poeta nascitur, non fit ~ steven meeks x fem!reader

and so it begins~

song of the chapter:  lights are on ; tom rosenthal

(y/n)'s pov...

(y/n) had always loved Autumn - despite the new school year's stressful energy. Particularly at Welton, the scenery was stunning, a rival of Monet. As if the legendary artist himself had taken up burnt amber and yellow ochre, splashing the brush against the trees, creating a wonderful halo, ringed by the late afternoon sun on this September day. The sound of students taking time to destress by the shining lake's reflective waters was like music to (y/n)'s ears as the leaves crunched beneath her Mary Jane-clad feet. 

Neil had removed his arms from around the blonde, shy boy's shoulder and (y/n)'s and had taken to walking in front, like a leader of sorts. Well, not 'of sorts'. In the short time (y/n) had been a tentative member of their little unlikely clique, she had already noticed Neil was always in the spotlight, someone that everyone could rely on - always. Together, they walked quickly out of the building to follow her mentor, who was headed for the lake.

Meeks and (y/n) walked side-by-side, occasionally exchanging glances of reassurance at the other, since they were both slightly nervous of what might be revealed about the Dead Poets Society. Keating walked a little way ahead of them, whistling cheerfully to himself, clearly appreciating the scenery, just as (y/n) was. She couldn't help but notice how much of her own personality had stemmed from Keating's teachings and general mannerisms. Neil walked faster towards the poetry teacher.

"Mr. Keating?" he called, to which came no reply "Mr. Keating? Sir? Oh captain, my captain?" Finally, the elder man turns around to face his pupils. 

"Gentlemen," he addressed them, before turning to (y/n) "(y/n), dear." The group chuckles lightly, although (y/n) took notice of the awkward aura emanating all around them. After all, it wasn't often a student dared address a faculty member outside of instruction hours here at Hell-ton. 

"We were just looking through your old annual." Neil informs the man, while the others remain quiet. Cringing, Mr Keating grabs the weathered yearbook from the younger boy, laughing as he examined the memories drawn in ink within its pages. 

"Oh my, God," he exclaims "No, that's not me. Stanley "The Tool" Wilson - God." he kneels down and leaves crunch beneath him. (y/n) strolls to stand beside him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. He looks up adoringly at her, the closest thing to a daughter he'd ever had. Somewhat anxiously, she asks him the question they've all been dying to hear the answer to. 

"Sir," she began "we were just curious, what exactly was this 'Dead Poets Society'?" On the other side of him, Neil also kneels down, brown eyes full of anticipation. 

"I doubt the present administration would look to favorably upon that." he laughs nervously and (y/n) frowns. 

"Why is that, Mr. Keating?"

"Yeah, what was it?" Neil aids his friend in prodding the man further. Behind him, the rest of the boys stand with their hands in their pockets, happy to let Neil and (y/n) take charge in the investigation. Keating glances around at each of the boys in succession thoughtfully. 

"Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?" he implores his group of pupils - (y/n) in her plaid skirt and Mary Jane's, the rest in dull, grey slacks and Oxfords.