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likeahorribledream · 1 year ago

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new guy

» CHAPTER TEN: A LITTLE GUIDANCE

CHAPTER NINE

SUMMARY: WHAT LIES AHEAD FOR YOU AND RANSOM?

PAIRING: Ransom x Reader

WORD COUNT: 5.0K

WARNINGS: Fluff, angst. New Girl AU.

REQUEST: Librarian!Reader, she’s shy and insecure about her appearance.

18+. Minors DNI.

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

As soon as the door slams shut Theo and Chase come out of his room, looking around to see if the coast is clear.

"How bad do you think it is?" Theo asks.

"Pretty bad." Chase sighs. "I'm gonna go check up on her." He stops in front of your door and knocks softly. "It's me, princess. Can I come in?"

You poke your head out from under the covers long enough to tell him to come in and disappear under them again right after.

"Are you ok?" Your best friend asks as he closes the door behind him and walks over to your bed.

"No. I'm not." Your voice breaks as more tears rush out of you.

"What happened?" He sits on the edge of your bed and pushes back the covers to let you breathe.

"I don't want to talk about it." You keep your back to him, curling up on yourself.

He reaches over to you and rubs your back. "Where's Ransom?"

You shrug. "I don't know, I think he- he left." You reach for a pillow and hug it tightly to your chest to try to calm yourself down.

"Want me to stay with you?" He pushes back your hair, away from your face.

"Can I be alone, please?" You whisper, scared that if you speak any louder you're going to break.

"Of course. If you need me or Theo, just send us a text." Chase leans down and kisses your temple before standing up. "We love you." He adds before leaving.

Ransom waits for his Über to show up to take him to his destination.

"If you want a good tip and review I'd recommend not talking unless it's to ask for directions.."

The driver nods as he looks at him through the mirror. "Got it."

With now time to think about what he wants to say, Ransom writes a few things down on his phone to make sure not to forget anything. He has a lot of questions to ask.

The driver, as promised, keeps his mouth shut and Ransom gives him 5 stars and a $50 tip just for leaving him alone.

He gets out of the car and up the few steps that lead to the front door, going in right after knocking.

It's only been a few months since he has stepped into this house but it feels like it has been years. Things change quickly, he has changed too. Probably more so in the past few months than he has over the past 10 years.

"I thought we were finally rid of you." Fran sighs as she sees Ransom walking toward her.

"Fuck off." He says as he walks past her to his grandfather's office. He knocks but this time he waits for permission before walking in.

"I like the beard and longer hair. It suits you." Harlan says to him as he takes a seat.

"Mh. Thanks." He runs his fingers through his hair.

"Not a fan of the bloodshot eyes though."

Ransom sighs and glances down at the desk before looking back up. "Why did you have kids?"

Harlan sits back in his chair and looks at his grandson, really looks at him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Have you always wanted kids? Is it because Nana and Great Nana wanted them for you? Why did you choose to have kids?"

Harlan takes a moment to really think about his answer, he's not sure why Ransom is asking him this but he has a feeling that his answer could potentially change Ransom's opinion. Whatever it is. "I don't know how it happened." He says sincerely. "I don't remember ever thinking about wanting to have kids until I met your Nana. I was a lot like you when I was younger. Reckless and handsome." He teases to lighten up the mood. "You often hear people say "I met the love of my life and my world got turned upside down" but when I met the love of my life my world finally made sense. All the puzzle pieces fell into place and everything felt right. I loved her with all of my being, still do. There's not a day that I don't miss her but she's not really truly gone because I see little pieces of her in every single one of you." He smiles fondly. "I can't say when exactly I decided to have kids, all I remember is thinking that the world would be a better place with more of her in it. Now that she's gone, I'm glad I have all of you to remind me of her."

"Would you still choose to have kids if you knew how bad we were going to turn out?"

"Not everyone turned out bad and it's not entirely their fault if they did."

"Meg is fine but the rest of us, not so much."

"You turned out fine." Harlan looks at Ransom with a smile and pride in his eyes.

Ransom can't help but laugh. "In what world did I turn out fine?"

"Look at how much you've changed since I cut you off, how much you've grown. For the first time in… years, you look happy. Genuinely happy."

Ransom shrugs and looks down. "I was."

"It's that girl, right? Your friend that Marta helped? You fell in love."

It's not a question, it doesn't need to be.

"What happened?"

Rubbing his hands over his face and sighing, Ransom feels close to breaking down again. "She wants to have kids."

"And you don't?" Harlan asks curiously.

"Why would I? With how fucked up our family is, I don't need to put that kind of burden on a child or on her. She deserves better. My dad cheats on my mom constantly, they both hate me and each other." He shakes his head. "I'll be a shitty dad and a shitty husband."

"Tell me, do you think your dad stops to think "am I being a shitty husband?" before cheating on your mother?"

"Fuck no." Ransom laughs but there's no joy to it.

"Exactly."

Ransom frowns and raises a brow, confused. "Exactly, what?"

Harlan chuckles and sits up on his chair, leaning forward on his desk. "You are not your father. You are nothing like your father. You love her, you care about her. Let's forget about your parents, about this family. It's just you and her in the world, would you have kids with her?"

"Of course I would. She's my whole fucking world, I'd do anything for her. I'd give her anything she asked for but this is the real world and Drysdale men don't make good fathers."

"Then break the cycle." Harlan says, like it's the most obvious solution.

"Oh, right. Sure. Just like that." Ransom answers, clearly being sarcastic as he rolls his eyes.

"Why not? Are you a good boyfriend to her?"

"I don't know. I guess."

"Do you love her? Show her affection? Treat her right? Take care of her? Respect her?"

"I do."

"Then you've already broken the cycle of Drysdale men being shitty boyfriends or husbands. If you can do that then you can break the bad father cycle."

"What if I can't and I end up ruining her life and the kid's life?"

"What if you can and you end up being happy with a great family?"

"I hate it when you answer my question with a question." He shakes his head.

"I know you do." Harlan chuckles.

"I'm scared I might have lost her." Ransom admits, so quietly that Harlan almost missed it.

"If you love her then fight for her. If you just give up then you're sure to lose her. Go home, fix it."

Ransom runs a hand through his hair. "We have two roommates, they are protective of her, they probably won't let me talk to her alone and if they do they'll just hide and listen to everything."

"Here." Harlan opens his desk drawer and pulls out a set of keys. "Send them there."

"Are those the keys to my old house?"

"Those are the keys to the house that I paid for. Now go, fight for your girl. Make me proud."

Ransom stands up and takes the keys. He walks over to the door and opens it, turning around to add one more thing. "Please don't tell anyone about me and her. I don't want them anywhere near my relationship."

Harlan nods. "You got it. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you. For everything."

His grandfather smiles at him. "I'm proud of you Ransom."

He walks out of the house while taking his phone out of his pocket and tries to call you. He's not surprised when you don't pick up, it was to be expected. He hangs up to get an Über and he's surprised to see how late it is already. He hadn't realized that so much time had passed. It's almost dinner time but it feels later than that because of how dark it already is outside.

On his ride home, Ransom thinks about how or what he'll need to do to get you alone without the guys.

Once he gets dropped off near the building, he calls Theo to say he needs to see both he and Chase to clear the air before seeing you. After the call, he runs up the stairs and waits until he's sure they are gone.

After the night they had locked you up in the loft together you had confiscated the keys from that specific lock and put them all in a drawer in the kitchen so while the guys are moving down to the first floor, Ransom quietly sneaks into the loft and locks the door. He leaves the key just in case one of you wants to get out, he doesn't want to hold you hostage he just wants to keep the guys out until he has had a chance to have a real talk with you.

He sends them a quick text to tell them where he hid the key of his old house with the address. The guys would be pissed if they weren't so impressed by how quickly Ransom has learned to play by their rules. Plus, there are worse ways to spend your Saturday night than in a giant, beautiful house.

Once he's sure the guys won't be interrupting anything Ransom takes off his shoes and his jacket, leaving them close to the front door. He takes a few deep breaths to settle his nerves before heading to your room.

He usually loves moments when the loft is calm and in complete silence, like right now, but tonight he wishes there would be a noise, a sound, anything to cover his nervous heartbeat and the blood rushing through his veins at an incredible speed.

Ransom turns the knob and walks in without a sound before closing the door again. He moves closer to your bed, his heart clenching painfully at the sight of you looking so small and fragile, almost broken. He hates that he did this to you.

Lifting up the covers, Ransom carefully gets into your bed and lies behind you. A sigh of relief almost escapes his lips when you don't flinch or tense up at his presence, counting it as a small win.

You have no idea what time it is, all you know is that you've spent the entire day in bed crying, sleeping or staring at the wall in front of you. You're tired and your body aches from lying in the same position for hours on end, yet you can't find the energy to move. Not even to turn around. Chase and Theo check up on you often to make sure you don't need anything, maybe that's why you're able to tell right away when it's Ransom who comes in and not one of your other roommates.

You let him get in and settle down right behind you without saying anything. What is there to say that hasn't already been said earlier?

What you don't expect is for him to reach over and wrap his arm around you, like he always does, and you feel terrible for jumping the way you do. Ransom tries to move his arm away when he sees and feels you get scared but you stop him, putting your hand on top of his.

Ransom's eyes are burning with unshed tears as he wraps his front around your back, getting as close to you as physically possible.

"I'm sorry for leaving the way I did." He says quietly, not surprised to hear the pain in his own voice. "Can you turn around, please?"

You hesitate but slowly turn around to be facing him. As soon as he sees your face he moves his hand away from your waist and uses it to wipe off the fresh tears on your cheeks, not realizing that his own are now running free.

"I'm so sorry, kitten. I'm so fucking sorry." He whispers, knowing that his voice can't get any louder without breaking or wavering.

You're fast to cover his cheeks with your hands, using your thumbs to make his tears disappear as soon as they come out. "You don't have to apologize. Sometimes things just don't work out." You give him the tiniest of smiles to show him you're not mad. You could never be mad at him for knowing what he wants or doesn't want.

Ransom's eyes widen as he realizes why you think he's apologizing. "No, no, no, no." He says quickly and puts his index finger under your chin to make you look in his eyes. "I went to see Harlan today and we talked, for hours. You were right. I'm not my dad and I'll never be my dad. I love you, I'm fucking crazy about you and I never want to hurt you. I promise I'll never cheat on you or do anything else to hurt you, to hurt us."

"Oh, Ran. I know you won't. The thought never even crossed my mind and I love you, I really do that's why it hurts so much but we want different things. As much as I love and adore you, I haven't changed my mind about wanting to have kids. I'm sorry."

"I know, kitten. That's what I'm trying to say." He grabs your cheeks with both of his hands and rests his forehead against yours. "I changed my mind."

Your eyes widen and you quickly sit up. "Are you for real?"

"Yes." He sits up too, facing you.

"A few hours ago you didn't even want to think about having kids, Ran this isn't like changing your mind about getting a cat."

"Like I said, I talked to Harlan and he opened my eyes on a few things." He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers linger across your cheek. "If it were someone else, I wouldn't have changed my mind but it's you. I know you won't be scared to call me out if I do something bad and I know I'll love our kids because they will be yours. I really thought about it, I'm sure."

You stare at him speechless. "Maybe you should take some more time to think about it." You suggest, a little taken aback.

"I don't need to."

You're shocked that he has changed his mind so rapidly but also shocked that you believe him even if you think an afternoon isn’t enough to make such a big decision. He seems so sure of himself, there's not even an ounce of doubt in his voice, in his words or in his eyes.

Before you try to argue again, Ransom closes the distance between the two of you and kisses you. It starts off chaste and soft but it quickly turns sloppy and full of need, full of desire. One of his hands travels down your body to the small of your back where his hand then moves under your shirt. He sighs at the contact of your warm, soft skin and moves closer to you.

You put your hands to the back of his head where you tangle your fingers in his hair to keep him close, as if he'd ever dare to leave you like this.

Ransom kisses the corner of your lips and trails down from your cheek to the side of your neck to give you a chance to breathe. He sucks and nips at the skin, smiling against your neck when he feels you shiver.

You bite your lower lip and close your eyes to let yourself get lost in his touch.

He lifts up his head and he grins at the sight in front of him. "You look so beautiful." He presses his lips to yours, stealing your breath once more. He helps you lie down on your back, holding himself up with one hand flat on the mattress while the other is still on your back. He lowers himself with you and settles his body on top of yours, between your legs so as to not crush you under his weight. His hand that's on your back moves from under you and comes to take yours instead, intertwining his fingers with yours as he raises them above your head to rest on the pillow.

Once again Ransom breaks off the kiss to let you breathe and instead presses soft kisses all over your cheeks, forehead and nose. He stops to look down into your eyes when he feels you cupping his cheek in the palm of your free hand to get his attention.

"I love you." You say softly after feeling the urge to say it first this time.

Ransom's breath hitches in his throat and he gently squeezes your hand that he's holding. He gets lost in his own mind for a few moments, trying to think back to the last time that someone told him they loved him and meant it. For years girls have told him they loved him, not because that was how they felt but because they thought it could get them expensive gifts or money. It didn't. Those three little words have always turned Ransom off, until tonight. He used to hate hearing them but now they might be his favorite words. "Fuck." He curses quietly under his breath, his heart is pounding in his chest in the most wonderful way. "I love you." He adds quickly right before kissing the tip of your nose. "Wanna get started on those babies?" He asks you, cheekily as he wiggles his eyebrows and grins down at you.

You can't help but laugh at his playful attitude. You tilt your head a little to the side, matching his playfulness. "Are you sure you want the babies and not just the baby making?"

"I'm a big, big fan of the baby making." He smirks. "But I'm gonna be an even bigger fan of the babies that come from it."

You shake your head as you smile, amused. "How about for right now we practice and we can talk about babies tomorrow morning?"

"Anything you want, my love." He smiles as he leans down to kiss you. The moment your lips touch, his playfulness is gone and all of his focus is on making you feel good, beautiful and loved beyond words. Over and over again until you're both too exhausted to move.

Ransom rolls off of you and lies on his back next to you, letting you both catch your breath. You wiggle closer until you’re flushed against his side and rest the back of your head on his bicep. He moves his head to look at you and smiles at how relaxed and at peace you look. He wraps his index finger and thumb on both sides of your jaw to angle your head in the right direction to give him easy access to your lips as he leans in to kiss you. He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away.

‘’We totally just made a baby, I can feel it.’’ He rests his head back on the pillow and looks up at the ceiling.

You laugh and take the hand that was on your face, holding it between yours as you close your eyes. ‘’I think it’s going to take a little while before we do. At least I hope so.’’

Ransom frowns and turns his head to look at you. ‘’What’s that supposed to mean?’’

You blindly trace his pinky ring with the tip of your finger, slowly opening your eyes to look back at him. ‘’I love how excited you are about this but we don’t need to have a kid now. We need money, lots of it and our own place because I’m not taking care of a newborn baby on top of taking care of Theo and Chase.’’

‘’Right.’’ He sighs. ‘’I keep forgetting that money is an issue for me now.’’

You raise a hand to his beard and gently scratch with your fingers along his jawline. ‘’We just need to come up with a plan, to make sure we’re ready when it does happen. If we did make a baby tonight, we’ll make it work but I’d like to be prepared.’’

‘’It’s a good thing that one of us is smart.’’

‘’Don’t say that, you’re smart too.’’

‘’Oh, I know. I was talking about myself.’’ He laughs at your shocked gasp and kisses your temple. ‘’I’m just teasing.’’

You sit up to put your shirt and leggings back on. ‘’I hope you enjoyed getting laid earlier because that was the last time in a very long while.’’ You stick out your tongue at him before hurrying out of your bed and heading to the bathroom to take a shower.

‘’No, come back.’’ He tries to stop you from getting out of bed but you’re too quick. ‘’Kitten.’’ He whines and smiles when he hears you laugh. He gets out of bed and follows you to the bathroom, not bothering with putting on any clothes since it’s just the two of you and he has locked out your other two roommates. ‘’What are we doing?’’ He asks, innocently.

‘’I’m taking a shower.’’ You turn on the water to let it warm up before getting in.

‘’What a great idea for us to take a shower.’’

You bite down on your lip, trying not to laugh and encourage him. You shake your head instead.

He leans down to kiss the side of your neck, covering every inch of skin with his lips as he puts his hands under the front of your shirt to cover your stomach. ‘’Need some help with your clothes, kitten?’’ He nips at the skin right under your ear, making you shiver.

You slightly lean back into him, making him think he has won but you quickly snap out of it and pull away. ‘’I got it, thanks. I’ll be done soon if you want to take a shower after.’’ You take off your clothes and walk inside the shower, closing the door behind you as you step under the water.

A few seconds later you feel a big gush of cold air coming in, making you aware that Ransom has opened the door. He steps in and stands behind you as he closes the door right after.

‘’Ran, what are you doing?’’ You don’t turn around, your poker face sucks and you want to pretend to be mad for as long as you can.

‘’Just making sure my beautiful baby mama is safe.’’ He wraps his arms around your shoulders and kisses the back of your head.

You laugh quietly and lean back into him. ‘’I’m not a baby mama yet.’’

‘’Yet. But I’m working on it..’’ He moves his hands to rest on top of your stomach and you almost melt at how adorable he is being since coming back from Harlan’s.

A small part of you wants to tease him and tell him that he’s being super cheesy but the sincerity in his voice stops you. Instead you put your hands on top of his and relax under the hot water.

‘’Ran?’’ You say his name quietly after a few minutes of just holding one another.

‘’Yes, my love?’’

‘’I’m starving.’’

He chuckles. ‘’Yeah, me too. Let’s wash up and then we can go out.’’

‘’Out? Ransom Drysdale are you taking me out on a date?’’ You turn your head to look up at him.

He smiles and kisses your forehead. ‘’I don’t know if you can call it a date because I definitely can’t afford fancy restaurants but we’re going out to eat.’’

‘’Well, lucky for you I’m more of a small restaurant kinda girl. Small prices, big portions and I have my own money.’’

‘’I’m paying and I sure am lucky.’’ He smiles before letting go of you to grab the soap.

By the time you get out there is no more hot water but neither of you care. You head back to your rooms to get dressed and meet back at the front door.

You’ve decided to walk to the small italian restaurant a few blocks away, you’ve gone often but Ransom hasn’t had a chance to eat there yet and you have a feeling he’s going to love it. You, Theo and Chase have been going there for years and the owners know you well, they often give you discounts that you pay back in their tip.

You sit at your usual table and Ransom surprises you by sitting next to you instead of sitting across from you. You are so used to your boyfriends being either ashamed of being seen with you or trying to hide that they have a girlfriend in case they run into their other girlfriends that you’re always pleasantly surprised to see Ransom doing the exact opposite. He puts his arm on the back of your chair once he's settled and runs his fingers up the back of your neck as he takes one of the menus to decide on what to eat.

You on the other hand don't even look at the menu because you know exactly what you're going to eat, the same thing as usual.

"Everything looks so good." He says as he flips through the few pages with his free hand.

"It tastes even better, I promise."

"I bet. It smells amazing in here." He quickly glances around to see what is on other people's plates to potentially help him make a decision. There are so many choices and it's hard to choose just one.

A waiter comes over to pour you water and take your orders, leaving swiftly after.

Ransom gets closer and kisses your cheek as he reaches for his glass of water at the same time with his free hand, taking a few quick sips before putting it down. He watches as you lean into his side, smiling as he watches you yawn and rest your head on his shoulder. Bringing his hand up to your head, he gently strokes your hair while kissing the top of your head. "Tired, my love?"

You nod. "Yes. Today was exhausting."

His heart clenches at the painful thought of everything he put you through today. "I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, Ran."

"Yes, I do. I hurt you and I made you cry. I'm sorry."

You tilt your head to be able to look at him without having to move away from his shoulder. "You didn't hurt me or make me cry. I was scared that we were done and I didn't want us to be."

"You're not getting rid of me that easily." He teases, smiling lovingly down at you.

"Good, I don't want you to go anywhere." You smile back at him, a look of pure adoration in your eyes.

Anyone that would look at the two of you right now could see, without even knowing you, that you're in love with each other. The looks, the smiles and the touches are filled with respect and need for each other that makes it beautiful to watch the interaction between you two.

You barely let go of each other long enough to eat and as soon as you're done you find yourself back into Ransom's side.

The same waiter from earlier comes back over to clear your plates and ask if you need anything else.

"I'm full, thank you." You smile before finishing your water and putting your empty glass back on the table.

"Just the check."

You try to pay for your half of the bill but Ransom insists on paying, you know better than to try and fight him. Instead you might "find" $20 in his jeans pockets while doing the laundry, that you'll make sure to give back.

You walk back to the loft with your arm around his waist and his arm around your shoulders. Walking is a great way to help the food go down but the air is getting cold and gets through your clothes.

Once in the elevator Ransom pushes on the button for your floor and wraps his arms around you, hiding you under his coat to help warm you up. Back in the apartment, he locks the door again to keep the other two out for the night and meets you in the bathroom to brush his teeth as you do the same. You both head back to his room, closing the door behind you, then taking off your clothes to get into his bed. He stays in only his briefs while you steal one of his t-shirts to cover yourself with for the night.

"I love you, thank you for tonight." You press a kiss to his chest before laying your head on top of his heart, just in time to hear it flutter at the first three words of your sentence.

"I love you." He rubs your back, closing his eyes as he breathes you in.

Thankfully the day ends in the exact same way it started: You in the arms of the man that you love feeling good and protected, right where you belong.

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journalsouppe · 1 year ago

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Many... many months late but here's my Ace Attorney: Trials and Tribulations spread!! What a fun ending to the original trilogy, I truly fall in love more and more with Ace Attorney with each installment I play.

Phoenix stickers are by Peachcott! Be Gay Solve Crimes is by Ozlisky!

Writing typed below!

Rating: 9.5 Played: Sp 2023 Port: Nintendo Switch Favorite? Y Replayable? Y Recommend? Y Series: Ace Attorney

Comments:

P for Penis

MIA POV LETS GO

Payne's hair is almost as bad as gossip's lip

Feenie is so cute and pathetic

FEENIE'S POUTY FACE

i absolutely love 3-1 it is such a good opening case

is the disbarment message foreshadowing...

omg Ron's sprites are really cute

YOU ATE IT???

i genuinely can't tell if Ron is guilty or not...

front facing Phoenix jumpscare

Adrian!!! She's doing well!!!

he said!! he said the name of the game!!!

omg i see the Godot/Barok resemblance

not the badgers in handcuffs (skull emoji)

is the red diamond desiree and ron is protecting her??

obsessed that Phoenix's first thought after finding out about Gumshoe's crush is to gossip with maya

who was that goth lady??

obsessed with godot

love the sax in godot's theme

phoenix is so shocked and speechless from the coffee LMAO

godot caught each seed with his mouth??

don tigre is SO red

Gumshoe x maggey is so cute

PUT THE JUDGE ON THE STAND!

she bit the badge (skull emoji)

mia is in a courtroom full of bozos

not the mormon beard judge

"YOU CAN'T JUST 'OOPS' YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS!'

diego zoo wee mama

BRATWORTH!!

"poor baby... the court record seems to have wet itself" insane thing to say

i think mia is officially my favorite

crazy 3-4 ending

omg i'm edgy

i don't like how maya is treating Nick in 3-5 :/

i'm going to punch bratworth

LOVE EDGEYS MUSIC PEARL IS STILL MISSING??

LOVE edgey vs fran

the building convo is giving me terrible flash backs

GO BACK TO THE HOSPITAL NICK

love my silly girl gumshoe idk if kitten or princess is worse

3 DAUGHTERS?

morgan is so fucked up

dahlia is in maya's body... right?

go off pearls!!

when did pearl/mia get here T_T

a man??

EXECUTED?

THE SETUP IS SO CRAZY

everytime edgeworth opens his mouth the more im confident he's a gay man lmao

girl boss mia fey

Summary

THIS GAME WAS SO FUCKING GOOD. The setup throughout the whole trilogy was great, especially all within Trials and Tribulations. I love how bits and pieces of each case(or even large portions) had a ton of relevance to the final case. The characters were amazing and had great development, I loved playing as Mia and Edgeworth, that was such a delight, and im so glad we got to battle it out against Franziska as edgeworth. I love the other 2 games but the cohesiveness of the entire story within this game was spectacular. It truly reminded me of DGS 1&2 and why i love it so much. I really love how we also got to see young feenie, bratworth, and mia, the dialogue was especially entertaining. I cannot get over the twists and turns of the last case. I could never have predicted what was going to happen. I love complex mysteries like this, they're so entertaining but also im constantly thinking 'how do you even plan this all out?' The narumitsu in this game is so perfect too... omg. Incredible game , I absolutely loved it!

#journalsouppe #bullet journal #journal #video game journal #ace attorney #trials and tribulations #ace attorney trials and tribulations #aa3

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schmem14 · 2 years ago

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Another year, another birthday! Normally I don’t draw much attention to it, but it’s been a rough year, and I want to celebrate my surviving of it by recommending 10 works from mutuals that live in my head RENT FREE forever! Please enjoy them with me, and feel free to shout at me about them in the DM’s, it will make my day!

1. Devil’s Snare All The Way Down by @malpal132

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson/Neville Longbottom Rating: E This is a gorgeous Pansy Parkinson character study, spanning her younger years to post-hogwarts. She becomes reacquainted with Neville Longbottom and discovers who she’s meant to be in this slow-burn ETL.

2. Down a Hill at High Speed by @tepre

Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy Rating: E This 8th year fic is the BEST sex-pollen trope story I’ve ever read. Period. Tepre is a genius with sexual tension.

3. May Contain Nuts by scoradh

Pairing: Harry Potter/George Weasley Rating: M This is the fic that I REFUSE TO SHUT UP ABOUT (sorry if you’ve been caught in the crosshairs.) George is trying out a new line for XXX products at the joke shop. Harry is George’s go-to for product testing. Contains found family, dubious sweets, broken George, and NUTS of course! *Note the Archive warning for MCD is in reference to Fred, I think. No Harrys or Georges are harmed in the making of this fic.

4. Savour by @mignon-chignon

Pairing: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Rating: E This is just pure PWP. And all my favorite kinks. Definitely not safe for ANYTHING but a quiet room, a glass of your favorite beverage, and a favorite toy. Mind the tags.

5. Like a Brother Would by @wolfpants

Pairing: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley Rating: E This Deathly Hallows AU explores the posibility of Ron returning back to the tent that night in the Forest of Dean. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read and reread this. I’m obessed with this friends to lovers pairing, this vulnerable and delicious fic. One of the best Ronarry I’ve ever read.

6. The Luxury of a Regret by @swoontodeath

Pairing: Horace Slughorn/Regulus Black, Horace Slughorn/Sirius Black Rating: E IT’S A DEAD DOVE, FOLKS! But it is so creepy and beautiful. I CANNOT stop thinking about it. Imagine if this were canon, Slughorns obession with Harry would be THAT MUCH CREEPIER.

7. Hate, Lead the Way! by oh_black_sparrow

Pairing: Walburga Black/Orion Black Rating: E One of the Rare Pair fest 2022 stories I fell head-over-heels in love with. We know her as the shrewish shrieking portrait permanently stuck to the wall in 12 Grimmauld Place, but in this rage-filled story, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

8. Manufacturing Consent by onefiftyeight

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Hermione Granger Rating: E HEAR ME OUT. I don’t normally go for this pairing, but THIS FIC is deliciously sinister. A masterclass in gaslighting and manipulation. A breeding kink extravaganza. Crack at its finest. Give it a chance, I promise you won’t regret it. Mostly.

9. Hot and Bothered by @roseharpermaxwell

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy, background Dramione Rating: T Who’s the better kisser? Only one way to find out… (Guys. This is reason #1 why Dron is amazing. Mic Drop.)

10. I Like Your Skirt by @the-francakes

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Harry Potter Rating: E Aside from the fact that Fran is lovely and wrote this gift for me, RON AND HARRY are SO YUMMY IN THIS!!! Dual POV, Friends to Lovers, flirting, pining and no small amount of filthy content. The epilogue chapter (bonus smut) is to die for. It will forever reside in my wank bank.

*****

Stay tuned for part 2... (self-recs!)

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augment-techs · 8 months ago

Note

Two sides of my brain are duking it out over this, because I am a contrary little thing that can never stick to one favorite for very long.

HOWEVER, I can absolutely post recommendations for the long haul.

My standing favorites from the live action series over the last 30 years are very rarely Rangers proper. I have affection pointed towards their aids and comedy holders more often than not.

In MMPR it was Bulk and Skull, but I had affection in spades for Billy. In Turbo and In Space, I still prefer the duo, but T.J., Zhane, and the Psycho Rangers all hold my interest for prolonged periods due to giving off bi, gay, and monster vibes. Interestingly, Lost Galaxy provided a lot of references to the human form, given how many times Leo ripped off his shirt. I still liked Kai more, but I think that was just because Archie Kao is a better actor.

Lightspeed Rescue was a fun time to exhaust yourself with conventionally attractive people that were largely bland as paint; though Kelsey did awaken a lot of sapphics.

If you watch Time Force, do it for no other reason than to watch Eric pine for Wes from a distance while Wes throws puppy eyes at Jen the entire time--and Wes and Eric still basically end up together.

Wild Force is for the Jindrax/Toxica, Danny/Max, and laughing as hard as you can watching the writers push SO HARD for the Princess Shayla and Merrick, only for her to fuck off back into sleep and Merrick ending up with a wolf furry he was stuck inside for the better part of a century.

Ninja Storm is...a sausage fest, but I stood firm and pleased with every interaction between Marah and Kapri with literally everyone else. Also Cam is basically perfect for his role.

Dino Thunder was is...interesting. I think my favorite Ranger is temporarily evil Trent, but only because it's fun to watch him suffer. Also Devin and Cassidy and the writers TEASING ABOUT THEM for half the season.

I think we can all agree that SPD really hasn't aged well, but that's okay, because I still really like Piggy and Kat; the borderline mafia adjacent and the team mom.

Mystic Force is interesting in so many different ways, as mentioned above about Nick, but also because the adult mentors here weren't entirely worthless. Udonna was very much doing her best with what she had, Daggeron was a little off putting, but a good teacher; Koragg was fucking awesome as an antagonist--but again, my favorites are the non-rangers in Clare, Leelee, and Phineas.

I still don't like Overdrive. I put in the discs to play them and the theme song turns on and everything after that irritates me. But Spencer and Rose are nice.

Jungle Fury might have the most well balanced team, which is why I actually liked the Red Ranger Casey Rhodes. But Fran has all of my heart; especially since she's left holding the bag SO MUCH. Also Camille and Jarrod *kisses them on their dumb little heads*

RPM is not a competition, because everyone here (that isn't Colonel Truman) has a reason for being what they are and doing what they do and growing from that. And because I am a basic bitch, Dillon and Ziggy are my favorites.

Samurai had...complicated bullshit. Like, do I really have to bring this up? They gave a purely Japanese history to a pair of blond, blue eyed, white teens, the only Asian on the team was the Pink Ranger and had a running gag of being a terrible cook, the Yellow Ranger was picked on for being a girl WAY too much, the Green Ranger is the culmination of obnoxious stereotypes reaching backwards from previous Green Rangers, the Blue Ranger's only endearing quality is probably being very gay underneath the obvious trauma of growing up in one of the most controlling environments that espouses loyalty as obedience... But Antonio is fine. We LIKE Antonio. (And Spike~)

Dino Charge has Shelby and Kendall, Ivan and Koda, Tyler and Riley and Chase. This was basically a perfect season.

Ninja Steel was so boring. It had potential, but they NEVER got into the human trafficking, the slavery, the childhood trauma, or veered away from the fart jokes with Victor and Monty. But Hayley is gorgeous?

Beast Morpers had Devon Daniels 💖💖 and Betty and Ben Burke. Also the Blaze and Roxy avatars look good in leather.

Dino Fury/Cosmic Fury. Go in for the Javelia and Ollaiyon, stay for the Fizzy. Ignore canon, but relax when Ollie goes evil and Fern is assigned as first canon live action Orange.

And if you don't want any of that: READ THE COMICS!!! Read Go Go Power Rangers, read Shattered Grid, read the Annuals, read Beyond the Grid, read Necessary Evil, read Return of the Ranger Slayer, read the Eltarian War!!! Do it for the ACTUAL character development, the art, the writing, the new characters, the lore, the branching of timelines and alternative history!! Everyone is a winner at least ONCE.

of all of the Power Rangers, who is your fave and why?

THAT,,, is an excellent question

I must admit something now:

I haven't watched the Power Rangers and I don't know who most of them are :3

I wish I did, but I guess I just never liked them as a kid? and I've never thought to watch it nowadays- I probably should watch it tbh

I wish I could answer your ask ;-; In lieu of that, I extend this to all of my followers: Who's your favourite Power Ranger and why?

Thanks for the great ask, and I'm sorry I couldn't answer it!! I hope you have a lovely night/day!!

#boom! comics power rangers #mighty morphin power rangers #soul of the dragon #countdown to ruin #beyond the grid #go go power rangers #power rangers: the psycho path #the eltarian war #world of the coinless #shattered grid #ask fill #prompt fill

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canirove · 2 years ago

Text

Best friends… forever? | Chapter 10

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

“Can I be brutally honest?” Eva asks.

“Go ahead”

“I think the only way for you to make up your mind about Rúben, is by getting laid.”

“What?” Mila says.

“What you heard. If you are able to flirt with a guy, make out with him, and then sleep with him without thinking about Rúben, that means that whatever has been going on between you two was just sex. But if your mind keeps going to him…”

“Then it means that you do have feelings for him” Miriam adds.

“And that I’m fucked” Mila sighs.

After everything that happened at Bernardo’s house, Mila had to ran away. She needed to put space between her and Rúben, properly think about what was going on. And she couldn’t do that in Manchester. That’s why the next morning she quickly packed her things and took the first flight to Lisbon, meeting with Eva and Miriam, her childhood friends.

“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t” Eva shrugs. “Let’s make this our goal in Cádiz. Find you a nice guy, and see what happens.”

“I don’t know if we will be able to do that in just a week. It usually takes you your whole life to find a decent guy” Mila chuckles.

“A week and a half thanks to you running away” Eva points out. “But leave it to me” she smirks.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Tonight is gonna be your night, Mila. I can feel it” Eva says as they walk through the streets of Cádiz. They’ve been there for a few days already, and so far, they haven’t met that nice guy who will help her decide if her feelings for Rúben are something else or just physical attraction.

“Are you sure?” Mila asks her.

“I’m sure” she says, looking for a club they were recommended by a group of girls they met the previous night.

“Have you heard from Rúben?” Miriam asks her.

“He’s in Ibiza with John. He texted me when they landed this morning.”

“If he is with him, that means trouble” Miriam says.

“Maybe he also is looking for his nice girl” Eva chuckles.

“I don’t think she needs one” Mila says. Unlike her, he doesn’t have doubts about what he now feels for her. He wants to be with her.

“We’ll probably find out rather sooner than later. Ibiza is full of paparazzis who know that football players are stupid and always go to the same places, that they are an easy target” Eva says.

“Hey, I also am a football player” Mila complains.

“Female football player. You girls are the clever ones. And here we are!” Eva says, stopping in front of a pub with a couple of small palm trees at the door, music coming from the inside.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

They had been at the pub for an hour or so, Mila ready to comment that this wasn’t her night either, when a group of very loud men approached them.

“Good night, ladies” one of them says in Spanish. “Tonight we are celebrating our friend Pablo’s stag party, and on every pub we are going, he has decided to invite the most beautiful girls to a round. What do you say?”

“Free drinks? I’m in” Eva says with a smile. “Miriam?”

“Count me in” she replies. “But Mila over here doesn’t drink alcohol.”

“Oh, that’s fine. She can stay with Fran. He is the healthy one who doesn’t drink” the guy says, nodding towards one of his friends. He is taller than all of them, the white shirt he is wearing giving you a glimpse of some very nice muscles underneath it.

“That’s great, isn’t it, Mila?” Eva says before winking at her. Looks like she has found tonight’s candidate for the nice guy.

“Happy to have some company while I babysit you” she replies.

“I know the feeling” Fran chuckles, sitting next to her. “Mila, right? From Milagros?”

“That’s my grandmother. I’m just Mila.”

“Lucky you. I was named after my grandfather, but they gave me the full name. Francisco” he says, moving his hands in the air like that SpongeBob meme with the rainbow, making Mila laugh.

“I’m sorry” she says.

“Nah, I’m already used to it. Where are you from? You don’t sound like people around here.”

“We are from Lisbon” Mila says.

“Portuguese, uh? You speak really good Spanish, though it may not be that difficult.”

“It’s tricky sometimes, but it definitely is more easy than other languages. What about you? You don’t sound like someone from Cádiz either.”

“Almería. Do you know where that is?”

“I think so…” Mila says. “South?”

“South-east, literally at the other side of the country” Fran chuckles. “You know your geography, uh?”

“I’m a clever girl” she says with a smile. “How is that you came here for a stag party?”

“I just moved to Sevilla for work, and Cádiz is beautiful, has an amazing beach, great parties… It seemed perfect. You?”

“Just some girls holidays. Eva’s parent’s have a house here, and we always spend a few days together.”

“Your juice, Fran” Pablo says.

“Is it just juice? Nothing extra?”

“Nothing extra, I promise” Pablo says, sitting next to us and joining the conversation his other friends have with Miriam and Eva.

“It wouldn’t be the first time they add rum or vodka.”

“Such nice friends” Mila laughs. “You just said that you’ve moved to Sevilla for work. May I ask what do you do?”

“I… I play football.”

“No way! Really?”

“Yeah…” he says, playing with the glass on his hands.

“But like, professionally?” Mila asks.

“Yep. Just signed for Betis.”

“Oh my God, that’s amazing! I also play football.”

“Yeah, sure” Fran chuckles.

“I do! Girls, tell Fran what I do for a living.”

“She plays football for Manchester United” Eva says, all the guys looking at Mila as if she had grown another head.

“You also are a football player?” the guy who first talked to them asks.

“What do you mean by also?” Miriam says.

“Fran just signed for Betis!”

“What a coincidence, uh?” Eva says with a big grin.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

As the night goes on, they leave the pub where they were and move to a karaoke bar where Pablo invites another group of girls to some shots. They also invite some other guys to join them, and they’ve gone from being just seven people hanging out, to twenty, most of them very drunk.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Fran asks Mila.

“I can’t leave Eva and Miriam alone.”

“They seem fine to me” he chuckles. Eva is kissing one of Fran’s friends, her tongue all the way down his throat, while Miriam is in deep conversation with one of the girls they met at the karaoke bar while talking very close to each other.

“Ok then” Mila says.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“Is taking you to the beach a bit of a cliché?”

“A bit, yes” Mila laughs. “But I love it here.”

“You don’t have this in Manchester.”

“I do not, no. But tell me, Francisco.”

“Oh God, this is serious. You are using my full name” he laughs.

“It is” she says with a cheeky smile. “Tell me, Francisco. Do you take all the girls you meet to the beach?”

“Just the ones I want to kiss.”

“Really?”

“Really” Fran says, taking a step closer to her. They’ve stopped walking and are now standing in the middle of the beach, the waves clashing behind them.

“Ok.”

“Ok? What does that mean?”

“It means that you can kiss me. Unless I do it first” Mila says, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.

#ruben dias #ruben dias fanfic #ruben dias imagine #football fanfic #football imagine

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puftpasstea · 3 years ago

Text

Matilda

Chapter 2

Read Chapter 1 here.

Harry was surprisingly easy to talk to. All my apprehension about going into an appointment unprepared had melted away as soon as we got into the rhythm of the conversation.

"I'm relatively new to all of this. 'researching for a character,' I mean. and acting, in general." He smiled meekly and leaned in a bit closer to me as he spoke, as if confessing a secret.

"Right. That's why you're signed with Marvel" I said unselfconsciously but immediately tried to walk it back, "I mean, that's what I've heard... I don't know."

He shook his head and chuckled. I watched his chest rise and fall and wondered how even his laugh could put me at ease.

"What I meant to say was that I could use all the help that I can get here. My last English class was at 16, so, it's not exactly all fresh in my mind."

"Well, why don't I take a look at the literary references that your character is making in the script and we can pull some materials from there?" I asked flipping through my notepad, looking for nothing in particular.

"Not sure about that." He leaned against the wall as he spoke. "I mean I'm not sure I'm allowed to share the script."

"Oh, yes, of course..." I felt my face turn red with embarrassment.

As if reading my mind, Harry spoke again, "Not that you're not a completely trustworthy stranger"

I laughed.

" Seriously, it's a great idea though! I'll just have to make sure I can show you everything first."

"In the meantime, maybe tell me about your favorite books and authors? Maybe I can give you some recommendations, or ways to incorporate them into your prep?"

His grin was wide and toothy. "okay, yes. Favorite authors? hmmm..." He gazed into the distance trying to recollect some names and titles.

"Emerson?"

I nodded. "Solid start, okay, what else?"

"Murakami-"

"hmm..."

"What's wrong with Murakami? Oh and Bukowski!"

His eyes widened at the hissing sound that I made in response.

"What? He's VERY expressive."

"And sexist."

"I like to think he's self-consciously making fun of typical masculine thinking by portraying it that way...."

"That's very sweet of you, Harry. Don't worry I won't hold it against you."

"Okay, fine, who are your favorites?"

"Oh, man. name a genre, or time period. Just overall? Mary Shelley, Oscar Wilde, Charlotte Bronte. I specialized in Shakespeare for a while. But-"

Turning to look at him, his smile and piercing green eyes caught me off-guard.

"wow, you're, like, a proper Matilda."

"Like from Roald Dahl you mean? well, no. I mean, I get paid to do this."

"And soon I'll be getting paid to pretend to do this." he smiled sheepishly.

As we walked past the bookshelves on our way back out, Harry slowed down and turned towards the "W" stacks, stopping there to browse.

"Can I help you find something?" I offered.

"Think I've got it," he reached to one of the top shelves to grab Oscar Wilde's The Picture Of Dorian Gray. In an effort to be helpful, and "do my job" I stood on my tiptoes attempting to reach upward and get it for him, but, since I'm significantly shorter than he is, I only stumbled and got in his way.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasped as my back bumped into his chest. The scent of his cologne as intoxicating as the feeling of his breath on the back of my neck. I could feel my heartbeat through my entire body.

"It's okay. You're alright?" He placed a hand on my shoulder to help steady me.

" I'm okay. Just short." I quickly scrambled out of his way, letting him get the book.

At the front desk, Harry and Fran made small talk while I attempted to scan the book out for him, talking twice as long with our entire interaction --complete with me almost knocking us both down-- replayed in my mind, causing me to misspell the book details repeatedly.

"It's all yours for the next 60 days." I slid the book across the table towards him.

"I'll let you know how I like it. And about sharing the script if possible!"

Harry was barely out the door before Fran had turned to me and said "so? he's handsome. tell me everything."

***

As the next three days went by, I found myself wondering, in spite of my attempts not to, if Harry would come in soon. Glancing at the door every time anybody walked into the library, wondering if Harry was enjoying Oscar Wilde, wondering if he'd share the details of his film-in-progress one day...it all felt childish. However, it also felt like a refreshing change from the usually thought spirals that ordinarily occupied my mind.

I'd moved out here for this job shortly before the nearly two-year global health hazard hit the world. Libraries, thanks to ebook access, and inter-library loan programs, were among the first to go online. Now that everything's back to normal, I find my social life non-existent. I have yet to get a chance to meet anybody or go anywhere which often makes me wonder if moving out here on my own was the right decision, if there's something wrong with me that makes me unapproachable or unfit for socialization. But every time my phone buzzes with a notification from my parents, I'm reminded that my isolated existence is still better than being around a family that makes me feel alone when I'm around them. What if I'm wrong though? What if I need to be more forgiving?

on the morning of the fourth day, unable to sleep and haunted by doubts about how I've chosen to live my life, I walked into work earlier than I needed to be there only to find Harry and Fran sharing breakfast and laughing loudly.

Harry had grabbed a chair and was sitting on the opposite end of the front desk with his back to the door. Luckily, he couldn't see the startled look on my face, nor could he see me smile and fix my hair using my reflection in the glass doors before I'd approached him.

"Matilda! You're here!" He smiled and reached over to the improvised breakfast buffet that he and Fran had set up to grab me a cup of coffee.

"Matilda?" Fran asked.

"It's a thing." Harry responded nonchalantly before turning back to me and asking "cream? sugar?"

"uhh, no, just black thanks...what's all this?" I gestured towards the food.

"Harry brought breakfast." Fran said, handing me a bagel. "You should eat. She never eats, you know."

I frowned and watched as Harry grabbed me a chair. " Here, sit. And do eat please. You're gonna need your strength. We have a lot of work to do." He leaned over and produced a stack of papers from his backpack.

I smiled at his use of "we."

"So, you're cleared to read the script" he patted the stack of pages before handing them to me. "But," he placed a folder on top of the script, "not before you sign some paperwork."

"Paperwork?"

"It just says that you promise not to disclose the details of the script or filming process to any media outlets, and that if you do, the production company has the right to sue you for all you're worth. That sort of thing."

"Ah. Standard stuff. It's not like I'll know much about filming anyway..." I said reaching for a pen from behind the counter to put my signature to these forms.

"well, that brings me to the next thing. How'd you like to work with us?"

"who's us?"

"Well, me. And the set designers. Tell us what sorts of books we should have in the background of certain scenes, at each character's home, that sort of thing. Would you be interested?"

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry's house #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #dom!harry #matilda

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residentdormouse · 2 years ago

Note

hi! this is a sign to talk about glen bateman. tell me about your headcanons, or explain your favorite scenes, or just gush about how great he is! whatever you have to say, i want to hear it. :)

Open Floor to talk about Glen?

Are you sure about that?

Eh, doesn’t matter. Too Late. No take backs; already off…

Going to have to do Headcanons. Favorite scene? All of them. Gushing? Would never end and would drift off into incoherent screeching. This is me controlling myself...

So going off of the 2020 version, because let’s face it, that’s the one that hooked me, (Goddamn it, Kinnear, I blame you…) Glen sees a future image of Fran in his dream. He doesn’t know who this is. It means nothing to him. Hell, Mother Abagail was just ‘some lady from a commercial’; no reason this woman would be any different. Figment of his imagination. His mind working around a (family) life he had opted out of long ago.

(Kids? Hard pass.)

But then Stu comes, and everything hits. Mother Abagail. Fran. Just what this means.

He is somehow doing impossible things. Things he would have discredited only a month prior. He wasn’t lying when he was giving his speech to Harold; he was (is) a man of science. He believed what could be seen. What could be proven. He married a physicist for fucks sake. “Hard science.” Maybe this stuff could exist, but he sure as shit wasn’t taking it on blind faith. Give him something, or get the hell out of here.

(And it’s dream prophesies with the steel chair…)

So now for things that aren’t explicitly stated. Headcanon.

In light of this revelation, Glen would be left to wonder what else could have been ‘more’. Mother Abagail was the “most vivid dream” he ever had, but Fran’s must have been pretty damn vivid to paint what he did. What else had he dreamt that had a deeper meaning? Places? Events? Maybe it was an image leading him to a paint spot that put him on the path to run into Stu? Or a trip out that would have brought Kojak to him? Potentially even before that…

I imagine he had quite a few nights on the road lost in thought over this. Because, that’s what Glen does, thinks. Comes up with theories.

It is very probable that he’s seen a few things he naturally passed up as coincidence. The world ending up like this, society causing its own downfall, that didn’t surprise him. Pretty sure, he knew something like this would happen. But was that from his studies of humanity, or because he already had vague notions in his head of this outcome.

(Both? I don't know...)

With no proof, a dream of destruction like this would have just been a nightmare. With knowledge now, it could have been preparation. Along those lines, did he know his wife would pass early? So much loss, did it subconsciously affect his decision about kids? About his future path? Maybe not, but maybe…

And its possible this wasn’t all just in the past either. In this version, Glen recommends sending Tom as a spy, because he thinks he could do it. But Glen’s interaction with Tom - limited, at best. I’m sure there’s moments that wouldn’t have been screen worthy, there’s been a fair passage of time here, but nominations were coming from groups in. Fran’s group had Dayna. Larry had Judge Farris. Tom was with Nick. Why was Glen the one to bring it up? I think he might have seen something that led him to feel more confident in this recommendation. I think he had a feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Tom would make it out.

(Even though he desperately wanted somebody to say anybody else.)

I don’t know, this could be completely off base, but these are things I think about. Repeatedly. Because this damn character will not leave my mind. And hey, worse things to think about, am I right?

Glen Bateman > Real Life Bullshit.

Sign me up for the Glen show, all day every day.

#thank you for putting up with my rant #it will happen again #I am incapable of being normal about him #mouse is back on her nonsense #glen bateman #the stand 2020

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thetravelingmaster · 4 years ago

Text

Anonymity - Shield or Weapon?

The most common thing among us in this community is Anonymity. We all use it to some degree when indulging our Kinks. Our first and foremost reason to do it is, of course, to keep us safe as we explore this strange and for some, embarrassing kinky world of non conventional arousal. The internet is a heaven for everyone to learn and explore ANYTHING their hearts may find desirable.

Are identities aren't needed to indulge and discover new things about ourselves. You can call yourself Jack, Jill, Fran or Hornybabyslut. It doesn't matter. It helps create a sense of security that enables you to dive into what ever kink you feel you can't indulge in your every day life.

And even if you can indulge IRL and are fully accepted as the kinkster that you are, Anonymity affords you a a free shield for you to protect your wonderful life from the dark and ill intentioned predators constantly surfing the World Wide Web for prey.

Anonymity isn't bad at all. It's recommended.

Exploring and enjoying our different kinks can lead you to wonderful and emotional places. Places you may not go if you couldn't be someone else.

Anonymity is a perfect and accepted shield we all carry.

But it doesn't mean you can't be yourself. It doesn't mean you can't be honest and true with yourself and the people you engage with.

You can call yourself Gina64 and be a full on kinky bimbo slut that talks and acts so dumb and dirty that the people you engage with online think you are nothing more. If that is your way to explore and escape, there is nothing wrong with that. You can become anyone you wish once you fire up your phone or your computer.

That is the beauty of this wonderful and dark internet.

When all is said and done, Gina64 is just a persona you try on. She may or may not have the same beliefs as you promote in your every day life. That's perfectly fine.

Anonymity offers that possibility. That safety...

However...

Anonymity can also be a weapon.

That same safety can protect the bad people that are looking to take advantage of others.

Just like a sword, it can be used to defend and protect as well as divide and conquer. It all depends on who wields it and what they choose to do with the sword in their hands.

My point is very simple: Anonymity doesn't half to mean that you can be 100% yourself.

For the purpose of this post, I'm going to exclude the people that come here to become someone else. It can be a very therapeutic and I definitely not saying that being a completely different person online is wrong in anyway.

Well not in itself...

And that's what I mean. You can play at being fun and fluffy or dark and brooding, what ever fills your cup of tea. As long as you are being honest with yourself about why you are doing it.

The problem I have tonight as I write these lines is when the kink in question involves hypnosis. Not fun roleplaying, but REAL hypnosis and subsequent play.

You have to be very honest and open to engage in that sort of kink and Anonymity can offer you that safe space to indulge from.

BUT ANONYMITY DOESN'T MEAN YOU ARE BEING DISHONEST.

Being dishonest has nothing to do with anonymity and here is an example of what I mean. Say Our Gina64 is into hypnosis. Say she searches out potential erotic hypnotists online to explore and indulge that itch. She can call herself Gina64 and be a dude. It doesn't really matter as long as you are being honest and about the level of things you wish to reveal to the hypnotist.

If you are being honest with yourself and the person you are engaging with, no harm no foul.

But say that Gina64 doesn't want to reveal that he is in fact a guy. It could be fine if the hypnotist doesn't care. But what if the reason you are engaging in hypnosis is to experience erotic hypnosis? And that Gina64 leads the hypnotist on being saying again and again that they are a girl. For all of us, erotic hypnosis in our Kink community is arousing and erotic for both parties. So a hypnotist that decides to engage and offer erotic hypnosis to Gina64 while under the impression that he is a she when in fact they are a HE...

Well... That can create confusing and even dangerous things down the road. If the connection develops and more and more the hypnotist is made to believe in this falsehood, then it creates an invisible rift between them. A very dishonest rift...

A rift that can actually hurt... Especially if the hypnosis kink also includes flavours of Domination and submission. We all know and understand that D/s play can stir up incredibly powerful emotions. As the lies pile on to covert up more lies, the cycle becomes deeper and darker with every dishonest reply.

Until Gina64 finds himself in a position where the lies have boxed him in and he has to bail out instead of admitting to everything he led the hypnotist to believe and experience.

And I'm not even going to talk about people who create elaborate and complex fake personas to actively catfish people...

I'm not saying that all people who indulge in hypnokink and D/s play should always reveal everything about themselves, far from it.

What I'm saying is that you just have to be HONEST as to what type of person you are and what you want to experience. Our community can be very open minded. It's the very nature of our kink.

And anonymity provides the perfect way to be 100% true to yourself without fear or worries.

To properly demonstrate how one can be completely anonymous and still be incredibly honest, I'm going to talk about friend @qu1etsleep.

Theo is an incredible human being and hypnotist that is, like me, adamant about keeping his online life separate from his offline life. He doesn't shy away from telling anyone who contacts him that Theo isn't his real name and that there is no respectful way in hell that you'll ever get a glimpse or a clue as to who he really is.

His Anonymity is a shield meant to keep the lines clear between his hobby and his life. We all do that in some form or another.

I might not know Theo's true name and identity, but I do know that if I were to ever sit in a cafe somewhere and end up chatting with the man behind the blog, then those 2 persons would be identical.

I'd have the same exact conversations and learn about all the exact same opinions Theo and the man in front of me share.

Because even though his name has changed, he will still be the same person. he just changed out his name tag. Nothing else changed.

Theo is authentic with himself and with everyone that takes the time to talk with him. His Anonymity doesn't affect or change that at all. It just offers him the same safety we all crave.

This authenticity is what makes him, in my humble opinion, a terrific and accomplished 'amateur' hypnotist. Make no mistake, he is no rookie and he WILL drop you if the rapport is there. Authentic and Anonymous...

That is what this community needs above all else.

Some of you MIGHT just understand why I'm ranting about all this tonight, and you would be right. I've felt the sting of this double edged sword and it took others to help me see just how far down the fake rabbit hole I had been led into.

But now I'm out, dusting off the creepiness of the experience and moving on.

So by all means, soak yourselves in Anonymity until people in our kink community aren't even sure who you are...

But BE HONEST. And if you do, I think you'll find even more incredible people and exquisite experiences to be had. You'd be surprised how much someone can accept and understand.

As a point of fact, if the person you are trying to let into your mind isn't opened minded enough to accept your own authenticity, then perhaps you should seriously rethink the fact that you are giving them the keys to your mental palace.

There is no gain from being dishonest and stringing people along.

Unless that is the pleasure you are seeking here... If that is the case, then maybe you should start understanding that you are no better than a full blown predator.

And that is something our community needs the least of all.

We are all searching and indulging ourselves in our forbidden and delicious kinks, there is nothing wrong with that.

Enjoy your safe and secure anonymity, but do it responsibly and above all, do it while being honest with yourself and others.

#musings

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mochacoffee · 3 years ago

Note

Number 2 for the book asks!

HAHA okay first of all……….. evil. evil question. second i’m gonna do some fiction and some nonfiction but the list goes on for miles in both directions

The Hero of Ages by Brandon Sanderson

this fucking book..... this is the final book in the original mistborn trilogy which i recommend to everybody. i struggle to describe why people should read it beyond JUST TRUST ME because the less you know going in the better. so what i will say is, short of lord of the rings, i have never read a more powerful story of hope and resistance in my life. and i named my cat after the main character.

p.s. the villain you meet in book 1 is called the Lord Ruler yes it's a stupid name but even King of Modern Fantasy Branderson Sando makes mistakes

Words of Radiance by Brandon Sanderson

the stormlight archive is the series you read when you've finished mistborn and want to be fed a constant stream of sanderson content with the slack-jawed fervor of a starving baby bird. PHENOMENAL character development and worldbuilding, rich in foreshadowing and detail for the eagle-eyed reader, excellent fantasy!representation especially when it comes to mental illness. this book is my favorite in the series because of A) the character interactions, and B) That One Chapter. if you know you know

do you ever read a book and think "wow i loved it. sure wish i could read more of it forever without compromising the quality of the plot" well THIS IS THAT. i'd highly recommend the audiobooks!

A Marvelous Light by Freya Marske

i love fantasy and i loooove romance and this is book (also first in a series) is an INCREDIBLE example of both elements combining in the best way possible. as soon as i finished it i started right over. (i also did this with the kingdoms by natasha pulley which i would recommend for similar reasons). i don't want to give too much away but it presents themes of connection and vulnerability incredibly well, and not just in a romantic sense.

Entangled Life by MERLIN SHELDRAKE (best author name ever)

book about mushrooms and fungus. you cannot understand what nature is until you understand that fungus rules the earth and we're just living on it. this book will blow your FUCKING mind. the knowledge elevates and humbles you in equal measure, it astonishes, it creates the kind of book you need to read with someone next to you so every third sentence you can put it down and say "holy fuck listen to this"

(BONUS: Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are by Frans de Waal. does what it says on the tin. i love it for similar reasons. if you have ANY interest in animal cognition you will get a lot out of this book)

Exposure by Robert Bilott

if you haven't seen the film Dark Waters first of all go watch it right now, and then read this book, which the film is based on. i will be honest i had a complete breakdown afterwards — because of capitalism, because of corruption, because of real life evil. but as powerfully as Exposure depicts those things, it even more powerfully highlights resistance, resilience, and the power of collective action. everyone on earth should read it.

THANK YOU LAZ FOR ASKING ♡♡♡ i hope at least one of these is of interest to you!!!

#ask #about #long post

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nugnthopkns · 4 years ago

Text

find somewhere to grow

word count: 23.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think by now it would be.”

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

“Where’s everyone else?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Except for us,” Tyson chimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you lying to us?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

“What on earth are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You better not get caught.”

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

“Tys?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is phenomenal, Miss Winters.”

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Father, what are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in,” her father says gruffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Operator,” the woman says flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine. But Bednar is gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☼☼☼☼

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles kindly. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 4 years ago

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Michael Riedel vs Bernadette Peters – the Broadway Battle of 2003 and beyond

My previous piece gives a fairly comprehensive look at Bernadette and Gypsy through the ages; though there is at least one aspect of the 2003 revival that warrants further discussion:

Namely, Michael Riedel.

Today’s essay question then: “Riedel – gossip columnist extraordinaire, the “Butcher of Broadway”, spited male vindictive over not getting a lunch date with Bernadette Peters, or puppet-like mouthpiece of theatre’s shadowed elite? Discuss.”

It’s matter retrievable in print, or even kept alive in apocryphal memory throughout the theatre community to this day that Riedel was responsible for a campaign of unrelenting and caustic defamation against Bernadette as Rose in Gypsy around the 2003 season.

While “tabloids may [have been] sniping and the Internet chat rooms chirping”, when looking back at the minutiae, none were more vocal, prolific or influential in colouring early judgment than the “chief vulture [of] Mr. Riedel, who had written a string of vitriolic columns in which he said from the start that Ms. Peters was miscast”.

He continued to find other complaints and regularly attack her in print over an extended period of time.

Why? We’ll get there. There are a few theories to suggest. Firstly, how and what.

Primary to establish is that it perhaps would be foolish to expect anything else of Riedel.

Also an author and radio and TV show host, Riedel is best known as the “vituperative and compulsively readable” theatre columnist at The New York Post.

He’s a man who thrives on controversy, decrying: “Gossip is life!”

The man who says, “I’m a wimp when it comes to physical violence, but give me a keyboard and I’ll kill ya.”

“Inflicting pain, for him, is a jokey thing. ‘Michael has this cruel streak and a lack of empathy,’ says Susan Haskins, his close friend and co-host.”

And inflicting pain is what he did with Bernadette, in a saga that has become one of the most talked about and enduring moments of his career.

From the beginning, then.

Riedel started work at The Post in 1998.

His first words on Bernadette? “Oddly miscast in the Ethel Merman role,” in August of that year on Annie Get Your Gun. It was a sentiment he would carry across to his second mention six months later (“a seemingly odd choice to play the robust Annie Oakley”), and also across to the heart of his vitriolic coverage on her next Merman role in Gypsy.

Negative coverage on Bernadette in Gypsy started in August 2002 when Riedel discussed the search for trying to find a new American producer for the show. It had initially been reported in late 2000 that a Gypsy revival with Bernadette was planned for London, before it was to transfer to Broadway. To begin with, Arthur Laurents was “eager to do Gypsy in London because it hadn't been seen in the West End since 1973”, and he “wanted to repeat [the] dreamlike triumph” he said Angela Lansbury’s production had been. But economic matters prevented this original plan, leaving the team looking for new producers in the US. Riedel suggested that Fran and Barry Wiessler step up as, “after all, they managed to sell the hell out of "Annie Get Your Gun," in which Peters…was also woefully miscast.”

He also quipped: “Industry joke: "Bernadette Peters in 'Gypsy'? Isn't she a little old to be playing Baby June?”, calling her “cutesy Peters” and again a “kewpie doll”.

Bernadette here seen side by side with the actual Baby June of the 2003 production – Kate Reinders.

Other publications to this point had discussed her “unusual” casting. Which was fairly self-evident. In contrast to being a surprising revelation that Bernadette Peters was not, in fact, Ethel Merman, this had been the intention from the start. Librettist Arthur “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

It was Riedel who was the first to shift the focus from the obvious point that she was ‘differently cast’, to instead attach the negative prefix and intone that she was actually ‘MIS’ cast. According to him then, she was unsuitable, and would be unable to “carry the show, dramatically or vocally”. All before she had so much as sung a note or donned a stitch of her costume.

So no, it wasn’t then “the perception, widely held within the theater industry,” as he presented it, “that Peters is woefully miscast as Mama Rose”.

It was Riedel’s perception. And he took it, and ran with it, along with whatever else he could throw into the mix to drag both her and the show down for the next two years.

As to another indication of how one single columnist can influence opinion and warp wider perception, just look to Riedel’s assessment of the show’s first preview. It is typically known as Riedel’s forte to “[break] with Broadway convention, [where] he attends the first night of previews, and reports on the problems…before the critics have their say”. This gives him “clout” by way of mining “terrain that goes relatively uncovered elsewhere”, and it means subsequent journals are frequently looking to him from whom to take their lead – and quotes.

At Gypsy’s opening preview then, he reported visions of “Arthur Laurents [charging] up the aisle…on fire”, loudly and vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with the show as he then “read Fox [a producer] the riot act”. Despite the fact that this was “not true, according to Laurents,” the damage was already done, with the sentiment of trouble and tension being subsequently reprinted and distributed out to the public across many a regional paper.

News travels fast, bad news travels faster.

And news can be created at an ample rate, when in possession of one’s own regular periodical column. This recurring domain allowed plentiful opportunity for attack on Bernadette and Gypsy, and Riedel “began devoting nearly every column to the subject,” which amounted to weekly or even more frequent references.

As the show progressed beyond its first preview, Riedel brought in the next aspects of his smear-campaign – assailing Bernadette for missing performances through illness and accusing Ben Brantley, who reviewed the show positively in The New York Times, of unfair favouritism and “hyperbolic spin”.

The issue is not that Bernadette was not in fact ill or missing performances. She was. She had a diagnosis at first of “a cold and vocal strain”, that then progressed more seriously to a “respiratory infection” the following week, and was “told by her doctors that she needs to rest”. So rest she did.

The issue is the way in which Riedel depicted the situation and her absences via hyperbole and “insinuating she was shirking” responsibility. He went further than continual, repeated mentions and cruel article titles like “wilted Rose”, or “sick Rose losing bloom”, or “beloved but - ahem-cough-cough-ahem - vocally challenged and miscast star”. He went as far as the sensationalist and degrading action of putting “Peters' face on the side of a milk carton, the kind of advertisement typically used to recover lost children,” and asking readers to look out for “bee-stung lips, [a] high-pitched voice, [and a] kewpie doll figure”, who “may be clutching a box of tissues and a love letter from Ben Brantley”.

It was quantified in May of 2003 after the show had officially opened, that “out of the 39 performances "Gypsy" has played so far, [Bernadette] has missed six – an absence rate of 15 percent.”

As an interesting comparison, it was reported in The Times in February 2002 that “‘The Producers' stars Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick have performed together only eight times in last 43 performances due to scheduling problems and health concerns,” – an absence rate of 81%.

Did Riedel have anything nearly as ardent to say about the main male stars of the previous season’s hit missing such a rate of performances? Of course not.

Riedel arguably has a disproportionate rate for criticising female divas.

One need only heed his recommendations that certain women check into his illuminatingly named “Rosie's Rest Home for Broadway Divas.” Divos need not apply.

Not that he was unaware of this.

In 2004, Riedel would jovially lay out that “Liz Smith and I have developed a nice tag-team act: I bash fragile Broadway leading ladies who miss performances, and she rides to their rescue.”

Donna Murphy was the recipient of what he that year dubbed his “BERNADETTE PETERS ATTENDANCE AWARD”, when she began missing performances in “Wonderful Town”, due to “severe back and neck injuries and a series of colds and sinus infections”.

This speaks to his remarkably cavalier and joyful attitude with which he tears down shows and performers. “The more Mr. Riedel's work upsets people, the more he enjoys it.”

He knows he yields influence – it was recognised he had “eclipsed Ben Brantley as the single most discussed element in marketing meetings for Broadway shows” – and he delights in his capacity to lead shows to premature demises through his poison-tipped quill yielding.

When it was reported Gypsy would be closing earlier than had been planned, he made mention of “hop[ping] around on [its] grave” and debonairly applauding himself, “I suppose I can take some credit for bringing it down”.

His premonition from the previous year’s Tony’s ceremony was both ominous and prescient, when he predicted the show’s failure to win any awards “could spell trouble at the box office”. He was right. It did. The 8.5 million dollar revival closed months before anticipated and failed to return a profit.

Multiple factors can be attributed to Gypsy’s poor success at the Tony’s, but it’s clear to say Riedel’s continual bashing leading up to the fated night throughout the voting period certainly didn’t help matters.

His suggestions to do with Bernadette’s performances were not helpful either.

After alleging Laurents as the director of the 1991 revival “practically beat a performance out of” Tyne Daly when she was struggling with the role, he proffers that to improve Bernadette’s success, “it may be time for [Laurents] to take up the switch and thrash one out of Peters”.

Great.

It was irresponsible and unrelenting commentary that did not go unnoticed.

His “ruthless heckling of beloved Broadway star Ms. Peters” was deemed in print “his most egregious stunt so far”.

Vividly, in person, Riedel was accosted at a party one night by Floria Lasky, the venerable showbiz lawyer, who “grab[bed] Riedel’s tie and jerk[ed] it, nooselike, scolding, ‘It was unfair, what you did to Bernadette’”.

Moreover, the wide-reaching influential hold Riedel occupied over the environment surrounding Gypsy was tangible in the fact his words spread beyond just average readers, and even unusually “started seeping into the reviews of New York's top critics”. Riedel himself, as the “chief vulture”, was indeed what Ben Brantley was referring to in his own New York Times review by stating how the production was “shadowed by vultures predicting disaster”.

Even more substantially, the “whole Peters-Riedel-Brantley episode” became its own enduring cultural reference – being converted into its very own “satiric cabaret piece, ‘Bernadette and the Butcher of Broadway’”. All three parties were featured, with Riedel characterised as the butcher, and it played Off-Broadway later in 2003 “to positive notices”.

But penitent for his sins and begging for absolution Riedel was not. “Riedel saw nothing but a great story and a great time,” and for many years after, he would continue to hark back to the matter in self-referential (almost reverential) and flippant ways.

In 2008 as Patti LuPone won her Tony for her turn as Rose in the subsequent revival, Riedel couldn’t help but jibe, “Not to rip open an old wound, but I'd love to know if Bernadette Peters was watching”. (He neglects also to mention that “Mendes’s Gypsy was seen by 100,000 more people than saw Laurents’s and grossed $6 million more”.)

More jibes are to be found in 2012 as he reported on the auction after Arthur Laurents’ funeral, or even as recently in 2019, as he asked, “Remember the outcry that greeted Sam Mendes’ Brechtian “Gypsy,” with Bernadette Peters, in 2003?”

As with in 2004 where he points to the “pack of jackals who have been snarling” about Bernadette’s failures, this brings up the canny knack Riedel has of offloading his views to bigger and detached third party sources – thus absolving himself of personal centrality, and thus culpability.

If there was an outcry, HE was its loudest contributor. If there were snarling jackals, HE was their leader.

Maybe Riedel’s third person detached approach to referencing matters was intended to be a humorous stylistic quirk for those in the know. Or maybe it was his way of expressing some inner turmoil over the event.

In some rare display of morality and emotional authenticity, Riedel would at one point admit “I find it kind of sad and pathetic that the high point of my life supposedly has been about beating up on Bernadette Peters”.

Fortunately for him then, a degree of absolution was eventually achieved in 2018, where Riedel visited Bernadette at her opening night in Hello Dolly in 2018, with the intention of ending their “15-year feud”. He “got down on one knee at Sardi’s and extended his hand,” with Bernadette reportedly yelling “Take a picture!” while he held his deferential and obsequious position on the floor.

So if eventually this “feud” has some kind of circular resolution and Riedel was glad it was over, why on earth did it begin in the first place?

One notion is that it was simply another day on the job. Riedel is a man who sees Broadway as “a game for rich people”. Positioned as an “an industry that brought in $720.9 million in the 2002-2003 season”, it is “not a fragile business”, he remarked. As such, he “[could not] fathom the point of donning kid gloves” in covering it, and reasoned the business as a whole was robust enough to weather a few hard knocks. “Thus, Riedel can coolly view Bernadette Peters as fair game, as opposed to, say, a national treasure”.

More to the point, he was a man in search of words. During the season in question, Riedel was “one of just three New York newspaper columnists covering the stage” – a “throwback to a bygone era when…Broadway gossipmeisters…such as Walter Winchell and Dorothy Kilgallen ruled”. Now at the time, as the “last of a great tabloid tradition”, Riedel presided over not just one but two columns a week at The Post. As a result, he was in need of content. “One of the reasons I've become more opinionated is I just have more space to fill,” he admitted. Robert Simonson hypothesises in his book ‘On Broadway Men, Still Wear Hats’ that Riedel may have consequently picked “the thrashing of Bernadette” as his main target simply because “it was a slow news cycle”. Options for ‘titillating’ and durable content were scarce elsewhere that season.

And after all, if Riedel would later cite Bernadette in an article concerning the Top 10 Powerhouses of Broadway in 2004, saying even despite a few knocks or bad shows, “she’ll bounce back” – surely there was no real damage done.

If her career wouldn’t be toppled by his continual public defamation and haranguing, what was the harm?

Feelings? Who cares about feelings or Bernadette’s extremely complex and personal history with the show stretching back to when she was a teenager.

It was just part of the territory, there was nothing personal in it.

Or was there?

Maybe there was something personal in Riedel’s campaign after all.

He makes a curious comment while discussing ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ in 2004. The then incoming star of the show, rapper P. Diddy, had invited Riedel to dinner, and he makes judgement that this was “a smart p.r. move”. Then he ponders, “you do have to wonder: If Bernadette Peters had broken bread with me this time last year, would her chorus boys have to be out there now working the TKTS line to keep "Gypsy" afloat?”

Might he be going as far to suggest that if Bernadette had indulged him in a meal, her show might not have suffered so, by way of him being more inclined to cover it with greater lenience?

It may seem that way, at least in considering how Riedel reviewed P. Diddy’s performance thus after their dinner: “Riedel pronounced himself impressed. ‘He could have forgotten his lines or had to be carried offstage. He didn’t do anything terrible, he didn’t do anything astonishing.’”

Seemingly all the rapper had to do was remember some words and remain physically onstage, and he sails through scot-free. That’s a rather different outcome, one could say, to being absolutely eviscerated for what became a Tony nominated effort at one of the appreciably hardest and most demanding musical theatre roles in existence.

Though perhaps it’s hard to tell if that was really his insinuation from just one isolated comment pertaining to lunch.

This argument might be fine, if it WAS the only isolated comment pertaining to wanting Bernadette to have lunch with him. But it isn’t. Riedel continues to make a further two references over protracted periods of time to the fact Bernadette hasn’t dined with him.

One begins to get the sense of him feeling desiring of or somewhat entitled to such a private lunch with the lady he’s verbally decimated for years, and a sense of bitter rejection that he hasn’t been granted one.

“If Tonya Pinkins doesn't win the Tony Award this year, I'll buy Bernadette Peters lunch,” he simpered, and later, “I invite Bernadette to be my guest for lunch at a restaurant of her choosing. She can reach me at The Post anytime she's hungry”.

The embittered columnist in this light takes on now the marred tinge of a small boy in the playground who doesn’t get to hold the hand of the girl he wants in front of his friends, so spends the next three years pushing her over in the sandpit in revenge.

Moreover, the last statement makes undeniable comment on Bernadette’s troubled relationship with food, body image and public eating.

So now not only so far has he insulted and mocked her physical appearance and played into all the usual trite shots calling her a “kewpie doll”; suggested Arthur Laurents violently hit her in order to elicit a better performance; continually publicly harassed her regarding a show that strikes close to the nerve with deep personal and psychological resonances due to her mother and childhood; but now he’s going for the low-blows of ridiculing her over her eating habits.

Flawless behaviour.

Maybe it’s far-fetched to suggest a man would have such a fragile ego to run a multi-year public defamation campaign after so little as not getting his hypothesised fantasy of a personal lunch date. But then again, this was the man who “left Johns Hopkins University after his first year because of a broken heart.” (“I was in love with her; she wasn't in love with me,” he said.)

And also the man described as “an insomniac who pops the occasional Ambien,” living in a “small one-bedroom” that is “single-guy sloppy”, who has “been living alone since a four-year romance ended in 1996”.

The man whose own best friend called “cruel” and with a “lack of empathy”.

The man whose own sister answered that “well, yes,” he’s always been mean; and after being picked on as a kid for “being the small guy and the intellectual”, he grew dependent on using “his verbal ability to beat someone” and put himself in positions of defensive impenetrability.

See, writing Riedel-esque, vindictive and provocative conjecture is no especially challenging or cerebral task.

Riedel may well see his approach to ‘journalism’ or reporting as “all fun and games”.

But I for one am not laughing.

One final aspect to address when considering Riedel’s reasoning for the depth of his coverage on Bernadette demands attention of how he gets his information. His own personal opinions and motivations aside, crucially he depends on insider providers for insider details. Perhaps somewhat alarmingly then, “leading Broadway producers themselves are among his sources”.

“Half of Broadway hates him. The other half leaks to him”, John Heilpern titled his 2012 Vanity Fair profile on Riedel.

As such, in frequently taking his lead from “theater folk, usually with an ax to grind”, Riedel acts as the mouthpiece to bring secretive backstage reports out front. High-up, influential characters are thus able to funnel their agendas into public view, while keeping their identities hidden.

Notably, it was raised in the above article that Riedel’s “merciless running story” regarding Bernadette in Gypsy “was fed by none other than its renowned librettist, Arthur Laurents—or, more precisely, by Laurents's lover”.

Contrary to the smiley picture below between members of the show’s creative team and it’s beloved star, it was no secret that Laurents did not like Mendes’ 2003 revival. Laurents told Riedel that “Sam did a terrible disservice to Bernadette and the play, and I wanted a Gypsy seen in New York that was good… You have to have musical theater in your bones, and Sam doesn't”. In fact, Laurents admitted the only reason his 2009 book ‘Mainly on Directing’ came into existence was because of how much he had to criticise about the show – it grew out of the extensive set of notes he gave Mendes.

Additionally, it was no secret that Laurents’ lover, Tom Hatcher, demonstrated both a desire and capacity to influence Arthur’s productions. As well as being the driving force for the 2009 Spanish-speaking reworking of West Side Story, Hatcher had intense investment in Gypsy specifically. Patti LuPone writes in her memoir, “From his deathbed, Tom had told Arthur, ‘You have to do Gypsy, and you have to do it with Patti’. It was one of his dying wishes”. Laurents himself, in corroboration of this, explained Tom’s reasoning – “he didn't want the Sam Mendes production to be New York's last memory of Gypsy”.

The allegation in Heilpern’s profile might be hard to prove from an outsider perspective. But given that neither were happy with Mendes’ production and both actively took steps to ensuring it would be superseded in memory, it is not completely implausible.

Overarchingly, as much as Riedel’s writing may benefit FROM insider sources, it is said he does not write in benefit OF them. For instance, although friends with Scott Rudin in 2004, an animated (nay threatening) warning from Mr Rudin asking Riedel to “back off” from “slamming” his show, Caroline or Change, seemingly “had no impact”.

That’s not to cite total impartiality or exemption from personal connections and higher up influences colouring his reports of shows. Theatre publicist John Barlow would describe that sometimes “if you ask Michael to kill [one of his pieces], he will, if it’s someone with whom he does business”.

But it would be remiss not to mention that his influences and sources stretch beyond just the big wigs. Amongst his other informants too are the more lowly, overlooked folk like “the stagehands, the ushers, chorus kids, house managers, and press agents… the guys who build sets in the Bronx”. Basically, for anyone who’ll talk, Riedel will listen.

“Michael Riedel doesn't work for the producers or the publicists; he works for the reader,” one publicist said. “Sometimes we're glad of that, sometimes we're not-but at the end of the day, that's the reality.”

Sometimes he’s nice, sometimes he’s not – but the world goes round.

Through all that’s been explored, it should be stated how painful and injurious it must be for individual performers or shows to fall upon the unmitigated, maiming force of being on the wrong side of Riedel’s favour. The way he approached coverage on Bernadette is deplorable from an emotional and personal standpoint. Some would argue that it was too far and crossed a line and was most definitely unfair. Others would say it was justified. It’s hard not to sound petulant as the former, or heartless as the latter.

While his actions may indeed be abrasively wounding in isolated (often plentiful) cases, it’s unreasonable to say Riedel’s intentions would be to cripple the Broadway industry as a whole. There are those who purport that Riedel in fact “keeps Broadway alive with his controversies”. His words may not always be ‘nice’ but it’s difficult to argue they're not engaging.

Many are quick to criticize or react impassionedly to him and his columns; but few are quick to stop reading them. And Riedel “knows that the most important thing is being well read”.

Hence it is understandable why Riedel is appraised as “the columnist Broadway loves to hate”. Through his enthralling and stimulating bag of linguistic and dramatic tricks, Riedel knows how to keep the readers coming back. “He’s lively, and he makes the theater seem like an interesting place,” one producer did reason.

“There are times when no one's going to care about Broadway if you don't have a gossip angle that focuses on the backstage drama,” opined George Rush, the Daily News gossip columnist who was once Riedel's boss.

Perhaps it is logically and principally then, if somewhat cynically, a matter of believing “it's just business” and knowing how to “play the game”.

As Riedel himself would rationalise, “It’s all an act. You gotta have a gimmick, as they say in Gypsy.”

It may not be pleasant, but in a world increasingly dependent on sensationalistic and clickbait-driven engagement, it’s probably not going to change any time soon.

Well then, if he can live with the toll of the position of moral tumult his column puts him in, so be it.

That he described his mind as being “constantly on the next deadline”, saying “I always think about the column”, and likening writing it to “standing under a windmill”, where “you dodge one blade, but there's always another one coming right behind it”, may be some indication that he can't. At least not wholly easily.

I’ll leave that to him to figure out. Off the record.

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nat-20s · 3 years ago

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!!!!! i hope you had fun at meow wolf!!! i live somewhat near the house of eternal return so i was just there last week! i love that place so much and it was such a pleasant surprise to see someone on tumblr talking about it!

I had SO much fun!!!!! My only regret is that I was scanning all the QR codes for the case files and I had talked to a staff member that was like "oh yeah one of them got scraped off so you'll have to go up and get it from the master list" and literally I was about ten feet out of the building and realized I had forgotten to do that so I only have 21 out of 23 documents now lol. also did not realize that if there was a qr code next to the documents then you could in fact later read those documents...i was there for six hours and I think I spent a solid two of said hours reading shit sadjdkadsjl. I also spent a good twenty minutes doing the light/stars puzzle and as I was doing the last three I had an audience of a family who were very excited about me succeeding and getting a little print out. Did not realize that you could give said print out to a staff member so I kept it as a souvenir in my wallet.

I've now been to two out of three Meow Wolfs (just need to hit up the vegas location: Omega Mart) and AUGH i love them so much. I'll definitely be going back to the house of eternal return sometime next year as my parents and I will likely do another Santa Fe Roadtrip when the weather is a bit warmer. I got asked whether I liked Convergence Station or House of Eternal Return better and I was like man idk!! Especially bc I experienced them in wildly different ways: Convergence Station with my 'rents and we were just there to like See Shit we didn't really try to follow the story much (we didn't even get the keycards lol) while I went to HoER solo and very much was trying to get all the story. (I got SO excited when I figured out why I kept seeing hamsters sdkfj). While they both have sci fi elements for sure Convergence Station felt more very specifically science fiction based while HoER was like a sci fi mystery. I think I'm sliiiighhtlly more biased towards Convergence Station but I think part of that might also be that it was my First experience doing quite that level of immersive art. (the closest I had ever come was like idk theme parks/escape rooms/ going to the san fran exploratorium when I was like ten [which does fuck btw])

Also semi related but imo I think if you can you should go to everyone Meow Wolf location twice: once to kinda of get an overview and just look and touch and feel (this is ideal if going with other people) and one to like. THOROUGHLY explore and try to get as many pieces of the puzzle as you can and read stuff and watch stuff (this one is ideal solo so you can really go at your own pace: i literally spent an hour in one room!)

Anyway tldr House of Eternal Return is extremely fun and cool and if any of y'all have the opportunity to go to any of the Meow Wolfs and you like Weird and Fantastical shit (which I assume you do if ur on this webbed site following me tbh) you ABSOLUTELY should and I would recommend making a whole day of it tbh. Uhh both Britney Spears and Megan Thee Stallion have gone and they had fun so you probably will too. Also highly recommend in general to make weird art that makes ur heart go !!!!! like everyone who works on the meow wolf displays clearly does!!!

#replies #anon #hiiii anon sorry for the essay i'm just really fuckin pumped about meow wolf

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porta-decumana · 4 years ago

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Zadnor & Bozja’s Ending

I know it’s been the bandwagon to hate on Werlyt and I’ve been critical of that plotline in the past as well. But Bozja may have just taken the cake for unsatisfactory storytelling, in my opinion, while also skirting into the same realm of “we’re gonna give imperialism a pass because maybe the Empire isn’t that bad uwu”. Obvious spoilers for rank 25 quests, the Dalriada raid, and Bozja’s story ending under the cut along with screenshots.

This is a pretty critical look at Zadnor specifically so if you don’t wanna read that then feel free to bypass this post.

Bajsaljen’s Constitution was probably the first part that really made me scratch my head and question the entire plot. I was convinced at first I was too sleepy to process what Bajsaljen was saying but then I went back and... yeah, he really did say that.

To which, Marsak calls him out on, a fact that I appreciate because my response was pretty much the same level of “wtf” as him and the nameless/dialogue-less NPCs in the room.

If you haven’t played Bozja in its entirety yet, you may not understand why I felt like this dialogue was incredibly appalling. The instances are filled with horrific encounters, some of which are:

Dabog, a former Resistance soldier who was experimented on in order to become an expert warmachina pilot and later shows back up in Zadnor as a model swap for the final boss of Gyr Abania. In other words, mutated beyond recognition.

Lorvo, another former member of the Resistance, who was tempered by the Queen. You fight alongside his student, who is trying to save him.

Shemhazai, a death spirit summoned with auracite and the sacrifices of Garlean soldiers.

Delubrum Reginae’s 2nd boss (I believe?) are a group of former Blades who have been tempered and their bodies have mutated. These are former comrades you, as the WoL, personally fought alongside in the early parts of the Southern Front. Named characters with backstories.

Fabineau quo Soranus - a brutal commander that is known to torment his subordinates and use men and animals both as test subjects.

And this is just a fraction of what I can think of off the top of my head. So understand that when I saw Bajsaljen say the above parts, I was questioning what parts of the Empire he was talking about. And I know he tries to use Misija as his reason for this but it still just doesn’t quite sit right with the literal everything else that happened fighting for Bozja. Because you can make the argument that Misija saw the Imperial way of life better but also you can make the argument that she was enacting a revenge plan that transcended multiple generations. Misija’s issue with Bozjan society was the mistreatment of her and her family as well as the murder of her ancestor-- classism. And while her hatred of Bozja and its high society (the Blades) might be understandable, I think it does little to excuse the rampant death and cruelty the IVth legion goes on to do.

I think what Bajsaljen is trying to say is that he does not want to create another society that would create more Misijas. But in doing so, it feels like he’s giving the IVth legion a pass after all the atrocities they’ve done (even calling the occupation “peace” and that... hnghhh is it peace when people are being used as experiments, Bajsaljen? And they’re being oppressed?) and it just feels really, really tone-deaf. Especially given that Bajsaljen’s top soldiers were all, for the most part, tempered and then put to death. That just adds an extra ouch factor.

I don’t wanna spend too long talking about this bit so I’m gonna move onto the next offender, which is Gabranth, or more specifically, what happens to Gabranth (or... how it happens, rather). Honestly, I was uncomfortable with the Bajsaljen stuff but the Gabranth field notes absolutely floored me. It feels as though there was either scrapped content here or... the team decided they could not continue the plotline with Gabranth any longer and decided to write him out in a note that only a handful of the playerbase will probably read because otherwise, there’s no indicator that Gabranth’s tale is over. Here are the bits of the field note in question:

And you might go, “Wow, that’s a wild way to end the Bozja tale” to which I would agree and remind you that none of this is shown in-game, it’s all just in a field note that could be easily skipped over. Yes. That’s right. Dalmasca’s freedom, Gabranth’s fate, Lyon going full mutiny... it’s all in a field note. The ending Bozja cutscenes actually have dialogue like this:

In another scene, with Lyon and Gabranth in Valnain, Dalmasca.

Note: this is an allusion to Noah having the same terminal illness as his father.

The scene ends with Lyon looking surprised at the weapons and Sicinius and Gabranth go to discuss the findings. The scene then cuts to this photo and the questline ends.

So to put it mildly... I’m mad. Why are we supposed to find out the fate of Dalmasca-- something that’s been in and out of the story since Stormblood-- through a field note? Why is Lyon’s betrayal also found out this way? And Gabranth’s alleged demise? I’m incredibly iffy on the choice to do this in the plot but I would be considerably less mad if any of this was indicated in the cutscenes. I happen to really like Gabranth’s XII’s iteration and the fact that we got a field note on him made me excited. I only found out about Dalmasca being freed, Lyon’s treachery, Gabranth’s death because of that. And that was incredibly jarring to read given the cutscenes I had just watched. There’s no indication that any of that would happen and I can’t help but feel as though that is a bit of lore that is often going to be overlooked by players who simply don’t think to check the field notes for important lore bombs.

I want to reiterate: I'm not specifically mad at the story decision to kill Gabranth (even if it’s a fake death), I’m mad at how this was all revealed to the players. Particularly the bit about Dalmasca. It discards the age-old rule of storytelling-- “show, don’t tell”. I could forgive them for having to cut certain bits of Bozja’s story because of the pandemic severely hampering development but... there had to have been a better way than this. Maybe redo some of the cutscene dialogue? Maybe add in a little bit more to the final scene? I was excited to face off against Gabranth. I was excited to go help liberate Dalmasca, especially after the Return to Ivalice plot really set us up for that in the future. This... just feels incredibly unfulfilling. And I hope that this is not how they decide to end things with this section of the story. The build from Return to Ivalice and the continuation of those plot threads in Bozja were great! Having it unceremoniously ended in a field note? Not so great.

Two honorable mention things that I don’t have the energy to talk about at large

Mikoto’s visions don’t feel significant enough to the story. This is particularly egregious in Zadnor’s arc, where she has a vision where she falls off an airship and then tells the WoL to not say anything because she “doesn’t want people to worry” instead of, idk, trying to find a way to save herself. She only sees herself fall, she doesn’t see herself land. But she insists there’s “nothing we can do about it anyways”. It... felt like they didn’t really matter in the end? Fran ends up deus ex machina-ing a rescue anyways so like... what was the point?

Misija's “redemption through death”, a tired trope that is even more tired in FFXIV. I know there’s two different endings to this quest but Misija being executed after being mortally wounded by the Diablos Armament is the ending I received.

Going to harken back to the criticisms of Werlyt. I’ll maintain my stance that I still think Werlyt had some glaring issues with it... but I will give it this. It didn’t kill off characters from a side plot that had been going on since Stormblood in a field note. And it didn’t involve the Werlytians being like “Hey let’s base our new constitution off of the VIIth legion... that is a great idea.”

Anyways, I still recommend doing Bozja if only because the Dalriada is a good instance with a very good final boss theme. I did enjoy aspects of the questline but the ending really soured my opinion of it.

#zadnor #a critical review #bozja spoilers #ffxiv spoilers #5.55 spoilers #long post #zadnor spoilers

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elizabeth-mitchells · 4 years ago

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the only touchstone of truth

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: I Care A Lot (2020) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fran/Marla Grayson Characters: Marla Grayson, Fran (I Care A Lot) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Origin Story, Canon Backstory, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Dates, Getting Together, Morally Ambiguous Character, Illegal Activities, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Partners in Crime, crime wives

Chapter 3:

“Nice place,” Fran said, following Marla inside the restaurant.

It was the first time they saw each other outside the perimeters of the moribund vape shop. For a change, Fran was comfortably and even gloriously, in Marla’s inner monologue, wearing her casual clothes, which included wearing her hair down, tight dark jeans, and a sleeveless t-shirt. The blonde still dressed with impeccable style, but at least she had left the heels at home.

Once they were sitting at a table for two she couldn’t help but ask, “Can you afford this?”

Marla sent a very particular look her way. The blonde had to point out that, in most circumstances, that would be far from a polite thing to say to someone. But she couldn’t lie and say she wasn’t charmed by the brunette’s blunt manner of handling the truth. So, finally, she settled for speaking her own version of the truth. “I will be,” Marla nodded.

“I could get used to this,” Fran mumbled, perusing the menu and doing an almost inhumane effort to remain strong and not yield to the impulse of looking up to meet the magnetic blue eyes that were staring at her.

“Help me win the case,” Marla replied in a soft and slow tone that was entirely too casual for her next words, “and I will take you to even more pleasurable places.”

Emboldened by having an appropriate comeback at the right time, Fran leaned forward in her seat, dared to meet Marla’s hunter-like gaze, and said, “If I help you win, then I expect my part of the money will be enough so I can afford these luxuries by myself.”

The two women were just one small step away from Marla blatantly saying out loud how restaurants weren’t what she had in mind when she talked about pleasure and Fran knew that. But, not yet. Marla relaxed into the chair. “Where’s the fun in that?” she laughed. She had to make an effort to keep her expression in check, because actually, that laughter carried with it a bit of a surprise to Marla. She was sort of lying, as usual. She was decidedly not the kind that believed a person needed any sort of company to enjoy the good things about life. She had never included seconds or thirds in her plans of success, and she certainly wouldn’t recommend, even less advertize, doing that. She was only mildly surprised about the sudden but most likely manageable urge to share dinner again with the particular woman currently sitting in front of her.

Fran, on the other hand, after the blonde leaned back on her chair, realized they both had been strongly leaning into the table, subconsciously being close to throwing it aside to get closer to one another. Slowly, Fran mimicked Marla’s actions and, without avoiding the feeling of getting caught, also leaned back on her chair. “So, we should probably start talking now, right? About the reason we’re here, and maybe set some rules,” Fran suggested.

“Rules,” Marla rolled her eyes while a waiter served them each a glass of wine, “Makes it sound like we’re playing a game.”

“Fine,” Fran agreed, without giving up the firm belief that they were absolutely playing a game. “What are the terms of our deal, then?”

“You help me win this case, teach me every trick you can. I’ll give you five percent of the money I make.”

Despite the recognition that nothing in Marla’s tone suggested she was asking instead of ordering, Fran found it impossible not to negotiate, partially just for the fun of it. “I make you win the case,” she said, “teach you the tricks, introduce you to my favorite gullible judge… And you give me twenty percent.”

Again, Marla laughed. She trained her smile to look simply amused instead of thoroughly pleased at having someone boldly fighting back to her. “Make me win, give me the dirty tricks, and the judge. I might give you ten percent.”

Slowly, Fran shook her head. “The tricks, the judge, training, and preparation. I’ll make you win twice as much as whatever number you have in your head. You’ll give me twenty percent.”

“You were supposed to say fifteen, you know? Terrible negotiator.”

“I’m not negotiating, I’m telling you my price.”

For the first time, Marla looked away. She was prepared for giving ten percent to Fran, she wasn’t prepared for Fran actually disconcerting her. Exciting, sure. But, instinctually, Marla’s defenses flared up, her emotional walls threatened to rise up and push Fran out and away from this sweet and previously unexplored territory of Marla’s comfort zone. Mostly, Marla was analytical rather than impulsive, and dealt with her problems effectively and methodically after thoroughly thinking them through. However, if there was ever a moment for some fight or flight response to activate in her, it was the moment Fran started looking at her like she was worth more than the money they were discussing.

“We’ll discuss your ten percent later,” Marla grinned, “why don’t you tell me about that infamous training and preparation you mentioned before.”

Temporarily, Fran relented. Perhaps she could tell they’d reached a wall, but she’d certainly continue to push, and eventually, Marla would have to give in on the money. “To win your case, you’ll have to put in a lot of work,” Fran explained, “you have to study previous cases, your adversary, the law, the judge… the whole system.”

“And you know those things?”

“I can teach you everything I know.”

Again, they were both leaning on the table toward each other. “Where, exactly, would this teaching take place?”

“I can do outstanding work anywhere you want,” Fran smiled.

It was at that moment, with that one smile, that Marla was forced to face the reality of the situation of her game: Fran knew how to play. And Fran wasn’t going to play by the rules. In fact, if Marla’s shark-like grin was her weapon of choice that dazzled innocent prey into her lap, then Fran utilized that discreet smirk of hers in pretty much the same way. Marla was almost angry at the fact that she had battled so much to win Fran’s smile just to have her own sword pointed back at her. She was almost angry, save for the growing desire to leap into that trap. But… there was the money, the court, the case…

“After we win, we’ll celebrate,” Marla finally stated. She was thoughtful, and her fingers were mindlessly playing with the bottle of wine they were quickly consuming.

Fran nodded, catching the complicated but promising agreement they were making. “We will,” she said, raising her glass for a toast.

In her car, the only thing Marla was thinking about was the image of a judge ruling that the absurdly large vape company that put her out of business had to pay her an unnecessarily large sum of money to pay for the damages that they technically didn’t do. Marla would give a small but still undecided percentage of the money to Fran, they’d celebrate and say goodbye, then she’d finally sell her hopeless shop and start all over again. She wasn’t looking forward to starting a business from the ground up again, but it was the only thing she could do now.

Fran was waiting for her at the public library.

“I didn’t take you for a bookworm, Fran,” Marla greeted her.

“You’d be surprised,” Fran threw a dazzling smile over her shoulder as she led them to a table. “Get comfortable,” she said with a smirk, pulling a chair out for Marla, “I’ll be back in a minute with your homework.”

Taking a seat, Marla chuckled. In that brief moment of solitude, she studied the layers of Fran’s playfulness. Mocking chivalry by pulling out a chair for her, for example. Laughing at the traditionally manly attitude but still carrying out the gesture. It exposed and ridiculed the expectations, but Fran’s nonchalance, the innate part of it and the most likely carefully prepared part, it left no room for anything but dangerous sincerity. Does that mean these little acts were just kindness, just flirting, just part of Fran as a person? Most importantly, why did Marla care so much about little details as these?

“Alright,” Fran said as she returned and placed a heavy book on the table, “Previous cases,” she added, taking a seat beside Marla.

“This explains why a police officer gave me a business card that said ‘private investigator’, right?” Marla guessed, taking a look at Fran and how comfortable and excited the woman looked to be doing this kind of job.

“Right,” Fran nodded, and wearing a slightly proud grin she added, “occasional work with bounty hunters too.” Upon seeing the cautiously impressed look on the blonde’s face, she continued, “I use the police’s resources and get jobs that are far more exciting and lucrative. Sounds fair to me.”

“How dishonest,” Marla commented with an appreciative tone, “you’ve never got caught in trouble for it?”

The amused look Fran sent her way was answer enough. She had a talent for this. “The worst that’s happened is ruining a relationship or two,” she shrugged, “things tend to go south if your partner is incapable of matching your ambition.”

“I see,” Marla mumbled. Part of her wanted to be upset about finding a woman beyond intriguing and attractive in every possible way only years after she had personally decided she would never be able to accept a relationship. Marla couldn’t fathom being the kind of stupid person to break herself and her life into pieces to fit someone else that would take so much time and effort and money and dignity…

“Are you ready?” Fran asked, interrupting Marla’s thoughts.

Marla nodded, confident enough that her expression wouldn’t reveal how simply staring at Fran made her feel more like that kind of stupid person than she’d felt in years.

---

The days Marla and Fran spent at the library were surprisingly exciting. Since they first met, Marla was under the impression that the brunette’s presence could make any time and place interesting enough. However, the businesswoman found herself unexpectedly captivated by the work they were doing.

Law had never attracted Marla beyond the necessary procedures to legally exist in a society. She was only now starting to see how far and how thin it was possible to stretch that concept. And people did it, every day, often without any repercussions. It was only a matter of having the guts and intelligence to go for it, plus a convenient amount of knowledge and connections on the right side of the law didn’t hurt. Whenever Marla and Fran exchanged a look over the books they were studying, they couldn’t deny that together they both had everything they could need to succeed at this endeavor.

Inevitably, as it happens naturally when two people spend a lot of time together, they got to know more about each other. It wasn’t easy, considering the kind of people they both were. It was a little like walking through a dark maze together, each one armed with a flashlight, and only occasionally their beams of light met in one spot to reveal breadcrumbs of their past lives. Within a week it was discovered that Fran was born in Mexico, Marla had attended and dropped out of college, Fran drank too much coffee, and Marla, somehow, was coaxed into confessing the real nature of her relationship with Curtis.

“No, we never dated,” Marla scoffed loud enough to hide the delight she felt about Fran feeling like she had to inquire about that, “I suppose you could say he was my stepbrother. Eldest son of my mother’s third husband, I think. We get along well, he’s hardworking, doesn’t ask questions, we all need a loyal ally in life, don’t we?”

Fran tilted her head. “That’s sweet,” she cooed, getting a kick out of getting Marla to roll her eyes at her. “I’ll be back in a moment, we’re almost done here,” she added then, getting out of her seat to go look for one last book for the day.

She didn’t expect to feel Marla follow her into the long and quiet alley of the library. Fran stood close to the shelves, reading the books, looking for a specific title. A moment later, Marla was standing close behind her, so close, and reaching out with a hand to leisurely run her finger over the spine of the books, more or less trapping Fran right there and there with Marla’s breath on the back of her head.

“Why are you doing this?” Marla asked, her voice low and serious, leaving behind the amiable tone they had gotten used to back at the table.

Fran thought about it for an extra moment. This was unexpected and unprompted, she thought they’d already had this conversation before. Why was Marla suddenly asking questions? What out of character spark of insecurity had inspired her to demand an answer from Fran? What worry was she trying to soothe? And why was Fran hoping the blonde felt troubled by the exact same feeling she was experiencing? They were both in it just for the money, but…

The thing is, Fran could tell neither of them was the kind of person to ask for more from someone. Conveniently, they also weren’t the type that would ever give away more than the strictly necessary for free. If they wouldn’t yield, if they refused to give, if they wouldn’t admit they wanted more… why were they even standing there so close together without touching at all? Their only hope was the other one was experiencing that unexpected and inarticulate feeling of, for the first time, wanting just a little more from someone else.

“Me?” Fran whispered, as her hand moved confidently and slowly toward Marla’s, “I’m here for my twenty percent of the money,” she said, shoving down whatever additional desires were thrumming on her insides. Her hand found Marla’s hand, and her fingers curled over the other’s, delicately urging that courageous hand that had set out to trap her there to move. Fran guided Marla’s hand, still skimming over the spine of the books, until they reached the one she needed. Coincidentally, the journey required for Marla’s arm to move lower, to curl closer around Fran, their arms touching, so close she almost lost her balance.

When Fran finally let go of Marla’s hand and pulled out the book she wanted, she felt beyond satisfied to hear the sharp intake of breath from the woman behind her. Then, Fran turned around, at the same moment Marla was pulling back her arm, resulting in Marla’s fingers briefly brushing Fran’s hips. Her fingers didn’t grip and pull closer as she wished they would, but that fleeting touch had to be enough, for now, Marla told herself. And, “Ten percent,” she told Fran.

The brunette sighed. Now that their tortuous little dance was over and they were looking each other in the eyes again, she could face Marla’s question. “I told you, Marla, I need the money,” Fran stated confidently, leaning her back on the bookshelf behind her.

“Why me though,” Marla wondered, her eyes and voice here icy enough to fool almost everyone into thinking there was no vulnerability in her question and only curiosity, “why my money?”

So, Fran was right. Maybe Marla wanted, as much Fran, some kind of confirmation that the other one just might be wanting a little more than money. The problem now was about who would have to admit it first.

“The amount of money I want,” Fran explained, her hand discreetly moving up to toy with the hem of the jacket Marla was wearing that day, only lightly pulling on it, “it’s impossible to earn in rightful ways, Marla. And you are… honestly?”

“Honestly,” Marla echoed the terrifying word.

Fran smiled and, with the bare amount of honesty necessary, replied, “You’re the only devil I’ve come across genuinely willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want… and do it in style.”

That earned her a beautiful and genuine laugh from Marla. The first laugh of unbridled joy of many more to come. It wasn’t completely erased by the deeply thoughtful look on Marla’s face as she continued to stare at Fran after the two of them finished laughing.

“You look worried,” Fran commented, and failed to sound teasing, it was closer to sincere worry. Plus, she was struggling hard not to tuck an unruly strand of soft blond hair behind Marla’s ear. But that tender gesture might be too much for them at the moment. Their chemistry was a delicate but dangerous thing. The wrong move might send the other one flying away in an instant. They were pulled close like magnets, but to actually touch each other, that had to be a much careful and deliberate thing.

Luckily, Marla wasn’t good at denying herself going for the things she wanted. Without breaking eye contact with Fran, her hand found the one that had been maddeningly playing with her jacket. Holding hands with Fran for the first time, Marla was shocked to feel in equal measures complete contentment, and a desperate need to touch even more.

“I have one goal, Fran,” the blonde said, “The one thing I want right now is to win that case and take the money. But, well,” she playfully shrugged, “I might have been accused, once or twice, of being susceptible to greed, so… What if I suddenly want to take more than just the money?”

Slowly, Fran nodded, absorbing this information. It was worth noticing just how Marla still avoided being completely explicit in her desires, but she was still a woman unafraid of taking what she wanted. And those words, well, they highly suggested she wanted Fran.

“Are you asking me if I have plans after your scandalous case is over?” Fran smiled.

Marla chuckled. She was torn between maybe… and what about today? and in the meantime she was leaning in closer and closer… until a cough, a stranger coughing interrupted them.

“I hate the library,” Marla groaned, immediately dropping Fran’s hand and walking with her head held high back to their table.

Fran chuckled, and looked down at her hands, somewhat surprised to discover that with Marla standing so close she had managed to hold on to the book. “Really?” she asked out loud, “I’m loving it more than ever.”

---

“Oh my God, Fran, this is the most tedious thing in the world.”

“Marla, we’ve barely been here an hour.”

“An hour!” Marla exhaled, dramatically letting her head hit the headrest of Fran’s car.

As it turned out, Marla wasn’t cut out for stake-out jobs. Fran had insisted that it was important to study the enemy, to find out every detail, no matter how small, that they could possibly use in court to support the idea that they were responsible for the attack on Marla’s shop.

“How do you do it?” Marla asked. She no longer sounded like she was going out of her mind. Now her voice was a combination of sincere curiosity and a desperate attempt at finding a distraction.

“Patience,” Fran replied, her eyes still fixed on the window of the offices they had marked as a target.

Scoffing, Marla continued to protest, “This is madness. I could just as easily go in, pretend to be somebody else, and get the information we need.”

“Of course you would do something like that,” Fran laughed, not displeased at finding out they had different strategies that could perfectly complement each other, “Maybe next time.” She didn’t have to turn her head around to know Marla was staring at her with that specific look of delicate surprise she got when Fran said something unexpected. In fact, “You’re staring,” Fran added, enjoying calling her out for it. Her face was still turned to the window, but she raised her right hand between them to point at Marla, who scoffed and pushed the accusatory finger away. But, additionally, she continued to hold on to Fran’s hand now in the space between them.

“Well, forgive me for being bored out of my mind,” Marla replied, still putting on a playfully exaggerated tone of annoyance, even if her hand was sweetly holding Fran’s, and not letting go.

“I told you,” Fran finally turned around to look at Marla, not reacting to their joined hands, not pulling away either, “I could have done this part by myself.”

“Maybe next time,” Marla threw Fran’s words back at her with a smirk that left the brunette speechless for a moment.”

This part of the job, besides the exasperating boredom caused to Marla, proved to be fascinating. Not exactly for what they learned about the company they were trying to incriminate. But for what they learned about each other. The way Fran worked, the way Marla got easily bored. The silence between them that was more comfortable than it had any right to be yet. The conversations happened even easier, Marla talking about the mother she despised, Fran talking about a dozen awful jobs, things they loved, things they were hated for, a little bit everything. And, at the end of the day, after Fran dropped Marla at her apartment, neither of them could really think of a good teasing comment for the other, and settled for Goodnight and See you soon that sounded a little too hopeful. That moment they had to admit to themselves that it was too late to ask, or even hope for a night spent together. They were already far deeper than they could have realized. It was only a matter of how much longer could they hold back before falling, knowing it was unlikely that they would be able to get back up without the other one. No, just one night wouldn’t do. It was only a matter of time.

---

Finally, Fran took Marla to court. Not for Marla’s big day against her sworn enemy, no. This was just part of the plan, part of their deal.

“Listen, I’m actually not that good with, you know, people,” Fran said as they walked up the steps of the building, “but, well, one way or another, I know enough people to just introduce you to everyone you need to know here, okay?”

“Okay,” Marla nodded easily keeping up with the brunette’s pace, “also, you can just admit you have an ex-girlfriend in every significant office of this city, Fran.”

With a chuckle, Fran turned to look at her, sunglasses in place and her smile nearly blinding. “People owe me favors, that’s all,” she shrugged.

From the moment they stepped into the building, it was almost as if Fran became a different person. For someone that benefited from going unnoticed as part of her job, Fran surely had important contacts all around. And she wasn’t only Fran. She was Frances, Frankie, Miss Masters, Mrs. Masters even, and she only shook her head whenever Marla tried to inquire about the names.

“You have to meet my friend, Miss Grayson”, “She’s the most hardworking woman I know”, “Have you two met?”, “Oh, you’re going to love Marla”, “Is it okay if I leave you two alone for a second?”, “I knew you two would get along!”, “Isn’t Marla so charming?”

One sentence and a convenient excuse and then Fran left Marla alone with secretaries, judges, and everyone in between that had some influence in the way things worked around there. Then it was Marla’s turn, and Marla was good with people. She was great with people. Did she like them? Far from it. But did she know every trick to steal their trust in a matter of seconds? She absolutely did. By the time they said goodbye to a judge that had greeted Fran with the kindness of a close relative that even asked about her mother, Marla had a feeling she wouldn’t mind visiting that place again soon, maybe even often if it proved to be lucrative enough.

“I’m actually impressed right now,” Marla whispered as the two of them hurried down a nearly deserted hallway, filled with adrenaline after knowing she successfully fooled about a dozen people in one afternoon. Her hand now instinctively moved towards Fran, this time her fingers curled around the other woman’s wrist, tugged her closer.

“You are incredible,” Fran whispered right back, “people just fall to their knees for you.”

“I wonder why it doesn’t work with the one person I want though.”

Having Marla whisper those words so close to her ear was almost enough to quite literally bring Fran to her knees. “Fuck,” she sighed, “Come here.” She firmly took Marla’s hand in hers and quickly guided her to a small hallway that she knew well and was confident could be private enough for a stolen moment. “You said,'' Fran said, her voice breathy as if she’d been running all the way there, “that we would wait until after we win your case.”

“What do I know?” Marla didn’t miss a beat to reply, her eyes going crazy between Fran’s lips and eyes, “You’ve made me stupid, Fran, I don’t trust what I said before I just,” she couldn’t say more, she didn’t have to.

In a single motion, Marla’s hands on Fran’s hips pushed her against her wall behind her, and Fran’s hands on the lapels of Marla’s jacket pushed her closer. Then it was just the two of them, breaths ragged and hearts wild, blue and brown eyes going darker, suspended in a moment when time stood still. Their hands were unstoppable, grazing, pulling, tugging. At Marla’s neck. Fran’s back. Marla’s wait. Fran’s jaw. When Fran tilted her chin up, Marla pulled away, and when Marla turned her head the right way, Fran avoided her. It was maddening, to hold back this way, but they’d become addicted to the push and pull they’d started, and couldn’t let go. Not even with their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling, their noses brushing, just a feather-light touch of their lips, in contrast to the death grip of their hands on each other’s clothes. A moment longer and they could have fainted right there in each other’s arms. Until finally, the games were over, the dance came to an end, their barriers crashed and burned with the first feverish kiss they shared. Burning and desperate to kiss each other since the first night they met. Sighs and moans that shouldn’t have been allowed in such a place, but couldn’t be restrained. Their teeth came out to play too quickly, biting and tugging at each other’s lips. Tongues that didn’t know a thing beyond a desperate need to explore, to taste the other’s mouths.

One last bite, one last kiss, and they simply had to pull away, before risking the chance of someone finding them.

“No,” Marla said, her voice still half a moan and her lips still stealing kisses. “Not like this,” she mumbled.

“Okay,” Fran followed Marla to steal a final kiss, but then she too had to pull away. “After we win,” she added, her words curling into a question at the end.

“After we win,” Marla agreed more convinced than ever before of the fact that they would conquer this challenge. They were both trying to slow down their breathing before moving away from their hiding place. Marla took the opportunity to further break the spell of caution they had held over each other. She gently brushed Fran’s hair off her face, her hand then resting softly on the other woman’s cheek, while her thumb just brushed the gloriously swollen lips. “You deserve better,” Marla whispered, her voice was so soft then that the brunette didn’t think she’d ever heard her speak like that. It brought chills all over her body.

“That’s arguable,” Fran smiled. It wasn’t a moment of humility, even less so a matter of self-recrimination. She was simply stating the fact. She was aware of the kind of things she’d done in her life, and the kind of things they were both willing to do to get what they wanted. But did they deserve it? The good things they wanted out of life?

“Wouldn’t you say,” Marla matched her smile, “that just because we’re brave enough to want it, we deserve everything we desire?”

#it's not slow burn they're literally on fire the entire time theyre just too proud to go have sex already #i care a lot #marla x fran #marla grayson #fran #fran x marla #my fic

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