#because have you seen nathan swift

[scarlet-cookie]

Day 5 Ink Demonth (late again) : Benevolent

BENDY : The Untrusted AU

(Pre BATDR)

“O, benevolent machine and ink. 

Hear this plead, from a poor soul crying out.

For this feeling buried deep within cannot be freed, for I cannot be who I truly am. I seek your aid and guide, and I swear on this oath that I will repay you as you have helped me. May your will be heard and done through those that have touched you and mine…”

‘Adam’ whispered this incantation softly at night, being careful to not wake up his father.

What a strange and complicated incantation, he wondered. It should work, though, according.. if Mister Gray’s notes weren’t lying.

He looked up at the old machine.

Quiet.

But he can hear something.

“Hello?”

Suddenly, Adam felt a distorting feeling course through his entire body. It was as if he was being sucked into a whirlpool, deep, deep deep into the cold.. black..

Ink.

“Hello?” The same voice repeated again, a strange, nearly ethereal voice, but sounded like many voices speaking on top of each other.

“Ah.. hah….” Adam panted, still shocked from the sensation. He blinked, his eyes scanning his environment.

Just. Nothing. Just darkness, all around.

“Hello?” Adam repeated again.

“You called me?” The voice spoke.

“Where.. are you?” Adam asked. It was a bit disconcerting to be making a conversation with something you can’t see, or know what it looked like.

Nothing replied, nor appeared.

Then.

“You..” The voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

SWOOSH!!!! Hundreds of ink tendrils swept through the void, reaching for Adam. It grabbed and pinned the young man to what should’ve been emptiness earlier, now a solid wall.

“Ouch!!!” Adam groaned, hurt. What the hell is this thing doing?

A figure appeared from the darkness. Something.. someone deformed, unrecognizable, made out of ink, with the exception of its eyes of glowing, yellow vortexes. It still twisted and contorted as it staggered towards the restrained Adam, but it seemed to be trying its best to resemble.. a man in his early thirties.. someone Adam felt like he has seen before.

“You.. look familiar..” what Adam presumed to be the entity of the machine said. “Nathan Arch?” 

“My.. father.. right..” Adam tried to speak through the restraints. “What..”

“Oh.” The ink mumbled. “Alright then. Nathan Arch Jr? So you.. found the incantation? By how? My interest is piqued.” It seemed to be quite curt.

“..Alan Gray.” Adam whispered. He took lengths to find the man’s personal research, about the machine. It’s half a miracle he’s not dead right now.

“Alan?” Ink sounded nearly surprised. “You’re one skilled boy, then.”

“Thanks.” Adam sighed. 

“So, what were you hoping to say to me?” Ink asked. Although its voice made it seem like it was cheery, Adam could feel a twinge of sorrow in it. As if it was hopeless.

Adam thought.

Cut to the chase. Make it swift. 

He had an outline of his plan already.

“…Joey Drew Studios.”

Ink’s demeanor shifted faster than Adam has ever seen.

“What?”

“Tell me about you, and Joey Drew Studios.” Adam spoke.

Ink went quiet.

“Why?” Its voice dropped low.

“I will use the knowledge.. to heed to your will.” He replied carefully. “I wish to devote myself to you as Alan Gray did.”

Ink stared at him.

“You have something else in mind too, don’t you?” Ink asked.

“…” Adam had nothing to say to that.

“Are you certain that this is the way to… prove yourself to your father?” It asked again.

“Positive.” Adam replied curtly. 

Ink stayed silent for long. So long Adam was starting to get afraid he might get rejected.. and.. what else could he do? This.. this is another level of desperation he held. He can’t even stay shameless in front of the entity.

“Alright, then.” The ink finally spoke. “I see. But are you aware of the consequences that’ll follow once you become one with me?” 

Adam thought about it.

Yes.

Because this man called Nathan Arch Jr.. is a hollow shell of a person he should be.

What the ink may bring out, would not be out of his control.

He knew himself well.

Very well.

“Yes.”

“And are you ready to accept them- of course you are..” Ink cut in the middle, reading straight through him.

“Mhm.” Adam nodded.

“Alright then.”

SKRK!!!!

Adam nearly screamed. One of the ink tendrils grew into a thorn that had pierced through his right eye, or.. more like.. took it from him. He watched as his.. eyeball.. floated over to the entity.

“To seek answers and knowledge.” It said. “Your eye.. I’ll let you share a portion of my sight with me. Is that a first swell deal to start off with, since you’re looking for the truth?”

“Yes… it.. is” Adam was trying his best to keep his cries back. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

“Looking for” and took his eye. Is that supposed to be a figurative joke?

“It’s not a figurative joke.” Ink shot back. “Wait a day or two.. I don’t know. Time works weird here. But what you’re looking for, I’ll give you..”

“Thank.. you.” Adam mumbled through the pain.

Ink narrowed its ‘eyes’ at Adam.. or Nathan Arch Jr.. or.. whatever other aliases he might come up with. What an elusive figure.. it wasn’t everyday The Ink met someone like him.

Did it really trust.. this.. man again?

But beyond the vicinity of Joey Drew, it seemed like those he were close too seemed to know loyalty much better than him...

And, what else, has it got to lose?

If anything.. it means something new is about to happen. Something exciting. Something that will push this stalemate, that it’s on the losing side, forward.

“Alright then.” Ink said. “Off you go, my new disciple.. this machine and its secrets will be unveiled.. to you.”

(At first the art was gonna come before the writing, but I don’t have time to do it today. Please take this Wilson-and-how-he-lost-his-eye-fanfic in the meantime.)

#the ink demonth #ink demonth #bendy and the dark revival #bendy and the ink machine #ink machine #wilson batdr

[te-pu-si-ti]

The Burnt City: NYE Remix

One month on?! I've finally written it up.

What a night. What a privilege to be a part of it. What a joy to ring in the new year in my favourite place.

I was already in the party spirit right from the start. The mood in the queue was infectious - everyone greeting each other, saying hi to old friends or meeting new ones, appreciating each other's outfits and wondering what would happen once we got inside. My heart was already full before I even entered the building.

To my surprise, they had released a cast list - and a number of the roles had two names next to them. So, as predicted, there would be some switching going on.

Sally gave her entrance speech the same as always - I didn't hear a word of it, but we all cheered at the end.

"Welcome to my exhibition," said Hades, "Part museum, part maze, part party." Oh, the suspense was killing me.

I started in Mycenae - I had a rough plan of all the scenes I wanted to hit, and 80% of them were in Troy. So I started here, because I wouldn't be back until the finale.

It was the right decision. The first remix switch of the night was the phone call to Agamemnon, which I watched from the mezzanine. The phone rang... and it was the Nokia ringtone. All of Mycenae burst out laughing. Vini picked up, and instead of Iphigenia, it was... "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?"

I've had many experiences in The Burnt City, both deeply personal and beautifully communal. But I've never been there laughing with a hundred other people before.

Not all the song choices were so comedic, but I loved it all, because all of a sudden I was seeing everything with fresh eyes. I found myself paying more attention to the choreography than usual, shocked out of my routines.

Lizzo, Taylor Swift, The White Stripes - and Whitney Houston, Chaka Khan. A mix of modern and classic hits.

I stayed in Mycenae up to Agamemnon's staircase ascent - to the music I knew from the opening titles of The Fall. Then I left, to arrive in Troy in plenty of time to see Hades (a song I didn't know) and Persephone (a song I didn't know, but I had a feeling).

My knowledge of the show served me well, because if there wasn't a scene occurring, the soundscape was mostly normal. I had to seek out the moments with songs.

I stuck my head into Peep for some water, and very nearly - very nearly! - walked out. Because I wasn't sure if Peep would be remixed or not. And I heard the intro music to Sweet Love. And I very. Nearly. Walked right out. It's the providence of the gods that I didn't, because I witnessed Nance (Mallory) singing Closer by Nine Inch Nails. With choreography to match. To Cici (Ali).

And that's when I went straight to the bar and got myself a rum punch.

Peep was a GREAT place to be. Fred Gehrig was on as his incomparable Kampe. Nathan's Orpheus led a singalong of Hopelessly Devoted To You. Sam Booth's Hades spoke-sang one of the many earworms of the night, Never Ever by All Saints.

I left Peep near the end of the loop, to catch the tango (Ain't Nobody, Chaka Khan). I also caught a glimpse of one of the performer switches - Polydorus was lying on the ground in the tenement square, and another Polydorus was stood right by him in a white mask. I wish I could have seen this switch in detail, or any of the others, but I wasn't in the right place at the right time. By the time I got to the loop 2 blinding, Hecuba had already switched to Fania.

I stayed in the Klub to watch Kampe reset (Fred Kampe shows were heartbreakingly numbered, I wanted to spend this moment with him. This night was also a send-off to the departing cast, whose last shows were just a week after this). Then, I went down to Troy square, basically to catch some of Hecuba's greatest hits.

At the birthday party, Luba was singing the impossible opera from The Fifth Element - maybe my favourite choice of the show.

I watched Hecuba's premonition about Polydorus, not because there was anything remixed about it, but just because it's a beautiful scene, and because Jordan and Fania are wonderful. I just enjoyed the moment, no FOMO.

After that was DDR, and I was dying to see what Dobbie had picked for that.

What could live up to Fire by Fatrat?

How about Moana?

The pop version of How Far I'll Go.

Sure, why not?

I never know where to go from the invasion. Run after Eury or Neo? Or stay with Hecuba? Follow Cassandra and Agamemnon??

Luke's Neo ran past me but I decided to watch Hecuba for just a moment (it's *my* remix and I can watch her if I want to!). When she left Alighieri's, I split off from the crowd and up to the Klub, where Georges Laocoön was still dancing marvellously.

Laocoön runs out, Neo runs in, and the last time that I see Luke Murphy do his absolutely devastating dance in the Klub, it's to The Weeknd, Blinding Lights.

(This is the one scene, by the way, that we have confirmed had a different song for each of the 3 loops. So it was a surprise to the performers each time.)

I went to see Hecuba in the shell bedroom, and before the scene finished, I rushed off to Peep to see You Should See Me In A Crown. Actually, Lorde's Royals. Or rather, a mashup of the two. (A perfect song for Naomi to sing, suits her voice so well)

Follow Kampe out to the Troy finale - how can things already be nearly over? It went by so quickly! I heard drum & bass, I was pretty sure I knew, and the reaction from the crowd confirmed it. The witch's rave from Sleep No More.

Everyone was cheering, whooping , hollering, and I have *always* wanted to cheer when Polymestor has his eyes ripped out, and by gods we all did. I always have a swell of emotion during the blinding and especially the Troy finale, and I felt it stronger than ever and got to let it out.

Of course I rushed off before the finale finished properly, because it was still a busy show and I could not risk any black masks stopping me from getting to the other finale.

Overall, everyone was remarkably well behaved. I didn't run into any issues with the audience - granted, I wasn't trying to follow any characters and I didn't get anywhere near a 1:1 door the whole show. But, knowing it was an audience full of regulars, I didn't even try to get a spot at the front of the circle. I hung back.

The Mycenae finale began as normal with its droning sounds. Only when everyone was down the staircase did a remixed track begin: Adele - Skyfall. And then at the end, Daft Punk - Around the World. Perfect.

Oh, how we applauded. Clapped until my hands stung. Cheered my lungs out. We filled that warehouse with all our joy and gratitude of the past 9 months.

The lights came up, and suddenly I realised I had no idea what to do next. Where were we going? I won't say much about the party that followed, except it was wonderful and so much fun and I love everyone I spent it with. And after we got kicked out of The Burnt City and the Dial Arch, I could not get to sleep the whole rest of the night because of everything racing through my head.

Kat & Carl & Naomi kept Peep running through the party, Maya and Will were on DJ duty, and Sam, Omagbitse, Ali & Jahmarley were running around being fabulous entertainment on top of it all, so extra props to them. Oh, and one more thing: We truly don't deserve Keyboard Sam.

The night couldn't have been much more perfect. Maybe this is the only SHOPTY we get, maybe it's the first of many events to come. Either way, it was special.

#the burnt city #punchdrunk #shopty #the burnt city remix #remix #i just 🥲🥲🥲 #they announced it so late and we were sure they weren't going to do something for new years #and then THEY DID #and it was wonderful #there's nothing like being at an event where everyone loves the thing just as much as you #writeup

[taylor-on-your-dash]

A Love Story Theory: Chuck Wicks

DISCLAIMER: This post is only a theory, so please don't send hate to the people involved. I know that in 2022 speculating on who the songs are about is kinda looked down upon. If you don't agree with this aspect of the fandom, this might not be the post for you.

The Love Story guy has never been found but just a few months ago, someone said it was written about a country singer, Chuck Wicks, here.

Now the comment is deleted and I didn't screenshot it, but it basically said that it was a rumor in the Nashville country scene at the time, but it didn't last long between them, just a few weeks. Since it's all he said she said, I decided to dig deeper. I had no idea who Wicks was before that comment, but it made sense when I added this information to what we already knew:

In some of the performances of the song, Taylor has talked about writing the song as a response to her parents not approving of a guy, here and here at the Harvey Mudd - VH1 Storytellers.

In this book by Liv Spencer, it is mentioned that "Taylor told Time that this one’s about a guy she never really dated (she calls these boys “nominees”) because her friends and family didn’t approve. But no doubt her would-be Romeo approves of the happy ending Taylor made up for them."

She also said that the guy "Was a creep, looking back, but at the time I thought he was amazing" in 2011 in her interview with 60 minutes.

In March 2008, Taylor had an interview with Billboard (here) where she said she was about to go to the recording studio again. The interview was published on the 28th, but we sadly don't know when Taylor was interviewed.

Fast forward to Nathan Chapman who, in April 2009, revealed that Love Story was one of the songs recorded during the March session at the Blackbird studio in an interview released on a magazine about professional microphones (now closed) (here): "The vocal was a tracking vocal — that's the vocal she cut live with the band," Chapman reveals. "The band was just acoustic guitar, bass and drums; everything else was overdubbed.

In addiction to Chapman's description, we have the one by the Inner Circle: Love Story (4 min 8 sec / Studio) - Taylor went into the studio to record this demo shortly after writing it and you can hear Nathan (the producer) speaking during the recording. The song is so new to her that Taylor even briefly forgets the lyrics at one spot.

From the same book by Liv Spencer above, Taylor said: "Behind the Music: Taylor wrote this song lying on her bedroom floor in a mere 20 minutes and recorded a rough cut of the track in 15 minutes of studio time the next day. She said the song sprang from the line “This love is difficult / but it’s real,” and she noted on her MySpace, “When I wrote that line, I knew it would be my favorite line to sing every night. And it’s true, every time I sing that, I can’t help but smile.”

So what we learn from all these interviews, is that not only Love Story was recorded in the scheduled March session, but it was also written in March 2008 because the song is so new to her.

In January 2010, Taylor reveals in a Rolling Stone interview here that “Love Story wasn’t technically the last one, but it was very, very last minute.”, which aligns with her fighting with Big Machine for the song (source).

Coming back to Chuck Wicks, I found a picture of him with Taylor and Kellie Picker at the Country Radio Seminar taken - you guessed it - in March 2008:

She also had an entry on MySpace about it: "This whole week was CRS week in Nashville. CRS stands for Country Radio Seminar. That’s when all the country radio programmers and DJ’s come to Nashville and get liners from artists (“Hi this is Taylor Swift and you’re listening to…”) and get to all mingle and see the people you haven’t seen in forever. There are a bunch of showcases and concerts for new artists just going out to radio, and all the labels have parties."

Chuck is 10 years older than Taylor, and if they were really seeing each other, I can see why her parents didn't really approve.

Now onto the things that don't match up: Taylor always says that she wrote this song at 17. While she's not exactly the most reliable person when it comes to dates (see her confusing The Outside with A Place In This World, or the city in which she wrote Better Man), I also can't see a person misremembering something so important (being underage or not), although it makes more sense if we see it through the fact that it was just a crush and nothing more. Apparently he was at her 18th birthday, so maybe that's why she got confused. She also met Chuck that October in Illinois and it seems fine (even though we don't know when she discovered that Love Story guy was a creep):

That being said, her being 17 doesn't match up with ANYTHING she and her collaborators have said about the song. The Fearless sessions began a week after her 18th birthday, so if she really was 17, this means she fought with Big Machine for almost a year and I simply cannot see it. The US Copyright Service lists Love Story as being created in 2008, even though it has been wrong before. If the song was written in 2007, then Love Story guy might be also the Tell Me Why/Acting Like A Boy person.

Another guy often mentioned is Martin Johnson from Boys Like Girls, but I cannot see Taylor writing Love Story about him and then collaborating with him a year after (If This Was A Movie, March/April 2009), and in 2010 releasing Two Is Better Than One (date written unknown).

There's also speculation that the White Horse guy and Love Story guy are the same person but I don't think so. Based on White Horse she was in an on-and-off relationship with him but the Love Story guy was just a crush. Also, White Horse was written when she was 16 or had just turned 17 (December 2006, see Lover Journal). Pretty sure White Horse is a Sam song, but that's for another thread.

What do you think? It's just coincidences or there's a grain of truth in it? To me, all these references pointing to March 2008 are too on the nose to be just a coincidence but maybe that's just me because I'm obsessed with timelines. Dates can't lie. If all of this is true, I have to thank the person who linked the microphone article on Wikipedia: without them, we wouldn't be here today lol. Anyway, what Love Story achieved and what represented for Taylor, go beyond a random crush. Peace.

#taylor swift #love story #fearless #fearless taylor’s version #fearless tv #fearless era #love story taylor swift #chuck wicks

[jesslockwood]

I posted 563 times in 2022

141 posts created (25%)

422 posts reblogged (75%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@tomhollandnet

@cutetomholland

@zendayamybabe

@omnidudes

I tagged 560 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#tom holland - 196 posts

#jess talks - 90 posts

#andrew garfield - 58 posts

#peter parker - 49 posts

#spider-man - 38 posts

#zuri the worry - 33 posts

#nwh - 33 posts

#uncharted movie - 30 posts

#nathan drake - 29 posts

#zuri the wealthy - 19 posts

Longest Tag: 108 characters

#i can barely handle anything atm and i need to be at a better mental state if i’m gonna nanny 2 kids under 3

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

When Percy Jackson trailer is more important than the queen dying

51 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

#4

Some one tell me why Adam Levine’s and Ned from Try guys statements sound almost exactly the same 🤔

51 notes - Posted September 27, 2022

#3

I choked on my water

69 notes - Posted November 25, 2022

#2

Valentines Pessimist

Main Masterlist

Word Count: 1.7k

Pairing(s): Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: Fluff with a slightly suggestive sentence towards the end lol

A/n: Happy Valentines Day ik I'm super late lmao but enjoy! this is also loosely based on the song Pessimist by Julia Michaels also special thanks to @darling-im-moonstruck for believing I could finish this SGHDDJ. this is also not edited very much or well so oh well.

divider credit: @silkholland

“You’ve never celebrated Valentine's day?!” Tom almost bellowed.

You shrug kind of embarrassed, though technically you had nothing to celebrate- romantic-wise, until this year. Tom and you had only started dating almost a year after valentines day, February 21st to be exact.

“What did you even do? celebrate anti-valentines day or something?”

It was the beginning of February and you thought tom was acting weird, mainly because he said he wanted to plan your anniversary for you both. You suggested just staying home and he said you definitely couldn't, but the romantic in him was overpowered by your idea. You sometimes found it slightly annoying, yet that's what you loved about him.

He was antsy, but you just thought it was probably for his upcoming audition for a role he really wanted.

“I did make up on me for it once when I was in high school” You rolled your eyes, “besides I'm not technically anti-valentines I just never had a reason other than elementary school forcing you to draw hearts on everything, without understanding actual love, just the ideal.”

“So you're a pessimist is what you're saying?” you shove him lightly, pretending to be offended.

“Says the man who doesn't know what pessimist means.” you taunt back.

“You're the one who makes me listen to that song! Anyways it's not the point, the point is, is that you're celebrating your first official valentines day with me and,” he hugs you lovingly from behind softly talking in your ear, “It's going to be special. It'll be the best one you’ll ever have.”

You weren't so sure a holiday meant for romantic love could sway you, but tom surely could.

See the full post

175 notes - Posted February 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Okay but we’ve had Taylor swift dropping her new album title and date don’t worry darling has had the best drama I’ve seen in forever the queen died and we got little mermaid, disenchanted trailer drops what truly best chaotic weeks thus far-

491 notes - Posted September 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[readerpkmn]

Oh to be a young boy with a troubled past in a sports anime, slowly learning to trust my teammates

#sports anime #this is very specifically about axel blaze #inazuma eleven #also i suppose about gender envy #ive actually never watched any other sports animes #but hey #its the thought that counts #its also about andreil #from all for the game #aftg #rambling #because have you seen nathan swift #his luscious hair #and jude sharp #with his enviable dramatism #i wish i could be half as cool as them #haikyuu!! #yuri on ice

[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.

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

[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight: If Only You Had Compassion

Prompt Creator: @summerssixecho

The bad blood between humans and ghosts was going to come to a head eventually, and when it did everyone was going to get hurt.

Danny sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and leans back against the wall; staring at the news disbelievingly.

They had lost.

Lost the entire goddamn case. Because the American government had officially decided: Ghosts were not sentient. Ghosts were not beings. Ghosts did not have rights. And ghosts were a threat to the country. Meaning any and all instances of ghosts and anything -excluding weapons or other items used to combat, control, or harm ghosts- were illegal to exist, possess, or help.

Danny, they, had gone about this the human way. Had been respectful. And nice. And friendly. And it didn’t fucking work. They extended a hand and got fucking bit.

And of course, anyone who had been fighting for ghosts and their rights and safety were the first ones to come under fire and scrutiny. And with nearly all of Amity Park being on that list, it was no surprise the G.I.W. were coming here and banging on doors at record speed.

What’s worse? Danny had been the loudest voice. Of course he had. He had to be. He was fighting for his own goddamn rights after all; not that the government or his family knew that. But it wasn’t just that. No.

Danny Phantom was King. THE High King. This was something he had to deal with, had to handle. And well... the cards hadn’t landed in his favour. In their favour.

But that wasn’t the end of it, because on top of it, his parents couldn’t understand what he was doing, to the point that Danny had to just get out of that house.

Technically he was homeless now, but well, being a ghost rather negated that. He had a whole dimension if need be and could get by just goddamn fine on the streets.

In the end, Danny had lost pretty well all his respect and love for his parents. They had become the enemy too and he just couldn’t afford room to old sentimentality and dwelling on ‘what could have been’ if they had been better people and parents.

At least Danny had listened to his gut and firmly ordered all the ghosts back into the Infinite Realm. He didn’t have to worry about any full ghosts getting captured, tortured, dissected, and destroyed.

Elle was safely with the residents of the Far Frozen too, so no worries there.

And Vlad... Vlad could look after himself. Last he heard the man fully intended to blow up his entire mansion and lab should the case fall through, purely to stop the G.I.W. from getting their hands on anything. Money only went so far in protecting yourself and your assets after all. Danny didn’t doubt the man’s willingness to do it either.

So that just left Danny. The one who was really the most at risk. He was damn near the face of the case, of the campaign. He was a minor still, limiting his rights even further. His ‘parents’ were hunters, hunters that idolised the G.I.W. and worked with them gladly and eagerly.

And he was a true halfa. Exactly half and half. He couldn’t even hide himself from the Fenton’s janky scanners, hiding wasn’t an option.

But then again, hiding had never even been an option for him. Hiding wasn’t Phantom’s thing, wasn’t the Kings thing. For now though? He lays low. He watches. And he waits. Waits for the Observants to finally back him proper. For FrightKnight to rally and ready. And finally for ClockWork to give him that melancholic face that says there is no other option.

Because Danny played this like a human. Because Danny gave humanity a chance. Because Danny wanted to have faith in people. Because Danny had hoped his goddamn half-beating heart out.

Because Danny was scared. Because he was still a kid. Because he shouldn’t have to pick one or the other. Because he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Well now there wasn’t much of a choice. He picked ghosts the day he took that crown. The day he agreed to apprentice under ClockWork instead of the Fenton’s. The day Danny Fenton became just a fabricated mask for Danny Phantom to hide behind.

And now everyone was going to have to play their part. Fulfil their role. Dance out repeating history on the world’s stage. Everyone was going to have to pay a price.

Because when you take away someone’s rights in your own eyes, then they take away yours in theirs.

Because when the government decides someone doesn’t get to exist, and then every other government falls in line because the military powerhouse that is America has decided, then that someone is going to thrash and bite and scream to get to exist.

That’s how its always been.

Survival of the fittest.

And humans? Humans weren’t the fittest by miles.

Because humanity had been given coexistence on a paper. Had been given peace on a paper. And had drawn weapons and scalpels and hate instead.

And for that, this means war.

And not just a skirmish or dispute. No. An all-out bloody war. A massive war. A war beyond anyone’s wildest imaginations or worst dreams.

Because what humanity didn’t know is there were laws that existed. Laws that already governed dead and mortal interaction and travel between the realms. The Oaths and Seals. Older than most of the Ancients and predating nearly all mortal life in the universe.

And one of those Seals states simply that any being of death or life could traverse between Realms freely without harm, threat, or unwilling containment from ruling bodies or any species as a whole.

To say ghosts couldn't exist here. It was such a direct blatant violation. There was no way around that. There really wasn’t. If it wasn’t acted on then it could be overlooked as someone making stupid laws and ignored. But that just wasn’t the case. Wouldn’t be. In that sense it was both blessing and curse that Amity would be targeted first. He had a chance to stop them. To hedge them at the gates.

To cut the Gordian knot.

To meet them at the doors to his lair and tell them what awaited them should they choose to pass. Should they choose to continue a damned and forsaken path.

It would mean revealing himself. Would mean ending the lies and double life. It would mean definitively and finally choosing a side. Choosing ghosts. But it was what had to be.

And if they choose to cross him?

Then it’s game over.

Because Amity was Phantom’s lair. The High Ghost Kings land. His people. His subjects. His. It would be treason. Would be a crime against the High Crown. Against not only the Seals but the Kings Decrees and the Law Of Ages as well. There would be no going back.

The punishment was death. Was absolute subjugation. Was the end of humanity's reign upon the earth.

Because in the eyes of the universe, humanity would have forfeited the right to stand as equals to the dead. They would become lesser and treated as such. Any human who refused to kneel and bow to the Infinite Realm, to him, would be summarily cut down and disposed of.

He didn’t want this. He truly didn’t.

But it wasn’t his choice to make.

It was humanities. The G.I.W.’s.

Danny had very little faith.

But at least he could try. He was a determined bastard to a fault. Even when he should probably give up. When it was probably a lost cause.

This was hopeless now. He knew it. But he had to try and when that failed... then he’ll fight. He’ll fight with a frown and tears screaming down his face. But he’ll damn well fight.

Because that’s who he is. What he is. Because if he doesn’t do this for the ghosts then he’ll do it for the humans he protects.

For Sam and Tucker, both nearly halfas themselves due to UnderGrowth and a past life lived.

For Star, Paulina, Dale, Brittney, Kwan, Ashley, Emilie, Todd, James, Dash, Mikey, Nathan, Rosalia, Jasper, and Carrie, so horribly contaminated by Spectra’s and Bertrand’s experiments.

For Jazz, who’s opinions and field of study made her a ‘threat to humanity’ all the same.

For Valerie, who’s nanobot suit ran on ectoplasm that she could never be separated from without her death.

For Lancer, and Trent, and Remi, and Testlauf, and Ishiyama, who all just knew too much.

For every citizen of his home, his lair. Because the G.I.W. would wipe them all out.

Because he was King.

It does not matter how a king cries nor mourns nor wishes things could be different. Because a king sees his people free before he grasps his own. Because a king knows his people safe before he dares relax. Because a king does not belong to himself but to the people he rules. Because they are the kings children dear and he must see them well. Because it is his duty to do what they can not and pay every price. Because a king can never fall unjustly. Because he is their hopes and dreams.

And though he cries and begs and weeps, his blade hand must stay steady and his sword must strike swift without mercy. Even if he wants to run, every friend and family dear he must be willing to sacrifice if the need arises. Even if that leaves him alone and in pain.

Because that is the cost of the crown.

And now Danny has to pay his dues.

Has to see himself a conqueror to the human world he once protected with everything in him.

He doesn’t want this but this is what the world has given him and he must walk with it.

Into a future that may be filled with hurt and pain. That’ll make him hate every breath he takes or the things he’s seen. Or maybe something beautiful will grow from the ashes. One can only hope.

He sighs and stands. What must be, must be. Running a messy hand through his hair and shaking a spray can. He may as well tag the place where he found things changed before he goes.

Goes to wait on the road.

Wait for the men in white suits to make their arrival.

Wait for the end result of the pain the mortal government chose to wrought.

Wait for Danny Fenton’s ending.

The spray cans psssshh is oddly loud. It hurts his ears.

The FrightKnight meets him outside the alleyway. He nods and Danny nods back. It is done. His army awaits him.

He wishes it didn’t.

He knows the humans have armies of their own. Awaiting retaliation or strike back perhaps. But those armies won’t see war. They won’t do battle or struggle to win. This won’t be two forces meeting to oppose each other. No. It will be more akin to an exterminator coming in with his toxic fumes and spraying down annihilation.

The Dread Army stood four billion strong.

That wasn’t a force humanity could face.

And the Dread were truly non-sentient. Casualties on their side was not of issue or concern. And should humanity somehow persevere and fight back. Then there would be so many more ghostly armies ready and waiting for his regretful and pain-filled command.

He senses the pulse from the Observants, sent out through the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm and across the threshold of life and death.

They approve. And inside, he weeps.

He traces his fingers on the bricks, walls, and trash cans. Everyone is tucked inside. They know what’s coming as much as he does, just not what comes after. They see this as their end. Danny does too, but for different reasons.

He knows Sam, Tucker, Valerie, and Jazz are all hovering over the extractions waiting for his signal. Waiting to pull his lair into the Infinite Realm. Waiting to save them and leave him behind.

Amity will always be home. But it just won’t be the same. Not for him. He won’t be able to just be another citizen in their eyes or to them anymore. And his friends, they’ll have to look at him knowing that he’s was ultimately directly responsible for the demise of at least thirty percent of humanity.

And he’ll have to get used to that being reflected back at him in the mirror. And refusing to look at all was a weakness he couldn’t allow himself to have.

Stopping at the fountain, its waters reflecting gears and cogs and swaying necks of clocks. As it always had since everything began. As if the water was counting down to the end itself. Only Danny knew that was more fact than fiction.

Water flows like time after all. And no matter what it must continue on. For the sake of life. For the sake of growth. For the sake of time itself continuing on. For the sake of everything.

Danny sits on the edge and it is not his own reflection that greets him, a small mercy, but ClockWork’s.

They look old and tired and worn. Aged by the faults of humanity's actions and inactions. Aged by the weathering storm that is change and its cruelties. But above all else, aged by what they know must be and what they must ask of him.

All is as it should be.

And isn’t that an awful thing.

Danny can only look to the sky tinted faintly green and nod, carrying on his way. Changing everything with every step he takes. Aching more with each breath he takes. And becoming more king than hero with every inch the city limit grows closer.

A hero can fall and rise a king.

But is still a fall all the same.

Because a king does not do what is right. He does not do what is good. What is just. What is kind. He does what he must. Decides what is best.

Humanity decided what was best and lost the bet. They gambled against death.

But death...

Death always wins in the end.

It’s the house we all must rest on. It is the debt collector at the end of every tax season. It is our last breath or a snap of the neck at the end of the noose of our own creation. It is the bullet in the gun that we forged ourselves. It is the black screen left after the credits roll, only ghosts going home.

It was always going to be this way.

What will his ‘parents’ do. Will they die. Will they live. Will they force their way back to the mortal world and seek to strike him down. Will the town or ghosts see them hanged as an example. Will they accept reality and learn. He doesn’t know. In a way he doesn’t want to.

Regardless the town’s edge approaches and he finds himself standing on the precipice of everything he has ever known, everyone he has ever loved, every place that has ever housed him.

And now he steps forward to leave it behind. Says goodbye with resounding footsteps. Mourns the loss as the G.I.W.’s armoured vehicles and containment trucks drive toward him.

Toward death.

He wished they’d stop. Turn back. Change their minds. But knows they won’t.

Ignorance would be bliss.

The most decorated vehicle stops barely feet from him. The officer inside hoping out with a smirk that Danny hates down to the bottom of his guts.

“Well how nice for the worst of them to come greet us. What. Here to turn yourself in for your disgusting crimes against humanity“.

Danny honestly doesn’t care about their words. Not how they’re said nor what is said nor who says them.

It’s meaningless.

Danny shakes his head disappointedly, “I tried. I really tried. So sorry about this. But you leave me no choice”.

The man squints at him. Not that it matters.

Danny looks up at the sky, if he didn’t know better he’d say the clouds were swirling all centred around him and waiting for him to do as he must. As the crown commands. Sighing, “I don’t know why humans must make things so hard for themselves”, and lets his human form melt away without any flashy light show. Green energy pulsing out of his feet and shooting skyward like flaming arrows lighting up the funerary ship seeing a fallen warrior off.

The reaction is immediate. They open fire on him, pausing only when every single high anti-ecto round merely bounces of his green shield; the town behind him shimmering green before vanishing like wet oil wiped off canvas.

Danny shakes his head, “that isn’t how this is going to be. Sorry”, and takes one single step forward. Voice bellowing and sturdy though he feels like shaking apart into sand, “the American government, on behalf of the entirety of the human race, has designated that the ghost species is no longer allowed amongst them or on earth. As such, they, alongside the rest of humanity, have broken the True Kept Equivalent Co-Existence Fault Line Seal of the Exterial law of the Realms. Your options are as follows: revoke your illegal actions and halt your approach or continue on as you are knowing that your actions are an act of war and punishable by the immediate annihilation of thirty percent of humanity followed by the forced subjugation of your entire species. Furthermore, any actions of violence or harm taken against Amity Park, her citizens, or Daniel James Janus Fenton Phantom, will count as an act of treason and war against the High Ghost Sovereign, king of the entirety of the Infinite Realm; and is punishable by immediate death and I do mean your death”.

He stands there and stares. Waits for a response. The men take their time, but eventually...

One of them fires.

“There’s your ‘answer’, you lying ectoplasmic scum”.

Danny bats away the weapon, not even bothering with a shield. They would need nukes if they wanted to so much as scratch him.

He had all the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm at his fingertips after all. And it sings to be used. To defend its lands and king. To strike down those who must be, for the prosperity and safety of its people.

And Danny gives it that.

He must after all. It is his place.

With merely a flick of his fingers the Dread Army make their debut. Some are here, some are elsewhere. But where ever they may be they bring down destruction and chaos and punishment.

You may think Danny wrong for placing all this on one man’s response, but in truth he, as Phantom, had informed every government of this reality already.

The decision was already made. The choice already set in stone.

He just thought that maybe...

Maybe.

These men before him would have some heart. Some soul. Some sense. Some compassion.

And choose to say no. And refuse to follow orders.

He would rather team up with humanity to stage a coup d’état against their respective governments than what has to transpire now.

The FrightKnight appears and gores the man who dared to fire at Phantom knowing the consequences of doing so. Danny forces himself to watch the man fall, knowing his orders and words and actions were as much the sword that killed him as the one his High Dread Knight wields.

The FrightKnight turns back to him and he knows there is sorrow in his helmeted eyes, for he knows his Knight knows he is not a hardened man nor a man at all.

Just a child with too much weight. Too much hope. Too much asked of him. Too much power at his fingertips. And too much of both life and death.

“Go”.

Danny does as he’s told, as he’s asked. Thankful to have even an ounce of personal responsibility lifted off his shoulders.

Humanity was never going down a good path. Never doing the right thing.

Damning the water they drank with oil and plastics.

Damning the air they breathed with tar and fumes.

Damning the earth that fed them with pavement and poisons.

Damning their fellow neighbouring mortal species with overhunting and stolen lands.

It was only a matter of time before they damned themselves with their ego and actions.

Nothing can survive if it burns every bridge around it.

Especially if the bridge it sets its sights on to burn is the bridge with death.

For only nothing lies where death can not be.

End.

Prompt: After a fierce legal battle to end experimentation on ectoplasmic entities, it's determined that, no, ghosts can't have any rights in the human world and possessing ghostly artifacts, materials, or organisms is illegal. With the GIW enforcing the new laws, starting with Amity Park, how will Danny avoid scrutiny?

#Danny Phantom #phandom #phic phight #phic phight 21 #phic phight 2021 #danny #angst #hurt no comfort #war #giw fucking things up #humanity fucking things up #ghost king danny #drastic action #amity's danny's lair #fan fic #phan phic #my writing #have a fic suck my dick #phantomphangphucker #little more mature one here #murder #gothmoth #thetribalmoth

[ivyglow]

I don’t want you like a best friend - Andre Burakovsky

A/n: Sooo, I wrote this as some kind of gift to my best friend because she loves Andre and she was trying to get me on his train (I guess she did?). She’s always hitting me with “no but you should definitely write about Tito/Andre”. Here’s your piece @skarsgardswiftie​ I hope you like it! <3 I love you sm Also, a huge shout out to @sebs-aston​ for proofreading this with such an attentive eye! You’re amazing, liv! 

Requested: yes / no

Word count: 1.9k 

Warnings: brief mention of alcohol 

Summary: you’re friends with Andre, but things are about to change after you create a TikTok account and start doing challenges that may lead to news between you and your favorite hockey player.

When it comes to capturing a moment you’re usually the person your friends think about, not simply because you’re always carrying a camera -mainly because of it-, but because you’re great with what you do -either photos or videos-. That’s also why your Instagram profile has more followers than an ordinary girl would and it’s the only place people can find you -besides e-mail-. However, that changed when your best friend -Callie- convinced you to create a TikTok account. You, of course, hated it, but she had the perfect opportunity -you were a bit tipsy, all your friends around, sunny weekend and so it goes. 

“Mikko, do you think I’m pretty?” You direct the camera to his face while looking expectantly. 

Saturday evening rolled around, the hot weather forcing your friends either to the inside of the pool or under the sunshade and their hands busy with cold drinks. It was a happy day, everyone was around, and you were enjoying the vacation. You had met half of the Hockey team as soon as you moved to Colorado and Erik, your and your brother’s hometown best friend decided you needed to know his crew and the city around. Six months later and you knew pretty much everyone and everything.

“Of course I think you’re pretty” he gives you a confused look before you turn to Tyson giggling.

“Josty, do you think I’m pretty?” you ask and he looks straight at the camera “I would give you 5 out of 10 cause you’re bro.”

You laugh and turn to Andre this time.

“Andre, do you think I’m pretty?” 

He seems taken aback by the question and unlike Tyson, he stares at you. “Of course you’re pretty.”

You keep to your task and last but not least is Nathan, he’s sitting at a table while working on some drinks and you take him by surprise by jumping in front of him. “Mac, do you think I’m pretty?”

He rolls his eyes playfully and turns his attention to you for some seconds before looking at his drink again, “I would one hundred percent date you if you were not my sisters’ best friend” 

And then your time is over. 

“So you’re a tiktoker now?” Erik sits beside you and Nathan just as you uploaded the video. He raises his eyebrows and you roll your eyes lightly, “you know I hate TikTok, but it’s fun, so…”

“She’s gonna end up famous there too”, Andre announces leaning his body on the table and motioning for Nathan to refill his drink. Your eyes roam on his big hands grasping the red cup, his cheeks red from the sun, and the way you could see his dimples when he smiled at you, his hair messy in a cute way. 

“Why do you think that?” now he has three pairs of curious eyes staring at him.

You almost chuckled when his point finger scratched his chin. His skin glowing, “I mean, you’re funny and cute…cute girls get famous on TikTok” he reasoned. 

“Is this your best, Burki?” Erik asks and for the way his lips were tight against each other you knew he wanted to laugh.

“C’mon, let them be,” Nathan said after giving the blond American a new cup, and before you could ask what was the matter Callie was calling you at the door. 

Your best friend started a rant about how she was going to get Chinese take-out for dinner and when you told her she should get Thai too -because it was Andre’s favorite- she started another rant about how you should tell him you’re in love and how it was cute the way you two functioned but also annoying. All you could do was savor your drink and mentally play a Taylor Swift song while she went on, “I mean it, y/n! Just tell him already…”

“Have you seen Andre?!” you whisper-scream to her and Callie sights rolling her eyes, “what about him?” 

Swallowing the last sip of your drink you start to draw doodles on the glass with your fingers, “I’m just y/n, he’s Andre Burakovsky”. You usually were not insecure about your looks, but it was Andre, and the fact that he was a famous and good-looking hockey player made you question how in heavens he would like you back. Hell, you were not even sure how you two ended up in such a close friendship, he always being so affectionate and listening to everything you had to say. Your friendship seemed like the most you could take from the interaction. You knew he was ‘just Andre’ too when all your friends were gathered, but being ‘just Andre’ was as amazing as being Andre Burakovsky the hockey player. 

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, y/n, and I don’t mean considering only your looks, but everything. You’re funny, smart, and always so attentive with everyone, you listen to everything and always have nice things to say, don’t you ever doubt your value, you hear me?” Callie’s words make you sit up straight in the stall and your eyes water. 

“In my defense, this is not me crying, this is tipsy me having an emotional moment”, you joke and it’s seconds before the two of you are laughing the way you used to during a John Mulaney show. 

…

It was night when you unlocked your phone only to find a bunch of notifications from TikTok, some of the comments from fans about how happy the boys seemed, but most were about the way Andre looked at you when you asked the question. According to the most liked comment “this is clearly a friends to lovers, mutual pining, unaware love and slow-burn situation” which made you giggle but also replay the video a dozen times trying to figure out if there was really something there and you were the unaware one. 

Needless to say, you weren’t able to reach a conclusion, but it felt different when you excused yourself to take a shower after spilling wine in your shirt and you felt Andre’s eyes on you all the way to the stairs. His hands on your shoulders felt heavier and the way he was attentive whenever you needed a refill or wanted a bite of food seemed more intimate and caring than ever.

Hitting the shuffle button, you chose your Taylor Swift playlist before entering the shower. The cold water cooled you off a bit, it was almost like washing out part of the alcohol in your system, but your tipsy mind kept finding evidence that Andre liked you back. 

You went through your clothes finding a floral summer dress and sipping on your wine while brushing your hair. Your body was still feeling hot and at this point, you didn’t know if it was from the sun on your face or the alcohol in your system, but when you heard the first notes of “Dress” playing you knew you were going to do something stupid, especially because your cell phone was one arm away. If someone asked you where the idea came from you wouldn’t know what to answer, and usually thinking about how you didn’t have an answer was enough to make you give up on some stupid ideas...not this one though. 

Reaching for your phone you unlocked it and walked to the body-length mirror in the room you were sharing with Callie. It took less than 2 minutes to snap a picture and send it to him and it took him less than 1 minute to answer it.

‘Woah’

‘You liked it?’ you sent back

‘Yeah, you’re looking good, cutie’ he answered just as fast, before sending a red heart emoji.

‘I don’t want you like a friend’

‘and I only bought this dress so you could take it off’

It was the exact line Taylor was singing when you reached the send button. You saw the dots appearing and disappearing and your body sobered up even more than before. 

“Fuck!” you almost voiced. How would he look at you after this? Could you pretend you confused him with someone else? Of course not, he was the only Andre you knew! And everyone knew better you were not the bold flirty type.

That was it, your secret was spilled just like your wine on your shirt earlier, but now you wouldn’t be able to clean off the stain. 

Would he believe it if you told him it was a prank to your new TikTok account?

You were lost in your thoughts before three knocks on your door startled you. And there he was when you pushed the door open. Standing with his hands inside his pockets and his hair still messy, he stared at you. It took maybe five minutes before he spoke, but it felt like an eternity considering his intense eyes studying you.

“You’re looking even better this close” for some reason his voice is low like he didn’t want anyone to hear and pop the bubble of the moment. 

You feel your body getting hotter, pretty sure your face is turning even redder, so you reach your hands to both of your cheeks. That gets a giggle out of Andre and you instantly move them to your back, your eyes now staring at his bare feet. 

All you wanted to do was bury yourself on a rabbit hole until Andre lost his memory, or you lost yours. You were thinking about the possibility of a secret society -Alice in Wonderland style- inside the rabbit hole that you could live in forever when Burki extended his hand, his palm facing you, silently asking you to put your hand in his. So you did. And it was only a blink of an eye before his body was closer, almost touching yours.

“You’re not that drunk, are you?” he questioned. 

You shook your head no and he moved his hand to your waist as a message that maybe -and only maybe- he wanted to be close too. So you moved your right one to his large shoulders. 

“I’m glad you’re not drunk…” 

“I’m just a bit hot and bothered” and dying out of shame! You screamed inside your head. 

“Oh sure you are”, he replied with a small smile playing at the corner of his pink lips. Your brows raised in confusion and before you could ask, he answered, “hot. You’re hot”.

“Does it mean you’re gonna take my dress off?” you have no idea when you got so bold, but Andre seemed amused with everything. 

“No, not tonight. You’re not drunk, but you’re a bit tipsy, I don’t want to start things like this” his fingers are in your cheekbone and you lean into him. “I’m gonna kiss you though, can I?” 

His lips, so different from his hands, were soft and hot. They found yours timidly, exploring the space while his body welcomed yours closer, he took his time before his fingers were in your hair and his tongue caught your lips. 

It felt good.

Like never before. 

For some seconds you wished to be able to capture the moment and save it forever. Repeat it in your head every day. 

Andre played with the strings of your dress, slipping it off your shoulders and you got into your tiptoes to peck his lips one last time. 

“So...I take you really liked the dress?” 

“I actually like you, the dress is a bonus” he shrugs and you giggle before finding yourself wrapped in another kiss. 

#andre burakovsky #andre burakovsky imagine #Colorado Avalanche #hockey imagine #mels writing #nathan mackinnon #tyson jost #erik johnson

[nerdygaymormon]

I found this article by Nathan Kitchen, president of Affirmation, to be very compelling. 

He identifies 4 generations of gay Mormons that have existed over the past 70 years. Until about 10 or 15 years ago, the Church viewed all LGBT members as having some sort of homosexual feelings that confused gender roles. Consequently, the discussion of generations is going to focus on the treatment of gay members.  

The differences in the generations comes from the Church changing what it asks of the gay member and how it manages the existence of this group in the Church. When current practices are no longer considered acceptable to parents and others, the Church changes, thus creating the next generation. 

Each generation has a different experience with the Church’s prejudice, harassment, and discrimination. 

Nathan doesn’t identify years for each generation, and there aren’t clean breaks between one generation and the next, they bleed into each other, but I’ll put my rough estimate for each generation.

————————————————————

1st Generation (1950~1980) - The Church believed anyone could develop gay feelings and attractions, these were sinful and Church required complete rejection of these attractions. Failure to completely erase these feelings was grounds for discipline and expulsion. The church schools and most LDS families would also eject the queer person from their midst, they feared the spread of these attractions to others. Attempts to remove these “tendencies” included electro-shock therapy at BYU. Spencer W. Kimball’s book the Miracle of Forgiveness dominated Church thinking on queer topics in the era.

This is the generation that spans the most decades and consequently is the largest generation of queer Saints. This generation was taught their attractions could change if they wanted it bad enough. The violence and hostility against these individuals caused a great deal of trauma and many perished. After breaking these people, the Church washed its hands of them by ejecting them from membership, therefore removing the need to deal with the consequences of its actions in those lives.

2nd Generation (1980~2000) - Rather than insist on complete erasure of homosexual feelings (the church thought all queer identities came down to homosexuality), it employed the idea of secrecy and to act like heterosexuals. This is the invisible generation because their bishops told them to never tell anyone else. This group felt isolated and alone, hidden from other members and each other. This invisibility allowed other members to believe there were no gay people in the Church, certainly not in their congregation. This generation was encouraged to enter mixed-orientation marriages, have kids and live like a straight person and everything would be alright. If it didn’t work out, then you weren’t strong enough.

These members served in Young Women’s, as bishops, Relief Society presidencies, on the High Council, and so on. Some of them still exist in the Church, hidden from everyone because the cost of coming out is so high and the shame they have about their attractions (the Church didn’t distinguish much between feelings and actions, so these people feel bad for things they’ve never done). Every so often, we’ll hear about a former mission president or stake president who finally comes out after decades of living as a straight person.

Most of the mixed-orientation marriages failed, the queer person eventually spoke their truth, picked up the pieces of their shattered dreams, and moved on. When it became clear that a straight marriage with a straight spouse didn’t fix them, the Church moved on, usually offering support to the divorced straight spouse and rejecting the queer spouse. 

3rd Generation (2000~2015) - The Church decided gay thoughts aren’t a problem, but gay actions are. The Church encouraged people to use the term “same-sex attraction (SSA)” as a way to avoid queer identities that’s don’t fit in the Church’s view of God’s Plan. Basically, we’re all straight people and some of us are struggling with unwanted attractions. SSA was compared to addictions. Queer people no longer had to remain hidden, so they found each other and attended conferences together and encouraged each other. Members would admire you for your wrestle against SSA.

Being unable to ‘overcome’ their SSA was distressing. Although the Church no longer officially endorsed mixed-orientation marriages, many local leaders still encouraged these but with full disclosure to the straight spouse, even though these couples don’t really understand what they’re signing up for. Many queer people turned to conversion therapy to change (usually not knowing there was no evidence these programs worked or were even based in proven techniques or methods, and resulted in higher suicide rates & mental health issues). 

Because they were trying to make this path work and were admired for it, these queer members mostly didn’t share their struggles & mental health challenges with their family, friends, or other members. Unlike the 2nd generation, they were visible, but largely were kept silent. A generation seen but not heard. 

4th Generation (2015~present) - Instead of being required to change their orientation, or keep it secret, or to nobly struggle against their inner core, today’s generation is told it’s okay to identify as gay, lesbian and bisexual. There’s nothing wrong with your attractions. We want you at church, there’s a place for you here. You belong. We celebrate you by sharing videos and publishing books about single, celibate members who are gay and bi. We reject conversion therapy, no violence, no denying identities, no encouraging mixed-orientation marriages. We celebrate you...as long as you are single & celibate. 

We have many gay couples who think they’re loved enough and belong enough that they attend church together, they sit together, they’re dating and things seem okay. Once they marry, the swiftness & ferocity with which their leaders take action against them is stunning. The couple finds the warm, fuzzy messages of belonging actually hide a structure that’s still as prejudiced and discriminatory as the past. What is their place in the Church...they’re allowed to attend as visitors.

This approach held onto a lot of families, but increasingly it’s not enough. As the queer child grows up and becomes interested in love and relationships, church no longer works. And if church is not welcoming and affirming of their queer child, more and more entire families exit with them. Generation Z grew up with queer friends and many cite the Church’s treatment of LGBTQIA+ people as a reason they are leaving the Church.

————————————————————

As society changes and becomes more accepting, the Church has to change how it treats its queer members. What was acceptable in the 1970′s is now looked at with horror and revulsion. Today’s parents would never subject their child to electrical shocks or induced nausea, how barbaric.

The changes the Church has made is in how it treats the gay member, not in how it views them nor in what it preaches about them. They’re still absent from God’s Plan, or as I prefer to put it, absent from the Church’s version of God’s Plan. Because the Church has not substantially changed how it views queer people, it’s going to continue to find how it treats queer people will fail. 

The Church treats queer members far better than it did in the past, but until it actually embraces queer members, listens to their voices and what they want, the Church will adjust, and adjust again. Not hating us is not enough, the Church must learn to love us. 

#nathan kitchen #long post

[jamesbuchannan]

begin again | j.b.b

summary: y/n is going on a date for the first time since their heart was shattered, bucky is the exact opposite of your ex. (inspired by begin again by taylor swift)

pairing: bucky barnes x gn!reader (i don't think i put any pronouns in this that are specific to gender ((lmk if i did)) and the only other "gendered" thing would be the mention of reader wearing heels which isn't really gendered, anyone can wear heels)

warnings: shitty ex, terrible writing, cute perfect flustered bucky, not edited (if there are major mistakes pls lmk)

You had been standing in front of your mirror for what felt like hours at this point. You felt pretty but what if he didn’t think so. The heels you had on were a favorite of yours. Not too tall, not too flashy. Perfect for the café date that Nat set you up on. Your ex didn’t like it when you wore heels, said they made you too tall. Your ex, Nathan, had left you about eight months ago, claiming he never truly loved you.

Your phone was on your dresser, Nat on speaker, “What if he doesn’t like heels? What if they make me too tall?”

Nat snorts, “he’s like a million feet tall, Y/N. Trust me, he’s cool with heels,” her words ease your worry a bit, “now put that pretty smile on your face and go knock him off his feet.”

-

You showed up a few minutes early, like you always do. You don’t know why you do; your ex was always late. That didn’t really matter though, as you saw Bucky sitting at a table towards the back. He lifts his eyes from his hands, which he’s nervously playing with. His eyes immediately meet yours. He stands from his seat (and gosh Nat was right, he was a million feet tall), wipes his hands on his jeans, and waves to you.

As you make your way towards your seat, Bucky beats you to it, pulling it out for you. To say you were shocked would be an understatement. Your ex never pulled your seat out or opened doors, not even before you guys were official.

“I’m James, my friends call me Bucky, but I mean you probably already know that,” he huffs a small laugh, “not because I’m like famous or something! I’m not famous or whatever, I just mean, Nat probably told you that.”

He was a bit flustered, which was honestly refreshing. An Avenger just being a normal person.

“Yeah, I got that,” you offered him a small smile, “I’m Y/N.”

Surprisingly, the conversation began rather smoothly. Bucky spoke about his childhood with Steve, and how he always saved him from fights. You’d make small jokes here and there as he talks, making him throw his head back in laughter, one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

That was weird too, he found you funny. Your jokes were usually quite sarcastic and normally didn’t stick the landing. At least, that was the case with Nathan. You talk about your favorite movies and music. You even give him a few new suggestions from this generation.

As you begin to walk out of the café, Bucky asks if he could walk you to your car, which is parked a couple blocks over. Thank you, New York. As you're walking all you can think about is how different this was, how different he was.

You turn your head to tell Bucky how differently he treated you when Bucky began to speak, “So, we um — we have this movie night, at the tower every week. It’s tomorrow night, which I know is super-fast after a first date, and you can definitely say no –”

“Bucky, I would love to come,” you look up at him, with what he can only describe as the most caring eyes he has ever seen and a small smile on your lips accompanied by the blush on your cheeks.

And after eight long months of believing that all love ever does in break and burn, and end…

You watched it begin again.

Taglists:

Master:

@criminallyautumn

#james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james buchannan barnes #james buchannan barnes x reader #bucky x gn!reader #begin again #taylor swift #bucky barnes x reader

[moonknightly]

and you keep me holding on : santiago “pope” garcia x reader (five)

Word Count: 2.9k

Excerpt: “Around the four minute mark, he watched as Nathan’s hand moved into frame to stroke her cheek. Santi was just about to turn away, hating the way he touched her so tenderly when he was using her as nothing more than the sick focus in this game he was playing...”

Warnings: Mentions of past sexual assault, blood, gun violence, mentions of death — it’s a lot folks. Read cautiously. 

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

OCTOBER 22ND — DAY SIX

Santi isn’t the one to break the news to her parents. He still has no idea what to say to them, or if he even can say anything to them without making himself sick, without breaking down completely. He isn’t used to feeling emotion like this, doesn’t know what he can handle and what will send him spiraling. The last of his mental stability isn’t something he is willing to risk losing right now.

He is, however, sitting in Cameron’s office when she makes the dreaded phone call, and he can hear her mother sob on the other line, and all he can do is watch, numbly so, as tears flood Cameron’s own eyes. Santi knows that she hasn’t had the time to process it for herself — her complete and utter focus has been on both him and this case, and on top of that she still has a department to run and her own family waiting for her at home.

She has to be tired.

Santi is so, so tired.

The night before is a blur. He remembers Jay telling him about the video, and then there’s nothing until this morning, when Jay shook him awake to tell him Cameron needed him down at the precinct. He still doesn’t know what for. There was no way she was expecting him to do any work for the case, that much he knew, and so he hadn’t bothered fixing his hair or changing out of his sweats.

He sits quietly on the small sofa in Cameron’s office with Jay sitting to his left, both staring at nothing in particular. Santi’s leg is bouncing again, his elbow perched on it and knuckles resting against his bottom lip. He still refuses to believe that she's gone. Santi is so, so sure that she's still alive, but no one else seems to think so. He can’t even begin to put into words how enraged it makes him, how much it makes him want to scream and break anything he can get his hands on.

But then again, he hasn’t seen the video. He hasn’t seen what everyone else had seen, and though he really doesn’t want to, he knows that he needs to, if only for some sense of twisted, morbid closure. To put it all to rest.

And besides that, he can’t just take their word for it when there’s a gnawing, pulling feeling in his stomach telling him that they’re all wrong. It isn’t hope, and it sure as hell isn’t faith, because Santi doesn’t have any faith left to give, not in the squad, not in himself, not even in the boys — they’d offered their help, but he has nothing to give them, no leads to go off of and he knows that’s his fault because he’s not trying hard enough but it’s easier to just blame everyone else.

But that’s something he would deal with later, because all he can focus on is that damn feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s more than faith or hope, and he honestly doesn’t have a word for it — personal assurance, maybe? All he knows is that he’s so completely positive that she’s somewhere, still breathing, still living.

“Garcia,” Cameron gently begins, causing Santi’s eyes to immediately flicker over to her. She hesitates for a moment as she looks him over, taking in his hunched appearance that was so un-Santi like it doesn’t even look like him for a moment. “I’m so sorry, but I had to-”

“I wanna see the video,” Santi mumbles, not caring about what she had to say, his words slurring together as if he had been drowning himself in liquor the night before instead of lying passed out on the couch.

His words catch Cameron off guard, and her eyes widen, only slightly but enough for Santi to notice. She quickly averts her gaze to Jay as she searches for the right thing to say, but she doesn’t know how to answer him. When almost a full thirty seconds pass in silence, Jay decides that he has to be the one to break it, not able to stand it.

“Santi, I really don’t think that’s a good-”

“Look, I’m just gonna guess that you called me down here because the feds want to talk to me, right? And you know, they’re probably going to show it to me while they’re accusing me of murdering my wife again-”

Both Jay and Cameron flinch, but Santi doesn’t stop talking.

“-and I’d say that’s a pretty shitty way to see it for the first time, don’t you?”

Now it’s Jay’s turn to be stunned into silence. He tries his best to put himself into Santi’s shoes, tries to figure out what he would personally want if he ever found himself in a similar situation.

But he has no idea what he would want in this instance, because he doesn’t know how to even begin imagining something so awful. He would never wish this on his worst enemy, which he knows is a terrible cliche, and it's hard enough as her friend, he just can’t imagine this from her lover’s standpoint.

But he knows that Santi is right, and that his first time seeing the video shouldn’t be when he’s being interrogated by Barnes and Graves. He sighs gently, and closes his eyes slowly before nodding his head.

“Fine. But you’re not watching it alone.”

Santi only nods in return, knowing better than to argue. He knows he won’t be able to watch it on his own anyways.

He stands, somewhat shakily, and inhales deeply, trying to calm the nerves that seem to have made a permanent home in his stomach over the last six days. Cameron offers her seat to him, and he sits without question, already feeling like his knees will give out at any second. Jay comes to stand behind him, and he takes one last look at Santi before clicking on the correct file, regretting it the moment he watches Santi suck in a sharp breath, a small gasp falling from his lips at the image that’s now displayed on the screen.

Just like the photo from a few days before, she’s tied up and gagged and she looks so utterly terrified it makes Santi’s head spin. She looks weaker than before too, and she’s only wearing her underwear. A wave of nausea hits and Santi swallows hard, and Cameron just wants to get it over with, so she hits play.

Immediately, Nathan grabs her jaw, pushing her cheeks together, forcing her lips to purse. It makes Santi’s skin burn, seeing his hands on her like that. His first thought is that he wants to break the fucker’s fingers, one by one.

The longer the camera focuses on her face, the harder and harder her glare becomes, and Santi feels that disgusting pride swell in his chest at the brutal fire in her eyes. That's his girl, so stubborn, never the one to go down without a fight.

She violently shakes her head once before attempting to thrash her arms, but she doesn't get very far with that, the ropes not allowing her to move hardly at all.

“Say hi to your husband, baby,” Nathan snickers, his voice dripping with venom that only adds to the fire moving through Santi’s veins. Maybe it was also due to the fact that he called her “baby”, but he knows he shouldn’t be focusing on that.

Nathan pulls the gag from her lips, and she gasps for air, gritting her teeth together but otherwise staying silent. When she fails to speak, Nathan laughs again.

“Is someone nervous?”

“Fuck you.”

“Again? We just finished not too long ago, sweetheart.”

She stays quiet again. Santi feels like he’s going to vomit, but he pushes the feeling down. He’s gotten really good at doing that in the last six days — at pushing all of his feelings down and away and locking them behind thick walls where he wouldn’t have to face them.

He can feel Cameron’s worried eyes on him, but he ignores them, refusing to pull his attention away from the screen in front of him.

“You wanna tell him about that, huh baby? You wanna tell your husband what I did to you? What you let me do to you?”

This time, she flinches when Nathan says the word “husband”, almost subtle enough to where Santi wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“I didn’t let you do anything.”

“Mm, you did put up a pretty good fight sweetheart. You really know how to tighten my pants, don’t you?”

Santi doesn’t want to see anymore, doesn't want to hear anymore, but he can’t stop watching. He has to see it for himself, he has to. He needs to.

The video continues on for a few minutes, Nathan going into sick detail with every heinous act he performed or otherwise forced her into, because he knew Santi would see the video and he knew what it would do to him. Santi feels closer to faint with each passing second.

Around the four minute mark, he watches as Nathan’s hand moves into frame to stroke her cheek. Santi is just about to turn away, hating the way he touched her so tenderly when he watches her snap her head to the right and in one swift, solid motion, she has Nathan’s hand in her mouth and she’s biting down. Hard.

Nathan’s screams echo through the speakers, and Santi finds himself smirking at the sound. She has a good grip on him for several seconds before he manages to pull away, a bloody bite mark on the back of his hand. His screaming continues, and Santi actually lets out a chuckle that only increases Cameron’s concern.

But then suddenly, Santi isn’t laughing anymore, because Nathan brings the end of a gun down onto her head and the wound in her eyebrow splits open again. She groans, only briefly before she regains her composure, refusing to show how much pain she’s actually in. She’s grinning, and Nathan’s cursing.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Nathan says, a sadistic edge to his voice that puts Santi on complete alert, sets him on edge.

She chuckles, her grin quickly turning into a smirk that Santiago instantly recognizes. It was the same smirk she wore when she was being stubborn or when she was challenging something.

Or in this case, someone.

“Goddammit,” Santi mutters the second he catches it, because he knows her well enough to know that she was about to open her mouth when she should have just kept it shut.

“Bring it. Can’t get any worse than having you on top of me, can it?”

Not a moment later, a single shot rings through the speakers, causing Santi to jump in his chair, though he knows he should have been prepared for it.

He can see her eyes widen, but she doesn’t scream. She doesn't make a single noise whatsoever. She only stares at some faraway spot, her eyes watering and her jaw falling slack as she fades away into a state of shock while Nathan laughs maliciously. He grabs her cheeks again and holds them tightly while he forces her to look into the camera.

“You have anything you want to say to Santiago now? Huh?” he yells, and before she can answer, Cameron bends down and clicks out of the video.

Santi’s head jerks to the side, eyebrows furrowing as he looks up at the lieutenant. “What are you-”

“That’s enough. She didn’t say anything.”

“But-”

“Santi,” Jay murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “It only had a few seconds left. You didn’t need to see anymore of it.”

Santi sits there for several seconds, staring at the computer screen as he tries to decipher the emotions running through his brain. He can’t figure out how to feel or how to even make himself feel it — he’s just numb. He can admit that his chest feels a little bit emptier than it had before he walked into the office, and there’s a hint of anger, but nothing compared to what he’s been feeling all week.

If the movies and the books were right, he should be screaming, crying. Begging and pleading. He should be going through the same emotions he’d experienced on the phone with his mother, he should be inconsolable. Losing his mind and throwing things.

But he doesn’t have the urge to do any of that. At the very least he thinks he should have been having a similar reaction Jay’s from the night before, but there’s just nothing.

There is, however, two things that he’s absolutely certain of.

“She didn’t need to speak to say it,” Santi mumbles quietly. “She said that she’s sorry. That she loves me.”

Cameron raises an eyebrow, her head tilting to the side. “What do you-”

“I could see it in her eyes. You’re with a person long enough and words just kind of become redundant.”

Cameron hesitates as tears spring to her eyes. It’s hard enough losing a friend, but she almost believes it’s even harder watching a friend deal with losing his wife. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone love someone like you two loved each othe-”

“Don’t,” he snaps, effectively cutting her off. “Not past tense. Don’t do that shit to me.”

She sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“She’s still alive.”

“Santi-”

“She is.”

Cameron stays silent, again at a loss for words. Santi’s been forced to grieve for his wife once already, through the hope of finding her alive, and just when he was getting to a place where he was able to find just a little bit of light in the sorrow, he has to grieve her death. He has to go through the five stages of grief all over again, though he had never really finished the cycle the first time around, hadn’t allowed himself to.

Denial was the first. It was textbook—

“We didn’t see where it hit,” he says, interrupting her thought process.

She hesitates, considering his words for a moment. “No, we didn’t. But-”

“So he could have shot her in the fuckin’ foot for all we know. She could still-”

“If she had been shot in the foot, it would hurt more than it would have immediately thrown her into shock-”

“Not necessarily-”

“-and even so, the infection’s gonna kill her. Nathan can’t take her to a hospital.”

Santi only scoffs, leaning back in the chair, trying his hardest to keep his anger at bay. Screaming, arguing won’t get him anywhere.

Jay licks his lips, bracing himself against the desk, leaning forward so he can get a better look at Santiago. “You know the odds are definitely not in her favor.”

“But the odds aren’t completely zero, are they?”

“It’s…” Jay starts, pausing, sighing, knowing Cameron isn’t going to like what he has to say. “It’s possible. We’ve certainly seen people survive worse than a gunshot to the foot.”

“But like Garcia said,” Cameron adds, clearly agitated as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “We didn’t see where the bullet hit. It could have hit anywhere from the chest down.”

“So we should stop searching for my wife because of a possibility rather than take the probability and run with it?”

Cameron again doesn’t have anything to say. She doesn’t know what to say. As a friend, she wants to say no, they shouldn’t stop looking. They should never stop looking.

But as a cop, she wants to say that there’s nothing else they can do, not until they have a substantial lead, something else to go off of. They can’t even trace the video and the email back to an IP address, for some reason that they still can’t quite figure out.

“Cameron,” Santi mumbles, voice gentle, calmer than it had been just seconds before. He blinks, and Cameron can’t tell if it’s to hold back his tears or if it’s to give himself a moment to breathe, to work up the courage to speak again.

“I’m not going to stop looking until there’s a body.”

Cameron’s breath hitches, and she forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat, to not show how his words hit her right in the gut and knocked the air from her lungs completely.

“I know,” she sighs finally, shaking her head slowly and averting her gaze. “But I still think you need to stay away from this. You’re going to drive yourself mad, Santiago. You’re loyal to a fault and it’s going to cost you your own health.”

“It’s not even about loyalty at this point.”

Cameron shifts her eyes back to Santi.

“It’s just about knowing.”

Santi hesitates, running a hand through his disheveled curls, down his face, the pressure in his chest growing the longer he sits there with his thoughts running wildly through his head.

“She’s still alive because I don’t know that she’s dead.”

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fic

[evermoredeluxe]

Summary of Ringer Dish - ‘Fearless’ | Every Single Album: Taylor Swift

Hosted by Nora Princiotti and Nathan Hubbard

critical reception of fearless by middle-aged men being unfair in a way because they can’t understand the teenage experience, especially because the album was targeted towards the younger population. they don’t know what to make of it. teenage girls are a big factor in the success of the album as they drive pop culture, and they could relate to fearless and it had a pop appeal to it.

fearless had a lot of success and accolades before the VMA’s 2009 kanye incident but at the same time, it helped her and made her the center of attention. nathan hubbard pointed out that she came to the ceremony in a carriage, which isn’t a nerd thing and mostly not relatable, but then she wasn’t accepted fully which made more of the “bleachers” girl rather than the “cheerleader”. even the president talked about it. it gave her more time to sit in that narrative of being like an outsider and a teenager. while it shouldn’t have happened, it helped her. nora princiotti although agreed with him, she did point out the mental toll it took on taylor.

one of the reasons taylor won aoty at the 2010 grammys even though beyoncè’s album is deemed better is because fearless was the only album at the time catering to the young population and only album made like that, and also because of her being seen as the “bleachers” girl at the 2009 VMA’s and being more relatable.

love story and you belong with me are the biggest hits of the album, you belong with me by a bit more, and expanded taylor’s audience. singles like fifteen and white horse are not that melodically good and much weaker but still important to the album. in an album full of hope and fairytales, taylor talks about how that can be ruined and she knows it isn’t real in white horse. with fifteen, she brings in this authenticity when she talks about her personal life and it captures the feeling of being fifteen.

its kind of interesting how taylor performed should’ve said no with joe jonas and white horse with john mayer in the fearless era, and it was her sending the message in a way and foreshadowing the end of these relationships.

liz rose is the most important collaborator on this album and she basically paved a way for taylor’s future collabs in a way by teaching her how to co-write and be vulnerable. she was the best side character.

according to nathan hubbard, the biggest easter egg is abigail. taylor went in and out of reality and wove her imagination into it so effortlessly. ultimately, this all become a part of the “taylor-verse”. for nora princiotti, the biggest easter egg was hey stephen because taylor named him in the song title and wrote a whole song about her liking him, she doesn’t need a lot to write and it captures the teenage experience of falling in love in 10 seconds. 

taylor is authentic and true to herself throughout the album and is still real despite being famous now. she becomes her old self and the person she wrote about while performing and conveys the emotion, which is an essential anchor to the believe ability of the album. additionally, there are songs about being shattered by losing the projection of a relationship that didn’t even exist, which is a part of being a teenager and imagining things, and it goes back to her not needing a lot of content to write with.

nathan hubbard talks about how taylor is unfairly treated by publications who question her authenticity. he also says that it is a hairy road to talk about relationships and her emotional feelings, especially when she hasn’t even kissed someone in 2 years, and mining these personal relationships for more content and just to write songs vs her being a young woman experiencing things, just like any other teenager except she is hounded for it. he also mentions wanting her to explore something new by the end of fearless because she has talked about the same aspect of romance for 2 whole albums and even though fans have accepted it, critics question it.

nora princiotti says that she would cut you’re not sorry because other songs like forever & always and tell me why - which sound like a real conversation with taylor spitting her feelings - exist but nathan hubbard counters by saying that it is the first real piano ballad to head bang to. she would also remove come in with the rain and the other side of the door from the platinum even though she appreciates the sigh sound taylor makes in come in with the rain.

nathan hubbard would’ve cut the song tell me why because it has a forced country sound after the pop appealing songs and the ending is harsh but nora princiotti convinced him otherwise with her previous argument, and now he would rather cut change. he doesn’t get how it was used for the 2008 olympics and hallelujah and god thing bothers him. 

nora princiotti’s favourite is “when you’re 15 and somebody tells you they love you, you’re gonna believe them” and “this love is difficiult but its real” but if she had to, should would choose the former one. for nathan hubbard, it is “i didn’t know who i was supposed to be at 15″ because she grew up and explored herself in public light.

fearless as the name of the album is fully valid because something else like “love story” would shift the narrative to her only writing about relationships. also, her winning horizon award proved that she was worth the bet and not a one-album wonder with fearless and was the next best thing and its better that she won this rathe than best new artist at grammys because its considered a “curse” and it isn’t mostly a new artists who wins.

taylor swift paved the way for justin beiber and, not only because he opened for her, but because she was one of the first child prodigy who sang about young teenage things with meaning and approached to the younger population. she worked really hard to get herself where she was and get the things she wanted. a lot of artists now take after her.

taylor commercialized fearless, released the platinum version, had deals with walmart/target and a number of versions of songs and how in the moment, she righfully did a lot to mark herself digitally as it was required back then but now with the re-records, she has to add even more to the already 19 songs and essentially do the same thing again.

grade given to the album: A- 

ps - i might have missed a thing here and there but this was basically the gist of the whole podcast

#arshia talks #ringer podcast

[signsofsam]

Buddie Week, Day Six: All We Know is Touch and Go

Eddie reaches over, forcing one of Buck’s hands out of his hair, wrapping it in both of his own. “We have to believe they're going to be okay.”

“But what if they’re not? Did I tell them I loved them before we left? Do they know we love them? Did I hug them enough? Did I-”

“Buck, just breathe, okay? Stop inviting trouble until we know more.”

“They’re back there all alone, Eddie. Our boys are alone,” Buck murmurs, turning to his husband, and he’s broken, eyes sad, and there are tears brimming, ready to be unleashed. “What if-”

Eddie shakes his head. “We’re not ‘what if’-ing this, Buck. We can’t. We hope for the best, and we wait for the doctor.” He kisses the back of Buck’s hand, and Buck lets out a breath, trying to center himself.

AO3 Link Here

Prompt: “Just breathe, okay?” + hurt/comfort

Notes: Title is from State of Grace by Taylor Swift. You can find the other stories in this ‘verse here and probably should read at least a few of them to know who the OMC is in this fic. Also: we are practicing suspension of disbelief and general magical handwaving over all the medical inaccuracies that are in here because a doctor/healthcare provider I am most certainly not.

And someone please let me know if Google Translate failed me anywhere.

--//--//--

They were just going to get ice cream.

It’s all Nate can focus on: they were just going to get ice cream, and Eddie and Buck are going to kill him, because now the truck is pressed against the concrete median of the highway, other crashed cars around them, and his blood’s splattering onto the seats and Chris won’t wake up. Would they send him back? 

They wouldn’t do that, would they? They...no, you know they love you, and this won’t change that.

But he’s gotten Chris hurt.

Fuck. Just fuck.

He really likes his family. 

He doesn’t want to go anywhere.

“N...Nate?” Chris whimpers, and he gasps, turning too quickly to look at his brother, and pain explodes in his head.

“Shit, shit, shit shit shit,” he breathes out, waiting for the pain to settle into something more manageable, so at least he can see. When he finally attempts to open his eyes again (and God, it hurts, but he has to check on his brother), Chris is watching him, worried, his right cheek red, bruising, a lazily bleeding laceration on his cheekbone. His glasses are gone, and there are more cuts peppering his face. There’s melted ice cream on his face (“I don’t see how you can eat that while I’m driving,” Nate had been complaining, just before the crash, and Chris had given him the biggest shit-eating grin as he took another huge bite of his mint chocolate chip), but for the most part, he looks okay.

Nate still can’t help but breathe out, “Buck and Eddie are going to kill me.”

Chris frowns, reaching over with an unsteady, shaky hand. “Did...did something hit your head?”

“What?”

“You’re talking nonsense, Nate. Did you hit your head?” 

“I got you hurt.”

Chris’ frown deepens. “No, you didn’t. A car hit us. You’re bleeding.”

“I know. I’m getting blood all over-”

Pain explodes again as sirens cut through the air, and this time, thankfully everything fades to black.

--//--//--//--

“They’re going to be just fine, Buck,” Eddie whispers. They’ve been waiting for a doctor for a few minutes, and honestly, they probably both look a mess, still in their uniforms, halfway through a shift and just getting back from a rather disgusting run when Athena called, and now Buck is sitting in a hard plastic chair, hunched over, hands clenching into his hair, foot tapping over and over and over, and through his own worry, it makes Eddie hurt. “We’re here now, and they’re going to be fine.”

He reaches over, forcing one of Buck’s hands out of his hair, wrapping it in both of his own. “We have to believe they're going to be okay.”

“But what if they’re not? Did I tell them I loved them before we left? Do they know we love them? Did I hug them enough? Did I-”

“Buck, just breathe, okay? Stop inviting trouble until we know more.”

“They’re back there all alone, Eddie. Our boys are alone,” Buck murmurs, turning to his husband, and he’s broken, eyes sad, and there are tears brimming, ready to be unleashed. “What if-”

Eddie shakes his head. “We’re not ‘what if’-ing this, Buck. We can’t. We hope for the best, and we wait for the doctor.” He kisses the back of Buck’s hand, and Buck lets out a breath, trying to center himself. 

“Is this what it was like? When Chris had to have surgeries when he was younger?”

“Every time,” Eddie answers. “We would be waiting, me, Shannon, Mom and Dad the one time I was gone-” he flinches here, and Buck squeezes his hand. “That one was the hardest, and I don’t think I”ll ever forgive myself for being gone. So yeah, the uncertainty and the worry and the fear...it’s always there, but now, now I have to believe it’s going to be okay. I have to, and you have to, even though we’re scared shitless.”

“I couldn’t imagine not having you here to share the weight,” Buck murmurs. “I’m really glad we’re here together. It makes it so much easier to bear.”

They don’t have to wait much longer, thank god, because Eddie’s about to press against Buck’s knee to settle his leg, and they both stand when the doctor calls about Chris. “He’s okay?” Buck asks before the doctor even has a chance to give them her name, but she smiles at him, nodding. 

“Christopher is going to be okay. He has a mild concussion, some cuts and bruises on his face, and he’s going to be very sore for the next few days, but nothing permanent, and nothing overly serious. Oh, and I’m Dr. Rodriguez. It’s nice to meet you both. Which one is ‘Dad’ and which one is ‘Buck’ because I’ve heard a multitude of compliments about both and still don’t know which one is which.”

Eddie likes her immediately.

Chris is still in a bed in the ER, and he smiles widely as the curtain opens. “Dad!” he cries happily, and Eddie’s heart tightens as he wraps his son in a hug, as gentle as possible. He feels Buck hug them both tight, and their world is a little more right. “Dad, lemme go! I’m okay!”

“Mijo, you were in a car accident; let me hug you a little longer, hmm?” he whispers, pressing a kiss into Chris’ bedraggled curls.

“Yeah, Chris, let us baby you a little longer,” Buck adds, and Chris huffs, but puts up with a hug for another minute or two before he starts shifting, uncomfortable enough that they both let him go. “You’ve got a hell of cut there, kiddo.” His hand is shaking when he touches Chris’ cheek, just barely, pulling back when Chris flinches. “Sorry about that. I’m just worried.”

“I’m okay, really. My head hurts a lot, but the doctor said I shook my brain a little and it’s going to take a few days until I feel back to normal, And I’m pretty sure my morning exercises aren’t happening for a few days.”

Eddie can’t help his smile. “I think you’ll be okay if you skip them for a few days.”

“Have you...have you guys seen Nate yet? Is he okay? He was talking nonsense in the truck-”

“The doctors are still working on him,” Eddie says, careful with his words; Dr. Rodriguez said there was another doctor working on Nate, that he’d come find them as soon as he got a free moment. “But they’ll come get us soon, I’m sure.”

“Dad, he said something about you guys hating him, because I got hurt. But he got hurt, too! Can you...this wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong. I begged for ice cream, and we’d just gone to get some-”

“Superman, neither of you did anything wrong; it was an accident, and they happen,” Buck interrupts, running his hand through Chris’ hair. “No one’s angry at either of you; your dad and I were so scared about both of you, scared that we wouldn’t get the chance to tell you again how much we love you and what amazing men you are both growing up to be. You can ask your dad-I was a mess out there waiting.”

“He really was,” Eddie confirms, grinning when Buck and Chris roll their eyes. “I mean it, Chris! He’s dramatic.”

Chris laughs, and Buck gasps at him, eyes wide. “Christopher! I thought we were buddies!”

When a nurse comes to grab one of them to talk to Nate’s doctor, Eddie goes, Buck having settled half on Chris’ bed, their son drowsy against his shoulder. “I’ll hold down the fort here,” he whispers as Eddie gives him a kiss. 

“He was unconscious when the paramedics got to him,” the doctor explains, “but he woke up here, agitated and worried. We gave him something to keep him calm so we could examine him, so he’s going to be a touch out of it. He’s got a concussion, and there’s a nasty cut on his hairline from where his head hit the window. His side of the vehicle impacted the median of the road, and it caused damage to the left side of his body. He has a couple of fractured ribs, he’s got bruising from the airbag, whiplash, but most concerning, there’s damage to his spleen that we need to watch, but the CT confirmed it wasn’t as major as I first feared.”

“Do you want to admit him?”

“I would like to keep him overnight, especially with his concussion and to keep an eye on his spleen. We’re waiting to get him transferred to the children’s floor, hopefully it shouldn’t be too much longer. You can wait with him until they come to get him.”

Eddie thanks the man, opening the curtain as quietly as possible, and Nate...Nate’s watching him apprehensively, tracking him as he moves, suspicious. The laceration on his forehead really is nasty, large and circled in darkening bruises. There are smaller cuts peppered down his cheek and neck before disappearing under his gown, and his left eye is nearly swollen shut. 

He looks awful, but he’s alive, and really, that’s all that matters to Eddie.

“Hey, mijo,” he murmurs, heart clenching when he sees Nate’s bottom lip wobbling. “Jesus, kiddo, you gave us quite the scare.”

“I didn’t-” his voice is soft, hoarse, and he winces, swallowing once. “I didn’t mean to get Chris hurt. Please don’t send me back. I’ll do whatever I have to to stay.”

“Nathan-” Eddie breathes out, hugging his eldest son as tight as he dares, feeling his kid sag in his arms. “Baby, you aren’t going anywhere but upstairs to a room and then home with us when we can take you. I know you aren’t thinking clearly right now, and that everything’s a little jumbled, but Nate, Buck and I? we aren’t at all mad at you, for anything. We wouldn’t be mad at you if the accident had been your fault, and it wasn’t. Athena said the driver beside you swerved into your lane and hit the truck, that’s it.”

“I just wanted to get ice cream,” Nate whispers, and Eddie can hear the tears, feel them getting the collar of his shirt wet. “I didn’t-”

“You were being a good big brother, mijo. We are never planning on you being anything but part of our family, being our kid; nothing you do is going to change that.”

“I thought you were going to hate me.” The confession is said into Eddie’s shirt, and his entire world freezes and he thinks about how scared Nate must have been, waiting for them to come, wondering if they wouldn’t. “I really didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Nunca, mijo. Never. Buck and I will always love you.”

“That’s good,” Nate finally answers. “Because I think I totaled your truck.”

Eddie laughs, the first real sense of normality since Athena’s fateful call. “I needed to replace it soon anyway.”

He stays with Nate until they come to transfer him, promising him either he or Buck will be with him as soon as the nurses allow. He gives him one last kiss on his forehead, one last gentle squeeze on his shoulder, one last “I love you,” and watches the bed until the elevator doors close behind it before retreating back to Chris’ curtain. He’s a little surprised to see Chris dressed in comfy clothes, Buck standing beside him, awkwardly holding his crutches. “What’s going on here?”

“Doc discharged him, and Mads brought them both some clothes from home. Chim called her for us,” Buck explains, handing Chris his crutches when asked. Together, they make their slow way out to the waiting room, where Maddie’s sitting, typing away on her phone. She smiles when she sees them, giving both Eddie and Buck a hug in greeting. “I guess I can go home with Chris, get a quick shower and then come relieve you?”

“Aunt Maddie can take me home,” Chris informs them, grimacing just a bit as he grips his crutches, the walk more painful than usual. “You both need to stay here.”

“Superman-” Buck tries to argue, but Chris stops him with one raised eyebrow.

“Buck, Nate’s the one in the hospital; I’m getting to go home. He’s the one who’s not alright right now. He needs both of you. Aunt Maddie said she and Chim could stay with me already, and you guys can stay here. I want to make sure Nate knows he’s just as important as I am to you guys. I know that, and you know that, but he’s not sure of that right now, and it’s important that we all make sure he knows.”

Eddie knows he and Buck have lost this battle (and seriously, Chris is fourteen; how are they losing battles to fourteen-year-olds?), so he shakes his head when Buck starts to argue with Chris. “You will go home, take a hot shower, and get some rest?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Promise?”

“Dad-”

“Mijo, I don’t want to worry that you aren’t doing what the doctor said while I’m here.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but nods. “I promise. Home, shower, cuddle with Scarlet, and then bed. Aunt Maddie can text you all about my very boring adventures.” He hugs his father, squeezing as much as he can muster. “As long as you take care of Nate.”

“Always, kid.”

--//--//--

Nate wakes sometime during the night, groggy from the meds they’ve given him to help manage the pain while he tries to sleep. Everything feels off, and he’s a little desperate when he looks around, the room empty until he turns his head ever-so-gently, the ache of moving that much starting to build, and he sees them both, sprawled out on the unused bed beside him, both of them facing him, Eddie spooned around Buck, their hands intertwined, resting close to Buck’s heart.

They’ve stayed.

It’s what Eddie promised him, when he was still confused, still worried that everything was his fault and they were going to send him away, but somehow, waking up now, more clear headed, it means something more.

It means everything.

They’ve stayed.

#My writing #buddieweek2020 #buddie fic #Buddie #evan buckley #Eddie Diaz #christopher diaz #original character #I Hate Accidents series #9-1-1 #9-1-1 Fox #911 #9-1-1 fanfiction #fanfic

[kalyan-gullapalli]

Post # 149

To err is human...

For the past few days, I have been watching a 8-part, one-hour-each, docu-series called The Test: A New Era for Australia's Team on Amazon Prime Video. I just finished it and am bursting to share my thoughts on it. But a little bit of background first.

24th March, 2018, was a day of infamy in the annals of Australian cricketing history!

On this day, in Cape Town, South Africa, on Day 4 of the 3rd Test between visitors Australia and home team South Africa, Cameron Bancroft, a rookie Australian was caught tampering with the condition of the ball with a yellow sandpaper. He then tried to hide the sandpaper in his underwear. Jeez! What was he thinking? Did he not know that there are at least 50 cameras on the cricket ground these days? No one can scratch his back without being caught on one of the cameras.

Steve Smith, considered the greatest test batsman after Sir Don Bradman, because of his stratospheric batting average in tests, was the captain of that Australian side. Dashing opening batsman, David Warner, was the vice-captain. Apparently, Warner was the mastermind of this incident. Steve Smith supposedly knew what was happening, but chose to look the other way. Basically, the Australian team cheated on the cricket ground! And got caught!

The backlash was swift and severe. Though the ICC penalties were light - Bancroft was fined 75% of his match fees and Smith was banned for just one match, Cricket Australia, the national board for cricket in Australia, came down really harsh. They conducted an investigation of their own. Following public admission of guilt from all three players, Australia's Prime Minister at that time, Malcolm Turnbull, phoned Cricket Australia's chairman directly to express his disappointment and concern, stating that strongest action be taken. Smith, Warner and Bancroft were banned from playing all forms of cricket for 12 months. They were flown back midway from the series and replacements flown in immediately. They lost their IPL contracts that year. Product endorsement contracts were cancelled. Darren Lehmann, though not a guilty party, stepped down as coach of the Australian team.

Australia was rocked like never before. Warner, Smith and Bancroft had shamed the proud, cocky nation. Ex-players shook their heads in disgust and expressed their anguish, in public, on international TV. Someone said that this was the biggest scandal since the underarm ball of the Chappell brothers.

There was a huge debate whether the 12 months ban was too harsh. Personally, I didn't think so. I think they deserved every month of the ban. But public opinion was split. Harsha Bhogle said, "I honestly do not believe any other country would have handed its captain and lead player a one-year ban for attempted ball-tampering." ICC saw how steep Cricket Australia's penalties were and made their punishments steeper!

For a while, Smith, Warner and Bancroft mulled taking legal action against CA, but then decided against it. They decided to wait out their ban, straighten themselves in their own heads and hope to come back to the sport again.

The Australian cricket team, arguably the best in the world, was depleted. Their two best batsmen were not available for selection. The rest of the team was scared of its shadow. Morale was low. There were questions about "culture". Australia and Australians were always competitive. They pioneered sledging & other psychological games and called them "getting under the skin of competition." Now somebody crossed the line and the nation had lost respect!

Tim Paine (who?) was made captain and Justin Langer was made coach. Their job - to rebuild a team and regain the lost respect in the eyes of their fans - the Australian people.

I honestly thought Smith, Warner and Bancroft were finished. I didn't think they would ever come back to play for Australia. And I thought Australia was finished as a team to reckon with, for a long long time.

Smith, Warner and Bancroft did come back and play for Australia again. Warner and Smith were the champions of Australia's dream run till the semis in the World Cup 2019. Smith was the player of the tournament when Australia successfully regained the Ashes later that year. In a year and half, Australian cricket was back on its feet. They are not invincible yet, but they are no pushovers either.

And that to me is an exciting story. It is a story of comebacks. It is the story of the triumph of human spirit. It is the story of a few individuals, a team and a nation, owning up to their mistakes, accepting responsibility, bearing the consequences of their actions and making sterling comebacks. And earning back respect!

The Test - A New Era for Australia's Team is that story. It is a behind-the-scene, real time account, of the way the team regrouped under Coach Langer. Like me, you will wonder how a camera (more than one actually) got into the Australian dressing room and followed each and every player's each and every move or action, reaction, emotion, for 18 months? The answer is - this docu-series was authorised, sponsored and produced by Cricket Australia. I wonder how the players and support staff felt about the constant scrutiny. I guess they didn't have too much of a choice.

The 8-part series takes us through the 18-month journey that the young Australian team took, first without Smith and Warner, through the series against Pakistan in Dubai, then against India at home, then against India again in India, their World Cup campaign, with Smith and Warner back in the team (Bancroft too) and finally the Ashes series.

Coach Justin Langer demonstrates why he, along with Haydos (Matthew Hayden), was the best opening bat in the world in his time. With his usual grit and perseverance, he lays down the process of becoming world class again. This mantra keeps repeating again and again throughout the series.

1. Focus on the next ball!

2. Trust the process to deliver the result.

3. Let not temporary setbacks waver your faith on the process.

4. Keep the noise out of the equation.

It was fascinating to see how individuals responded to the process. Usman Khwaja bats for hours and hours in the scorching heat of Dubai to save the test against Pakistan. Nathan Lyon becomes a powerful weapon in the Aussie bowling arsenal with his frequent fifers. Pat Cummins emerges as the leader of the fast bowling pack. Tim Paine (who again?) begins to come on his own and shapes up into an amazing captain. To my mind, he becomes the first Australian captain I like (not just respect) - a nice guy! That's definitely a first for an Australian captain. Over time, Aaron Finch emerges as the ODI and T20 captain. Then Smith-Warner-Bancroft are back. The series shows how they integrated back into the team, their dream world cup campaign till the disastrous semis against England and their phenomenal 2-2 Ashes result.

The journey wasn't smooth, nor was it easy. The series shows candid dressing room conversations, post match meetings, strategy discussions, coaching staff meetings, some selection discussions and so on.

One particularly touching scene was the post match team meeting the day after they lost to England by 1 wicket - the one where Ben Stokes plays and plays and plays, probably the best innings ever, okay, maybe one of the best innings ever - to prevent Aussies the series win. The match was Aussies, till Ben Stokes decided he didn't want to lose yet. Morale in the Aussie camp was low. Coach Langer swallows his own disappointment and holds the meeting to discuss what went wrong and how to do things differently next time. That one was tough to watch. My heart went out for Tim Paine and his team.

It was cool to see some greats of Aussie cricket come into the camp and assist Coach Langer and his staff. Ricky Ponting was Assistant Coach for the World Cup campaign and Steve Waugh joined the team for the Ashes tour. Their interactions with the players and comments and expressions during key moments during the match, caught real time, are fascinating.

But to me, the one person I will watch the series for - again - is Steve Smith. The docu-series begins with Steve Smith being disgraced, deservingly, for his involvement in the scandal. There is a scene where Smith is being escorted by a team of about ten odd security people in the airport - the narrator says, like a common criminal. Of course, we have all seen Smith cry on national and international TV in his oft-repeat-telecast press conference admitting his guilt. I cannot imagine what this man must have gone through. It could have crushed him. Infact, there is a scene where he says he almost decided to hang his boots. But he didn't. He came back.

In the World Cup in England, everywhere he went, he was booed and heckled. There is a scene where Justin Langer is caught making a remark about the booing crowd, "These guys behave as if they have not made a single mistake in their lives." Maybe they have, maybe it is just Karmic justice. The Aussie crowds have been bigger assholes in the past. But this is not about the crowd. This is about Smith. He played out of his skin. He was never the greatest ODI batsman. But he was the pillar of the Aussie batting during that campaign. His was the prize wicket. The match was not over till he was out. He was one of the key players who were instrumental in Australia going to the semis, second on the league table, just below India. And for a team rocking just about an year back, that was not bad. Of course, the semi finals against England was forgettable.

Then came the Ashes in England. More intense booing. Everytime he came in to bat, tens of thousands welcomed him with booes. But that Ashes series, Smith was para-normal. He says, he was in a bubble. He says, the levels of concentration he achieved were super-human. The results show. Two hundreds on his return test, one each in both innings, a double hundred in the fourth test, 774 in a five test series in which he didn't play in one of the tests because of an injury, 300 plus more runs than the second best batter in the series (Ben Stokes, another Superman) and 400 plus runs more than the second best Aussie batter (Marcus Labuschagne).

What will forever be etched in my heart's mind is - When Steve Smith got out for 25 odd runs in the rain-shortened last test (his last innings of the Ashes) and started his walk back to the dressing room, the erstwhile hostile English crowd at The Oval stood on its feet and applauded its adversary all the way back to the pavilion. Steve Smith lifted his bat, acknowledged the ovation, went into the dressing room, acknowledged the pats-on-his-back from his team mates and sat in a corner of the dressing room, a satisfied smile on his lips. It was redemption. He had earned back his lost respect. The world had acknowledged him to be the best again. I could feel that moment for him.

The story of the comebacks of Smith, Warner, Bancroft and Australia is an extraordinary story, but in no way unique. Australia themselves have gone through a similar rebuilding phase in the 1980s post the World Series Cup turmoil. South Africa came back stronger after the Hansie Cronje scandal. India became a world beating side under Saurav Ganguly after the match fixing scandals of 2000. There are other such instances.

What caught my imagination is the story of the indomitable human spirit. A human being can be down in the dumps one day, and comeback the next. Nothing is permanently gone. Lost wealth can be regained, lost respect can be re-earned, the mistakes can be pardoned if they are owned and accepted. Life doesn't judge. Life offers second chances, third chances, multiple chances. Infact, every moment of life is an opportunity - to scale new heights or comeback from behind!

#the test #steve smith #cameron bancroft #david warner #sandpapergate #ball tampering #cricket australia #justin langer #world cup 2019 #ashes 2019 #tim paine #usman khawaja #nathan lyon #pat Cummins #aaron finch #ben stokes #ricky ponting #steve waugh #marcus labuschagne #cricket

[rnaxwellbeaumont]

thank u kit @brycelahelas​ for tagging me 💕

the last time i did this was like 2 yrs ago damn so heres the updated ver!!

rules: answer 20 questions, then tag bloggers you want to get to know better.

name: stephanie

nickname: steph

zodiac sign: aquarius sun, scorpio moon, gemini rising whatever that means

height: 5′1

languages you know: english, chinese, french, and i wanna learn spanish

nationality: i have 2 but anyway im asian

favourite season: can u imagine i used to like winter growin up.. give me summer and sunshine and the beach!! i cant think of anything better than swimming and drifting on a raft and lying in the sun rn

favourite flower: wish i could tell u but i love em all esp filler flowers

favourite scent: aromatherapy associates revive bath oil. love citrus/invigorating scents especially clove and black pepper blends i find they really really help with migraines. also a huge fan of any aromatherapy oil that clears and opens up the chest like eucalyptus, rosemary, and cajeput because a girl anxious and got trouble breathin. scents like bergamot, neroli, frankincense blends are super soothing. also steam aint a scent but that shit really opens up and clears. i used to love neal’s yard travel roll on, crabtree & evelyn gardeners scent is also really nice. also nothing beats the smell after rain and just nature in general

favourite colour: deep purple babey!!! pink, warm yellow, warm orange, gold

favourite animal: OTTERS, deer, wolves

favourite fictional character: CAN U BELIEVE last time i did this tag i hadnt even met these two yet but ABSOLUTELY 

jessica jones and frank castle: after i watched their netflix series i could not tell u how much my life fuckin changed. not to get too deep but i owe em both a lot. i havent watched season 3 of jessica jones yet but i wanna do a whole rewatch when im ready like.. mentally. also never talk to me about season 2 of the punisher it does not exist and frankly so vile and idk what the fuck steve lightfoot was smoking to make the show and characters go SO fucking off kilter.

anyway onto lighter things--

jake peralta: my mans. if u kno u kno.

jason mendoza: invented himboism.

nathan drake: dumbass idiot. love him but also love to hate him rest assured would kick him down the stairs if i could.

tony stark: dont fuckin come for me i will end u.

clementine from twdg: i miss her :(

ellie williams (WHOS FUCKING EXCITED FOR TLOU2!!!)

and my faves from choices can be seen here and my fave lis here

coffee, tea, or hot chocolate: coffee but dont underestimate my love for tea i drink like 3 types every day, love masala and matcha, chamomile is really calming

average sleep hours: tbh..

dog or cat person: dog

number of blankets you sleep with: one

dream trip: still europe, but mostly northern europe now. catch me disappearing into the forest fog and never being seen again

blog established: 2017.. the shit ive seen... but joined tumblr in 2011 with a justin bieber blog that was mainly taylor swift/ya novels/glee which became one direction judge me all u want but i stand by my decisions. at least i have a veteran’s discount

followers: bro ive been stuck at this number for like 8 months. yall have no taste

random fact: ive gotten really into fashion and dressing up but i aint got nowhere to go

#tag #about

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

The BBC

Quentin Beck x Reader, Deadpool x Platonic! Reader

Warning: bad language.

A/N: This was just pure fun to write.

Summary: Wade invites you to a super-secret bar, where you meet someone new.

You stood in front of an apartment building, the entire complex was dark and clearly no one had been living in it for years. Pulling out the small white business card that magically appeared under door of your room at the Avengers’ facility, you made sure you had the correct address. Call you curious or an idiot, you decided it was something you needed to investigate, because obviously someone wanted to see you. You walked over to the front doors, but they were locked, and you figured there had to another entrance. So, you went around the building – checking for another way in. Finding one in the form of a back-door, which was not chained up, you walked into the apartment building. It was gross, a whole lot of dusty and dark.  Tapping on your watch that a certain genius billionaire had made you, a bright light flashed from it, letting you see where the hell you were going.

“Jesus, I’m in a freaking horror movie.”

“More like a B-horror movie,” a voice echoed behind you.

You jumped, because let’s admit it, someone sneaking behind you in a dark place was scary as hell – no matter how badass you were. Flashing the light to where the voice came from, you were confronted with a familiar face, well, mask.

“For fucksake, Wade.”

“Hello to you too, hot pants,” he said, holding a hand up to avoid the light. “Turn that shit off! The good guys might find us.”

“I am the good guy,” you insisted, turning off the watch; squinting to see Wade in front of you.

“Technically, you aren’t…remember the whole pissing contest your beloved 100 YEAR OLD VIRGIN and Iron-Douche had? If I recall you were on The Virgin’s side, so you’re technically a bad guy.”

“I beg to differ,” you argued, flicking the white business card at the merc. “Why was this under my door?”

Wade bent down to retrieve the card and leaned forward to place it in the front pocket of your jean jacket. “Because my sweet tart, you are part of the club now.”

“I don’t want to be part of any club…”

“Too bad, so fucking sad,” he remarked, motioning for you to follow him. “Come on, the others are drinking all the good beer.”

Others?

A part of you wanted to turn around and go back home, but the part of you that liked rebelling – the part of you that rebelled with Steve and the others, sighed and followed Wade down to the basement of the apartment building. Contrary to the rest of the joint, the basement hallway was lit up and looked decent, a heavy metal door stood at the end of it. Wade pulled off his mask and smiled at you, winking like a perv and holding out his hand to you.

“Do you trust me?”

“Fuck off, Aladdin. Just open the door and let’s get this over with.”

He did, and boy, were you surprised.

It was like a high-class bar, outshined the one Tony had, for sure, and it was packed. You weren’t sure where the hell you were, but as you followed Wade to the back bar, you started to notice certain faces. Loki was sitting in a corner with two ladies, his body leaned into theirs as he talked to them. His eyes met yours and he grinned, giving you a curt nod before going back to his conversation. Then there was the fucking Punisher himself, sulking in a booth alone – you didn’t even want to make eye contact with him, that man was unsettling. You spotted Cable playing pool with some man in a getup that looked like something Thor would wear, you had never seen him, but he looked over at you when Cable flipped off Wade when he shouted out his name. The mystery man stared at you for a moment, as if he was studying you before turning to Cable.

“Oh, shit, he’s hot,” you whispered as Wade and you pulled up to the bar.

Wade glanced back in the direction of the pool table and snorted. “I mean, I would not not fuck that Winter Solider wannabe.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t talking about Cable,” you laughed, deciding the place wasn’t so bad, even though it had an interesting clientele. “Whose that guy with him? Thor’s cousin?”

“He fucking wishes; I fucking wish…”

“Wade.”

“Right, right. That’s Mysterio – I know what you’re thinking; FINALLY THEY GAVE JAKE GYLLENHAAL A ROLE IN THE MCU. I mean, I would Brokeback Mountain his ass any day.”

You thanked the bartender when he placed a beer in front of you before looking at Wade in pure wonderment. “I have no clue what you are talking about or who this Jake guy is, but you dragged me here and I need to know why.”

Tossing his mask on the counter, Wade lifted his beer and held it up. “Let’s cheer to you becoming a new member of the Gray Area Regime. GAY for short.”

“That doesn’t make sense – you know what, who cares,” you declared, clinking your beer against Wade’s. The two of you smiled at each other and proceeded to down the beer in seconds flat, the merc slapped his hand on the counter and asking for another round.

“So what does being in the GAY mean? Do I get a discount at Costco or something?”

“Yes! And access to this shithole.”

Sighing, because you had never thought when you joined the Avengers that you’d be in some secret lair bar with other people who have done some questionable shit in their line of work. Yeah, you were for the most part a hero, but you had to admit, there had been more than a few gray areas on your ledger.

Fuck, you probably should tell Nat about this place…

“Well, good sir,” you chimed, accepting your place in this fucked up society of misfits who probably killed hundreds of people. “How about you go introduce me to that Trouble with Cable.”

Wade stood straight, bringing a hand to his forehead, giving you a salute. “It would be your pleasure.”

Grabbing your second beer, you followed Wade to the pool table. Cable groaned as the merc skipped over to him, throwing an arm him to bring him closer. “So, me and little Miss Avenger want to play next game.”

“Hey Nathan,” you said, giving him a wave as you stopped in front of the pool table.

“Hey Y/N. What are you doing here? You’re too good to be in this filthy place.”

You laughed at Nathan’s honestly and glanced at Thor’s fake cousin, who gave you a slight smile as he held onto his pool cue. “Wade apparently thought I’d fit right in.”

“Yeah, she’s killed enough people now,” Wade beamed, hanging onto Cable. “So, FISHBOWL this is Y/N. Y/N this is FISHBOWL.”

“Fishbowl…” you questioned, looking at Mysterio for answers.

He smirked then, leaning his cue against the table to reach out a hand to you. “I’m Quentin.”

Taking his hand, which was nice and warm, you examined him closely – he was fine as fuck, plain and simple. The hair, the weird getup that did things to you, the smile, the big sad ass eyes, and the beard; holy shit the beard.

“I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet –“

You introduction was immediately interrupted by a song blasting over your voice; it was familiar and you looked over to Wade, who was holding out his cell in your direction.

“I knew you were trouble when you walked in…”

“Is that Taylor Swift?”

“It is indeed TayTay,” Wade nodded, pointing  to your hand, which was still holding onto Quentin’s.

Embarrassed, you pulled back and smiled at the man. “I would apologize for Wade, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Quentin laughed, looking to the bar behind you. “Maybe I can get you a beer?”

“She already has one,” Wade pointed out, huffing when Cable nudged him in the ribs. “I mean… that beer is tainted!”

The mercenary stormed over to you and snatched the beer, tossing it over his shoulder. The glass shattered behind him and Wade fetched a few dollar bills from his pocket, nodding to Quentin. “Bad beer. Here’s some money, go get her a new one, Thor’s less attractive fake cousin.”

Ignoring the burning rage to tear Wade a new one, you smiled at Quentin and agreed that you could use a new beer. He said for you to lead the way, so you did, the two of you leaving the pool area for the bar counter. As you sat down and he ordered the drinks, you gave him another once over but he caught you mid look and laughed.

“You were just checking me out, weren’t you?”

“The lighting is really bad by the pool table, so I was just getting another look.”

“Everything good?”

“100%.”

The two of you chuckled, and when the beers arrived, Quentin looked down at the money Wade gave him. “These are Canadian dollars.”

“He’s such a prick,” you sighed, attempting to pull out money from your pocket until Quentin objected.

“I got you,” he insisted, turning his body to you. He paid and took a sip of the beer, asking if you minded him asking you a personal question.

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you really here?”

You stared at Quentin, his eyes on you with this intense fire that matched the way you felt when you were doing what you loved; fighting. “Long story; I’m an Avenger or was, honestly I don’t know what’s going on there. My whole team is all sorts of fucked up at the moment, and I guess I have to admit in my line of work things can get morally complicated. We do things to save people but at what cost? We destroy things to fix them, we save people but there is always collateral damage.”

“You sound like gray area material.”

“I guess, what about you?”

Quentin’s face fell and he glanced down at his drink before meeting your glance. “Truthfully, I’m severely treading the line of gray and black. I want the glory, the fame, and I’d do anything to get it.”

His admission should have scared you, you’d be lying if it didn’t for a fleeting moment, but damn you couldn’t help but feel for him. Maybe you were in the right place; maybe Wade was right to invite you to be a part of the GAY.

Again, the acronym made no sense, but maybe this place did.

Was Frank Castle truly a bad guy? And Loki – wasn’t he just misunderstood? You had known Wade for years, and yes he killed people, but he killed bad people – like you did.

Right?

“Did I lose you?”

“No,” you said quietly, brushing away all thoughts. “I get you, Quentin. So how about we cheer to being morally complicated?”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t morally complicated, he might be just a downright bad guy, but for some reason you just didn’t care.

He smiled down at his beer, before lifting it against yours. The two of you cheered and drank, keeping your eyes on each other until you couldn’t contain it anymore and asked if he wanted to leave.

“I would invite you to my house, but…”

“No, I get it,” he said, placing the empty mug down. “My place isn’t far from here.”

You watched as he got off the stool, looking handsome in his probably villain suit, and you smiled at him, asking if he’d give you a moment to say bye to Wade. He nodded and said he’d be waiting outside, and you waited for him to be out of sight before beelining it to your friend.

“Alright. I’m taking off, Wade.”

He did a double take to were Quentin and you were seated, clapping his hands obnoxiously when he realized what went down. “You getting the BBC!”

“Isn’t that a British channel?”

“It means BIG BAD COCK.”

Nathan looked at you. “You have to make him stop.”

“If I could I would,” you declared, reaching over to give Wade a smack on the face. “Thanks for the invite, I’ll see you later. Nathan, make sure Wadey gets home safe.”

The two men said goodbye and proceeded to argue over whose turn it was as you walked away. You started moving through the bar, waving at Loki as you made it to the door, but an act of bravely had you glancing over to were Frank was sitting. The man was staring down at his beer until he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours. He gave you a slight nod and went back to his sulking, and suddenly you felt like you were at home.

Laughing mostly to yourself, you left the bar and walked out to the basement hall, up the stairs and right to the back entrance – where Quentin stood under the moonlight.

He was physically attractive, that much was true, but there was something about Quentin – there was more to him than he was showing and you wanted to know it all, badly.

He asked if you were ready, reaching out his hand to you.

It felt different then when Wade had done it, it felt dangerous; exciting.

Taking it, the two of you started walking off until you announced you had something to ask.

“Yeah?”

“What was Wade talking about when he called you FISHBOWL?”

Quentin laughed heartily, squeezing your hand. “Yeah, I can’t really explain it, I’ll just have to show you.”

Oh, yeah – you were so getting the BBC.

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