

Just as Armando would make love to you in one of the private rooms, voices shouted through interruptions. 

“Uh-uh! Not the time.” Mike yelled down this corridor. “Let's go.”

Gaining one last kiss, you walk away sporting this unfastened blouse. 

_____

“Can't get your mack on!” Ranting over Armando meeting with you, Mike headed elsewhere for AMMO. “What the hell?”

“She's my  girlfriend.” Armando responded from the backseat. 

“Girlfriend?!” Mike pulled the car over and yelled with Marcus in unison. 

“Yeah. She'd been holding me down the whole time.” Armando told the truth about you. 

“Does this girl know that you're actually a criminal, man?” Marcus grumbled from the passenger side. 

“Doesn't matter. Y'all got me out.” Armando defended himself. 

“Watch yourself.” Mike corrected Aretas once more and drove again.  

_______

Former Army Ranger turned DEA agent James McGrath framed Captain Howard in the end, shot dead once AMMO faced this major bloodbath. 

When that smoke cleared, even Judy, Captain's  daughter, still let Armando off the hook

One wrong move could change Judy's mind, though. 

After Armando gained help from paramedics, this man found your home in Miami and knocked, rattling this sound. 

“Baby!” Armando just kept trying over and over again.  

“Calm down!” Laughing for real, you finally opened the front door and rushed Armando inside, hoping not to disrupt neighbors. 

______

There was still no chance to make love. Healing battle scars ran down Armando's perfect body once more as he watched you prepare for bed. 

“You look so pretty, mami. C'mere.” He waits in awe, nearly shocked you exist. 

Your look settled with no makeup, pajamas and messy hair. 

You stepped out for work at the club, but Armando dreamed about old nights like this while incarcerated. Your peace towered his chaos. 

“Wanna talk about it?” You always offered him the chance to vent. Nothing changed. 

“No. Just sleep, princess.” Armando whispered and you rested near his good side, awaiting the future. 

This reformed man could handle everything with you. 

[escapingrealityforamoment]

• On a beautiful beach evening, (Y/N) meets Conrad Fisher. Their connection deepens as they stroll along the shore, sharing stories and laughter. Conrad gifts the reader a seashell as a symbol of their growing bond, and they make a silent promise to cherish the magic of that summer night.

*inspired by Paper Rings by Taylor Swift*

As the sun set over the quiet beach, you found yourself strolling along the shoreline, the warm sand tickling your toes. The gentle waves crashed against the shore, creating a soothing melody that echoed through the air. Lost in your thoughts, you hardly noticed the figure approaching you until a voice called out.

"Hey there! Mind if I join you?" The voice belonged to Conrad Fisher, a familiar face you had seen around town. His smile was infectious, his eyes sparkled with a mischievous charm.

You couldn't help but smile in return. "Sure, Conrad. It's a beautiful evening, isn't it?"

Conrad fell into step beside you, his footsteps matching your own. "Absolutely. It's nights like these that make you appreciate the simple joys in life."

As the two of you continued walking along the beach, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Conrad had a way of making you feel comfortable, as if you had known each other for years. It was a feeling you couldn't quite put into words, but it made your heart race with excitement.

Before you knew it, the sky was painted with vibrant hues of orange and pink, signaling the arrival of dusk. Conrad stopped, turning to face you. "You know, spending time with you feels like a song I never want to end."

You couldn't help but blush at his words. "That's such a sweet thing to say, Conrad."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of seashells he had collected along the way. Carefully, he placed one in your hand. "Consider this my version of a paper ring. A token of this beautiful moment we've shared."

You examined the seashell, its delicate colors resembling the sunset sky. It was a small but meaningful gesture, a symbol of a connection that was growing stronger by the minute.

As nightfall draped the beach in darkness, you and Conrad found yourselves sitting on a weathered driftwood log, watching as the stars twinkled above. The sound of laughter and distant waves filled the air, intermingling with the rhythm of your conversation.

Time seemed to stand still as you shared stories, dreams, and secrets. The world around you faded into the background, leaving only the two of you and the deepening bond you were forming.

In that moment, you realized that sometimes the simplest things in life could hold the greatest meaning. The paper ring in your hand represented more than just a fleeting moment on the beach—it symbolized a connection worth treasuring, a story waiting to unfold.

And as the night wore on, Conrad took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down your spine, igniting a flame of possibility. With the stars as witnesses, you both made a silent promise to cherish the song that had begun on this enchanting summer night—a melody that would forever be etched in your hearts.

[eventheodds]

There is no going back after this.

What life she had left behind, the one that was supposed to be waiting for her when she got back, is so far in the rearview mirror that it’s become a mere blip on the vast horizon. It’s so far behind, yet she wants to be pulled back to it, to start over, to go back and retrace her steps. But if she could, would she have done things differently? Would she even be able to?

Was this how things were supposed to play out? 

Vash the Stampede—a name she heard while digging through the insurance bureau’s archives after a series of details had caught her eye; Milly Thompson had been kind enough to get her whatever she could find related to Vash, who was so colloquially called the Humanoid Typhoon, but none of the reports held any consistency other than what was said word of mouth. No concrete evidence and each description of him varied from report to report.

Roberto had called her too ambitious when she’d been given the green light to go out into the field and she’d chosen to write a profile piece on Vash. He’d bemoaned his task at being her mentor, needing to keep her in check and not lose herself in the details. 

Top of your class, eh?

This world will eat you alive, newbie.

His voice echoes in her ears like thunder, but it’s only the sound of her blood pumping and her sobs that just won’t subside. Her head aches, her nose and eyes sting, her throat is dry and parched, yet these discomforts are nothing to the pain she feels in the chasm of her heart. 

She wants them back. She wants Vash and Roberto back. She’d trade anything to hear Roberto call her newbie again, to see Vash’s winning smile that was worth more than all the double billion dollars attached to his name on a bounty. She wants to gripe at Roberto for chain smoking in the car and she wants to hear Vash’s easy, but sometimes nervous, laugh.

She’ll give anything to have them back. Anything.

She’s cried herself hoarse, her voice pretty much gone at this point, and pitiful sounds leave her as she continues to hunch into Nicholas’s hold, trying to make herself smaller, when she feels him shift again, a warmth on her back. His hand is splayed against her back, beneath her puffer jacket, and pressed against the material of her shirt but she can feel the warmth radiating off his hand and onto her back as if they were skin upon skin.

Her sobs hiccup, eventually coming to a halt, but her shoulders continue to tremble as tears remain falling, trailing down her cheeks and disappearing either into the sand or onto their entwined limbs. He’s not removed her from his lap, and through her own cries, through her own sadness, she heard the cracks in his voice, the hitch in his breath. 

Fingers begin to unfurl from his lapels as she raises her arms and twines them gently around his neck, burying her face in the space between there and his shoulder as he bends over her, around her, like he means to shelter her against everything and anything that might come at them while in such a raw and vulnerable state. 

She feels him humming that tone before she hears it. Raspy as anything, voice laden with such a weight of sadness, of grief, of pain and of loss—it resonates with her as she clenches her eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears spill and she doesn’t care if she’s getting his shirt or neck wet. Meryl finds that she doesn’t want to move from this place, not right now. 

This, right here, is an anchor in a sea of everything.

His hand against her back is a point of contact where the warmth spreads through her as a reminder that they are here, together, as painful as it is. Her own hands, which hang loosely behind his shoulders, smooth just where the nape of his neck begins, fingers toying with the soft hairs there before her touch becomes a little more firmer, yet always gentle and never unkind. 

He’s suffered and lost so much—an insurmountable amount. Conrad’s words ringing in her ears at what he’d called Nicholas, how Roberto knew. Rage churns with grief but there is also a need to be there for him as he’s been there for her. 

“H-hey,” she manages to get out, shifting just enough that her nose gently skims along the side of his neck and along his jaw, feeling along the hairs that grow there. 

His humming breaks her heart. The melody tears her open and she feels a flood just waiting to drown her. The tears don’t stop falling. 

“Nicholas…,” she’s gentle when she says his name, remembering how Conrad said it and she wants to banish the way he spoke his name from her mind. She wants Nicholas to know she’d do that for him, too. Say his name until there’s no memory of Conrad, or the Eye of Michael, left.

Pain has been a companion, a valuable teacher. Nicholas has known loss.

But he has never known it like this--not after he lost his innocence. This has been blow after blow after harrowing, debilitating blow, and through the stubborn blur of tears, he thinks he can see it: the red thread wound around his throat, wound back, back, back to the beginning. Maybe to where he went wrong. Bad seed, bitter harvest. Self-professed Realist. Doing what must be done because that is how the world works, and softness never lasts. It can't survive. Not in a place like this.

Monsters don't have a right to feel. It is a wonder that his hands are not black with the blood he's shed or with the ashes of the fires he's set; he is just as culpable as Knives, as Conrad, as all of them. Worst of all. Betrayer. Murderer. Failure, failure.

You get to kill friends, the Beast had said. Your favorite. You have no regard for human life.

Guilt tangles in his chest, sharp like shattered glass, horror more crippling than any procedure or bullet. Numbness would be a mercy.

Distance would be smart.

So why hasn't he pushed the reporter off of his lap?

They are here now. Here beyond the smoking crater of July, and Meryl has the strength to mourn her losses. Her mentor. Their friend. Vash, who had shown them nothing but kindness and infinite sadness. Her innocence. Any semblance of normalcy. An ordinary life of chasing stories, writing reports and cashing checks and planning for a retirement. She has the resilience to let it wash over her, let it pour out - tears for herself, tears for others, and he wonders at it, oddly, as his lungs cramp in his chest and his jaw creaks from clenching so hard.

No, no, he doesn't have a right to care - but he does, he does, and it simmers between crushing despair and blinding frustration, pendulum-swing as he chokes it down, swallows hard, breath fogging a halo in the shocking cold of desert night.

When Meryl seizes hold of his lapels, the jolt shakes him free from his mute distance, demanding his attention. There are more immediate concerns, and maybe in a twisted way he is grateful for the lifeline she might not know she extends him. Purpose, if only in the moment. Protection is not all risen hackles and bared teeth.

There are other ways. Other threads to hold onto. There is a need.

Beneath the blanket and the tarp his hands move, a little tentative, entirely too careful, but for once - for fucking once - he does not want to cause harm. He doesn't want to compound the hurt. Slow and deliberate he quests, shifting his fingers. There, the hem of her puffy jacket, worse for wear but not entirely destroyed. Up, under, he means to spread the too-warm breadth of his palm over her back. Not skin to skin, he in no way assumes that would be welcome, but between her shirt and her coat liner.

Bent over Meryl's small shape, Wolfwood perches his chin on top of her head. He does not trust his traitorous tongue, cannot bring himself to speak, but he hums.

Low. Meandering. A little raspy.

And as he hums he strums, holding fast as the fire dies down and leaves them as an island in the star-strewn abyss.

[worldjurassic]

@theresastargirl​ liked this for a starter from Conrad

“I will show you something, but you must promise not to tell Owen or Claire.” Conrad stood and walked to his closet, turning to face her. He hardly trusted anyone in this household but in case something happened to him, he needed someone to know. On his last trip to the park, he’d managed to steal an egg. He’d only show Phee so long as she promised to keep it secret - he couldn’t bear to get grounded again. “Do I have your word?”

[nugnthopkns]

find somewhere to grow

word count: 23.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think by now it would be.”

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

“Where’s everyone else?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Except for us,” Tyson chimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

Routine paints Fran’s life a dull shade of grey. There isn’t much she can do to combat it – Welton prides itself on a rigorous schedule that leaves no room for imagination. All extracurriculars besides the annual yearbook club are professional and promote the school’s code of conduct. The school newspaper was to be her magnum opus, her lasting impression upon Welton, but she was forced to resign as editor-in-chief by her father. The phone call had been filled with tears as Fran tried to argue with him, to make him see reason. It was no use because he was convinced the paper was a waste of time and wouldn’t make her college applications stand out. Fran’s mother said nothing, choosing not to insert herself into the matter. There was nothing she could do except sign the resignation paper and clear out her desk.

September passes by in a blur. Homework keeps Fran busy and her friends do the best they can to keep the sadness of losing the editorial position at bay. Charlotte is at her side nearly around the clock, always with a smile and a shoulder to confide in. Cale keeps her mind active by giving book recommendations once a week, and the other two help in any way they know how, whether that’s stealing snacks from the kitchen or letting Fran borrow sweaters when she gets cold. The year would be much more challenging and lonely if she didn’t have them.

The only place she truly feels joy is Mr. Bednar’s English class. Unlike the other teachers at Welton, he allows her to think for herself and express different viewpoints. Classes are spent reciting passages from novels and dancing around the classroom. It’s a Friday before a long weekend and Fran’s expecting to be assigned a lot of homework. She grumbles with Nate as they step into the room, and to her surprise the desks are all pushed to the side.

“Place your stuff on a desk and then huddle around,” Mr. Bednar shouts gleefully, sitting on his own. Eager to see what he has in store, she and the other students follow his directions. Nearly a month with the unconventional teacher has them used to these random class setups, and Fran imagines there will be a useful lesson at the end.

“Today’s class is all about realizing what you want in life,” he explains. “Each of you has ten minutes to envision what you hope your life looks like in ten years. Then you’ll act it out to your peers.”

“Sir, what does this have to do with English?” Tyson asks.

“Ah Mr. Jost, always asking the important questions,” the teacher chuckles. “You’ll have to write me a paper about your realizations of course. Just a small one, one page will suffice. The purpose of this exercise is to help you think outside the academic lens. None of you will be in school forever, and I think it will be beneficial for you to start to think about your futures outside an academic context.”

Mr. Bendar whistles loudly, and the brainstorming time begins. Shrugging her shoulders in compliance to her friends’ anxious stares, Fran screws her eyes shut and lets her mind wander. Almost immediately something comes to mind: she hopes to be at a book signing for her latest bestseller with her friends in the audience. Her parents couldn’t make it, but that’s okay – she doesn’t talk to them often anymore. After the event she brings everyone back to her apartment on the top floor of a swanky building and they enjoy each other’s company until the early hours of the morning. Fran feels warm and content and wants to stay in the daydream forever, but another whistle jostles her free and reality makes its unfortunate return.

“Any volunteers to go first?” Mr. Bednar asks with a smile on his face. A boy who looks far too small to be in twelfth grade timidly sticks up his hand. Fran recognizes him to be one of the few transfer students the school accepted this year, and gives him a thumbs up in encouragement. He introduces himself as Nico and depicts a fantasy where he’s the youngest senator in the country’s history and has everyone betting he’ll be president once he reaches the age requirement. It seems like an awful lot of work to her, but at least he has a dream his parents approve of. Other students follow, but Fran zones out. It dawns on her that Welton sends monthly reports home and if her father finds out she’s propecizing about being an author he’ll pull her out of school without a second thought. She begins to brainstorm an acceptable answer, something about being a legal secretary.

Eventually everyone has gone but Fran. “Miss Winters, would you do the honours of closing out the exercise?”

A lump forms in the back of her throat, and it’s all she can do to push it down. “Of course Captain,” she stumbled over the words. Charlotte squeezes Fran’s hand to ground her, and she sends her friend a thankful glance. Her legs tremble slightly as she moves to the center of the room – she really has to sell this. “When I look ten years into the future,” she began, “I see myself balancing a successful career in law and having a family. Of course I’ll only be working part time, as the kids will come first. I’ll live in a quaint little house in my hometown and spend a lot of time helping my aging parents. It will be a wonderful life.” Fran picks her brain quickly for any other aspirations her father might have, but can’t think of any, so she begins to return to her spot on the floor.

“Why are you lying to us?”

Fran’s shocked – she thought she had done a good job at selling the fantasy she detests more than anything in the world. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Bednar gestures for her to return to the spotlight, and she dejectedly shuffles backwards. “Franecsca, I asked you to share your hopes and dreams, not those of your parents. Do you really think Nico’s dad wants him to become a crooked politician? Of course not, they want him to become a doctor! We all have our own desires, so what are yours?”

A quick glance at her friends lets her know they’re cheering her on, and Fran recounts everything she saw when she first closed her eyes. The signing, the party, the unbridled joy she felt – nothing is held back. At some point Mr. Bednar encourages her to share what the book will be about, and before Fran can stop herself she’s reciting lines from a novel that hasn’t even been written. It’s exhilarating to picture a life that’s completely her own, and she doesn't know if she’ll be able to stop. Once she’s exhausted every possible plot line and characterization, Fran sinks to the floor in a proud exhaustion. Her teacher sends a charming wink her way before speaking. “Well, that just about does it for today. I have nothing else planned. Want to go play a game of soccer?”

On the way to the field, Fran’s friends shower her with compliments and praise. “That was fantastic darling,” Charlotte gushes. Tyson agrees with her, applauding Fran’s bravery for being true to herself.

Nate chimes in. “You have to write that book! I won’t stop hounding you until it’s done.”

“I don’t know Nate,” she sighs. “It was just a dream. We all have a life planned out for us in the real world.”

“But that could be your real world, Fran!” Tyson argues. “You sound so in love with the idea, and you’re the only one I know who could pull it off.”

Fran’s cheeks blush rose at her friend’s words. Only Cale is yet to say anything, so she shoots him a quizzical look. “What do you think Calesy?”

“I think,” he states, a broad smile across his features, “That you’ve already sold five copies of that novel of yours.”

☼☼☼☼

A few weeks later, Tyson knocks ferociously on the girls’ dorm room door after the annual club meeting. He’s junior supervisor, second in command only to Mr. Arthur, the Latin teacher. It’s a Thursday night, and their room is the designated spot for unwinding because the matron, Nancy, is kind and lets the boys stay a few minutes after curfew, telling their supervisor they were assisting her. “Look what I found!” he says excitedly, flipping an old book open to a specific page that doesn’t make sense to anyone but him. Tyson softens once he sees Charlotte, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Hello dear,” he whispers tenderly.

His girlfriend giggles before pointing to the annual. “Tell us what this is about!”

“Ah yes,” Tyson says, finally getting on track. “This is the annual from 1943. Guess who was in the graduating class?”

The rest of the group studies the pictures and all shout the answer at the same time. “Mr. Bednar!”

“Yep. And look right under his name, which I didn’t peg him to be a Adam, there’s a club I’ve never seen before. The Society For Banned and Burned Books, what is that?”

No one has an answer. “We should ask him tomorrow,” Nate suggests. “Find him outside during the afternoon break. I’m sure he’d tell us what it’s about.”

A knock rings out for the second time that night. Nancy peeks her head in and waves the boys to hurry up. “I’ve kept you out later than normal,” she says kindly, “but it’s time you return to your own dormitories.” Goodbyes are said and a makeshift plan is hatched. Sleep doesn’t come easy as Fran is too excited to find out about the club that is no longer offered at Welton.

The Society for Banned and Burned Books is all Fran can think of. The name is so vague – it could mean a million different things. How is she to know the truth? She’s distracted the entire morning, losing focus as her mind wanders through the different possibilities. In chemistry she almost ruins the experiment because she isn’t paying attention, and the titration would have been ruined if Tyson hadn’t caught it in time. Judging by the absent stares that Fran occasionally catches, the rest of the group isn’t doing much better. The question is eating everyone alive.

After what feels like three years, the bell that signals the start of break chimes. Fran’s out of her seat in an instant, and the others are close on her heels. Once outside, she notices no one is there yet, and they all take refuge under the willow tree by the lake. Slowly students and staff trickle into the yard but Mr. Bednar still doesn’t appear. Cale has the genius idea that he might be supervising a different part of the grounds, and the five of them make the trek up the hill. The man in question is sitting on a bench near the edge of the property, watching a group of elementary kids play in the sandpit.

“Mr. Bednar,” Nate shouts, even though the group is still a hundred and fifty yards away from him, “We have a question!”

There’s no response. The older man doesn’t give them the time of day, instead focusing on a particular patch of flowers that seem to be dwindling in health. Tyson tries this time to get his attention. “O Captain, my Captain!”

The English teacher waves them over enthusiastically, chuckling to himself as he watches the boys race each other to see who gets there first. Charlotte and Fran are hot on their heels, not wanting to miss any information that might be vital.

“What’s going on?” The older man asks, looking for a reason to explain the sudden outburst of five students approaching him on the break.

Tyson pulls the annual out from his jacket and flips it to the page he marked with a piece of Fran’s stationary kit. “What’s the Society for Banned and Burned Books? None of us have ever seen the club offered at Welton?”

Suddenly, everyone is being pulled closer and Mr. Bednar is speaking in hushed tones. “Don’t you dare mention it to anyone,” he says, and the look in his eyes tells Fran he means business. “That little club nearly got me expelled, and if the administration catches whiff of it again my goose will be cooked. What fun it was, though, to sneak out under the cover of darkness and read things that actually expanded our minds.” When he realizes none of the children in front of him understand what he’s going on about, Mr. Bednar clarifies. “The name implies what we were all about. We’d read books that had been banned by the school board or things European regimes set ablaze. It was thrilling. I have a feeling I wouldn’t be the scholar I am today if it hadn't been for the Society.”

The bell rings again, signalling the return of classes. Everyone thanks the teacher for his honesty, and with a heavy sigh begins the trek back to the school building. When the group is almost within earshot of other staff they hear Mr. Bednar shout, “It met twice a month!”

Later in the evening, at dinner, a folded up piece of paper makes its way to the table where the girls were eating dinner. Charlotte opens it quickly, knowing it’s from the boys, and Fran presses against her side to read it. We’re resurrecting the Society tonight. You guys in? it says in Nate’s chicken scratch. Fran looks up to see them staring at her, waiting for an answer. Charlotte looks at her friend in silent deliberation, and a second later they’ve both made up their minds. Three nods, the group’s secret code for yes, is thrown in the boys’ direction, and she catches Tyson fist pumping out of the corner of her eye.

“How are we doing this?” Fran asks Cale as everyone exits the dining hall. “We barely know what it’s even about.”

He just shrugs. “There was a package on Tys’s desk when he got back from class. It had a bunch of books and a note signed J.B. We all just assumed it was from Mr. Bednar.”

It seems to be the only explanation Fran’s going to get. Honestly, the idea of breaking the rules for once in her life is incredibly enticing, so there’s no way she’s letting the boys carry on without her. There’s no doubt that Charlotte is already planning the escape route to the small cave just off Welton’s property, so it seems her fate is decided. As Fran climbs the stairs she discusses logistics with Cale and learns that Tyson has it all figured out – after all the staff have gone to sleep, everyone will sneak out of bed and meet in the dormitory’s west stairwell before running across the yard to avoid being caught. It will be easy enough and Fran isn't worried. As long as she brings a treat to distract Spot, Dr. Sakic’s dog, things should go off without a hitch. At the landing for her floor she says her goodbyes to Cale before skipping down the hallway.

Fran spends the next few hours pacing the length of her bed. Charlotte tries to calm her nerves, but it’s no use. She’s just as excited and keyed-up as Fran, so together they pass the time by making up silly songs. It takes them to lights out in the blink of an eye, and when Nancy comes in to give a final warning there’s a full blown concert in the works, complete with hairbrush microphones.

“Good night girls,” she says, a knowing smile on her face. She definitely notices the electric excitement running through the room, bouncing rapidly between the two girls, but doesn’t say anything.

Charlotte says good night for the both of them as Fran slips into the hall to use the bathroom. When she returns, her roommate is perched on the windowsill, book in hand. The pair of them have to find quiet ways to distract from the slow passage of time, not wanting to risk staff members staying up to check on them if they’re too loud. Sighing gently as she flops onto her bed, Fran begins to daydream about what it would be like to live the life she truly dreams of, the one prophesied in Mr. Bednar’s exercise. Apparently she spends longer than anticipated in the fantasy because Charlotte is trying desperately to get her attention.

“It’s been hours, everyone has to be asleep,” she whispers. “The boys are probably waiting for us. Come on.”

A quick peek out the door confirms Charlotte’s suspicions – slumber has overtaken the residents of Welton Academy. The pair of them slip on school issued coats and boots, and do their best to silence the door’s creaking hinges. Luckily they were given a room at the end of the corridor and they leave with little issue. Cale and Tyson are waiting in the stairwell as planned, but Nate is nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Nate?” Charlotte asks, pecking Tyson on the cheek in greeting.

“He went ahead to do reconnaissance,” Cale explains.

That makes sense, especially for Nate, and without another moment’s hesitation the group departs. They grab Nate on the ground floor and scurry through the darkness. No one speaks until the school grounds are well behind them, too anxious the plan would fail if even a peep was uttered. The woods offer a sound barrier and the friends chat freely, fretting about upcoming midterm examinations and the looming Ivy League application deadline. Fran’s insides twist slightly when Cale brings it up, worried about how her father will respond to her lack of applications, but the thought is thrown to the back of her mind when everyone screeches to a halt outside the final destination.

The cave they decided to sneak to is more of a large rock pile, but it will do the trick. It’s quite spacious – the five of them will fit without any issue. Nate’s the first one in, followed by Tyson. Charlotte and Fran scuttle in soon after, and Cale brings up the rear, rolling a small boulder over the ‘door’ to hopefully keep out animals interested in intruding. Once the dust settles and the group is comfortable to the best of their abilities, Tyson pulls the package left for him from his jacket and clears his throat.

“Welcome to the inaugural meeting of the reinvisioned Society for Banned and Burned Books.”

The words send shivers down Fran’s spine. It’s thrilling to be here with her friends, doing something frowned upon by mainstream society. They’ll all be dead if anyone at Welton ever figures out what is going on, but she’d gladly sink all of her life prospects if it meant spending time with her friends. She can’t wait to see what the adventure brings.

Nate snickers from beside Fran. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it, Tys, just get on with it. We don’t have all night.”

The comment earns him a death glare, but Tyson continues with less performative lustre. “We were given this package, presumably by Mr. Bednar, to expand our minds and create memories that will last long after we leave Welton.” Sad smiles are shared, none of them wanting to think about the end of an era that’s drawing closer. There’s a slight voice crack as he speaks again, and it echoes off the stone walls. “Is everyone willing to take the oath so we can begin?”

“Jesus Christ, are we joining a cult?” Charlotte quips, but the smile on her face gives away the giddiness she’s feeling. Head nods come from the rest of the group, and the unofficial officiant gets started.

“It says to put up your right hand,” Tyson says, “And repeat after me. I solemnly swear to protect the secrecy of the Society. I swear to come in with an open mind, and let my potential flourish. I will use the Society to make lasting memories and to become a multi-dimensional person who thinks for themselves. The world is mine.”

Everyone repeats the words, voices mixing together until they’re indistinguishable from one another. With the first order of business out of the way, Tyson sits down and takes a deeper look at what was dropped on his desk – a worn paper explaining how the club works, a reading list, and a few books to get them started. Titles include The Grapes of Wrath, The Catcher in the Rye, Ulysses, and Animal Farm. Fran notices that all the books have been banned or burned in at least two countries: it seems the name of The Society is very literal. It also seems that Mr. Bednar hoped they would stay true to form as the club moulds to fit their needs and desires.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Cale insists. “We have to be back before everyone starts waking up. Sakic is an early riser.”

They spend the next couple of hours reading aloud and laughing together. After a quick vote it is decided the inaugural book will be The Catcher in the Rye since it seemed interesting, and then they will work their way through the others. Whenever it’s Nate’s turn to read he speaks in different voices and overextends his hand motions; it keeps everyone in stitches.

Before Fran can register how long it’s truly been, Cale checks his watch and alerts the group that it’s nearing three. If they want to get at least a few hours of sleep they need to return to Welton now. Reluctantly, everyone packs up. The trip back to school is silent, exhaustion seeping into their bones and making it hard to think about anything else besides sleep. By the time Fran climbs the stairs to her dormitory floor she can barely keep her eyes open. Charlotte says goodbye to the boys on her behalf, and Fran’s asleep before the other girl slips into their shared room.

A sluggishness encapsulates the group for the entirety of the next day. It seems that no one slept well, all tired eyes and slow movements. Strange looks are given by other students but they’re fairly easy to ignore – Fran is just desperately trying to get through the day so she can crash again. The years of strict, regimented routine at Welton have her circadian rhythm working in a particular way, and staying up late certainly did a number on her. Charlotte is faring better than everyone else– her body used to sleep deprivation on account of time change. It’s all Fran can do to stay awake during English, her final class of the day. If Mr. Bednar notices her wavering consciousness, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, Fran thinks she catches him winking at Tyson, as though he knows just what they were up to last night. Today’s lesson flies right over her head, and as soon as the bell rings she’s scrambling to pick up her books.

“Feeling a little bit under the weather today, Miss Winters?” he asks, closing his lesson plan.

Fran searches his face for any sign that he might snitch on her for being unresponsive in class but finds nothing. “Just a bit tired, Captain,” she quips. “Was up terribly late trying to get comfortable. My mattress has been giving me issues.”

“I’ll be sure to alert Nancy of your troubles. She’ll hate to know you’ve been uncomfortable.”

She knows damn well he won’t say anything, and that he truly knows the reason for her fatigue. However, she appreciates the game he’s playing. That way, if things don’t go to plan and the group gets busted by the administration, his hands will be clean. Fran would hate to see his teaching career blown apart by a group of raucous teens like her own dear friends.

As soon as she’s back in her room Fran crashes onto the bed with a thud. Muttering a jumbled package of words to Charlotte that resemble a request to wake her up for dinner, she climbs under the covers and falls asleep for the second time of the day.

☼☼☼☼

Fran’s body adjusts to the deficit in rest after the second meeting. It’s shorter, with Cale keeping a much closer eye on the time, but still fun. They’re nearly halfway through the novel, and votes are already being cast for what to read next. It’s getting easier for Fran to balance school and the club. The term has picked up, but despite the homework mounting on her desk she’s happy. Her grades are flawless, more than adequate for admission to an Ivy League, but she could care less. No one besides her friends know of her decision to only apply to other institutions, so Fran’s academic success gives her father enough false hope to let her live a mostly uninterrupted life at Welton. Things are good, and she often forgets that in a matter of months everything she knows will be completely turned on its head.

When Fran gets to Mr. Bednar’s classroom one afternoon, she’s surprised to find it empty. There’s no sign he’s been there for hours and worry fills her brain. What if someone saw the group sneaking out last night and is planting the blame on Mr. Bednar because he’s unconventional? Fran isn’t sure what she’d do if that happens, as he’s one of the only reasons she still shows an interest in school.

“Where’s Captain?” Charlotte asks the group, but no one has an answer for him. Tyson and Cale shrug indifferently, and Nate is too busy trying to catch the attention of a girl he’s been crushing on to pay any attention to the blonde. Fran rolls her eyes in disgust, upset Nate doesn’t seem to care about their missing teaching, and tries not to focus on the sting of him paying attention to someone that isn’t her

“I hope he’s alright,” she frets quietly.

As if Cale can sense how much worry is in her words, he places a hand on Fran’s shoulder in a comforting manner. “He’s fine, Fran. Probably just late returning from the bathroom.”

On cue, the eccentric English teacher peeks his head through the open door. “Well, come on! It’s one of the last nice days out,” Mr. Bednar chirps happily. “We’re outside today. No need to bring your books.”

No one even bats an eye at the instruction. Lessons like this occur at least twice a week, and Fran and all the other students look forward to them. It’s an invigorating and refreshing way to use their brains. The teacher leads everyone to the small courtyard that’s adjacent to the humanities wing, and stops in the middle. On instinct, the class huddles around him.

“I need three students to help demonstrate,” Mr. Bednar begins. “Mr. Makar, Mr. Jost, and Miss Tennant, care to do the honours?”

The three of them erupt into a chorus of yeses, eager to please their favourite instructor, though Charlotte shies away at the use of her last name.

“Well then, that settles it. Everyone else, please move to the sides,” he says, waiting patiently for any stragglers to follow instruction. “Now, you three, I want you to walk around the courtyard until I tell you to stop.”

On his signal, Fran’s friends set off, and she watches in confusion. At first, all three are walking in sync: turning corners at the same time and taking equal paces. Tyson is the first to break the pattern, widening his gait and letting his arms swing. Charlotte takes note of his divergence and begins to do her own thing. She twirls and skips about, giggling the entire time. Only Cale stays on the original route, looking every so often towards Mr. Bednar in hopes of positive feedback.

“That’s quite enough,” the older man says. “Thank you. Now can anyone tell me what happened?” It’s silent, his voice echoing off the stone walls and arches. “No one? Alright. What happened was an experiment on conformity. Our subjects started off the same, but soon after Mr. Jost got a little bored and became more relaxed. He walked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Ms. Tennant threw caution to the wind completely, dancing around. One could hardly call it walking. Only Mr. Makar stayed within what he thought were the parameters of the assignment. He was timid, searching for approval.”

The lesson continues, and Mr. Bednar makes a point of explaining that conformity makes things extremely boring, both in literature and life. Fran understands immediately and takes the message to heart. It would be so much better to live life on her terms, and from this moment forward she’s determined to put her happiness first. Near the end of class, everyone is unleashed to do their own walking. The class walks at varying paces, and Fran joins her roommate in skipping around in a circle. Only Nate refuses to walk, and when asked about it he shrugs.

“Exercising my right not to walk, Captain,” he says, which earns an eye roll and a smirk from the teacher.

“You’re certainly illustrating the point, Mr. MacKinnon.”

Later that night at the meeting, over pages of The Grapes of Wrath, Fran gushes about how Mr. Bednar’s lessons make her truly feel alive. Her friends agree, all particularly inspired by the passionate teacher. However, they share looks amongst themselves – proud Fran finally feels secure enough in what she wants to think about sticking up to her father. Although almost double in length than the previous novel, the group is making solid progress and is on track to finish the book before the holiday break.

Tonight Nate brought a saxophone, and after reading some of his own prose he breaks into song. The tune isn’t distinguishable because he isn’t much of a musician, but it still makes Fran laugh hysterically. Tyson joins in, crooning some words over the melody. Soon an impromptu jam session is in full effect: Cale works out a beat on a steel drum found just outside of their secret hideaway, and Charlotte and Fran provide handclaps and harmonies. The number ends in a fit of giggles tumbling from everyone’s lips, and Fran has trouble stifling them once she reaches Welton's property again. Sleep comes easy once back in her room, and Fran dreams of creating a lifetime of adventures with her friends.

☼☼☼☼

It’s a bright Tuesday when Fran spots the flyer on the bulletin board in the lobby. There, handwritten in large scrawling script, are the words Writing Seminar for Young Authors. She’s intrigued and reads all the information available on the sheet of paper. It seems to be taking place at Henley Hall, Welton’s sister school, and will run for nearly the rest of the year. Fran copies the contact information into her pocketbook and heads upstairs to compose a piece of literature worthy of admission.

Charlotte finds her there, several hours later, surrounded in a large pile of crumpled paper.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Fran slams her pen down on her notebook a smidge too aggressively, causing the other girl to flinch slightly. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I’m just trying to get this submission perfect before I drop it off in the morning.”

“Oh!” Charlotte chirps excitedly. “Your dad is letting you write articles in the school paper again?”

A silence covers the room like a thick blanket. “Uh, not exactly,” Fran murmurs. “Henley is doing a writing seminar and I’m going to apply. My father doesn’t know.”

Her roommate and closest friend of nearly ten years shoots Fran a nervous glance. “What are you going to do when he finds out?”

Frustrated, Fan pushes the desk chair out and tug at the roots of her hair. “Goddamnit, Lottie, can’t you just be excited for me? I’m finally doing something I want to do and not caring about what anyone else thinks. Who’s side are you even on? You gonna call up my folks, let them know my plans, and have me shipped off to a refining school? Huh?”

“Calm down, Fran. It was just a question,” she sighs. “I’d never fink. Just thought you should consider what would happen. What are you writing?”

She gestures to the scraps littering the ground, and allows Charlotte to read one of her many drafts. She studies the words intently before darting out of the room, most likely to read it to a crowd of students and embarrass Fran. She likes to keep her writing a secret.

“Charlotte Tennant! Get back here!” Fran screeches, tearing after her.

The blonde’s giggles echo off the walls. “Help! I’m being chased by Agatha Christie!”

Cale narrowly avoids a collision with Charlotte as he rounds the corner, and Tyson can’t get out of the way fast enough. She runs right into her boyfriend’s chest, knocking them both over. After explaining why she was running and urging the rest of her friends to read the piece, everyone returns to Fran and Charlotte’s room for a study group. They insist Fran has to submit the very version Charlotte read, saying it was the best one. Fran lets them flatter her, and decides to drop it off in the morning. After all, Henley Hall is just down the road. The rest of the night is spent collaborating on Latin and laughing at Nate’s antics. When Nancy comes in to remind them of lights out, she finds all five teenagers huddled at the small window, looking out at the small flakes of snow that are falling.

“Look Nancy, it’s the first snowfall,” Charlotte says as she beckons her over.

The older woman smiles fondly at the group before nodding her head. “Beautiful isn’t it?” she muses. “Now, the boys better scurry out of here before they get caught.”

With a chorus of jovial goodbyes and plans to make a snowman tomorrow at break, they leave to avoid getting in trouble from their floor monitor. Fran and Charlotte tidy up before turning the light out, and both fall asleep feeling hopeful for what’s to come.

The next morning before classes start, Fran runs to Mr. Bednar’s office to get permission to visit Henley Hall at lunch. Welton requires staff permission for students to leave campus, but it doesn’t have to be from the headmaster. There’s no doubt in her mind that if she goes to Dr. Sakic he’ll alert her parents of Fran’s newfound extracurricular activity and it will be kiboshed before she can even begin. The beloved English teacher is enthusiastic in his approval, and kindly demands that Fran keeps him updated. She sits the rest of the morning with a mixture of anxiety and excitement bubbling in her stomach.

As soon as the bell signifying lunch rings, Fran’s throat goes dry. What if her writing is terrible and the coordinator laughs in her face? She’s not sure she could handle the rejection.

“Don’t worry about it, Franny,” Tyson comforts. “They’d be stupid not to accept you.”

“You’re the best writer I’ve ever seen,” Cale chimes in.

Nate turns around and ruffles her hair. “Who’s F. Scott Fitzgerald? I only know Francesca Winters.”

The praise boosts her confidence, and by the time Fran waves them farewell at the gates she’s walking with her head up. As long as she gives it her best shot, Fran decides she’ll be happy with the results. The short walk is idyllic – freshly fallen snow coats the trees, and it doesn’t look as though anyone has driven down the road. Even Henley Hall looks nice. It’s smaller than Welton, and in Fran’s opinion uglier, but also has high academic standards for its students. From what she’s heard though, the staff members are kinder. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible place to receive an education.

Once inside, Fran looks around aimlessly, trying to find a clue that would lead her in the direction of where she needs to go. A middle-aged woman, far younger than most of her teachers, approaches Fran with a kind smile. “Are you lost dear?” she asks, waiting patiently for a response.

“I’m afraid so,” Fran says, “Could you point me in the direction of Ms. Robertson’s office? I have a submission for her seminar to drop off.”

The woman laughs heartily, and it echoes slightly in the emptiness of the entryway. “You must be from Welton.” When Fran nods your head, she wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulder and begins walking. “I’m Ms. Robertson, and I’m pleased to say you’re the first from Welton to show any interest.”

Fran isn’t surprised by this. Headmaster Sakic assigns all extracurriculars, and she lets the teacher know this as she follows her. Ms. Robertson nods in understanding, but her lips are pursed in disapproval. It’s only then that Fran realizes Welton’s practices might not be as common as she once assumed.

The teacher’s office is tucked in behind her empty classroom, and Fran pauses to examine how she chose to decorate the space. Pictures of Walt Whitman line the walls, along with other notable poets. “I primarily teach poetry,” Ms. Robertson explains. Fran can’t help but think that she’s the Mr. Bednar of Henley, even though she hardly knows her. The teacher just exudes the same kind of energy.

Once inside, Fran tentatively hands her the paper – even though she seems friendly Fran is still nervous. She’s the first adult to read any of her creative writing.

“This is good. Really good,” Ms. Robertson praises. “You’re in.”

Fran is dumbfounded. Sure, there was a good chance she would have gotten in anyways because she isn't the world’s worst author, but to have someone other than her friends say she’s good at writing is affirming. “Th-thank you,” she stutters.

“No, thank you for bringing this to me. I can’t wait to see what else you’re capable of. The first meeting is on Monday, and when you come I need to see letters from your parents and Dr. Sakic saying you’re allowed to participate.”

Fuck. It slipped her mind that they might need permission from guardians. Fran will just have to figure something out, some way of getting around it. If her father ever found out she is doing something expressly against his orders he’d disown her. Oh well – now that she’s had a taste of success Fran is determined to see this through.

She explains that it won’t be a problem, and that she’s excited to be a part of this. After getting instructions on how to find the exit Fran leaves with a pep in her step. Once outside, she skips the entire way back to Welton.

☼☼☼☼

Somehow Fran manages to make it through nearly the entire weekend without someone bursting her bubble. It’s Sunday afternoon, and she’s planning how to forge the letter of permission from her father. She can’t risk sounding too youthful, but also doesn't want to appear too formal. Getting to work, Fran loads the typewriter and begins writing. Imitating her father is easier than she thought, and when Cale pokes his head through the open door she’s almost done.

“You coming to today’s meeting?” he asks, entering the room to sit at the foot of Fran’s bed.

She continues to clack at the keys of the machine. “Of course,” Fran replies. “Just need to finish this up.”

The pair of them sit in silence as she works, and a few minutes later Fran is placing the letter in an envelope. “Do you mind if we stop at Dr. Sakic’s office? I have to get a letter of permission from him.”

“Sure. How’d you get your father to say yes? He practically kicked you off the paper.” Cale’s question is legitimate, but surely he had to know Fran didn’t ask her father. That would have been an automatic rejection.

“I didn’t,” she sighs. “I wrote the letter myself. Sakic won’t call to double check with him. Besides, my parents live just too far away to want to make the trip here unless they have to.

Fran doesn’t miss the pointed look her friend gives. Cale’s a stickler for the rules, sure, but Fran knows he’s worried for her. If her father finds out she disrespected him like this, on top of not applying to any Ivy Leagues, she’ll be in a lot of trouble. Cale stays quiet while Fran chats with the headmaster, only offering a polite farewell. As the two of them walk to the cave to meet the others, he speaks.

“You better not get caught.”

The five words send chills down her spine. He’s right and Fran knows it. If she doesn't play her cards right it could end badly. Fran begins to regret her decision, but then she remembers how Mr. Bednar constantly encourages her classmates to be their people and do what they want. Whatever happens, she’ll never go back to living anything other than the life she wants to lead.

Conversation pivots when Fran doesn't respond, and the pair discuss what Tyson will bring to this week’s meeting. He’s tonight’s moderator and is known for picking obscure short stories to read after everyone has gotten through the assigned chapters. Cale bets nothing will be in English, and Fran can’t help but agree, because Tyson likes to expand everyone’s perceptions while being a little ridiculous. It’s good though – without him Fran would have a much harder time being exposed to new things. Between him and Mr. Bednar she’s doing a pretty good job learning about the world outside the traditional American viewpoint.

The meeting lasts a few hours, long enough for the sun to have disappeared and the moon to peak up from the shadows. The five of them have a grand time laughing and reading. Welton has a relatively relaxed weekend schedule, so Fran isn’t worried about being caught off school grounds. In fact, most of the staff members travel home if they can, leaving only essential personnel. Society meetings never fail to put Fran in a better mood, and she leaves feeling hopeful about the week to come. Besides, tomorrow she starts learning how to make her dreams a reality with the start of the writing seminar. When she bids everyone but Charlotte goodnight, pep returns to her step. The Brit sees it but chooses not to comment, secretly excited to see Fran unlock her potential.

☼☼☼☼

With the addition of Henley Hall’s writing seminar into Fran’s schedule, things change slightly. She manages to stay up-to-date on coursework, still excelling in all of her classes. What free time she has is now split between working on the rough draft of her novel and attending Society meetings with friends. It’s challenging at times, but there’s no other way she’d rather spend her last year of secondary school.

Mr. Bednar continues to provide thoughtful lessons that inspire. He is, by far, Fran’s favourite teacher at Welton, and she’s a tad upset she won’t get another year with him. It doesn’t matter much though, because Fran is positive he’ll stick with her for the rest of her life.

☼☼☼☼

December is approaching fast, and it’s now pitch black when Fran returns from Henley Hall. Other students are returning from their extracurricular endeavors or using the evening free time to play in the snow so at least she isn’t alone in the dark. As she approaches Welton’s dormitory wing Fran pushes her hands deeper into her pockets. It’s chilly – much colder than any other night this year. Just as she reaches to open the door, Fran hears sniffles from just around the corner. The culprit is a curly-haired brunette she could recognize from a mile away.

“Tys?”

He looks up, eyes brimmed with tears. Fran racks her mind to remember why he would be out so late, and she recalls Tyson saying there was an extra practice tonight before the tournament on the weekend. Despite how her joints seize from the cold, Fran drops to sit beside her friend. Tyson leans closer, resting his head on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?” she asks, pulling his much larger body closer to wrap in a tight hug.

“My parents don’t even care about me enough to send me an original birthday gift,” he chokes out. “The got me the same fucking desk set as last year.”

Her heart breaks for her friend. The Jost’s have always been detached, but this is an entirely new phenomenon for them. How could they not remember what they got their only son for his birthday last year? This is a whole new level of not caring. Fran had celebrated his special day at lunch with the rest of the group, and had plans to give Gwilym his gift after she got back from the seminar.

Hoping to find something to improve her friend’s mood, Fran stands and pulls him to his feet. “Well you know,” she says, tapping her fingers on her chin in faux thought. “This deskset looks extremely aerodynamic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In fact, it looks like it was destined to fly.”

Tyson looks at her like she has three heads. “Go on,” Fran urges, “I present to you, Tyson Jost, the world’s first unmanned flying desk set.”

With a scream that verges on primal, Tyson throws the package over the edge of the walkway with fervor. The two of them watch as its contents spill onto the ground, both shocked he actually completed the task. A sideways glance at the boy standing beside her lets Fran know he feels better. They both head inside then, laughing once she remembers how Nate nearly singed his eyebrows off in chemistry earlier in the day. The rest of the night is surprisingly relaxed, with Fran making sure to properly celebrate her friend and catching up on the study hall she missed while at Henley. Nate is still working on that godforsaken radio, and his obsession with it is becoming concerning. He chimes in when something gets particularly interesting, but otherwise doesn’t say much, too concerned with rerouting the contraption’s cabinet wires.

The next morning, at the daily assembly, Dr. Sakic lets it be known that the first round of Ivy League acceptances have been released. A majority of Fran’s classmates have their names called, some of them multiple times, and her stomach sinks slightly. She isn’t upset that she didn’t apply. No, she’s upset because it means she’s going to have to start dodging the topic around her parents. None of Fran’s friends are mentioned, but that’s because they all have jobs lined up for after graduation.

As she shuffles out of the chapel, Mr. Pratt, the spry music teacher, pulls Fran aside. “There’s a call for you,” he explains. “It’s your parents. They’re on line three, so you can tell that to Sylvia.”

Fran’s hands shake and she climbs the stairs to the main office as slowly as possible. What could they possibly want? After repeating the information Mr. MacInnis told her, Fran is given a phone receiver with instructions to keep it under ten minutes.

“Hello?”

The deep boom of her father greets Fran’s ears. “Francesca,” he says, not nearly as cheery as she hoped he would sound. “I was speaking to some friends of mine and they informed me the first round of Ivy acceptance notices were released. Did you hear anything?”

She sucks in a breath, letting it burn her lungs. “I didn’t,” Fran admits. It isn’t technically a lie, but it also isn’t the whole truth. “Not many people did though. I’m sure they just haven’t gotten to my application yet.”

Her father lets out a noise that’s a mixture between a hum and a rumble. “With your grades I’m sure you’ll hear soon. Which did you apply to again? I’m not sure you ever told your mother and I.”

All the moisture leaves Fran’s throat. “All of them sir,” she croaks, praying he doesn’t catch her in the lie.

“That’s my girl. Bet you’ve got your eyes set on Harvard.”

“Of course sir.”

The phone call ends a few moments later when Fran hears the bell signalling the start of class. She’ll get a slip from the secretary to excuse her tardiness, but Fran doesn't want to listen to her father gloat about how she’ll be the first child in the family to attend a prestigious university for another second. After saying goodbye Fran is left with a bitter taste in your mouth. Eventually he’s going to find out, and she isn't sure what will happen then.

By the time the weekend rolls around Fran is exhausted. Though she’s handling everything well, sleep is pretty far down the list of priorities and she definitely isn't getting enough of it. She sleeps well into the morning, only being woken up when Charlotte whacks her with a pillow.

“Get up you lame duck, we have to be at the cave in fifteen minutes.”

Fran groans, a strangled sound that bounces off the furniture. “Can I just skip this one meeting?” she asks. “I’ll attend the next six in a row.”

Charlotte sees right through the ruse. “Fran, we attend every meeting,” she sighs. “Besides, you’re the moderator today. What kind of meeting will it be if you don’t show up?”

Begrudgingly, Fran shuffles out of bed. With help from Charlotte, who tidies her space while she gets ready, the pair are only a few minutes late. Had she been by herself it would have been well over thirty minutes before Fran made an appearance.

Everyone else is already there, smoking the pipes Nate smuggled from his father’s collection the last time he visited home. “Look who finally decided to show up,” Tyson quips, coughing as he exhales.

“Shut the fuck up, Jost,” Fran huffs, stepping over the boy to sit in her regular seat, only to find it occupied.

A girl she’s never seen before is sitting beside Nate, gripping his arm excitedly and hanging on every word he says. The sight makes her stomach twist into an intricate knot, and looking at the two of them cuddled against one another makes Fran realize her feelings towards Nate might not be strictly platonic for the second time in their relationship. She shoots a questioning glance at Tyson, who just shrugs. On the other side of him, Cale’s got a girl with strawberry blonde hair perched on his lap. Neither of them look like they attend Welton or Henley, as they’re dressed very casually, in clothing that would never pass inspection at the boarding schools.

“Oh! Am I sitting in your seat?” Nate’s girl asks. “Nathan said it was alright.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fran grits, turning her attention to the tall boy who strives to make her life as difficult as possible. “Want to tell me what this is about MacKinnon? You’ve got a lot of gall co-opting my meeting.”

Nate stands dramatically, tossing his scarf over his shoulder and getting giggles from the newcomers. “This,” he begins, “is my attempt at breaking down the barriers between public and private schools. Marjorie and Annabelle are from Ridgeway High, and Cale and I thought they might like to see what life at Hell-ton was really like.”

“Plus,” the one Fran assumes is Annabelle says, “We might be joining The Society.”

The comment causes quite the upheaval among the group. Tyson stands up immediately, furious with both Nate and Cale. “You didn’t think to let us know?” He seethes, arms failing as he speaks, and Fran feels a little smug that he’s defending her meeting with such fervor.

Charlotte stands gingerly beside him, guiding him to sit back down. “Tys is right, boys,” she says gently, ever the peacekeeper. “You should have brought this up beforehand. We can’t have anyone really knowing of this little club we have going on.”

The other one, Cale’s current object of affection, goes to speak but Fran cuts her off. “Please don’t say you won’t tell,” she sighs, “Because there are a million other ways it could get out. And I for one don’t want my father to pull me out of Welton and ship me off to refinery school because he found out I was reading unauthorized books.”

Everyone agrees with her. It’s agreed upon that the girls will leave after the meeting and never return. They’re to pretend as though they have never met a single member of the Society, regardless of how friendly they’ve become with Cale and Nate. The boys look sad, but Fran can’t find it in her to be sorry for them. Adding members was never discussed, and the two boys most certainly shouldn’t have been so reckless. Word travels fast in the real world.

After the sudden housekeeping issue Fran leads one of the funnest society meetings yet. Ignoring the framework the group had originally set, no chapters of a published book are read. Instead, each member takes turns coming up with bits of prose on the fly. Eventually the girls get tired of the group’s antics and leave, once again swearing they won’t tell anyone. The five original members continue on for a while longer, making sure to head back to campus early. Tonight the kitchen staff are serving spaghetti and meatballs, and Fran will be damned if she misses out.

Fran awakes the next morning to find that all students are to report to the auditorium for an emergency meeting. A throng of tired teenagers follow the much more alert group of young kids. She shuffles into a row of seats with Charlotte and tries to search for the boys. Due to the suddenness of everything, the roommates couldn’t meet up with them, and find the spots they would usually sit quickly occupied. It doesn’t matter much though because if any of them were caught talking there would be serious repercussions.

“Good morning everyone,” Headmaster Sakic addresses the crowd. “It was brought to my attention yesterday evening that there is an unauthorized club of sorts here at Welton. Known as the Society for Banned and Burned Books, its sole purpose is to disobey the rules and curriculum. Anyone who knows about it or is associated with it is to report to my office immediately and turn themselves in. A thorough investigation will be conducted, so it is advised you heed this warning carefully.”

“Those fucking bitches,” Fran seethes. “I’m going to murder Nate.”

Though just as pissed off as her friend, Charlotte handles her emotions with much more grace. “Relax Fran, and don’t go doing anything stupid. We just have to think about what we’re going to do next.”

Fran knows exactly what she’s going to do. The next time she sees Nathan MacKinnon and Cale Makar she’s going to punch them in the teeth. Somehow Charlotte talks her down, but she’s still irate. How dare they be so careless? Fran spends the rest of the day ignoring them. No one goes to turn themselves in to Dr. Sakic, but she almost does it out of spite so she can implicate Cale and Nate. Fran decides against it of course, knowing it would only hurt her, but she’s definitely going to spend the next few days thinking of how to get them back.

It turns out she doesn’t have to find a way to make them feel bad about their actions. Mr. Bednar comes and finds them in the afternoon and expresses his disappointment in them. After a short lecture on how they put their friends, and themselves, at risk, the teacher leaves them to reflect on how to apologize. They show up on the girl’s dormitory floor later in the evening with a plate of cookies.

“The chef supervised us in the kitchen,” Cale explains. “We’re really sorry. It was dumb of us to invite those girls. Will you be able to forgive us?”

Nate nods, tacking his own statement on to the end of his friend’s. “We never wanted to put you guys in danger, especially you Fran. I don’t want anything to get in the way of those fancy author dreams of yours.”

Fran blushes at the comment, but lets them come inside. Their apology is sincere, and all is forgiven with laughs over milk and chocolate cookies. Nothing comes of Dr. Sakic’s threat in the coming days, so clearly the investigation was not thorough. Perhaps the girls were better at keeping their mouths shut than Fran previously thought. Wanting to still play it safe, the group decides to not host any more meetings until after the holiday break.

☼☼☼☼

It’s a lonely break for Fran, spent mostly alone in her bedroom. At every opportunity her father is boasting about her academic achievements to anyone who will listen through the various holiday parties he corrals the rest of the family to. The whole town seems quite impressed that Fran is poised to attend an Ivy League, though it’s a ruse. No one knows that of course, and they all except she’ll be making an announcement on which school she’ll attend shortly. The holidays pass slowly, and Fran eats more than her fair share of mashed potatoes and gravy. Since her father must still work throughout her time at home, Fran is left to her own devices throughout the day. Though her mother loves Fran she’s docile, and often doesn’t talk to Fran unless she has to.

Fran spends an enormous amount of time writing. When she returns to school there’s only three weeks before she has to turn in the first draft of her novel. Hours are spent crafting scenes in painstaking detail – writing and rewriting until she’s happy with the quality of her work. At night Fran plays board games with her family, and makes up lies for her father’s questions. He’s becoming more creative, asking ones that demand specific answers. However she’s able to manage, mostly thanks to Cale’s insane wealth of knowledge on countless educational institutions. Without him she’d be lost at sea.

She’s extremely happy to be back at Welton, so much so she rushes ahead of her parents, not heeding her father’s warnings. Once sequestered into the auditorium, Fran tries to get permission to sit with Charlotte, but is immediately rejected.

“Sir, why can’t I? Other students are sitting together,” she states, and the glare you receive from her father could pierce a soul.

“After the stunt you just pulled?” he grits. “You’re lucky I don’t wheel you out of here and take you home. You will sit beside us. That’s final.”

The call of his name has him put his focus elsewhere, and Fran’s mother gives her a sympathetic smile. “He means well, dear,” she says. “After all, your father is right. We have certain appearances we must keep up since we aren’t of such high status.”

Before Fran can try and make a rebuttal, the procession enters the auditorium. Headed by her three male best friends and Tyson’s roommate Ryan, who have been tasked with carrying the banners, the teaching and administrative staff shuffle into the room. It’s silent – everyone not-so-patiently waiting for this assembly to be over. Undoubtedly Fran’s least favourite part of attending Welton, the term's opening assemblies are extremely dull and have made her consider leaving on multiple occasions.

“Welcome back to another term at Welton,” Dr. Sakic preaches. “We’ll be sure to have an excellent time. Now students, I must ask you the most pertinent of questions, one that’s asked at the start of every academic season. What are the four pillars?”

The voices of hundreds of children mingle together. “Tradition, honour, discipline, excellence,” Fran mumbles, slouching slightly. A swift nudge to the ribs from her father has her standing straighter than a board. She cannot wait to be rid of him.

After what feels like two hours of listening to Dr. Sakic and other distinguished staff members speak, everyone is finally allowed to leave. Bidding her parents a quick farewell, Fran clambers up the stairs to reach her room before Charlotte. Though she loves her dearly and the blonde never fails to lift your spirits, Fran needs alone time to quickly cry. It seems no matter what she does she’ll always be a disappointment to her father. The only thing he attributes to her is receiving acceptance to a prestigious school, and she refuses to give him that.

The reunion between the group of friends is much more relaxed this time around. Everyone had only been separated for a few weeks, not months. There’s still a small level of dramatics of course. When Nate sees Fran in the hallway he tackles her to the ground in a hug.

“Nathan, get off of me!” she squeaks, words punctuated by giggles. No one seems to notice, too caught up in their own reunions and settling in for another term, but Fran catches the way his eyes soften when he looks at her and it causes heat to rise to the top of her skin. She thought the weeks spent apart would help her silly crush go away, but it’s reared its head in full force and Fran doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Never,” he shouts, dragging Fran to her feet and sequestering her up the stairs. When they arrive in his dorm room, the rest of the group is already there. Details of holidays are shared, as are hopes for the school semester. It’s their final one at Welton, and Fran wants to make it count.

In just over five months she’ll graduate, leaving behind every comfort she’s known for the past six years. “Hell-ton has been our home for so long,” Fran sighs as she rests her head on Tyson’s shoulder. “What are we going to do once we’re gone?”

“Do whatever the fuck we want without teachers breathing down our necks.”

He has a point. For so long they’ve all been forced to act in a certain way that it will be nice to do as one pleases.

Charlotte hums in agreement, standing to stretch her legs. “Come on Fran, we should get back to our room. You’ve got to finish writing that one scene.”

Begrudgingly she untangles herself from Nate’s covers. She’s right, but Fran would rather not think about it. “Char, it’s killing me,” she whines. “Can I just not think about it for a while?”

She carefully reminds her of your deadline, and it’s enough to have Fran bounding down the flight of stairs. She really does need to get to work. The rest of the night has her stooping over her typewriter, clicking at the keys incessantly. By the time she falls asleep Fran has finished the scene and written at least three more, pushing her even closer to the finish line.

She finishes her draft a few days early, and hands it to Ms. Robertson after the workshop one night. She’s thoroughly impressed and is sure to let Fran know. The girl preens under her compliments, sure to downplay how happy she truly is. When she lets Mr. Bednar read the corrected version, he too showers Fran in praise.

“This is phenomenal, Miss Winters.”

Once again Fran is blushing, cheeks feeling much too warm for the cold winter afternoon. “Thank you Captain. It isn’t much though,” she says softly.

“Nonsense. It’s a masterpiece. Do you think I could commission you to bind me my own copy once it’s finished? I’d love to have it on my shelves.”

Fran is dumbfounded. “You want a copy of my book? But you read the greats like Twain and Fitzgerald!”

“You’re destined to be one of them, and I want to commemorate it.”

It’s then that she invites him to the final workshop in a few months' time. All participants will have their finished published works, and will take turns reading excerpts and answering questions. It’s supposed to be a mock book signing, and Fran is beyond excited. There’s nothing she wants more than for him to be there.

☼☼☼☼

Life begins to pick up speed, and Fran feels as though she’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Between academics, licensed extracurriculars, and society meetings she barely has enough time to sleep. It’s exhausting, but Fran feels completely satisfied. Not everyone gets the same experiences she’s been afforded, and she’s determined to make the most of it.

Mr. Bednar’s classes are still her favourite. This term the class is focussing on poetry, since the prose units were completed before the break, and every day Fran craves more. She finally learns the origin of the nickname ‘Captain’ with the reading of a particular poem, and everyone in the class increases their use of the term exponentially. Classes are spent reciting giants like Whitman and Frost, but also so-called ‘beat poets’ like Ginsberg and Kerouac. It’s easy to lose the stresses of life in their fantasies, and Fran always feels lighter when she leaves the room.

Some of her favourite lessons of the year have happened recently – namely the one on perspective. Ever the revolutionary, Mr. Bednar had everyone take turns standing on his desk, surveying the room before jumping down. A handful of students didn’t understand, but Fran found it incredibly eye-opening. Suddenly she understands why writing is so powerful – it can mean a million different things to a thousand people.

The Society for Banned and Burned Books starts to become less structured, and truthfully Fran doesn't mind. Most of the time everyone sits in the cave and discusses the ideas Mr. Bednar plants in their heads. Not many books are being read, but she’s glad. They were beginning to become a bit dull and the group was running out of titles – authors are being much more careful these days so as not to offend governing bodies. No matter what lens the club has taken, Fran is glad it exists. She’s spent countless hours fooling around with her dearest friends while enriching their minds. What more could she ask for?

Her novel is coming along swell. It passed the first and second revisions with flying colours and is now off at the printers. When Fran asks if she can print two copies, and that she doesn't mind paying the extra, Ms. Robertson is shocked.

“There’s no way you’re footing that bill! Especially because you’re giving it to someone,” she says, putting a cork in the matter. “Mr. Bednar will be delighted.”

The young mentor knows of Fran’s beloved English teacher, and is touched that she wants to do something so special for him. No one else in the group is as excited as Fran. Most of them are involved simply to pass the time or stand out on college applications, but not her. Fran is in the seminar because her soul yearns to write and she’d be a fool to deny its wishes. Writing is what she wants to do for the rest of her life, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t seriously pursue it.

☼☼☼☼

The day Fran gets her book back from the publishing house, the final round of Ivy League admissions is sent out. Her name is, of course, not on it. However, Ms. Robertson got in touch with a friend who teaches at Bryn Mawr college, and they’ve extended an offer into their creative writing program. Fran is delighted, and accepts almost immediately. The school is prestigious enough that hopefully her father can overlook the fact it’s not an Ivy.

Life goes as usual, with the day passing slowly. Tonight is the first time she’ll get to see her finished work, and will prepare for the showcase tomorrow night. She’s ecstatic, practically bouncing off the walls the entire day.

“Slow down,” Cale huffs, trying desperately to keep up with the jovial pace Fran has set.

She turns around to flash him the biggest smile she’s ever mustered. “I simply cannot, my dearest Cale, because I’m now a published author. My joy knows no limits.”

“You better not get a big head and a terrible ego,” Nate pipes in, joining the both of them in walking to the willow by the lake. He ruffles Fran’s hair and she swats his arm away.

“Shut up!”

The three of them join the other members of the group, who were able to weave through the crowds faster to claim the best spot on the grounds. Everyone spends the break joking around and chattering about tomorrow night. They’ll all be in attendance, along with Mr. Bednar. Somehow Fran has managed to keep her admittance to the seminar a secret to anyone outside of Welton and she’s quite proud of herself.

At Henley Hall, she feels electric. Seeing words that she wrote on a page, bound in leather, puts butterflies in her stomach. For possibly the first time in her life Fran feels like she’s on the right path. Reading a piece of the story out loud is exhilarating, and she can’t wait to see how the crowd responds. The question and answer section allows her to really delve into the creative process, immersing audience members in the story even more. It’s an evening spent having the time of her life, but something feels the tiniest bit off. Fran’s brain tells her something is going to go wrong when she returns to Welton.

How right she was. When she finally reaches her dormitory floor after swimming against the current of hungry teenagers, Charlotte is standing anxiously at the end of the hall.

“Your father is inside our room, and he looks absolutely peeved,” she whispers, hugging Fran tightly before running to join the others downstairs. If she’s caught loitering, detention will be her home for the next few weeks.

Taking a deep breath, Fran does her best to mask her anxiety before stepping into the room. He’s sitting at her desk, tapping his foot impatiently, and sporting a grimace that makes Fran’s stomach contract.

“Father, what are you doing here?”

It’s a dumb question – she knows exactly why he’s here. Her father doesn’t buy the weak question and chooses to ignore it completely.

“How dare you,” he broods, “Defy me and then lie about it?”

There’s no beating around the bush tonight, and Fran wishes she could be anywhere but here. “Sir, I can explain –”

“There’s nothing to explain! You made me look like a fool, telling everyone in town that my daughter, my Francesca, was going to attend an Ivy and study to become the best legal secretary in the goddamn county. That she had the pick of litter and would choose whichever offered her the biggest scholarship. Do you know how I stupid I look?”

Tears prick at the corner of Fran’s eyes, but she will them away. “Father, please,” she whispers, trying to stay strong but her voice betrays how she truly feels.

He doesn’t let up, continuing the rather one-sided argument. “And then I hear from old Mrs. Perkins that her granddaughter is coaching you in a writing seminar at Henley Hall? I told her she must have confused you with someone else because writing is a waste of time. She was incessant, and showed me the letter her granddaughter had mailed her, detailing how wonderful your novel was and she was so excited to get you a spot in a creative program at a women’s college. I was appalled.”

Now is the one chance Fran has to defend herself. “I never wanted to attend an Ivy, Sir,” she tries to explain as calmly as possible. “That’s what you wanted for me. Bryn Mawr is just as prestigious, one of the Seven Sisters. I’ll be happier there, doing what I love. I want to be a writer, Father.”

“Nonsense, Francesca. You’re seventeen, you don’t know what the hell you want.”

It goes like that, back and forth, for a while as she tries to make her father see reason. He isn’t having any of it.

“Did that new teacher, Mr. Bednar, put you up to this?”

Where her father got that notion Fran isn’t sure. “Of course not, Sir,” she exclaims, “I’m simply doing what’s best for myself.”

“What is best for yourself, huh?” he seethes. “You don’t know what’s best for you, but I’ll tell you. You’re going to drop out of the little writing program and tell Bryn Mawr you’re reneging your acceptance. Next fall you can apply for Harvard.”

Fran tries to explain to him that she can’t do what he’s ordering, that the signing is tomorrow night and they’re counting on her to be there. Her father simply does not care and after screaming at Fran some more leaves her dorm room in a flurry of anger, slamming the door behind him.

As if she is Atlas and the weight of the world has crushed Fran, she curls into a ball on her bed and sobs in pain. She’s absolutely heartbroken. Why can’t he just let her do what she wants? Too tired to eat, Fran stays in her room and eventually cries herself into a fitful sleep.

Fran is in the same position hours later when her friends peek through the door to check in. Without a word, the four of them surround her in a group hug. Nate’s hands find a way to her back and rub soothing circles in an attempt to calm Fran down. It helps slightly, and she eventually gets the sniffles to stop. No one speaks, but it’s comforting for Fran to not be alone. She knows that when she does want to talk about what happened they’ll be there with open ears.

At the urging of Tyson and Charlotte, Fran travels to the teachers’ quarters and knocks timidly at Mr. Bednar’s door. “Come in,” he says breezily, and she carefully steps around the pile of worn novels on the floor.

“Captain, I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says earnestly, “But I really could use some advice.”

He ushers her to sit down, and pours a cup of tea that he sets gently in Fran’s hands. She explains the entire situation, sparing no detail. Any memory that vaguely relates to her terse parental relations is also brought into the mix – if this man is going to know anything, he’s going to know everything. The conversation then moves into how much Fran loves writing, and how she feels as though she’s nothing without it. Mr. Bednar sits quietly and nods as she talks, not speaking until Fran winds herself.

“Can you tell him what you just told me?” he asks, leaning over to refill her cup and pass the sugar.

Fran scoffs, though the tears threatening to spill after sharing her heart show that she isn’t as aloof as she hopes to be. “Absolutely not. I can’t talk to him like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t see me as a person! To him I’m just a canvas he can project his dreams onto. There’s nothing I could say to make him see that he doesn’t always know what’s best for me.”

The room goes quiet. It isn’t uncomfortable, but Fran is waiting for the older man to speak again. Mr. Bednar stands and walks to the small window beside his desk. “I think you should try,” he theorizes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently. “If you tell him everything you just told me, your father will see the passion you have for writing, and will let you stay enrolled in both the workshop and Bryn Mawr.”

She stays with the teacher a little while longer, discussing poetry and prose. It’s nice to talk to someone without them having preconceived notions of how she’s meant to behave and who she’s supposed to become. When Fran walks back to her dormitory she still doesn't feel as light as she hoped. There’s absolutely no way she can try and convince her father to let you stick with writing. Fran’s only hope is to disobey his direct orders. If memory serves her correctly, Fran’s father will be leaving for a three day business trip to Chicago in the morning. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.

The rest of the night is spent with her friends doing everything in their power to keep Fran’s mind off the situation. At the suggestion of Cale, everyone dresses in their robes and sneaks to the cave, having an impromptu Society meeting. It’s nothing serious or official, just the group telling ghost stories and poking fun at each other.

After an hour or so of enjoying each others’ company, Nate abruptly stands. “I think everyone knows what time it is,” he grins.

Everyone else looks at him as if he has three heads, but then Tyson suddenly remembers something and joins the taller boy in towering over the group. He then turns around to pick up a small bundle of mangled wires and boxes and passes it to Nate. “I present to you all our now fully functional backyard radio!”

“Holy shit, you fucking did it,” Cale exclaims, profusely shocked. Charlotte just lets her jaw drop open in astonishment. Fran is speechless too, unable to believe her friends were actually able to pull their crazy invention scheme off.

No one speaks for a few beats, astounded, but Charlotte breaks the silence. “Well, are you going to turn it on you tossers?”

After a speedy setup that doesn’t look particularly safe, Nate sticks the antenna out the hole in the cave’s roof while Tyson fiddles with the dials. It takes a second, but soon enough music flits through the speaker. The voice of Elvis Presley meets everyone’s ears and Fran’s foot involuntarily taps along to the beat. Laughter and shouts of encouragement echo off the stones until it’s so loud she can no longer hear the music. No one seems to care, and Cale doesn’t refuse when Fran grabs his hand and invites him to dance. At some point Nate sweeps her into his arms to do a ridiculous step pattern, and Fran giggles loudly at the gesture. Despite everything that happened earlier in the evening, she ends the night feeling genuinely happy.

☼☼☼☼

There’s about ten minutes until Fran has to leave for Henley Hall. Charlotte has her practically tied to the desk chair and is in the process of taking the rollers out of Fran’s hair. Honestly, Fran doesn't care too much about her appearance since the event is nothing official, but her best friend insists she look the part of a glamorous novelist.

“Stop moving your bloody head,” the blonde grumbles.

“Sorry Lottie,” she apologizes sincerely. “Just a little antsy.”

It isn’t a lie. Fran has been a jittery mess all day. Not one of the lessons given stuck in her brain, and her left knee has been constantly bouncing.

Charlotte places her hand comfortingly on your shoulder. “I know darling.”

She gets back to work setting the curls, and Fran takes a second to look at herself in her small desk mirror. Charlotte has completed the seemingly impossible task of making her look elegant – painting her lips a beautiful cherry red and ironing the prettiest dress in their combined closets so there wouldn’t be any misplaced creases. A few spritzes of hairspray and she’s done, letting Fran stand up to see the finished product for the first time.

She looks herself up and down, trying to recognize the person staring back at her. It isn’t that she looks like a completely different person. In fact, Fran looks like a more sophisticated, well travelled version of a seventeen year old. She can picture herself employing Charlotte to help her get ready before any other major event she might have in the future – perhaps she’d prefer styling to nursing.

Before Fran can say anything a low whistle comes from the doorway. “You sure clean up nice, Francesca,” Nate grins, using the girl’s full name in an attempt to make her squirm.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, MacKinnon,” she says, walking breezily over to him and straightening out his bowtie. Everyone in the group is travelling to Henley in Mr. Bednar’s car. The audience doesn’t need to be there for nearly forty-five minutes after the call time, but Fran’s entourage wants to get good seats.

The other boys round the corner then, and compliment her profusely. It makes Fran blush, if only because they’re being uncharacteristically sincere. No comedic jabs follow, and she feels incredibly loved. The four of them sit patiently while Charlotte finishes her makeup, chatting amongst themselves. As soon as she’s done the door is shut quietly and the group tomps down the stairs to meet their teacher in the lobby.

“Looking sharp, kids,” Mr. Bednar exclaims jovially. “Like proper literature enthusiasts. Shall we go?”

Henley Hall isn’t a far walk, perhaps ten minutes, but riding in the back of her teacher’s car makes Fran feel important. He makes pleasant small talk with Charlotte and shares crude jokes with the boys, but asks Fran an earnest question.

“Did you tell your father what you told me Fran?”

She gulps. Of course she hadn’t called her father, not wanting to make matters worse. “I did, this morning,” she stutters. “He won’t be able to attend though, left for Chicago as I called. I think he’s going to let me stick with it.”

In the rearview mirror Mr. Bednar smiles brightly. “Glad to hear it.”

After parking the car out front of the building, the group walks into the theatre together, and Fran leaves them to slip backstage. No one else is, unsurprisingly, in the audience, but they’re more than content talking amongst themselves.

Ms. Robertson quickly goes over the speaking order and answers everyone’s questions before allowing time to practice answering questions one last time. It’s fun for Fran to chat with her fellow writers, who over the past few months have become friends, and hang out with them one last time. No one else from Welton ever joined, making her the lone outsider, but they took her in with open arms. It will be sad to leave them, though once she leaves for Bryn Mawr – if her father allows her to stay enrolled – some of the girls will be joining you.

A quick glance at the clock lets Fran know it’s go time. At the cue of the stage manager, she and the other participants file onto the stage. The one nice thing is that she isn’t out there alone and can lean on the support of her fellow creatives if need be.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to our annual Writer’s Showcase,” Ms. Robertson announces. Applause and cheers erupt from the crowd, with Fran’s little group making the most noise. She waves shyly and sits down, awaiting the prompt to begin speaking. When it’s finally her turn it takes a second for Fran to gain her voice, so petrified that something will go wrong, she mumbles the first few words of her introduction. After a second she’s fine, and continues speaking with ease and zeal.

Presenting her work to everyone important to her is the best moment of Fran’s entire life. The entire audience is on the edge of their seat, hanging off her every word. It’s empowering – for the first time in her life Fran feels special. She reads a short passage to much acclaim, ending with a deafening roar of applause. A broad smile finds its way onto her features and it seems as though it will be permanent.

The rest of the students finish their readings and the group move on to the question and answer section. This exercise is open, but each participant gets the same number of questions so as not to upstage anyone. However, it’s clear that Fran is the one most people are interested in. She ponders the questions and gives thoughtful answers. After a particularly tricky one, she hears Cale shout encouragement in her direction.

“That’s it Fran!” he yells through cupped hands, adding a whistle for extra effect. Her other friends join in, and soon so has the entire auditorium. Fran stands up and awkwardly bows before allowing another person to answer a question.

Everything is going well until she watches her father slip through the doors. He’s wearing a wicked scowl and has his brows knitted together. Whatever is about to happen won’t be pretty. Instead of causing a scene, he perches against the back wall and folds his arms over his chest. Fran gulps. Jeremy, the last boy to answer a question, finishes up. Everyone stands and bows, but she’s in such a daze that she has to be pulled up by those on either side of her. The noise is overwhelming and Fran is beginning to find it hard to breathe. As soon as it’s possible, she darts off the stage and out of view.

“Fran? What’s wrong?” Ms. Robertson asks, concern lacing her voice.

“Nothing,” she lies through her teeth. “Just a little overwhelmed by it all.”

She smiles and wraps her arms around Fran’s shoulder in a hug. “I know. Come on, let’s go celebrate.” Much to her chagrin, Fran is pulled into the crowd of people waiting to see their loved ones in the lobby. Sifting through the mass, she tries her hardest to find her friends before her father finds where she is. Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

“Francesca,” he shouts, reaching through the crowd to grab Fran by the wrist. “We’re going home right this minute.”

“But I have to return to Welton, Sir,” she protests.

Fran’s father sends her a look that could turn Medusa to stone. “Car. Now.”

It’s a hassle to keep up with his blistering pace, but Fran knows things will be worse if she keeps him waiting. The walls seem to cave in around her and tears flow without regard to who could see. Fran is legitimately terrified.

She hears her name being called as she reaches the door. Charlotte spots her and ducks under a man’s arm to catch up. Fran shoots her a warning look but she either doesn’t see it or pays it no mind. The rest of the group follows her. Too scared to look at them, Fran remains mute as they call out to her.

“That was simply wonderful, Miss Winters,” Mr. Bednar exclaims. “You’ve got a real talent for writing.” Fran blushes at his words, and hopes it conveys how much they mean to her.

Knowing this is probably going to be her only chance, Fran shoves the copy of her novel into the teacher’s chest. It’s got his initials embossed on the front cover and includes a handwritten dedication explaining how much his encouragement means to her. “Take this,” Fran mumbles, unable to look him or her friends in the eye.

Her father doesn’t miss the interaction. “Get in the car,” he orders. Fran follows the directions and presses your face against the glass, worried for her teacher. When he wants to, her father can unleash his wicked temper with unyielding cruelty.

“Stay away from my daughter, Bednar,” he seethes, grabbing the other man by the collar of his sweater. “You’re the one that put her up to all this nonsense.”

“He didn’t!” Nate protests, preparing to give Fran’s father a piece of his mind but Mr. Bednar stops him.

“That’s enough, Nathan, we don’t need to make it worse.”

With nothing else to say, Fran’s father storms to his side of the vehicle and slams the door. Turning the engine on rather aggressively he zips out the parking lot, leaving Fran to stare out the back window and watch her friends shrink and disappear. It’s so tense the air between the two of them could be cut with a dull kitchen knife. The silence is deafening and Fran wishes he’d just start screaming now to get it over with. Instead, he doesn’t speak or look at her, focussing on the road ahead of him. Though she doesn't live terribly far from Welton and Henley, the ride is long enough to spike Fran’s anxiety.

Fran’s mother is standing on the porch when the car pulls into the driveway. She pushes off the column to meet her family at the car, but stops in her tracks when her husband breezes past her. Fran hasn't even had time to open the passenger door.

“Conrad,” her mother sighs, following him into the house and trying to calm him down.

“No, Barbra, she’s gone too far this time.”

If driving away wouldn’t make it worse, Fran would be halfway to Welton by now. Her father had taught her to drive in the evenings during the summer, and it’s late enough that no police would be patrolling. Besides, if she told them the truth they might let her off the hook.

Instead, she rises out of the car with shaking knees. The front door is still open, so Fran slinks through and shuts it quietly. In the office beside the entryway her parents are arguing, though it’s mostly her father doing the talking. He often overpowers her mom and she’s too fragile to speak up for herself. That door is open too, which Fran finds strange. Normally their arguments happen in private.

“Come in,” her father says gruffly.

Fran enters cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Considering he almost assaulted her English teacher it probably won’t be very good. The chair directly across from her father is open, and she sinks into it, refusing to meet his gaze. Across the room her mother is perched delicately on the edge of the desk, chain smoking cigarettes and twirling the pearls of her necklace around her thumb.

“We’re trying very hard to understand why you insist on defying us, defying me.” His voice is eerily calm, and truthfully that upsets Fran more than if he were to scream at her. “And though I suspect that no good, idyllic teacher is behind it, we aren’t going to let you ruin your life. You’ll no longer be attending Welton. Starting first thing in the morning you’ll be enrolled at Balthasar’s Refining Academy, where you’ll finish the year and study to become a legal secretary.”

“But Father, that’s a lifetime of unhappiness,” Fran protests. “I don’t want to be a secretary.”

“Well that’s too fucking bad!” he screeches. “Because that’s what you’re going to be. It’s not a death sentence.”

Her mother says nothing, just sits and stares blankly. Fran can tell she’s afraid of him, her father, but won’t ever leave. That’s simply not the way things work.

“You don’t understand, Francesca” he continues, “You have opportunities your mother and I could never have even dreamt of. I can’t let you waste them.” With a sharp turn on his heel he faces the window, his back to Fran signaling the conversation is finished.

Adrenaline courses through her veins, and Fran seizes the only opportunity shemight ever get to tell her father how she truly feels. “I need you to know what I feel!”

Not appreciating the young girl’s challenge to his authority, Fran’s father turns on her with a wicked gleam in his eye. “What is it that you feel?” he snarls. “What is it!”

Facing him diminishes her newfound confidence. There’s no doubt he’ll pick the argument apart, berate her for having aspirations based on passion instead of security. It’s a fight Fran won’t win, so she backs down entirely.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispers.

A triumphant smirk appears on her father’s face. “That settles it then,” he exclaims, and promptly strides out of the room to get ready for bed.

Fran falls back in the armchair feeling incredibly defeated. Tears begin to fall, and soon sobs are wracking her body. In an effort to be of some comfort her mother places a hand on her shoulder, but it doesn’t help. She’s just as much to blame for Fran’s sorrow as he is.

“I was really good out there. I truly felt happy for the first time.” Fran’s voice breaks as she speaks, unable to continue for fear of breaking down completely.

Her mother stands and finishes the rest of her cigarette in a single drag. “It’s been a long night, let’s get some sleep.”

There’s no way Fran will be able to sleep. The events of the past few hours replay in her head on a loop, and she tries to find things she could have done that would have made the outcome different. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to her friends or Mr. Bednar, and that’s what stings the most.

She stares at the ceiling for a few hours, and when that doesn’t settle anything Fran gets out of bed to stare out the window. The night looks peaceful and quiet, unlike the sea of sadness swimming in her soul. In an attempt to find a solution to the swirling of her mind, she opens the window and allows the air to flow in. It’s warm, a tad bit sticky for April, but it calms her down for a split second. There’s a moment when Fran feels free, when the moonlight hits her skin just right and she’s glistening like Selene herself, before the weight of everything settles on her shoulders again. Fran is unhappy, and she will be unhappy for the rest of her life.

There’s only one thing left for her to do.

She slips into actual clothes and grabs a jacket from the small wardrobe in the corner of her room. Propping open the window with a piece of wood she found on the floor – her parents are in the middle of remodelling the house – and slipping on shoes, Fran looks around the room for a final time. If she plays her cards right, this will be the last time she’s ever in the building.

Carefully, Fran slips out the window and perches on the large branch. It’s strong enough to hold her weight if she wanted to close the window, but she doesn’t bother to hide the escape from her parents. They’ll know as soon as they wake up anyways. She quickly scurries down to ground level and takes off without a look over her shoulder. Sprinting as fast as she can, Fran makes it down the road and into the nearby village rather fast. The darkness of the night covers her tracks, and besides, no one is out at this time anyways.

There’s a payphone on the corner across from the post office, and Fran steps into the booth as soon as she possibly can. Her hands shake as she picks up the receiver. Thankfully the telephone operators won’t be able to tell who she is and alert her parents, since Fran’s calling from a public line.

“Operator,” the woman says flatly.

“Hello,” Fran rushes the introduction, skipping over a few formalities. “I need to speak to Mr. Jared Bednar of Welton Academy.”

With an unamused grunt the operator switches the phone over to his line. The dial tone begins to ring, and Fran feels anxiety settle into her bones. What if he decides not to help?

“Who is calling at such an ungodly hour?” he yawns, and she feels bad for waking him.

“Mr. Bednar, I ran away from home,” Fran cries, finally allowing tears to escape and too upset to use the nickname she often calls him by. “Can you come pick me up?”

His response is immediate. “Of course, child. Where are you?”

She explains to him where she is and, after promising not to move, hangs up. There’s a bench beside the phone booth, so Fran sits patiently and waits for the teacher to arrive. The wind no longer feels warm, and she curls the light jacket she brought tighter around her shoulders. Thankfully, no one approaches her while she sits alone. Fran is in a very precarious situation, and doesn't know how she would survive a kidnapping attempt.

Mr. Bednar’s car pulls up alongside the curb and he jumps up before the gearshift settles into park. His arms are around Fran in a nanosecond, comforting her and leading her to the warmth of the vehicle. Once out of the elements Fran feels slightly better, but is still exhausted from the roller coaster that has been the past few hours.

“Let’s get you back home,” he says, and she begins to panic. “To Hell-ton.”

Her heart rate steadies, and Fran finds enough energy to half-heartedly laugh at the use of Welton’s absurd nickname. This drive is also silent, but extremely comfortable. Eventually Mr. Bednar reaches over and turns the radio on, and she falls asleep to the voice of Sam Cooke.

When Fran arrives at Welton, she doesn’t go back to her dorm. Instead, Mr. Bednar sequesters her into the teachers’ quarters. “Your father will be here in the morning to try and find you and it will be the first place they look,” he explains. “You’re safe up here.” At Fran’s request he grabs Charlotte, and she collapses into the blonde’s arms when she steps in the room.

“Shh Fran, it’s alright,” she soothes. “You’re okay. And you’re safe.”

The two girls sleep curled together on the small couch in Mr. Bednar’s living room while he paces back and forth trying to figure out what to do. He should report the incident to the administration, but he knows that Dr. Sakic will allow Fran to go back into a dangerous situation without care for her safety. There’s nothing he would want less in the world, he decides, and doesn’t care if his credibility is ruined while trying to protect her. He doesn’t sleep a wink, keeping an eye on the door in case someone saw him bring Fran in – Welton’s staff is full of greedy opportunists who will do anything to get ahead.

He was right. The next morning Fran’s father is at Welton, demanding she return home with him. She’s nowhere to be found of course, tucked safely away in Mr. Bednar’s room, but Fran watches him stomp around the grounds from the window. It’s terrifying, knowing he could find her at any second. Never has she been more scared in her life.

Fran’s friends come to see her whenever they can spare a moment, though never all together. Cale comes the most frequently, but that’s because he’s positioned to be a staff member in a few months and the old men don’t mind him being in their quarters. He brings with him sweets and stories of other students misbehaving in class – most of the time it’s Nate. Since she’s technically a fugitive and can’t attend lessons, her friends take turns breaking down the material so Fran doesn’t get too far behind. When the anxiety of getting found out gets to be too much, Charlotte comes to braid Fran’s hair and shares fantastical tales of her European adventures. Nate stops by as often as he can, letting Fran know he’s there for her in every sense of the word, and she feels herself yearning for him once again.

After three days her father stops coming to Welton. Fran assumes he’s moved on to looking in other places, and becomes a bit freer in her movements. Late at night she sneaks out to join her friends at the regularly scheduled Society meetings. Mr. Bednar doesn’t say anything, sometimes helping Fran escape by distracting those who might see her in the hallways. This works for a week, but eventually she’s found out.

Fellow student Nico Sturm finds Fran sneaking back into Mr. Bednar’s quarters one evening. Nico is in that section of the school for chemistry tutoring, and sees her pass by in a flash. Immediately after realizing it was the missing girl teachers have encouraged students to look for, he travels to Dr. Sakic’s office, where the old man works until well into the night. The young man takes the opportunity to also reveal the names of the other students involved in the Society for Banned and Burned Books. Apparently he’s been watching the group for quite some time, waiting until the time was right to present the information. He’ll make a great politician indeed.

Three raps at the door are followed by Sakic’s booming voice. “Jared, open this door or so help me god.”

Fran looks at her teacher with an absolutely petrified gaze. “What do we do?” she asks, voice small.

“Whatever we can to minimize the damage,” he replies grimly.

Dr. Sakic stands in the doorway, broad shoulders making it so much of the space isn’t empty. He invites himself in, peering around the room for Fran. When he spots her he speaks. “Christ Jared, you can’t kidnap children.”

The English teacher calmly explains that he had not kidnapped Fran, but that she had called him for help after running away from home. Apparently that wasn’t the answer Sakic was looking for. The older man explains that Fran’s parents are on their way to the school and that the three of them should make the journey to his office.

The entire time Fran waits for her parents to arrive she’s a nervous wreck. Her teacher does his best to comfort her from a distance – it was made very clear that the two of them were to be separated. Both men let Fran cry freely, which she appreciates, because once her father enters the room she’ll be forced to show no emotion.

He’s a force to be reckoned with when he arrives, arms flying and tongue lashing. It’s all Fran’s mother and Dr. Sakic can do to stop him from tearing Mr. Bednar’s throat out. “You no good son of a bitch,” he screams. “You kidnapped my daughter!”

“Lower your voice, Conrad,” Dr. Sakic advises. “It’s better if we solve this matter privately. We don’t want a scandal.”

Her father huffs gruffly before agreeing. Fran doesn't dare look him in the eye and he pays her no mind. Though her mother does come over to quietly ask if Fran was safe, she’s quickly called to her husband’s side.

The adults deliberate for hours, never once stopping to bring Fran into the conversation. Mr. Bednar gives her a look that says he would if possible, but she knows he can’t ask for her input on the matter at hand. His career is already on the brink. Fran’s father is adamant on having Mr. Bednar fired and pulling her out of Welton.

“It’s clearly not safe for her here,” he argues. “So it’s best we put her someplace else.”

Dr. Sakic disagrees completely. “You’ll never be able to find a school to take her for a month. Plus she’s graduating. Let her remain here, and then send her wherever you’d like.”

Fran’s parents deliberate for a short time. It’s mostly her father arguing that she must leave and your mother agreeing with the headmaster. “He’s right dear, it would be detrimental to her education if we send her someplace else,” she says quietly. He mulls it over for a minute before conceding.

“Fine. But Bednar is gone.”

Fran can’t help her face from falling into a frown. It isn’t fair he gets punished for trying to help her. “Father –” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I advise you not to speak unless called upon, Francesca,” he says cooly. “When asked, you will verbally confirm that Mr. Bednar kidnapped you and held you hostage. You’ll also sign a paper saying that he encouraged you to enter into unauthorized extra curriculars.”

The tone of his voice tells Fran those orders are final and she’d be a fool to try and defy them. Left with no other option she agrees, though Fran hopes the fingers you have crossed behind her back will help to lessen the guilt. “I don’t see that I have any other choice,” she sighs. “So I have one request.”

“You’re not in a place to be asking for anything,” her father spits.

Dr. Sakic stops him from continuing. “Mr. Winters, we try to keep this school as democratic as possible. Let her speak.”

The floor is hers and Fran’s throat goes drier than a desert. “I don’t want Mr. Bednar in the room when I say these things,” she stammers, heart pounding in her ears. She’d rather not say them at all, but her hand is being forced.

The request is granted, and Fran’s beloved English teacher nods his head once before slipping out of the room. Tears stain her cheeks and blouse as she repeats the words she’s prompted to. Her voice is barely above a whisper and riddled with hiccups, but they don’t let Fran stop. Eventually the excruciating process is done, and it feels like her soul has been crushed. In a way it has – Mr. Bednar gave Fran the tools to feel like her life had purpose and now he’s gone.

Without acknowledging her parents, Fran turns on her heel to return to the dormitory wing. They’ll stay for a while longer, discussing with the headmaster on how they want to proceed legally. At the last second she decides to turn around, speaking to them for what will hopefully be the last time.

“I never want to see either of you ever again.”

Charlotte is waiting for her with open arms. She lets Fran cry herself to sleep, and even then she doesn’t dare move a muscle. The other girl needs her to provide love and stability, even in an unconscious state, and she understands. Sleep doesn’t come easy, or for long, but Charlotte’s there with Fran every step of the way.

☼☼☼☼

Fran is empty. Everything feels like it’s underwater, and she spends most of the morning distant from almost everything. Her friends are there, cracking small jokes and offering comforting touches. It’s much appreciated and Fran hopes they know this, because she’s too exhausted to tell them herself. The events of last night, and the weeks and months before, play on loop in her head. She feels personally responsible for the destruction of Mr. Bednar’s career, and though she knows he doesn’t blame you, Fran can’t help but blame herself.

No one pushes her much, which Fran appreciates. The other teachers know what happened last night, and don’t call on her for answers. Other students whisper but she does her best to ignore them, and when they get a little too rowdy Nate quiets them down with a quick-witted insult. Fran never liked most of them anyways. Nico is nowhere to be found, but she’d be the last person to get your hands on him. Nate, Tyson, and Cale have already said fighting him is worth the risk of getting expelled.

Luckily none of Fran’s friends get punished for The Society. The school administration places all the blame on Mr. Bednar, though that isn’t much of a conciliation. Everyone feels terrible, but the others are keeping their spirits up as much as possible for Fran.

“Look at this origami swan,” Tyson says, dropping it into Fran’s hands. “I figured out how to do it in trigonometry.”

It’s obvious he’s trying to distract her from the fact the pair of them are entering the English classroom. For the first time all year Mr. Bednar won’t be waiting, encouraging everyone to go after their dreams while talking about literature. Fran is grateful for the effort Tyson’s putting in, especially because today has been difficult for him too.

When she slides into her seat behind him, she notices that Dr. Sakic is writing on the blackboard. Once everyone is in their seats and the bell rings he addresses everyone. “I’ll be teaching you for the rest of the year, and we’ll hire a replacement in the summer,” he says. “Though, I suspect the only person in here who will care is Mr. Makar. Perhaps the position will be yours, young man.”

“Possibly Sir,” Cale says shyly, blush creeping onto his cheeks.

The lesson the headmaster turned substitute teacher gives is boring. Apparently very little Mr. Bednar taught was in the curriculum, so he plays catch up as quickly as possible. Fran barely pays attention, wondering what her old teacher is doing at the very moment. Could he already be out of the state, driven out by shame? A knock at the door pulls her from the daydream.

“I left some personal belongings in my office. Should I collect them after class?”

The voice of Mr. Bednar rings out through the room, and Fran whips around in her seat. There he is, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink, but still here and present. He lets the class have a small smile, informing them all he would be okay without having to say anything.

Dr. Sakic doesn’t look thrilled. “It’s fine Bednar, grab them now,” he sighs, corralling the class’s attention back to him.

Too afraid to meet his gaze, Fran stares at her textbook while he passes by. There’s some rustling in the small room behind the main classroom, and then her former teacher emerges. Knowing it’s the last time she’ll ever see the man, and that the guilt will eat her alive if she doesn’t, Fran speaks.

“Mr. Bednar, they made me sign those papers. Made all of us sign them,” she explains, words so rushed they jumble together.

He smiles kindly. “I know.”

“Miss Winters, that’s enough,” Dr. Sakic shouts before narrowing his eyes at the other man. “Your time has expired Mr. Bednar. It’s time for you to leave.”

Mr. Bednar heads for the door. No one else looks at him, too afraid of getting reprimanded by their new teacher. The lesson continues around her but Fran isn't paying attention. Suddenly there’s more rustling, and Tyson is standing on top of his desk.

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” he yells, completely disrupting the studious atmosphere.

The phrase stops Mr. Bednar in his tracks, and he turns around.

“Mr. Jost, get down this instant,” Sakic screeches.

Nate follows his friend’s lead, popping up and repeating the words. “Oh Captain, my Captain,” he says, adding a small salute for flair.

The courage of her friends nestles inside Fran’s stomach and pushes her to act. She rises in solidarity with them, and Charlotte and Cale follow suit. Dr. Sakic yells at the group repeatedly, threatening disciplinary measures that won’t be fun, but Fran could care less. All that matters to her in the moment is letting Mr. Bednar know that she’ll never stop caring about him or forget everything he did for her.

“Thank you kids,” he whispers, a single tear rolling down his left cheek.

Only the five of them stand in sendoff, but it feels like the entire world is on their side. Fran realizes that this is her world – her friends, her idol, and the wealth of memories and possibilities made possible because of them. That will always be enough.

[leoswritingcorner]

annie content finally! cause a2 asked and i’m finally obliging! 

Annie could hear the commotion long before she reached the house. Echoes of glass shattering, slamming, and shouts carry over the long dirt road and Annie’s blood boils with each sound. She hears Ardelia swear from behind and the scraps of her boots against the ground as she runs to catch up. 

“I warned him,” Ardelia growls, her eyes narrowing. “Not two days ago I saw him at the general store, I knew he was buyin’ that case of beer-”

“Ards,” Annie cuts in gently. “It ain’t the time, just make sure Mrs. J and the little ones get out of the house,” She says, looking at her younger sister. Annie doesn’t miss the flash of protest that passes Ardelia’s face. The fight in her eyes eases, only slightly and she answers in a silent and quick nod. 

Without bothering to knock, Annie kicks the door open just as Tyson Jenkins lifted another hand to his mother. All around the kitchen, a mess of empty beer bottles, dirty dishes, and filth lined the floors. The younger Jenkins sob from the corner, their faces streaked with dirt and tears, as Tyson continues to yell, heedless to the new arrivals. Annie storms over without a word and wrenches Tyson’s arm back. 

With a yelp, the drunk looks at her stunned, then furious. “Damn you, Holliday!” He roars, wincing when Annie twists his arm. “Ow! Mind your own business!”

Annie doesn’t answer right away and cracks his knuckles under her grip. “Ards, grab the kids and Mrs. J, take ‘em outside.” She orders evenly, her brown eyes never leaving Tyson’s skinny and flushed face. Despite Mrs. J’s gentle objection, she gathers her younger children and follows Ardelia out. “Now, you and I are gonna have a long talk, Tyson.”

Tyson grits his teeth, “You freaking Hollidays, always thinkin’ your better. My daddy always knew y’all were just some self righteous pack,” He spits, trying to pull away. Annie shoves him away, watching impassively as he stumbles and falls. “Get my momma and siblings back in here!”

“You’re drunk, Tyson,” Annie says, blocking his way from the door. “Just like your daddy would get drunk, and would throw you around the same,” She reminds steadily. Tyson growls, his eyes glowing.

“My daddy should’ve never married that Holliday whore I have to call my mom-”

Whatever else Tyson had to say was lost in a loud crack. Annie feels Tyson’s jaw break under her fist, and he slumps back. “And my daddy would have to kick your daddy’s sorry ass the same way.” Annie grunts, flexing her fist. 

Annie looks around the disgusting setting, and then down to the pathetic werewolf she was forced to call cousin. With an agitated grunt, she hefts his lanky body onto her shoulders, and heads out. Ardelia waits, one of the smaller kids in her arms, her eyes widening at the sight of Annie and a bloody Tyson. “Get the doc,” Annie calls. “And Auntie J,” She says, looking at the trembling woman. “You’ll be stayin’ in the big house from now on,”

“Oh, Shoshanna, I can’t,” She says, holding her younger son closer. Her teary eyes look to the run down house before sighing and nodding with a sniff. “Thank you, girls.” She says, looking between the sisters. “You know, your daddy really did make a good choice with you two.”

“Ah, Annie just likes bossin’ people around,” Ardelia says, grinning “and punchin’ ‘em”

Annie gives her a glare, but doesn’t hide her smile. “Just call the doctor,”

*

“Annie...Annie!”

Annie wakes with a start, blinking away the bit of sleep she finally had. “Ards, what? Damn it, what?” She groans, sitting up. The light flicks on and she sees Ardelia’s pale face, worry in her eyes. “Ardelia,” Annie says calmly, sitting up. “What happened?”

“The witch, the-the one whose been nabbin’ the pups and babies?” Ardelia whispers, almost scared she’d be heard. “She’s been spotted not too far off. Arlo and his friends caught sight,” She explains quickly, looking over her shoulder.

Annie swears, flinging herself out of bed, changing. “I’m goin’, grab some of the elders and…” She trails off, seeing the look on her sister's face. “What’s with that look?” She demands, “there’s somethin’ you ain’t sayin’.”

“Uh,” Ardelia starts, “Arlo says he also saw two humans goin’ after the witch. Conrad and Forrest, he heard them callin’ each other. I think they’re Rivers.”

Annie frowns. “I don’t give a damn if they’re Van Helsings,” She declares, yanking on her jacket, grabbing a long knife, slipping it into the belt holster. “This ends tonight. Besides, what’re two Rivers men to me?”

Ardelia sidesteps as her sister marches out, and slams the door as she sets off into the deep and dark night.

[gingerwritess]

captain. james. conrad.

why did you just make me so thirsty for some pilot!reader x Captain James Conrad, anon??

don’t worry i’m still a loki slut i just wanted to try this baby out. i’d love to hear your thoughts?

also sorry no read more tag, i’m on mobile :(

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You’ve helped him out before, but today seems different.

He stalks across your landing pad with his head held higher than usual and is in your chopper before you’ve even left the pre-flight office, waiting for you with an impatiently bouncing knee. Not that he’d ever actually express his impatience, he tends to stay polite—most of the time.

Brutally honest and possibly even cocky at times, but for the most part, it’s a rugged politeness.

“How we holdin’ up today, Captain?” You yell over the roar of the rudders, clapping a hand on the top of the pilots-side door.

He shouts something back to you, his normally gelled hair fluttering under the wind picked up by the rotors, but you can’t hear a word he’s saying. Holding up a finger, you toss him a clunky headset as you climb into your seat, tapping the microphone on your own with a pointed look to use it.

The headset cackles to life and Conrad’s smooth accent fills your ears: “Haven’t I told you to call me James?”

“Sorry, Cap’n Crunch, guess I forgot.” Your fingers tighten around the pitch-lever and you twist around in your seat to flash him a quick grin.

Those aviator sunglasses block his eyes from you but you like to think that behind those lenses, they’re twinkling with some kind of amusement at your attempt to make him smile.

“Can we just leave, please?” The static in the headset hurts your ears.

“You in some kind of hurry?”

“You could say that.” He raises an eyebrow above the gold rim of those damn glasses—you’re pretty certain he has beautiful eyes. But also pretty sure that you’ve only ever seen them maybe once or twice.

“Fine, fine,” you tighten your belt and flip a few switches, turning around for one last smile. “You might want to strap in, weather’s not looking too promising.”

The captain fakes a sigh and begrudgingly buckles the safety belt around his waist, spreading his arms with a small smile when he finishes. “Satisfied?”

“Alright, remind me not to care for your safety next time, sheesh.”

You feel a teasing flick on the edge of your shoulder from the seat behind you and the strange song of static and that accent cuts through your headset again; “just fly, little bird, I’m a busy man.”

He’s smiling, you can hear it.

“Aye aye, captain.” You reach behind you with a reassuring thumbs-up, and the copter lifts steadily into the air with a deafening roar.

Do something crazy. Flip upside down or something, your flight-fogged brain starts shouting at you once home is out of sight behind you—not a good idea, brain.

But the captain—James, I guess—does seem a little quieter today, a little more somber than usual. You glance down at the coordinates he had given you—huh. It’s just a little bit off the coast of the last island in the cluster on which you live, but it’s just open ocean right around there.

“Where is this, cap—James?” Your headset cracks and sputters as you speak, and you point to the tracker screen. “Isn’t that just water?”

His answer is clipped, but not exactly cold. Just...distant. “Yes.”

“Okaaaay...then why am I dropping you off there?”

You think he’s chuckling, can’t really tell through the speakers.

“Boat drop off, genius,” he explains, leaning forward to tap a finger on the screen. “There will be a ship right there if we timed it right. I’ll hop on and hope to god that it’s not navy, see where they can take me.”

“So you don’t really know where you’re going?” You manoeuvre the copter above a group of particularly tall palm trees.

“Well...not exactly.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” When you glance behind you, he’s leaning his head out the open side of the chopper, watching land get further and further away.

Boy, someone’s talkative today.

“You okay, captain?”

His laugh echoes through your headset and you wish you could see his face. “James. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well, James, I’m...” you pause, already cringing. “I’m, uh, here for you—I mean, I’m here if you want—need! If you need me.”

He might be laughing again, you can’t tell.

“I appreciate that, thank you.”

A few more minutes pass and you get nearer to the drop off, where you’re just going to watch James jump out of your chopper into the ocean and turn right back around to your dreary life of back and forth. Seems wrong, really, to just let him jump into a free fall like this.

Oh well. He’s always been one to toy with death, even in the small amount of time you’ve been flying him around.

You try one more time for a conversation. “How long are you gonna be gone this time?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment and you wonder for a split second if he fell asleep to the lulling rock of the helicopter.

“I don’t know that either,” he finally answers, his voice staticky, disconnected.

“You don’t know where you’re going,” you clarify, worry starting to crease your brow. “And you don’t know for how long...this isn’t another one of your business trips, is it.”

White noise on the other end of the line. You start to think you went too far, got too personal too quickly, but then the headset shudders back to life.

“I’m...looking for something.” He pauses. “Somewhere, I suppose.”

“I hope you find it,” you offer, unsure of what that’s supposed to mean.

“...would you mind if I told you something a bit—a bit personal? Just, you know, before I leave.”

“I’m all ears, captain.”

“I tend to move around a lot. In life, I mean.”

You laugh and try to hold the copter steady as a light rain begins to fall. “That’s pretty obvious.”

“Most of the time, I enjoy my nomadic life,” he sighs, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the right words. “But lately...lately it feels hollow. I feel lost.”

Your grip tightens around the pitch-lever between your knees—you weren’t expecting something so, uh, deep.

Life advice has never been your forte.

The captain’s crisp laugh fills your surprised silence. “I’m sorry. That’s quite personal, isn’t it?”

“N-no, I’m just—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He chuckles and out of the corner of your eye you see him turn to the open door again. “We hardly know each other, I shouldn’t come to you with my problems.”

It’s true. He’s only been on your island for what, a little over a month? And you should’ve known he wouldn’t stay, the reputation of the captain held true. He loses himself, finds himself, and moves on to the next thrill.

You say “your island” like it belongs to you.

Or like you belong to it.

“Well, I’m here to help in any way I can,” you chirp, turning around to give him a reassuring smile. “Maybe it’s better that we have this, uh, ‘strictly professional’ relationship? ‘Cause you don’t exactly stick around much.”

“That’s true.” He goes silent for a moment. “I’m going to miss this place, to be honest with you.”

Miss this place? This lame little island in the middle of nowhere, this tiny little port town where nothing happens, with only one starbucks and about a million taco joints?

“Consider yourself lucky,” you chuckle, starting to even out the copter as you near the drop-off. “You get to leave, go new places. Meet new people.”

“It’s not always as enjoyable as everyone makes it sound.”

For some reason, you flirt with the idea of just turning around and taking both of you back home before he can throw himself out of the chopper for good.

His daunting accent cuts through the static once again. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Excuse me??”

The copter hovers in place and James unbuckles his safety belt, grabbing his bag and slinging a parachute over one shoulder. An amused smile playing at his lips, he leans over your shoulder to peck a quick, almost nonexistent kiss on your cheek.

The nerve of this ridiculous man.

“You are a pilot.” He laughs at the surprise still on your face from that very out-of-place kiss. “The world is yours, you can leave whenever you want. Why won’t you leave the nest, birdie?”

Keeping the chopper level over the cargo ship he had so correctly predicted would be there, you snap your head over to stare at him—this is more of a conversation than how most of your distracted “where to?” normally goes.

Of course, when he’s about to jump out of your helicopter and never come back.

Great.

“That’s...personal.” You hope the uneasiness isn’t too obvious in your voice.

“Shame, really.” The captain straps the parachute over his chest, tapping a quick finger against your forehead. “I’d have liked to get a little more personal with whatever goes on in that strange head of yours.”

“You’re such a charmer, Conrad.”

“James.”

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes with a teasing laugh. “Maybe if you ever lose your way back around my dumb island, we can go back to that bar I found you in?”

“Fairly certain I found you,” he counters.

“You were too busy schmoozing the bartender for a free shot. One shot, captain, was it worth it?”

Now he rolls his eyes, making his way to the open side of the chopper and bracing himself against the top with both hands to the metal, looking over his shoulder at you. “Says the one who was flirting with every guy in the bar for free drinks. Then you thought I could be swayed.”

“You almost offered...”

“I just needed a pilot.”

“Sure.” You wink at him and flash him a sarcastic thumbs up.

He shakes his head with a small grin and turns around to face you, double checking his chute and tapping a two-fingered salute to his forehead. His smile falters for half a second and you almost miss it...he’s about to jump.

“You could stay,” you blurt when he reaches up to remove the headset, cringing as soon as the words leave your mouth. “We could go get that drink right now, I’m—I’m buying!”

The captain laughs. “You sound like you’re going to miss me, sweetheart.”

“Pshh, no, don’t flatter yourself.”

Uh...hell yes I am??

“Mhm. I’ll miss you too, if that makes you feel better,” he teases, hands playing with the band of his jeans, retucking-in the periwinkle shirt stretched taut over his chest.

“Oh really? Why’s that, oh captain my captain?”

He bares his teeth in a teasing scowl at your little nudge, then crouches near the open side of the chopper, holding on to the side to keep from falling right out. “You’ve been one of the best pilots I’ve worked with.”

The captain smiles at you and takes off his headset, just holding the mic up to his mouth.

“And you always seemed to know how to get me where I need to be.”

Then he tosses the headset back to you, lets go of the chopper, and plummets through the air with the open sea rushing up to meet him.

**not tagging anyone cause it’s not Loki and idk if y’all are gonna like this heh :))**

[lokimostly]

Home from War (Ch.2/8)

James Conrad x Reader Word Count: 3,129 Warnings: mild blood/gore, angst, if “hell” is a swear word then that too, pining Fic Summary: One year after you lost the love of your life, a last-minute decision changes everything you thought you knew. Now only one question remains: how to make it out alive, and return home from war? 

Prequel Series | Chapter One | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight (Epilogue)

A/N: Tag list is open! Much love to you all. I’m trying to make this as focused on the romance as I can, lol. You guys know me: plot is my nemesis. Luckily we’re following the plot of the movie, so at least my load is a little lighter, lol. 

Conrad stood on the bridge of the ship, his arms crossed over the metal railing as he looked down at the figures on the deck below. Despite the distance, he found it only too easy to spot you– mingling with the soldiers, laughing and posing for Weaver’s camera as the photographer documented the beginnings of their journey, the smiles and peace signs. You were happy. Or at least, you seemed that way.

He sighed noisily, wanting to kick himself. The circumstances of your reunion were less than ideal – a year apart, wanting for nothing but the woman he loved. And now that he’d found you, the two of you hadn’t spoken a word to each other!

Why hadn’t he tried harder to find you? Conrad thought, his expression set in a gloomy and pensive frown. Maybe if he’d put forward more effort, the two of you would’ve collided earlier, and in better circumstances.

“Maybe even be on speaking terms,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. No, that wasn’t it. He’d done everything in his power to try and come back to you, to make good on his promise.

Conrad had spent ten months going from place to place. He met U.S. military operatives, exhausted every lead he had. He’d gotten close, once– met a woman who knew you, a nurse named Fletcher. She’d been your medic partner while the two of you were stationed at Camp Eagle, southwest of Hue in central Vietnam. But even she had no clue as to your whereabouts.

Then, two months ago, he gave up. His leads ran out, his money was spent, and everyone he did know refused to talk to him on the subject. It was all that James would talk about. You consumed his waking hours and walked in his dreams when he slept, and he was haunted by his broken promise.

That was where Brooks and Randa found him: the back-alley watering hole where he’d been living the last two months, slowly drinking his life away, trying to drown out the thoughts of you. To no avail.

Conrad tightened his jaw and flexed his hands idly as he watched you mingle. He could’ve sworn that the wind carried your laugh, just close enough that he thought he could hear it from way up on the bridge.

It made him miserable.

But he hadn’t lost you, he reprimanded himself, watching the activity down below with veiled eyes. You were closer to him now than you’d ever been in all his searching. Why not go down there, and end twelve months of silence and heartbreak?

Conrad smiled ruefully, looking at his hands. No, you probably despised him now.

No doubt she threw away every thought of me long ago.

~

Below, mingling on the deck of The Athena, you were trying your hardest not to think of Conrad– to no avail.

Every time your mind whispered to you, ‘he’s on this ship,’ nervous anxiety rose in your throat. Your stomach was in constant knots. And yet, you had firmly decided that you were not going to go and find him.

“If I really mattered to him, he’d come find me himself,” you muttered under your breath, looking around the flight deck. 

Your fellow soldiers were back to their cheery selves, in the midst of music and laughter. Mills and Slivko waved at you cheekily and you made a mocking expression in response, eyes crinkling behind your aviators when you smiled.

Suddenly, the foghorn of the ship rang out, and you leapt from your seat as you and the other soldiers ran to your stations and prepared to depart. You grabbed your bomber jacket, pulling it on over your grey sleeveless shirt and heading for the military check-in.

Slivko jogged up beside you, pulling on his own jacket. “Hey, did you see that guy?” He asked, squinting in the sun.

“What guy?” You asked, and followed his finger pointing up to the ship’s bridge, but there was no one there. You scoffed and laughed, shaking your head.

“Hey, there was a guy there! I swear!” Slivko cried, adjusting his red headband. “Uh huh. Seeing ghosts, Sliv?” You teased, striding up to the check-in.

The soldier on deck handed you your army commissioned M-16 and a Nurse’s supply backpack: stethoscope, atabrine, saline flushes, gauze, a thermometer. You were packed light. As you looked around, however, there was definitely something you were missing.

“Two mikes to launch. Military and civilians to assigned aircraft. Two mikes to launch,” the voice over the PA system rang out.

Slivko put his hand on your shoulder, nodding. “C’mon. We’re flying Fox Seven.”

“Meet you there,” you nodded, before turning back to the soldier. “Excuse me,” you said, catching his attention. “There should be another bag here. Nurse’s dispatch. It has all of my other equipment.”

“Already loaded onto the Sea Stallion,” he replied, handing an M-16 to Reles– another soldier you knew – and turning his back to you.

You frowned and pressed your lips together. Turning your head to scan the tarmac, your eyes found the chopper that he had described. Lieutenant Chapman would be flying it, no doubt. You gritted your teeth and silently relented to the idea of being away from your tools for a few hours. While it made you uneasy, the likelihood of you needing morphine and other more serious medical supplies before you could get to your bag was incredibly low. Too low to make a fuss about, anyways.

“One Mike thirty to launch. I repeat, one mike thirty to launch.”

You turned around to leave and collided with a woman, making a noise of surprise.

“I’m so sorry!” You said, pulling back and recognising her layered hair and dark eyes: Mason Weaver. The two of you had been mingling on the deck together just a few minutes ago, and while you hadn’t personally introduced yourself, she hadn’t gone unnoticed by you. Freckled, pretty – and smarter than she looked, if you weren’t mistaken. Weaver’s eyes didn’t miss a thing, and neither did her camera.

“Oh, it’s okay,” she excused, shaking her head and smiling. “I was in your way, so.”

You chuckled politely. “Excuse me.”

Jogging across the tarmac, you tossed your backpack into the carriage of the Fox Seven chopper and grabbed a headset.

“Welcome aboard,” Said Slivko, grinning, and you rolled your eyes as you settled into the seat.

Conrad sat bouncing his knee inside a separate helicopter across the landing pad, shoulders curled as he watched you jog across the tarmac, throw your backpack into the chopper and climb inside. His hands drummed restlessly against the fabric of his dark pants.

“One mike to launch. I repeat, One mike to launch.”

Weaver walked up to the chopper, one hand on her camera. “Hey, have you seen my–”

“Take my seat,” Conrad interrupted.

“What?”

“Take my seat,” he repeated, leaping out and jogging across the tarmac, leaving a bewildered Weaver behind him.

“Battery?” You asked Slivko as he switched on the dials.

“Check.”

“Generator running?”

“Check.”

“Engine star–” you began, turning your head when the motion in the corner of your eye distracted you. You watched in shock as James leapt into the open carriage of the helicopter.

You stared at each other.

His chest was heaving from running, stunning blue eyes wide and intense. “Y/N–” he began.

“Attention, pilots. You are clear for takeoff. Launch, launch, launch.”

“Headset, L/N,” Slivko reminded you, and you heeded his instruction automatically, casting a sideways glance at the former Captain as you put the headset over your ears.

“Fox Seven, ready for takeoff,” you murmured into the mic, trying your best to ignore Conrad a few mere feet from you.

James, by contrast, couldn’t take his eyes off of you. 

He drank you in like a man dying of thirst. He thought he’d remembered every detail about you, every defining feature, but seeing you again this close made him realize how much he’d forgotten. As the choppers rose into the air and the wind whipped at your hair, he felt a severe and insistent desire to take you in his arms, to discover you all over again– if only you would let him.

Colonel Packard’s voice came in over the headset. “Fox Group, on me. Maintain Course. Nothin’ we haven’t done before.”

You steeled yourself and grabbed hold of the bars up above. Your stomach turned as the helicopter tilted, lining up with the rest of the group and flying headfirst into the storm. The clouds ahead had gone grey and purple, flashing yellow with lightning. A splash of cool moisture hit your face when you entered into the dark, with nothing but the lightning to guide your line of sight.

The helicopter careened from side to side as Slivko tried his best to navigate, his forehead beaded with sweat. Lightning flashed too close for comfort and your heart dropped as the immediate roll of thunder echoed inside your ribcage.

Another flash right in front of the windshield caused him to jerk the controls back in response, rising in altitude and struggling with the strong winds. The red RPM LIMIT button began flashing, other alarms sounding off as he struggled to regain control.

Conrad reached over with his free hand and held it out to you, his palm open. An anchor amidst the sea of lightning. His blue-green eyes were a reflection of calm. Your chest shuddered as the helicopter rocked and you swallowed, reaching for him.

Packard’s voice came over the radio steady and calm. “Fox Group, switch to inertial navigation.”

You snapped out of your trance and turned your now-flushed face away, grabbing onto your backpack as it shifted beside you.

Conrad reluctantly retracted, casting a saddened glance in your direction before another sudden jerk of the helicopter caused him to hold on tight. The whole machine trembled, vibrating like it was about to come apart at any moment. The alarms blared.

You closed your eyes as lightning flashed bright behind your eyelids, sick to your stomach. As Slivko struggled with the controls, and you were thrown towards open air at every turn, you vaguely wondered if you were going to die this way: three feet away from the man you loved, unreconciled.

Suddenly, the clouds broke. The rumbling stopped. You raised your hand to shield your eyes from the blinding sunlight as the world opened up to you again. Green ocean and greener mountains unrolled before you like a map.

The laughter of the other pilots reached your ears through the headset and you broke into a smile. You let go of the metal bars and felt the warm wind whip at your face as the group reached the main body of the island: trees and grass valleys amongst towering green mountains.

A fainter smile was on Conrad’s lips, too. Perhaps the first in months.

“Fox Leader to Fox Group: split up. Survey your zones.”

“Copy all, Fox Three,” Slivko responded. “Heading zero, nine, zero.”

You pulled your headset off your ears as the chopper banked right, flying over grass wetland. Animals ran out from beneath you, bounding through the water. The distant boom of seismic charges was hardly noticeable behind the thrum of the helicopter blades.

Conrad’s eyes flickered over the ground as you travelled, bouncing his knee idly. White birds took flight at the tremor of the charges and surged into the air, soaring upwards in a great cloud.

He turned his head and gazed at you fondly as you laughed in awe. He raised his eyebrows, about to say something, when a flicker of movement caught his eye and he looked over, just in time to see one of the choppers fall out of the sky.

The sudden and deafening sound of an explosion turned your blood cold. A roar so loud that it shook your bones. Your feeling of exhilaration, so potent only a moment ago, evaporated into pure dread.

You pulled your headset back on and was immediately met but an array of panicked voices. Colonel Packard was lost in the noise, attempting to regain control.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“I don’t know!”

“Fox leader to Fox group!” Packard shouted. “Fire at will!”

You shrieked and grabbed onto the bars as Slivko let fly a whirlwind of bullets, maneuvering to dodge what looked like… well, a giant monkey.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

Currently, there was no time to think on the matter. A huge, black hand the size of a car reached outward in slow motion, grasping for the helicopter. Slivko tilted the aircraft sharply, dodging its swing in the nick of time. Everything fell to the side – including your backpack, sliding across the floor towards open air.

You leapt for it without thinking, catching it by the strap as it flew out of the doorway, and you with it.

Conrad’s hand caught the fabric of your bomber jacket and hefted you back into the helicopter. You shrieked as the chopper shuddered violently, holding onto Conrad’s arm with one hand, and putting your backpack on with the other.

Alarms blared wildly as the chopper careened from side to side, ducking and rising in futile attempts to avoid certain death.

“Pull out now! PULL OUT!” Conrad shouted, slamming his hand against the back of the pilot’s seat.

“I don’t take orders from you!” Slivko argued.

“LOOK OUT!” You screamed, as one of the helicopters fell out of the sky. Debris flew in every direction- among it, the lifeless body of a man.

You screamed when he hit the windshield, shattering the glass and sliding upwards.

There was a sickening crunch in the blades.

Your back slammed against the seat as the alarms blared and the chopper began to spiral. The world spun wildly. You found yourself gripping white-knuckled to the fabric of Conrad’s shirt, nerves fried with adrenaline. You swallowed your heart and tried to shut out the overwhelming noise, the wind spinning around you.

Defeated in his battle with the controls, Slivko shouted, “Prepare to crash!”

Conrad wasted no time. “BRACE!” He commanded, pulling the both of you down and cradling your head against his chest. Held within the strength of his grip, the chaos outside seemed suddenly inconsequential. The wind dimmed to a mere breeze. No sound of shrieking metal and screaming assaulted your ears, only the gentle ins-and-outs of Conrad’s breathing and the fast, strong hammering of his heart.

This isn’t a bad way to go, you thought numbly, swallowing. You screwed your eyes closed and buried your head in his chest, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of cologne.

He smelled like home.

~

You coughed hoarsely, blinking away dust and ash debris. Your body ached from the impact of the crash. Conrad’s muscular arms were still holding you firmly against him, safe and sound. You could feel his heart running a mile a minute, so you put your hand on his chest, pulling away to look up at his beautiful blue-green eyes.

They stared back at you. Had he always been this handsome, this stern-faced? But you could see now that the darkness over his countenance was in fact a shadow of grief.

Your heart broke.

“James,” you whispered through dry lips, your voice cracking, as you reached a shaky hand up to touch his face.

“L/N!” Slivko shouted from outside the crashed helicopter. His voice snapped you out of your trance so fast that you jumped. You turned, looking at his familiar, dirt-streaked face through gaps in the crushed metal.

“In here!” You croaked, and he reached down to lift you out. As you grasped it, you cast a half-second glance at Conrad, whose face looked like you’d just stolen his heart from his chest and then taken a bite out of it.

You swallowed your feelings and climbed out of the helicopter, stumbling onto the grass. The air was hot and sweltering, and too quiet for your liking. No birds, no animals– just the humming of insects and the panicked chattering of people.

“Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Nieves asked shrilly. The Landsat field supervisor was a shell of his former, composed self. He paced back and forth between the trees, in front of the two scientists – San and Brooks – who were taking the shock in silence.

“Are you hurt?” You asked, walking up to Nieves. He jumped, looking at you and swallowing.

“What? No, I …. I should be sitting at a desk,” he muttered weakly, and wandered off.

You quickly dismissed him to be dealt with later, sighing and unzipping your backpack. You strode over to Slivko, whose hand was bloodied, and offered him a thin smile as you took out gauze and antiseptic.

Conrad pulled himself out of the helicopter with a grunt, stumbling onto the grass. He dusted off his pants and gathered himself, exhaling heavily as he surveyed the wreckage of the chopper.

Mason Weaver stood by the wreckage, camera in hand, a small cut across her forehead. Her wavy layered hair was caked with dust and grime from the wreck.

She caught Conrad’s movement out of the corner of her eye and turned, looking him up and down.

“Are you alright?” He asked gently, raising his eyebrows.

She scoffed, shaking her head. “I...  don’t know how to answer that right now.”

Conrad chuckled humorlessly in his throat and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Fair enough.”

She exhaled shakily.“All that money they paid you?” She said, staring at him with an odd look. “I hope you’re worth it.”

Conrad grimaced in response as she walked away, before taking a pair of binoculars and climbing up the ridge.

He stood on the edge of the rock outcropping, the entire valley laid out below. Raising the binoculars to his face, he scanned along the treeline, sweeping over the grass. He watched the last of the helicopters fall out of the sky and burst into flames upon impact. There was no sign of the – well, whatever it was – only the distant boom of every footstep as it travelled back to where it came.

No more gunfire, or screeching metal. Only the noise of the jungle, which was happily returning to its regular volume.

Conrad turned around and put down the binoculars, shaking his head as he descended from the rock pile, taking one last leap to land in the midst of the group.

“They’re down,” he said, in an informative tone, looking from face to face with an expression of uncertainty.

You looked up just as you finished wrapping Slivko’s hand and raised your eyebrows in a silent question.

He met your eyes and nodded. “Every last one of them.”

---

A/N: Thanks for reading, loves! Tag list is open. Let me know if I missed you, this week has been a little distracting.

Also, please let me know how I’m doing with the extras. I’m not used to handling so many side characters without feeling like I’m either giving them too much attention or glossing over them. <3 

Tag List: @tarynkauai, @jessiejunebug, @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi, @fire-in-her-veinz, @daylight-swiftt, @un-consider-it, @torntaltos, @majahu, @et-puto, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @awesomefandomsunited, @damalseer, @uinen-ulmiel

[chaosfindsaway]

Like for a small starter from Conrad, my humanized Compy! This is a permanent starter call so you may like whenever you please.

[keladryhawklight]

The Northern Campaign

Aug 626

Three Hours before the Battle

Kels eyes drifted over the forlorn lands of Gilneas as she stood beneath the tarpaulin entrance of a war camp tent. The soft pattering of rain on the material broke the silent stillness of the land, somehow muting everything even further than it already was. Gilneas had long been forgotten by many of the Alliance; an abandoned stronghold in the North. Had Genn really wanted to, he could have reclaimed his lands just as surely as the Alliance had retaken Stromgarde and built the bastion of the Arathi region back up to combat Horde advances. Surely, it had to be on everyone’s minds, she thought silently. How much longer would it be until they were at the front gates of Ironforge or Stormwind.

But here they were. Her eyes followed the soldiers as they made their preparations for battle; sharpening and polishing weapons, readying tack, assembling their armour. It was a never ending cycle of war between the Alliance and Horde. Neither slept for long, and neither was wont to let sleeping dogs lie. And yet she found herself calm and at peace. Long resigned to falling in battle, the thought of death did not perturb her. Having been surrounded by it, she was not afraid of it. If it decided to claim her, and she could fight it off no longer, then it was her time.

Turning, she wandered back into the tent and sat upon a small stool. Unclasping her Book of Light from the straps on her belt, she ran her fingers lightly over the cover, taking comfort in the familiar scratches. This had been Conrad Hawklight’s prayer book when he was alive. The one thing she had remaining from him; the one thing that had guided him when everything else had failed.

“And though we walk in the shadows,” she murmured softly. “We walk not alone, for the Light walks hand in hand with us. And though we may neither see nor feel it, we must take heed, knowing that the Light must be our shepherd. We are neither lost, nor forgotten for we are always ever in the Light, just as it is within us.”

Her voice trailed off as she spoke the familiar words, her thoughts drifting to Sandor. His relationship with the Light was so paradoxical. Everything she knew of the Light was a contradiction with him, and yet she knew in her heart that it had not abandoned him. When they were close, she knew he was tormented by the loss; the pain of a phantom limb haunting him. He couldn’t put the pain into words for her, and still, she knew. His eyes had been shuttered since the return from the Monastary, filled with shame and that haunting pain she had grown all too familiar to. It was hard at times, when all she could do was watch from afar and keep him as protected as she could, in any way that she could.

As hard as it was, simply being as all she could do.

During the Battle

Alynon pranced restlessly, shifting his great weight as he felt the tenseness on the air. His massive hooves thudded into the wet earth as he moved, the sound muffled by the falling rain and mists. Along the line, soldiers shifted, their armour and weapons clinking angrily. Everyone felt it— the gloom, the anger, the fear. It was invasive, sinking deep into their bones to hold fast. The camp had been hushed for the last while; the soldiers knew that some of them would not return, and had begun to make their peace before the battle had begun. She herself had been asked to give a small blessing quite a few times before the drums had begun to beat. Her Light was all she had to give, and if it brought any measure of comfort, she would give as much as she had, even if it meant exhausting herself.

The drums beat louder, the sound echoing her own heartbeat. They were coming, the Horde. Her own anxiety rolled within her, and she looked instinctively for those she knew, but it was all a sea of unfamiliar faces. Biting her lip sharply, she turned back to the forefront, to the Commanding Officer as a sharp bellow rolled across the battlefield.

He was unfamiliar to her; the many banners brought together to quell this uprising of undead traitors were mostly that. Unfamiliar, save for the odd one or two familiar face. A nobleman from the Infantry she knew from society stood further down the lines, his gaze sharp and focused. Past him were the compatriots from their own banners; Voldigar, Vernir, and Sandor, their faces equally as grim, but eagerly anticipating the rush combat brought on. The thundering of war drums grew louder, overshadowing the sound of her heart.

“Soldiers of the Alliance,” came the bellow down the ranks. “Charge!”

The answer bellows as they began the charge echoed through the lonely hills of Silverpine Forest, answered in kind by the unearthly howls of the Horde meeting the charge. The cacophony of battle soon rang out into the skies; the discordant sounds of metal screeches, howling cries of pain and fear, and the low rumble of an occasional explosion drowning out all else.

Kel soon found herself lost in the heat of battle; dismounting Alynon, he spooked as she gave him a swat on the rear, sending him fleeing back towards the camp. She turned, blade at the ready to meet whatever it was that had spooked him so. The low snarl of a troll met her, as he loomed close. Their blades met; once, twice, thrice as they parried and swung at each other. They matched in lethal combat, pushing each other to the breaking point.

A cry of pain over her left shoulder caught her ear, and she was distracted for the briefest second. The pommel of a blade meeting her chin had her seeing stars as she staggered, followed just as quickly by the bone deep streak of white-hot pain through her arm as the troll wrenched it deeply. A guttural noise of pain escaped her as she yanked her arm back into her chest, cradling it close.

He leered, knowing full well he had the advantage. His low laughter reached her. She pushed back, in an attempt to scoot away from him, channeling the Light through her free hand to set the ground around her alight with Holy energy. She could keep herself alive, if none of these monstrosities were blessed still. The creature recoiled sharply, moving away from her, away from the Light that protected her for now.

Please see us through this evening safe, her thoughts whispered. Let us see the morning light.

After the Battle

“I am fine, I am fine,” she whispered to her betrothed, as they later reconvened in their shared tent. His concerned visage as he took in her bruised face and body was painful. Surely it was a stark reminder of the last time they had done battle together, of his loss. “The Light has seen fit to see us through the night, back to one another.”

Truly, it had seen them all through the night fairly unscathed. A few broken bones and some stitched gashes were the worst of it, thank the Light.

But his silence was telling. She knew he worried, and reflected deeply on his condition. Reflected deeply on himself, and his fault in it. Her face softened as she peered up into his eyes. Their depths were as deep, and as warm as the person she knew him to be, even as lost as he was. Although reassurance was a far thing for him to realize, he was not alone in his plights. No, he did have her by his side, even if his stubbornness prevented his realization of it. She knew it was true the Light had seen them through this night together; she knew it to be even more true that what he had lost would return.

In time, he would be made whole again. The Light would see them through it together, one step at a time.

[hobbithorsewhat]

“ There had been hardly an hour of recuperation and reflection before the campsite was flooded with Druids.”

I wrote a little fanfiction the other day to go along with my commission piece! It’s a little stuffed, but there have been several different things floating around my head since the quests that I’ve wanted to work out a bit. 

There had been hardly an hour of recuperation and reflection before the campsite was flooded with Druids. Apparently in the panic following the collapse of the portal, Evergray had made contact with Valedale and word had been sent out to the nearest Keeper outpost to provide additional support.  

Having missed all the action, the newcomers were eager to be of use. A bit too eager. While the original group had barely begun to wrap their heads around what had occurred over the last few hours, druids were already looking for explanations and reports. Expecting retaliation, guards and scouting parties were being organized. Healers were poking and prodding at various wounds, with poor Anne practically being dogpiled.  

Gwendolyn had allowed one to approach her with their array of herbs and magical elixirs to look at the gash across her collarbone. However, when the blood had been cleaned and the worst of the wound healed away and the pink marking remained, she waved them off. She just tried to stay out of everyone’s way after that, standing mostly off to the side anxiously wringing her hands.  

“Do you want to leave?” She’d lost track of time when a soft muzzle pressed into her hands and familiar golden eyes were in her vision. Gwaihir’s presence was warm and comforting against her heart amid the organized chaos.

Gwendolyn tried to ease her clinched jaw so she could speak but ended up only being able to give a tiny nod. Anywhere but here sounded wonderful. Somewhere in the quiet night with just the moon and stars instead of memories and questions and shapes bustling about. In the same breath, however, she sent her thoughts out to him “Are we even allowed to leave?”

“I don’t think I care whether we’re allowed to or not,” Gwaihir snorted, his own frustration made clear as it echoed in her heart.  

Groan. Another decision for the day. Would Lisa, Linda, and Alex feel abandoned? But they had Anne back now. Did they really need her anymore?  Would they end up in trouble? What if- She felt Gwaihir’s warm breath on her fingers when she started to wring her hands again.  

“Let’s go,” he said to her softly with a gentle bump. Gwendolyn tucked all of her five-foot-nothing into his outer shoulder and tried to be even smaller as they walked slowly around the edge of the campsite before starting down the hillside path.  

Someone had noticed. Gwendolyn had just swung her leg up into the saddle when she heard footsteps running after them. In the dim moonlight, she could see Alex making her way down the path.  

“Woah, woah, woah! Gwendolyn, where are you going?”

“I’m taking her home,” Gwaihir told her, sidestepping to avoid Alex grabbing at his bridle.  

Gwendolyn’s voice tightened as she started to explain, expecting Alex’s anger or disappointment to lash out at them. However, there was only the initial confusion, a moment of reflection, and then she was looking up at her softly.

“I don’t blame you. Not when you can see it from here.” And they could. Just a little way up the bay, the yellowed walls and towers of Fort Pinta were visible through the coastal fog. The two of them longed for the security of those familiar walls.  

Gwendolyn could only briefly admire the view because the next thing she knew Alex had reached up and pulled her shoulders down into a tight hug. And she held her back. Gwendolyn hoped Alex knew how much she loved her. Despite only knowing each other for the last several weeks, they had been together through so much. Especially tonight, fighting together, supporting each other, what they had witnessed... She thought she heard a soft “thank you” and then she was free.  

“Now, go before any of the Keepers try and stop you. I’ll tell the others where you went later.”

“Alex... thank you,” She sniffed wetly sitting back up and righting herself back in the saddle. For a second, she relinquished control of her foot as Alex readjusted her stirrup.  

“Ride safely, my friends,” Alex smiled giving Gwaihir’s shoulder a gentle nudge, “Text me when you get home.”  

Their withdrawing pace didn’t last much further than the Inn by the bridge. Gwaihir was just too tired. Gwendolyn could feel his exhaustion pouring off in waves. So, they walked wearily through the night, and by the time they made it to Conrad’s forge, as much as he protested, Gwendolyn had slid down to walk at his side. She knew the ache in her limbs and back wasn’t just her own.

Besides taking a moment to dejectedly complain about her lost glasses, lost somewhere in the... they hardly spoke the rest of the trip. They relished in the calm sounds of the night and let it fill the empty space between them, or what should have been empty, as Gwendolyn could feel Gwaihir wrapped up in his own thoughts as much as she was. When they finally walked across the great stone bridge into the fort, they just leaned into each other and headed for the security of the barn.  

The first thing she did was type out a quick message to Alex, as she had promised. She was surprised to hear a ‘ping!’ answer just a few moments later, but she was already too preoccupied with her next task to respond. 

Bridle undone and girth loosened, she pulled the heavy druid gear away from Gwaihir’s body and slung it sloppily over the stall door. Farah would scold her for the damage in the leather when she took it to be repaired, but right now she just didn’t care.  

“Are you hungry?” Gwendolyn asked already heading towards the double doors to the feed room. He hadn't exactly had dinner, just a few mouthfuls of hay at the campsite when things had finally settled enough. Although, she didn’t make it more than a few feet before heading back after, instead, snatching up a grooming brush from a caddy on the floor. 

Her hands were trembling, she finally noticed, but she ignored it and relentlessly starting scrubbing at a large dirt spot over Gwaihir’s side. Tears began blotting her vision, but she continued to glare at the dust covering his coat.  

“... just dirt … I’m fine... ...olyn”

Gwaihir needed to go back to the way he had been this morning: bright and gleaming in the sunrise. He had been so strong that day. He had taken the full brunt of Alex’s magic so Gwendolyn could have a stable position in which to cast the spell. He had run, and run, and run. He had been afraid too. His heart had hammered, and his limbs trembled, yet he had been strong enough to race them away from the Anwir-beast and through that collapsing world back to safety. And now he was covered in dirt.

She startled when the brush was suddenly snatched from her hand. There was a thud somewhere when it landed. Stunned, Gwendolyn looked up at the perpetrator only to see Gwaihir’s anguished eyes.

“Dear one,” Gwaihir begged trying to press his muzzle into her hands once again. 

Stumbling back, her feet slipped in the bedding and she fell against the corner. Without the brush in her grasp, she could feel the trembling in her hands move up her arm, then into her chest. Gwendolyn wrapped her arms tightly around her middle just trying to remember how to breathe correctly. She was choking on sobs when her she finally hit the floor.  

That place hadn’t just left its memory gouged across her collarbone, she could feel it fully and permanently on her heart.

Gwaihir’s startled nicker rang in her ears, reminding her she wasn’t alone like she would have preferred. No, this wasn’t the bathroom floor behind a closed door, or her bed in the late hours. This time she would break apart with her dear heart to witness.  

“But I didn’t know if you were fine,” Gwendolyn sobbed miserably looking up through streaming tears at him, “You were gone.” Above everything, she couldn’t seem to shake the desolation when he suddenly hadn’t been there. It didn’t matter if she died tomorrow or in a hundred years, she would never forget the feeling of Gwaihir’s heart, always alongside hers, vanishing when the portal collapsed.

“You were all gone, and we were lost in the dark” she cried and he keened sorrowfully and folded himself down to her level, thrusting his head into her lap. “Alex was hurt and I couldn’t do anything! Elizabeth she-!!”

She clamped a hand across her mouth and used the other to hold it there trying to stop the terrible sounds that were trying to claw their way out.

Gwaihir groaned and trembled as she did, ears flickering illegibly before he flooded her thoughts:

“I’m so sorry I didn’t follow you back... the others refused to let me, they said they couldn’t lose another.” His chest was heaving with anguished breathes. Horses couldn’t cry, but Gwendolyn was sure she was doing it for him as the full force of his grief and guilt hit her. “I should have fought them harder, then I could have been there with you! I could have flown you across that chasm and we could have done something, anything! I could have-”

“No, Gwaihir! No. It wasn’t your fault,” she sobbed throwing her arms around his head and holding him close.

“It wasn’t yours either.”

They processed and wept together until the agonies of the day were released like the exhale of a held breath; until there was only love support understanding safe together calm love love love echoing in their hearts. Bodies heavy with exhaustion, the two soul halves curled into one another and eventually found sleep there in the straw.

Tomorrow would be the beginning of a new, difficult chapter. There would be events and actions to explain, plans to discuss, and mourning to do. But, for right now, they were home, they were safe, and they were together. 

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dimensions | Chapter Three

CHECK OUT THE STORY FROM THE START

THE AIR at Noonan’s was always filled with a slight hint of cinnamon. It was a bakery, and Beca Mitchell didn’t doubt the warm feeling that hit the core of her stomach every single time the bell above the door chimed in welcoming.

She had been coming here since she was younger- it was on the corner of the street Barden resided in. Half of the time it was filled to the brink with employees trying to kickstart their days- or students from the local high school that wanted to kill some time and some free wi-fi.

Today was a Monday, Beca’s face still aching in an ugly yellowed bruise, her lip no longer tasting like a coppery mix of blood and mint. It had only been two days and her body was slowly recovering from her little run in. It still ached- still burned and chided each time she did decide to push herself past the loft this weekend.

She needed this coffee. Beca wasn’t the sugar and creamer type of girl, she could take the black tarry liquid right off the burner and chug it until her throat burned and stomach grumbled in protest. But right now- that very scent of caffeine was so enticing that her mouth was instantly filled with saliva.

Beca’s phone buzzed haphazardly in her pocket as she leaned heavily against the side of the wall- waiting for the sound of her name being called throughout the café. She wanted to press ignore, not wanting to deal with whatever text lay on the other end.

Dr. Conrad[8:17AM]

Hey Short Stack, Amy is out tonight so the two of us are going to take to the town.

Beca[8:18AM]

Oh, God. It’s Thursday, can’t I nap on a perfectly good Thursday night?

Dr. Conrad[8:20AM]

Not a chance. See you tonight.

She let out a groan as her name was called out, causing her to shove her phone into her pocket as she smiled at the young barista behind the counter. Despite being around all that coffee, the woman looked dead inside. The brunette felt her pain and gave her a sympathetic look before thanking her and turning towards the door.

Beca froze, her heart in her throat as she pressed the edge of the plastic lid to her lips. She was mid-sip when she caught a glance at a certain Red Head by the windows. She was busy shoving half of a cinnamon bun into her mouth. Even with the morning just peaking through the horizon she wore a smile. Her deep blue eyes catching Beca’s as she parted her lips slightly, lifting an eyebrow towards Beca.

Her feet felt like cement. It would be rude to walk out of Noonan’s without saying hi, or at least share a bit of conversation with the excitable woman who was beaming at her from across the room. Beca eventually swallowed her resolve, along with the bitter taste her coffee let behind.

“Callie, right?” She asked, giving the girl a playful glimmer. The girl scoffed loudly and shook her head, wiping the edge of her lip with her thumb, getting the bit of icing and cinnamon away from the corner of her lip.

“That woman hates me,” She said, running a hand through her hair as she gestured for Beca to sit down. The smaller girl eyed her, but eventually pulled the other chair out, lowering herself into it with caution. Chloe seemed to respond well to the action, pushing the rest of the sticky cinnamon bun to the side with a gracious grin at the sudden company.

“That woman hates everyone,” Beca said. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Gail Abernathy was interested in proving herself. She didn’t just give manners and respect to anyone that flashed their expression at her. You had to prove yourself to gain some type of kindness from the blonde woman who built an empire out of nothing.

“She doesn’t seem to hate you,” Chloe said with a bit of spark as she pointed the edge of her fork Beca’s way, waving it around a bit.

“Oh, trust me, she does.” She brunette leaned back in her seat, taking a cautious drink of her coffee. It burned against her throat and filled her lungs with a thick heat. “Gail just realized that it was easier to have me on her side than against her.”

Beca made an odd face as another wave of sweet icing and spices hit her senses. She was the one that was so used to drinking black coffee that was way too bitter for her own good. She had a feeling that Chloe would dump whole cups of sugar into the hot beverage until they formed rough ropes at the bottom of the mug.

“How do you eat that this early in the morning?” She asked, scrunching up her nose.

“Easy,” Chloe shrugged her shoulders with a toothy grin as she popped the last bit of pastry into her mouth “I’m an alien.”

THE YOUNG woman leaned back heavily in her chair, letting the springs creak and groan against her added weight as her eyelids began to grow heavy. It didn’t matter how many cups of coffee she had downed- the day was still dragging along.

Her main focus was on the string that was laced around her fingers. It was a large strand that she had pulled from the hem of her regular black t-shirt. She wasn’t worried about the two pieces of fabric falling apart- not when she had a million other shirts like it. Instead- she practiced a game she remembered learning as a child. Cat’s cradle.

Beca’s stare was desolate as she glanced at the intricate weaving of a tiny thread against pale skin. It reminded her of an obstacle course created by supervillains before the main hero could get to that precious artifact- the one to stop world hunger, or finally shut off a desolate machine that could destroy the world.

Jessica yawned beside her, a little whimper escaping the girls pink drawn lips as she leaned her head against the side of her hand- eyes drooping themselves. It was a boring day- one filled with watching security camera’s and making sure everyone who walked through the front door had their badges.

Usually, Beca wouldn’t bother herself with this kind of thing- but with Flo taking a leave of absence for the next few weeks to handle some family matters, and Ashley not bothering to get her flu shot this year, she was shit out of luck. Of course, she had more than a couple of people on her team- but none willing enough to actually sit through this torture.

“Stick your hand through here,” Beca mumbled, shifting in the leather chair before she was at the very end, she had scooted close enough that she could smell the lavender coming off of her counterpart.

“What?” Jessica finally shot a deep hazel stare towards her boss- the very boss that had her tongue sticking slightly past her lips in an attempt to focus more clearly. She did that sometimes- the badass who could somehow look like a lost puppy in a matter of moments. Still, the taller blonde cocked her head to the side.

“Stick your hand in the middle of this thing,” Beca said without breaking concentration, she used to do this type of thing all the time as a kid. If she had strung her cards right then she could untangle the thread in one swift movement, even with Jess’s wrist in the middle of it.

The blonde took her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a laugh at her boss’s slack expression. She stuck her hand out, slowly working her fingers through the middle of the little obstacle course before staring at the woman with curiosity.

“Don’t cut off my circulation, Mitchell.” She mumbled with a bit of malice, but mostly bewilderment.  The brunette gave a curt nod as she made one shift yank- a light grunt moving through Beca as her fingers became tangled in the very thread she had pulled.

Jessica drew in a breath as she deadpanned next to her counterpart- utterly annoyed at the woman for playing cat’s cradle in the middle of a work day- especially if she didn’t exactly know how to execute the maneuver.

“Am I interrupting something?” A deep voice filled the air, a stranger at that. Beca’s breath caught in her throat as she pulled back completely, struggling to untangle herself from Jessica as the woman struggled to stifle a laugh. Instead, she bit her bottom lip and rubbed her stinging hands on her knees.

Beca’s gaze flashed up to the man who was standing on the other edge of the counter- a goofy grin on his face as he adjusted the black leather strap of his over the shoulder bag. He wore a pale blue button-down that clashed with chocolate brown eyes and an edging grin.

“No um, not at all-“Beca stood, “And you are?”

This man didn’t dawn a badge. Beca didn’t care if he looked charming and harmless- he was still a stranger that had walked past the double paned glass doors and into the base floor of Barden’s offices. That made her walls spring up almost instantly- a sharp chill moving through her.  

“Jesse Swanson,” He smirked, sticking out a hand with confidence. “I was told to come see a Beca Mitchell about a badge and an office.”

He was beaming, if not struggling to stay upright. Even though she had just met this man, she knew he was clumsy- clumsy enough to mess with the dark camera strung around his neck and the prints tucked under his arm.

“Oh, you’re that photographer guy!” Jessica said excitedly, her lips parting as Beca turned her head and gave the girl a curved eyebrow. She sunk into her seat nervously but still turned her attention back to Jesse. “Is it true, you know Superman?”

He blew a puff of breath out of his nose as he gave her a charming smirk. Something told Beca that he was always this playful with his words. “I’ve taken his picture a few times. He’s posed for a few of them.”

“Whoa, that is so cool” Jessica gasped, mouth agape. Beca wrapped her touch around the plastic badge that showed a chiseled jaw of Jesse himself. She cleared her throat, lifting the picture ID up.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’ll show you to your office, Mr. Swanson.”

He faltered at the serious tone she took, stepping from behind the desk as she didn’t wait for him to catch his thoughts. Instead, she kept walking, shoes echoing against the quiet lobby as Jessica leaned back in her chair once more and started to pay attention to the monitors again.

They walked past a silver set of elevators until they reached the other end of the lobby, two more elevators were carved into stone as she turned and shoved her hands into her pockets. “These are the staff elevators. You can use these, and the stairs, but never that front elevator up there. That is reserved for Gail, and Gail only.”

“Gail?” Jesse pushed the button to the lift, letting a blue light reflecting off the floor.

“Gail Abernathy,” Beca lifted her eyebrows with a slight smirk. “The woman who hired you?”

“Oh, she didn’t hire me,” He said, “I don’t know who did… all I know is that I was asked to show up at Barden. I don’t even live in National City, but I traded it all for an office with a view.”

“Daring,” She said as the elevator dinged, opening up to its silver interior as she let Jesse press his back against the side wall, staring Beca down. She wasn’t dressed like a normal security guard- instead, she dawned dark jeans and a black V-neck. Her own badge was clipped to a belt loop as she stood with slack. “What about your old job?”

“I was freelancing,” he explained carefully “Not a PI or anything like that but being Superman’s right-hand guy is okay when you don’t actually live in Metropolis. He kind of pushed me to take the job.”  

“Right,” Beca deadpanned, still with an amused expression on her face as she stared at the slowly climbing numbers.

“That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

“Done what?”

“Haven’t reacted.”

She stared his way, knitting her eyebrows together as she parted her lips. She didn’t exactly know how to respond to his words, not when he stared at her expectantly. He had a wonderment in golden eyes that could only be described as childish but innocent.

“Do people usually swoon when you talk about the man in red and blue spandex?”

Instead of waiting for an answer Beca exited the elevator, turning around to see if Jesse was following her. He was. She walked past most of the employees sitting at those obnoxious glass desks, not looking up at the sound of the doors opening and closing. This place, the pit, was always fuming with reporters and editors trying to do the best that they could to please Gail. To keep the news flowing.

Chloe glanced up from her own desk, meeting midnight blue eyes with a small smile as Beca returned it- knowing that the girl had memos to send, a lot of work to get through. She bit the edge of her pen between her lips. She was chewing on it, eyebrows creasing.

Beca pulled open a glass door to one of the offices- it was empty but was different from the other ones. There was a large table, and places to hand new prints- and in fact, a very good view from the windows that pressed against the far wall.  

“Holy shit,” Jesse said, leaning his prints up against the wall as he looked around in awe.

Beca stood back, smiling at the aloof expression on Jesse’s face. “An office with a view.”

[brella]

Merry Christmas, friends! And, of course, HAPPY YULETIDE!!!!!!!

I had planned to stay up until 1 AM for reveals but then because I am Old Now I fell asleep playing Fire Emblem Heroes at 12:30 AM. HOWEVER, I then woke up instinctively at 3:41 AM and fumbled for my phone in a stupor so that I could SEE WHAT I GOT, and boy. BOY! BOY HOWDY

one equal temper of heroic hearts | Anne with an E – Anne/Gilbert – 6,470 words – rated G

Anne is fifteen, which means she will be sixteen soon, which means she is practically grown. She is perfectly capable of handling Gilbert Blythe as a boarder at Green Gables, despite anything Marilla might have to say to the contrary.

I have decided that I will have to read this at least 200 times before I have the gall to try drafting a comment worthy of its splendor. I felt like a little kid again, lost in the world of Avonlea, adoring Anne Shirley with all my heart and soul. The close third narrative voice for her is spot-on, and there are wonderful appearances from Diana, Ruby, Jerry, and a particularly standout Marilla. It’s a heart-tugging, honest, beautifully written look at how Anne and Gilbert interact after his return post-S1—the language alone, I’m sure, would make the great Lucy Maude nod approvingly. Mostly it just made me cry and made my breath catch in my throat but I am also nodding approvingly. 

Anne and Gilbert also get locked in a cellar at one point and have a Fraught and Meaningful Conversation That is Ultimately Interrupted (BY JERRY, THANK GOD), so, LIKE. “The Lady of Shalott” also features prominently at one point which is CAUSE ALONE to read and extol this small masterpiece in my HUMBLE OPINION. 

This is so, SO marvelous and romantic and genuine I can’t even conjure the right words to describe it but please please read it. I’ll be chilling on cloud nine in the meantime, loving Anne Shirley and loving Gilbert Blythe and loving how they come to love each other. 

Without a Lodestone | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia – Celica & Conrad – 1,230 words – unrated

While exploring the Lost Treescape, Celica finds herself lost in its paths, her thoughts, and her memories of how Conrad used to be before they were separated so long ago.

THIS IS APPARENTLY A TREAT AND IT POPPED UP IN MY GIFTS LIST UNEXPECTEDLY AND I ALMOST SHOT OUT OF MY BED AND INTO THE STRATOSPHERE WHEN I SAW WHAT IT WAS. It captures only a short moment, in which Celica and Conrad get separated from the main party on the way to the Sages’ Hamlet, but it’s so rich with potential and provides such a heartbreaking look at Celica’s state of mind at this crucial point in the story, when she’s considering giving her life to Duma to save Zofia. Celica is so beautifully in-character here; I wanted to give her SUCH A HUG. Her relationship with Conrad was something that didn’t get enough attention to me in the main story, and this fills that gap so perfectly!!! I LOVE MY CHILDREN!

These are both SO SPECTACULAR AND I’M DYING AND THE LUCKIEST HUMAN ON THIS EARTH ETC ETC. PLEASE READ THESE WONDERFUL STORIES AND SHARE IN MY JOY

[worldjurassic]

@hvbris​ said “you are remarkably well-behaved tonight, what have you been up to?” for Conrad, from Scully

“I am always well-behaved. Just not by human standards,” Conrad pointed out, setting his mug down. He’d spent the last hour fixing himself breakfast and his own version of coffee - milk and chocolate syrup. 

Of course, he’d left the kitchen in complete disarray but she didn’t have to know that. She could find out on her own time. For now, he had business to attend to.

He grabbed his spoon and took another bite of his cereal then turned his attention back to the computer he’d been typing on. “And if you must know, I am searching for people to join my new pack.”