#like I could for real talk about the mirror imagery for HOURS

[shootingstarwritings]

Body a Day #5: Revenge

“Release my nudes, why don’t you?” hissed Mira as she stared at her ex’s reflection in the mirror. “Well, all’s way in love and war, Evan dear. Let’s see how you like it when everyone thinks you’re a whore,” she said, spatting into the mirror.

A few days earlier...

Mira was a young woman who had wanted to end her relationship with her boyfriend, Evan, amicably. “We’re just a bit too incompatible,” she had rehearsed in the mirror as much as she could before breaking the news to him. Although she was nervous and genuinely guilty for ending a relationship she had deeply enjoyed, she was still confident that Evan would take it well. He was kind, smart, and respected Mira’s boundaries.

The two met up at a small diner that one of Mira’s friends recommended for breaking up. There was a bit of small talk, but Mira couldn’t hide the lead ball in the pit of her stomach. “Evan,” she finally said after taking a deep breath. “It’s been a lovely year, but… I’m sorry, but I need to break up with you. I’m going to be moving away soon, and I just don’t think I’ll be able to handle a long-distance relationship. I’m really, really sorry. You’re a great guy and… I honestly was thinking of taking it further. But my career has to come first. Again, I’m sorry.”

Evan stared at her with a blank expression. Then, wordlessly, he stormed off the restaurant with his meal unfinished. This is for the best, thought Mira. She was certain that, after a while, Evan would move on. He was the kind of guy that would easily bounce back.

A day later, the few nudes Mira had ever taken, at Evan’s request, were all over the net. “I’ll kill him,” texted Mira in her friends’ group chat once she saw the news. “Death death death kill kill killy,” she kept sending as she fell into a murderous trance.

“Hold up, girl,” said one of her friends, a girl who went by Frida. “I think I got a way to get even with that dick. I’ll be over in a few hours.”

It was impossible to completely get rid of the nudes from the internet. Someone had probably already saved or archived it, and it would simply get reposted if Mira requested it to be taken down. “Evan knows what he did is permanent,” said Frida once she was over Mira’s apartment. “So we’ll just have to get even with him.”

“But I don’t have any nudes from him. Are you planning on breaking into his house and taking pics of him naked?” said Mira.

Friday shook her head and pulled out a small device that resembled some kind of water pistol. “Nope! The one who’ll be posting his dick pics is Evan himself. Or rather… ‘herself,’” she said with a giggle.

A possession gun. “Sounds like pure sci-fi,” Mira said. Frida shook her head and insisted it was real. Her father was a scientist for the university, but Mira still found herself skeptical.

Frida handed it to her. “Just try it. Point it at your temple and think of the person you want to be,” she said, pointing a finger gun to her own head. The imagery reminded Mira of a certain RPG she was fond of, so she wasn’t too hesitant to try. In fact, the only thing she was worried about was that she might utter the name while doing so. The thought of it was mortifying.

“If you insist…” Mira finally relented. Though she did take a few moments to make sure there were no secret cameras throughout the apartment. “Okay… let’s see it.” Pressing the water pistol to her temple while the other clutched her chest, Mira took a deep breath and put a trembling finger on the trigger. It was nonsensical to be so afraid of a toy, but pointing anything with a barrel to her head was her so much anxiety. Still, Frida’s goading pushed her to it.

She shut her eyes and thought that to that kind smile that had betrayed her. With that burst of anger, she resolved to pull the trigger. “H-Here’s my p-payback… Evan!” It didn’t sound like a gunshot, but it was close. It was like there was a tiny explosion in Mira’s head before the world faded to black.

“Mmm… huh…?” Mira opened eyes to a blurry ceiling she had become familiar with. Blinking the exhaustion out of her eyes, she looked around and found herself in Evan’s room. Posters of various video games and anime were plastered all over the walls. A few weights were pushed to the corner to make room for a small table used for cards games that Evan collected. Mira took a quick whiff and was relieved to find out that he kept the small room freshener she had given him.

Maybe I should take it from him, thought Mira as she sat up. She started swinging her legs off his bed before letting out a horrified cry. Her legs, one of her many pride and joys, were replaced with thick, muscular and hairy legs much like…

...like Evan’s…

Gulping, Mira got out of the bed, nearly falling from the unexpected new strength and weight, and wondered over to Evan’s bathroom. Staring at her from the mirror with a look of pure anxiety was Evan. Her reflection. Evan’s reflection.

“Me.”

Mira texted Frida in a manic state. “What do I do? How do I get out?! What am I supposed to do now?!” All Frida said in response was that Mira would simply need to will herself out of Evan’s body and that it would com naturally to her.

“In the meantime,” texted Frida, “now’s your chance to teach that pig a lesson. Lemme know what the damage is so I can spread it everywhere!”

My chance…

Mira took a deep breath and then looked back at her borrowed reflection in the mirror. Frida was right. This was her chance to get even at Evan. No, not just even. She wanted to get complete revenge and to teach him a lesson. “Okay, Evan,” she grinned to her new self. “Let’s let the campus know about this other side of you.”

A few hours later, Mira set up Evan’s phone at a good angle to capture the show. She grinned and began the recording. “’sup, everyone!” she said, raising both arms in peace signs like the real Evan would. “Evan here, and I’m here to show y’all how cock-hungry this hole o’ mine is!” Clad in just a small pair of yellow briefs, she picked up one Evan’s favorite dildos and brandished it in front of the camera. “Ohh, now this is a good one. A classic piece in my extensive collection.”

She swung it around a few times, making lightsaber noises and pressing the vibrate button. “Critical hit!” she shouted as she stabbed the air multiple times. “All right, I think that’s enough warming up.” Mira walked over to Evan’s dresser, making sure to swing his hips the whole time. She bent down, showing off Evan’s perky ass to the camera, and took out some lube that he kept hidden away. “Oh no, gonna have to go shopping for some more soon!” she forced himself to exclaim. She showed the bottle to the camera just to emphasize how much of it had been used up already.

“Urgh! Aw, fuck…! Ah…” Mira cried out as she slipped the first of Evan’s multiple dildos in his loose, well-used hole. Evan hadn’t been able to admit it to anyone but Mira, but he was an avid fan of anal penetration. During their relationship, he had often asked Mira if she could peg him. The first time that happened, Mira patted him on the arm, promised to keep his secret, and plowed him until he could only see white. It was a harmonic relationship, but then…

“Th-This is what I deserve!” Mira shouted in Evan’s voice. “This… hah… this is what happens to losers who betray their lovers. They…nrgh!” Mira paused and grit Evan’s teeth as she found the prostate.

Grinning madly, she positioned Evan’s body so he was squatting down on the floor and began to ride the dildo like no tomorrow. His nice chest jiggled up and down, all in view of the camera. “This is what I get for leaking nudes, it’s only fair I leak my own little sex videos, huh? Mira, I-I’m sorry. I-I’m… oh shit, I-I’m—!”

Evan’s makeshift flagellation session came to a halt as Mira could feel his core beginning to tighten. His whole body was convulsing as the first waves of his impeding orgasm came crshing down on her. “I’m fucking cumming!” Evan roared as torrents of semen shot out of his untouched cock. Some hit his chin while one even hit his slack-jawed mouth.

“Haaah… Haaah… that was fun…! Any daddies that wanna abuse this hole, c’mon down!” Mira forced Evan to say his home address and ended the humiliating video with a nice view of Evan slurping down his own cum. She giggled and then began to upload the video to every site Evan had leaked her nudes on.

Just before Mira returned to her own body, she wandered back to to Evan’s bathroom and stared at his reflection. She played with his expression, recounting how often she had seen him smile at her, pout in frustration, and sheepishly request her to keep a secret. They had shared so much of themselves to each other that… looking at him, Mira felt a pang of guilt.

“How did it come to this?” she wondered out loud. Looking at Evan’s face, a guilty grimace, she wondered if he looked like that when he betrayed her trust.

“We’re even now,” she whispered. “And we’re done, Evan. Goodbye.”

[ronnierites]

Okay lets all put our heads together and talk about this - the WILL Outro video

For any Atiny who are not a Loretiny, here’s what you need to know:

There are two universes inside the Ateez context - Universe A and Universe Z (otherwise referred to as Strictland).

Universe A is the one that we are familiar with. It’s bright and colorful and happy. It’s seen is mvs like Pirate King, Treasure, Wave, and Dreamers. If you’re more familiar with their performances, it’s any song that has costumes with color. They softer looks in sweaters and khakis and such. Those are all Universe A.

Universe Z is the alternate universe. Time is funky here and I won’t get into a whole thing about it but it’s reversed. So there is a 12 hour time difference between A and Z. Complete opposites existing at the same time. This universe is dark. There’s lots of broken down buildings and boarded up windows. There are no mirrors or other sources of reflection so the people cannot see themselves and wish to be free. It’s seen in mvs like Hala Hala, Say My Name, Deja Vu, Halazia, Bouncy, and Crazy Form. In this Universe, music and art and all forms of expression are banned. The people all have microchips implanted in them to disable their emotions. The Black Pirates, who we know are in kahoot with the Ateez we know and love, are a group of rebels that are trying to bring art and emotions back through song (very HSM) and disable the microchips. There’s a whole thing about how they got there but that’s not important for this context.

There is a device called The Cromer, which allows Ateez to switch between these universes when the moon is full (which is why we see a lot of moon imagery). When the moon is not full, it does other things that again are not important here.

We know that the Cromer was broken. This happened in Deja Vu when Yeosang broke it to save the rest of Ateez (long story that’s again not important here). Ateez eventually uses the Cromer from Universe A, that is not broken, to get back to Universe Z later.

We see the broken Cromer at the end of Bouncy as well, but this time a little blue bird flies seemingly out of it. There are lots of questions about this Cromer. Is it the original Cromer? Is it the Cromer from Universe A? Why is there a bird? Was it trapped inside? Is that how it works? Is there a significance to the Cromer breaking when the moon is full? Is that why the bird appeared? I don’t know. And the new video cleared up approximately nothing. It shows the bird as it flies around the set of Crazy Form, but without the members. It’s after the events of the MV take place, which we know for sure because it shows the area that Yeosang is seen spray painting.

The first pic is from the new video and the second pic is from the Crazy Form MV.

I’ve seen some people as questions about the people in white. But these are students at Prestige Academy. There’s a good bit of lore here but the gist of it is, the Black Pirates are using the school as a place to start their revolution. The school is introduced in the Guerrilla mv. A boy from the school appears. It’s also seen in the Bouncy MV and referenced in the narrative in the Diary version of Outlaw.

There is also a paper and a cube seen at the end.

The paper is clearly plans for a pirate ship. The questions here lie solely on when this all takes place. As we know Ateez has all of their lore all mapped out. It’s is all carefully planned, meaning when they release new content, it’s not necessarily in chronological order. We’ve seen them release things out of order before. There’s no real way to know until we get what comes next. So the question of what is the ship for, relies on when this takes place. If it’s earlier in the timeline, then we have seen the ship in action. If it’s later in the timeline, then it could be replacing the old ship.

The cube is a little more confusing. I’ve seen some people say that it’s probably the same cube that is seen in the Dreamers mv.

Except now it’s red. Red is not a good color in the Ateez world. So what does it mean and what does it do? Dreamers takes place in Universe A, but we are in Universe Z now. Is it a different color because it is a different universe? Is it a different color because it’s been activated? What sort of abilities does the cube have? Is it related to the Cromer or is it separate?

I don’t know.

Thoughts?? Please anyone what are you thinking??

Even if you’re not a designated Loretiny, I’d still love to hear what you’re thinking. Or you can Reblog so other Atiny can see this.

I need answers!!!!

[intotheelliwoods]

God I love how much thought you’ve put into this au!! Right as you were sharing the phantom pains comic, I was just watching a few videos on how to “treat” phantom pains and make them a lot less painful!! Like did you know that if you were to use a mirror that is aimed at the real arm and have it move, it could trick the brain into believing that the phantom arm is moving, hence making the pain less?

Also on a completely different note, wouldn’t the surgery to get the port onto Leo be pretty dangerous so there probably were some complications that came up?

OOh yeah I know exactly what you are talking about! God phantom limbs are just,, so cool. Sad yes, but cool. But sad. Honestly now I just want to do more regarding the whole phantom pain half of Leo's recovery~ If I have time and a good idea comes up ill see what I can do!

Complication ideas under the cut meanwhile since this might be a little lengthy ahaa!!

Complications with the port, theres only two issues that I had in mind when designing that may lead to any complications.

The rod making contact with the lungs and/or heart

While yes, if this was a human then 100% worrying about the rod puncturing the lung or heart would be an issue, however luckily enough, turtles actually have a bit of a cavity area in their shells around their shoulders!! Its the area where their head would usually squeeze into when going into their shell, heres the best diagram I could find of it without the imagery being totally gruesome pfft

The rod would sit in the little blue area I circled while still remaining held down by muscle tissue that would heal around it over time, yeah the rod is 5 inches long but its only about 1 inch in diameter, its strong yet thin

+ The lung and heart are actually very out of the way which is nice enough, and even if it were to be in contact with the lung lets say, I dont think it would cause much harm unless Leo decides to do heavy cardio for hours on end where the tiny little bit less of lung space causes a huge difference in stamina/oxygen intake

To be fair though, this is all mutant turtle human biology, wdym it has to make sense this is all fantasy

2. Issues regarding the nerve connections

Honestly I am way less skilled regarding this half of the functionality of the arm. I can tell you how it connects and where parts go and thats about it, but actually reading signals put out by the brain is beyond me at the moment, and to be honest this is really where I am going to rely the most off fantasy logic whoops.

That being said though, what I can tell you is that if the connections were done improperly there is a good chance that it can damage the nerve cord itself and cause some pretty intense pain in the spine. Most damage of which would be mad hard to fix, spinal damage overall is just mad hard to fix. Aside from just taking meds for the pain every day, it would be hard to do any good fixes long term.

So yeah, the nerve connections being done wrong would probably be the biggest concern with the procedure overall. Though do keep in mind, his surgeon was Hamato Eyebrows Donatello pfft.

[p5x-theories]

(Sorry for sending so many asks dhdjd)

While we dont know yet if they will be plot relevant, something tells me that either Leo or Kii are gonna be the "Akechi" of the game, since it seems to mirror a lot the original game

Leo, well, his costume and persona looks so much like a power ranger/super hero, just like Princekechi. Maybe instead of a detective he is more of an actor working in some fetherman-like show.

Kii, we dont know a lot about him, but from his nickname (im pretty sure it means gold) and from the sticker he is dressed like some rich boy i feel like he will be a pain in the ass. Plus his persona has a lot of tree immaginery going on, thing that is usually connected with viking myths.

Also if someone can correct me: from what i know in asia, expecially China, freckles are a symbol of bad luck

(No worries!! I love getting asks, it's fun to have other people to talk to about this game and get ideas going!)

I think I might've pointed out something similar about Leo's superhero vibe reminding me of Crow back when we first saw him? That was months ago, so I might never actually have gotten it into a post, haha. But I absolutely agree! One of his datamined voice lines from the first beta mentions it being like a tokusatsu drama, so that's absolutely the vibe he's trying to go for, too. Admittedly, I do think he's more likely another Phantom Idol than a story character- I think he would've gotten as much focus as Soy in the trailer and promo info released, otherwise- but I suppose there's still hope for at least another few hours, haha!

If he is a Phantom Idol, I suspect he's not intended to parallel a P5 character, but he may still end up having similarities even if he isn't. I kind of got the vibe (again, from the teeny handful of voice lines we got in the first beta's data) that he might be a bit more outwardly nerdy/excitable than Akechi? Maybe "earnest" is the word I'm looking for? I'd totally believe that out of the mask/the real Leo at least has dreams of being an actor or something along those lines, especially in that kind of production.

For Kii, I think you're thinking of 金 (kin) for gold? Which doesn't necessarily mean it couldn't be tied to that, but as I'm sorta suspecting he'll also be a Phantom Idol (just with a story counterpart, like Tomoko), I'm similarly suspecting his Merope-given codename'll just be a shortening of, or joke on, his real name, much like all the confirmed Phantom Idols have been.

(For the record, my Japanese dictionary returns the following definitions for Kii (different words based on different kanji that "kii" could be written with): "odd; strange; queer; peculiar", "displeasure; offense; offence; disliking", "your will; your wishes; your request", "position of aircraft", and "Kii (former province located in present-day Wakayama and southern Mie prefectures)".)

I had originally only really noticed the top of his Persona was kinda like fire (kind of like Yosuke's Takehaya Susano-o in P4), but looking at it again, you are so right about the tree imagery going on! Maybe you're right about the viking thing, too (admittedly I've never gone too deep into Norse mythology, haha).

From his glasses + expression in the sticker (and disappearance of glasses in his All Out Attack cut-in), and how he seems more serious/cold as a Phantom Thief, my take on him had sort of been, up to this point, that he'd be more of a nerd that's perhaps trying very hard as a Thief/trying to look cool/trying to be taken seriously, or something along that line, and his real-world counterpart is the Mishima parallel (going by a guess from there that maybe Kii's a Phantom Idol, so it's like Kotomo). But I do agree that what we can see of his sock and shoe in the image does sort of have a "rich kid" vibe to it, haha. It could just be related to whatever his thief theme is?

I did a really quick search about freckles in China, and while I'm not sure if they're bad luck (again, quick search, maybe I missed something/didn't go deep enough) it seems like they do tend to be considered unattractive/ugly, which I believe was also the case even here in the US in the past. But that's a good angle to come at this from- personally I think the freckles are cute, but the developers probably had a different intention...

[yinses]

kinds of tattoo artists 

|jjk edition|

rqst: after sukuna i cant staph thinking about what the others would be like as tattoo artist

a/n: these are probably my favorite things to write. i love the format. 

G O J O  S A T O R U — he has a story for every tattoo ever. one’s he owns, seen and inked himself. they could all be true, but you find the vibrating hum of the needle against your skin easier to ignore when you focus on the vivid imagery of his tales instead. he’s a very good storyteller, never skimping on the details and adding comical commentary around every corner. you connect the threads of each narrative to the accompanying bold lines stretching up the length of his arms. swirls and various shades making for very convincing illustrations to the novel he’d created. before you know it, your hour is up, cutting his retelling just short of the art peeking under his shirt. you could get lost in those baby blues as they twinkle with mischief. they leave you so wrapped up in strings of intrigue that you actually consider a second tattoo despite your hesitations of the first. he looks proud of his work, and should be, deserving off all five stars you planned to give on his review.  “don’t like it too much. tattoos can be pretty addicting, after all.” he remarks as he rubs cream into your swollen flesh.  yeah, you think, addicting was the right word. 

G E T O  S U G U R U — the look he gives you when you tell him it’s your first is almost enough to make you reconsider. it’s not rude but there is a hint of condescension as he coaxed you to go into more details about location and coloring. ultimately, you end up in his chair anyways, lip bitten as he goes about preparing supplies. the point of no return comes all too quickly as he peels the sterile needle from the one use pack. “i would offer to let you hold my hand but-” you look up from the skin pinched between two of his fingers to the same smug grin that had greeted you at the door. something on his face must have changed, because slowly so did his as he breathes out a sigh. he surprise you by guiding one of your hands just above his knee, fingers squeezing around yours once before pulling away. “if it gets to be too much squeeze hard but don’t jump. id rather give you a breather than have you pass out on me.”

I T A D O R I   Y U U J I — if anyone was going to do your tattoo, you’re glad it’s your boyfriend. he’s more patient than most artist would be. attentive to every squirm and flinch and mindful how a single twitch could leave you with a permanent mishap. you’re going nearly thirty minutes over what was expected, but he’d scheduled out an ample block of time prior, mindful of your skepticism. “hey, hey, we’re almost done,” he mutters, hand stopping when he notices the water behind your eyes. “want to stop, baby?” you do. want the endless burn to finally go away, but you want to finish it equally as bad so you steel your nerves and shake your head. something akin to pride curls at the corners of his lips as he starts back up the motor but not before pressing a quick kiss to yours. “it’s going to look beautiful on you. just you wait. it’ll be worth it.” and you believed him. 

F U S H I G U R O  M E G U M I —he’s not one for conversation, choosing to rather concentrate on his work than idle chatter. but he doesn’t seem to mind if you do. and so you find yourself talking about any and everything as the clock ticks on. the entire process is almost cathartic. pent up tension escaping you with every word and each pin point of the needle etching away at your skin. this was suppose to be your bold change. something different to stamp a revision on your life while mounting a memorial of your past. or at least that was the speech used to butter yourself up to the idea. at the end of it all, you’re staring at something better than you’d imagined, and dont delay telling him as much. your words ignite a blush that crawls up his nape, barely hidden by the sheepish hand rubbing over the skin. “i-uh... don’t mind doing your next one. if you want one to remember your friend by.” he’s already turning away from your blink of shock, throwing care instructions over his shoulder as he prepares the bandage. 

F U S H I G U R O  T O J I  — it comes as a surprise, because he’s the owner. something pointed out to you by a friend when you’d accompanied them to the shop in the past. he only took on special guests, you’d been told. spending half a day bent over a customer completing yet another work of art that keep the business in high praises. he didn’t bother with the small things. so why he the one offering to pierce the little stud above your naval? eventually you would get a tattoo but you weren’t quite ready to take the plunge. but you’d been eying the cute studded crystal since your last visit. it looks as good as you thought it would, twinkling bright under the hooded lamp. he seems to think so too a thumbs over the tender flesh just above the piercing. “you were so good for me. not even a flinch.” you found yourself caught staring at the sharp cut stretching across both lips as they work into a smile. “you’ll have to come back and let me mark you up for real.”

C H O S O —he thinks you’re cute as you stumble through the explanation of your design. accommodating but insistent when you began to doubt yourself. ultimately, your idea hadn’t changed but you felt it lacking as you stared at the temporary imprint reflected in the mirror. you were his last appointment of the day, and surely eating up his time, but he refused to let you just go through with it. there was a light scold in his voice as he rubbed alcohol against your skin to wipe away the markings. “if you’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.” you should have been halfway through your tattoo now as the neighboring stations close down for the day. but he waves away your timid glances as he nudges a new sketch book your way. in a way showing you his work had been somewhat counterintuitive, rather than help you settle on a design, you’d been overwhelmed and visibly intrigued by the numerous portraits and motifs. you spent more time compliment the his steady hand for being able to produce such detailed works than you’d progressed to coming any closer to honing in on your own tattoo. eventually he’s the one to call it a night, chasing away your frown with an offer. “tomorrow’s my day off. why don’t you meet me at the cafe around the corner and we can brainstorm this with the help of caffeine.”

[broadstflyers]

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first ever fic! It's really just an idea I've had for months, and then wrote, and then couldn't figure out which hockey boy it fit, until some mutuals were kind enough to help. I settled on our boy Barzy! It's inspired by Taylor Swift's "Gold Rush", and I really wanted to do my best in reflecting the beautiful imagery this story creates for me. I hope I did it justice. It's a little terrifying putting my writing out there, but I hope people enjoy it!

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Two curse words, it's really just internal conflict within the reader

Summary: You're celebrating your dad's 50th birthday with some friends and family at a dinner party. You happen to land your eyes on a beautiful stranger, who you can't seem to get out of your head. You spend the rest of the night wondering, should you go up to him?

Or do you let him walk out the door?

___________

They say when you first lay eyes on your soulmate, time stands completely still. As you gaze into their eyes, it feels as though you’ve known them for multiple lifetimes. It feels like home. Is that even remotely true?

You start to take a sip of your drink and turn your head slightly to take in your surroundings. Your eyes dance around the room, until they stumble upon another pair of wondering eyes. Your eyes lock, and you’re instantly sucked into the mysterious yet intriguing twinkling grey-blue color that compliments his navy blue suit. Suddenly, your breath hitches in your throat, every part of your body stiffens, except for your lips that part slightly and eyes that widen. The drink is long forgotten, you’re even struggling to keep it from practically falling out of your hands and onto the wooden floor. The party is now just a blur, the noise? What noise? The world is muffled, as if someone stuck your head into a hundred pillows. Images stream through your mind like an endless movie reel wrapped in shimmery gold. Endless laughter on a first date over coffee. Him rubbing the back of your hand as you take a stroll through the park. Holiday mornings, exchanging gifts. Would he participate in the tradition of opening small gifts first, or would he want the biggest gift right off the bat? Ice skating and him catching you as you stumble on a pesky track in the ice. Him tossing you into the pool while you’re trying to put up a fight in a losing battle. A sweet and quiet proposal where he promises his forever love. A kiss at the altar in front of all your friends and family. Chasing after rambunctious little kids trying to get them to nap. All these gold dripping images of a pure love plow through your brain. Your heart is the unmovable object. They are the unstoppable force.

You and him only shared a look for what was probably half a second, but the thick air that seemed to only be affecting you made time feel like it stood completely still.

You burst back into reality with the help of a slight head shake. “Woah,” you quietly whisper. You blink a few times and finally get around to taking a sip of your drink to quench your parched throat. Did you just see a whole future...with a stranger?

“Hey, are you okay?” Stella asks. Her hand gently touches your arm as she cocks her head to the side. Her brows are furrowed in what can only be described as pure confusion. Did you really space out that badly as she was talking? What were you guys even talking about?

“Oh,” you say as you gently shake your head, “yeah.” You chuckle, “yeah, I’m just fine.” You wait a beat then say, “Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom really quickly, okay?”

“Sure thing,” she nods. “Do you need me to come with?”

“I’m totally fine, I promise,” you reassure with every bone in your body while giving her your drink. You really just needed to be alone to calm your racing mind that has now turned a complete stranger into a romantic interest with the power of a golden montage.

You make your way over to the exit of the dining hall and push the creaky open with your shoulder, and the amount of force you had to use honestly hurt. Your heels click down the tiled hallway of the golf club to find the bathroom door. The rectangular bathroom mirror framed in an intricate gold design holds your reflection. You slightly tilt your head as you take a look at your face. It’s like someone took the color of a clown nose and colored in your face with it. Jeez. You shake your head and sigh. This isn’t good, and deep down, you know that. You hate when you’re like this, all flustered over someone who just happened to lock eyes with you. His eyes. They were gleaming and just all around beautiful. What were you thinking again?

Oh, right.

Well, it’s pretty obvious he has this power over you, and you don’t like that. Now is your face going to become red everytime you see him? You check your phone. There’s still two hours left, plenty of time to possibly see him again. You can’t tell if that’s necessarily a good or bad thing.

You pace around the bathroom trying to reason with your begging heart. He was pretty good looking, which means that so many people naturally want him. Who was he even talking to, anyways? You gasp and stop in your tracks, blood running cold. “He was talking to a girl,” you mumble. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t sound completely and utterly crushed. In the heat of the moment, you completely failed to realize the blonde standing next to him. You lean over the counter, the cold marble feeling on your arms making your arms break out in goosebumps. You take one last stern look in the mirror at your face. “See, this is why we can’t allow ourselves to fall that hard,” you whisper angrily, “everyone wants him, and I just...I don’t like a gold rush like that.” You shake your head again and take one last deep breath to shake out any other thoughts. You can see yourself standing barefooted at the bottom of a hole looking astounded at how tall the walls have grown, and how distant the light looks. It feels like you soared lightheartedly into the sky, just to fall and crush every bone in your body.

You roll your eyes to yourself while slightly cursing yourself out. Pushing the bathroom door open, you step out into the hallway and make a beeline back for the dining hall. Your purse starts spastically vibrating, so you hastily fish your phone out to put an end to the obnoxious noise. Scanning the text, you read that your mom is asking where you went, as the cake for your dad’s birthday is going to be cut soon. You sigh as you text, “I’m hurrying back now.”

That’s all you see before you feel a slight brush tickle your bare shoulder. Your eyes don’t dare move from your phone screen. You reason that it’s not someone you know, as they would have said something to you. Your hands shake as you put your phone back in your purse.

“Oh, sorry,” the voice trails off as he continues to walk down the hallway after he brushed up against you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, without turning around, which is admittedly ridiculous.

As soon as you can judge his footsteps are far away enough, you make a quick glance behind to see if it really was him. And judging by the navy blue suit, it was.

Suddenly, the golden montage flows through your mind once more, showing an image of yourself wearing an old shirt of his, maybe one from when he was in high school for whatever sport he played, if he played one. Your feet feel the coolness of the wooden floor of the supposed home. The home both of you share? It’s so tangible, so real that you almost reach out to touch it. It’s right there...

Your head jerks yourself out of the vision once more, or rather the fact that you’re now faced with a white wall in front of you. You sigh a long frustrated sigh. I can’t believe I really walked by the entrance, how embarrassing, you think as you turn on your heels to backtrack. Why does this stranger have you so wrapped around his finger? No one else has been able to even come close to doing that. You feel your face with your hand, and it’s burning. I’ll go in there looking like a tomato, it’s fine.

You do your best to quite literally shake off those thoughts as you push open the dining room hall door. “There you are!” your mom says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, we’re going to sing happy birthday to Dad.”

“Can’t wait,” you beam. After all, your dad only turns 50 once, and this night is about him, afterall. You follow your mom to a table with a white tablecloth resting on it.

Stella pops out from behind your dad to approach you and whispers, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You resist the urge to gently shove her in front of everyone. “Yes,” you pleadingly insist, “now stop asking me in front of Mom and Dad, they’ll think something is wrong.”

She side eyes you with an attitude. “Fine.”

“They’re my girls,” your dad says with a smile.

You and Stella laugh while leaning into him for a quick hug. “Hey dad,” you both say in unison.

The room completely dies down, people could hear a pin drop. “Ready?” your mom asks the guests. The room takes a collective deep breath.

And so the melody of Happy Birthday rings joyously through the hall, you can see the mystery stranger out of the corner of your eye. Heat radiates off your skin, it’s almost like you can feel his eyes boring into you. It takes all the willpower you can muster, but you resist the temptation to look over at him all throughout the song.

When the song is over, the room breaks out into obnoxiously loud clapping. You, Stella, and your parents share loving looks and warm smiles.

Eventually, everyone proceeds to return to normal chatter at the one rectangular table of two that they’re sitting at, and so do you, Stella and your parents.

You pull out your seat next to your sister near the middle of the middle of the table and sit, fixing your dress.

“Ahem,” Stella says in an ill attempt to cover her suspiciousness with a clearing throat noise. Queue whatever accusatory question she’s got.

“Let me just set something straight,” she starts.

“Go for it,” you say as you reach for some water.

“It’s definitely that guy a few seats down, isn’t it?” She smirks. She’s got you trapped in her little web, and she knows it.

You may or may not have fought back choking on your water or pulling a ridiculous spit take on the nice white table cloth.

You lean in and harshly whisper, “Well you didn’t have to say it that loudly.” You glance over at the mystery stranger and see his hand wrapped around his glass as he goes to drink it. He has a thick silver ring on his pointer finger?

“Hello?” Stella shifts her head to selfishly cut off your view of him.

“Okay,” you sigh in defeat, “yes it’s him. Happy?”

“Very,” she says, very satisfied because she finally pried it out of you and got you to admit it. Someone else has you wrapped around their finger. She didn’t even have to know all the details of the montages to know. She could tell by the way your eyes glossed over and how your lips would slightly part like you were in a hazy daydream.

And you were.

“Who is he anyway? And why don’t we know him?” You ask.

“I don’t know, honestly. A little strange, isn’t it? Why don’t you ask mom who he is?” She suggests, but her cheshire smile suggests that she will somehow find out, with or without your mom’s help.

“But mom’s going to absolutely harass me until I say something to him. Just you on my tail is enough,” you say with an eyebrow raised as to say ‘don’t test me.’ And Stella knows you’re right.

“Alright, fine,” she concedes, “But why don’t you, I don’t know, talk to him?”

“I did,” you nonchalantly float.

Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an “O” from disbelief. Did you really not talk to people that much?

“Really?” she practically squeals.

“Yeah, he brushed by me and said, ‘Sorry’ so I said, ‘It’s okay.’” Okay, now you get why your friends and family get mad at you for refusing to talk to people. But cracking this joke was one you could not pass up.

Her face scrunches up and she exhibits the biggest eye roll you have ever seen. She opens her mouth to start saying something, probably to scold at you, but you open your mouth to cut her off first.

“Alright no, I haven’t. And do you know why?” As you’re about to get your thought out, you’re interrupted by a fit of laughter down the stretch of the table. Your eyes scan but freeze on the stranger, whose nose is adorably scrunched up as he laughs with multiple, yes multiple, people about goodness knows what. And there’s that other blonde that you still don’t know, laughing with him. You tear your stare away and focus back on your sister.

“Look, that right there. That’s why,” you say, anger burning through your chest.

Stella raises an eyebrow in her own judgemental manner. “He talks to people? You know people do that right?”

Now it’s your turn to return the favor of a judgemental eye roll. “No, Stella, I mean just look at him and the people he’s surrounded by. It’s so obvious that everyone wants him. Just look at that girl with him. I’m not the only one who wants to love him.”

Silence ensues between you two. She picks up her phone and shoots a quick text. After a moment she says, “Well, I think if you just talked to him, you’d be pleasantly surprised with what could happen. I have to help mom with distributing gift bags. You stay here,” she instructs.

You can only assume you’re not being called to help because Stella graciously told your mom that you’re potentially working up the courage to talk to someone that’s not one of your three friends or your family. How generous of her.

A few friends of your dad stop by your seat to say goodbye before they head out. The noise slightly dies down enough to scarcely hear some other conversations. You hear nothing out of the ordinary, just a girl talking about getting into her dream school to some guy. Your ears slightly move as you pick up on a voice that sounds like the one in the hallway earlier.

“Yeah dude, but did you see the fake out on the goalie on the second goal? That had to have been the best part.”

Out of instinct you open your mouth to interject, but quickly shut it and put it under lock and key. You blink in disbelief. Hockey? Did this man just speak on hockey?

You circle the rim of the coffee cup and stare at the brown liquid. In a different universe…

In a different universe you would have actually kept your mouth open, and maybe even squeezed some words out, too.

“Actually, that seamless stretch pass down the neutral zone from the defenseman after a pretty difficult forecheck set up the play pretty well. I’d give him a lot of credit, too.”

He’d probably look a little shocked, as do most guys when you interject your two-sense about hockey. But maybe he’d break out into a small smile and offer a rebuttal. Yeah, that sounds nice. Maybe one day…

Maybe one day you’ll be sitting next to him on the couch, watching a game while cuddling and brushing the hair out of his face. Oh who are you kidding, you’ll be up and screaming at the TV. It’s your staple.

A noise of someone dropping something behind you slightly startles you and pulls you out of your once again golden daydream. You finally stop mindlessly circling the rim of your coffee cup to take a sip, but only to find it’s now ice cold.

This is why you hate looking through a pair of rose colored glasses. It distracts you from enjoying things. You glance over at your dad who’s still talking to one of his good friends that lingered after festivities. You’re supposed to be celebrating him right now, but instead you’re literally stuck in this cursedly pure golden daydream that is almost too good to break.

You can see him. He’s still there, at the end of the table, chatting away with some dude. The blonde left at some point, though.

“Well, I gotta head out, man, good to see you. My sister needs help with packing her stuff for college tomorrow, so we’ve got a busy day coming up.”

Could that girl have been his sister?

“Congratulations to her on getting into her dream school by the way,” the guy says. “I talked to her when she was here earlier, and she seemed super excited.”

A wave of cool relief washes over your body, remembering the conversation about college you picked up on earlier. It was his sister.

“Yeah she is, she worked really hard, and it also involved a whole lot of crying,” he chuckles.

Ain’t that right, you think to yourself.

The table shakes as he pushes out of his chair. Your eyes remain glued to your coffee cup no matter how much you want them to move. You just can’t gather the courage to say something, and you’re cursing yourself for it. You don’t want to sit here and dream about him anymore. You want to actually let these things happen, for once. You want to just unleash all these swirling and sickeningly sweet emotions from your body and drown him in it. You want so badly to leap up and say something, anything. Step on those voices taunting you and mocking you saying that it could never happen, it could never be so it will never be. He’s so inviting that you can’t resist any longer. You go to reach out to him, but the door shuts before you know it.

And just as fleeting as he came,

He’s gone.

Fuck. It feels as though a brick is sitting on your chest, suffocating you. You really let your worries control you, and this time it feels as though you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. You just can’t believe you let it happen when your mind was begging you to talk to him. You always do-

“Shit,” you mumble. In your frustration, you knocked over the remnants of the coffee onto the not-so-white-anymore table cloth. Tears prickle up in your eyes, your throat closes, and your nose begins to sting. You quickly swallow these emotions down your throat and begin to use a napkin to soak up the excess coffee. Drinks have really not been your friend tonight.

For the first time, you notice as you clean that it’s just you left in the room, besides a few people cleaning up on the other end. You’re not sure where your family has gone, but you haven’t received any texts prompting you to leave yet. It’s so silent that you can hear some muffled chatter down the hall.

Suddenly, you hear the same creak of the door open with an “oof” that doesn’t quite sound like your dad. Your blood runs cold and you freeze mid press into the tablecloth. You glance up without turning around to see a lone jacket hanging on a chair suspiciously close to the chair he previously sat in. Your eyes widen and dart around the room, but you dare not move, waiting to see what he does. Even after cursing yourself out for ten minutes while cleaning up spilled coffee, you still haven’t learned to make the first move. His presence feels like a forcefield, you can feel it heavily pressing into your back.

But he isn’t moving to grab the jacket, no.

A pointer finger with a silver ring taps your shoulder.

“Hey,” the clarity of his voice rings in your ears like a bell. Your heart is racing so fast that it feels like it’s going to burst out of your rib cage and run its own 10k. You slowly crank your head around to meet his eyes for the first time-- face to face.

And you must say, his face is really pretty when you actually talk to him face to face. Maybe you should do this more often. You take in his golden features, and struggle to hide a small smirk creeping up on your face. His messy hair falls perfectly into place on his head, and his kind face makes you feel as though a mess of metallic gold swirls are playfully swirling and dashing around you both. You’ve found him in this lifetime.

“I’m Mat, can I help you clean up before I grab my jacket?”

[yanderenightmare]

If this isn't allowed I'm super sorry, but could I request Enji with a (Male/GN) darling that's scared of him. Like he always thought Enji was super scary as a hero and now that they're captured, he can't even stand to be around Enji without shaking or crying.

YANDERE ! ENJI TODOROKI x MALE ! READER

This is not what you asked for… I’m sorry this is all just… absolute filth… I got too excited, hope you like, sorry if some of these themes are triggering

goodiebag WARNINGS: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, degradation, feminization, spit-fetish, Enji being an ass, yandere, profanity, abuse, anxiety, manipulation, misogyny

FEAR

He doesn’t know exactly how to explain what replaces Enji’s presence when he leaves for work in the morning. He wants to say that it feels good, that it’s a relief, but that would be a bittersweet lie that leaves him feeling guiltier than it should, because when Enji’s not there to fill the space of the giant mansion, all that’s left is cold tiles, soundless rooms, and somehow… a lack of safety. He thought about it while finishing cleaning the second to last room, dreading entering the next, knowing how he’d find nothing there, just more emptiness, just more stale unmoving shadows on walls, more cold, more void, more loneliness, more fear.

He needed to shower before Enji got home. Enji would bathe with him later in the day too, but it would be after… after they played. He’d been talking and teasing that very soon he was going to be doing more than just sucking cock. Yesterday, he was made to sit on Enji’s face for half an hour, all while Enji fisted his own cock furiously in the same beat he lapped at the tiny budding butthole so ripe for the taking on top of him. But, he hadn’t done it, he hadn’t pushed a finger inside, he had barely wormed his tongue into the hole, only made to suck on it, before pushing him off and down into the sheet so he could cum all over his pretty little face, his white thick seed running and mixing in with fat globs of tears. But today, he wasn’t sure if Enji would still spare him being impaled on his fat thick monstrous pole. The thought had him nearly whining as he removed his clothes, padding over the clean reflective cold marble floors to step into the shower that seemed so strangely massive without being filled with both himself and Enji’s intimidating build.

It was as though he could already feel Enji’s warm hands holding onto his hips, steadying him as he was sure he would be uncontrollably quaking. It was as though he could already feel it filling him up, lifting him off the ground, off his feet, hauling him up into the air.

He turned the temperature too high to imitate what heat Enji would emit when thrusting into him, the shower-droplets stinging on his reddening skin. It hurt, but he needed to prepare himself, only physically if not mentally. He wiped a hand up between his butt-cheeks, stroked a finger over his hole a couple of times, teased to see if he at all wanted to slip it inside. He whimpered upon facing the inevitable fact that Enji’s massive thick pole would soon push inside him, push all the way inside him, fill him up so snugly and painfully and inescapably, holding him still as he crammed himself inside, probably even chuckling that gruesome snicker when seeing how he would try and wiggle out of his death-grip.

Enji is too big for it to possibly feel good, it’d be too painful, too painful to feel anything else, except fear. Fear would always survive. Fear of choking to death on his cock filling up his tight throat, more so than the pain of it actually happening. Fear of the feisty flames licking his skin more so than realizing how they only tickle not sear. Fear of being trapped, so much so he forgets to humor the idea of running, of fighting, of saying no. Fear of how he was going to be impaled, split in two on the hero’s cock before the day let up.

His own size wasn’t bad, but probably not what one would call impressive. He wondered if Enji would ever ask for him to penetrate him in turn. If… perhaps he could bargain to do that instead of the other way around, but he knew that was a foolish thought. He didn’t want to touch it, even as he felt it twitch against his stomach, because he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to touch it while Enji fucked him. Instead, he pushed one finger inside the comfort of his ass, worming the digit inside the tight space, his forehead soon pushing against the shower-wall to steady himself while he tried to get deeper. It was nowhere near what would be happening later, he knew that, but with the thought, the imagery of what would no doubt be happing later, it still managed to make his toes curl. The thought of Enji’s large warm gravely hand coming to stroke up and down his cock while penetrating him from behind, the sounds of his husky gruff voice huffing and grunting into his ear, letting him know what a perfect little pet he is.

He felt ashamed, and so utterly confused. How come he still turned on, even with the amount of fear and trepidation that pumped the boiling blood through his system? Why wasn’t he pissing himself instead of standing there, fingering his own hole, fantasizing about how much pain he was going to be in later, and getting off on the fact? Was it true what Enji had said? Was he really a submissive little masochist that would soon be worshipping the ground Enji walked on?

The questions were answered as he felt himself explode all too abruptly onto the glass, seeing his cum splattered onto the dewy steamed wall, watching it run down, creating paths that were slowly being washed away by the ongoing spritz of the showerhead.

He made then to shave his chest first, then the rest, all the rest, everything except the hair on his head, he knew Enji wouldn’t be pleased with anything but perfection, and even though the razor nicked him in sensitive places he was still extra careful to not miss a single spot, going over the same area several times to achieve complete smoothness. He turned the water too cold to stop the bleeding and to ease what soreness and irritation had been awoken by the activity, muscles tensing and flexing under the pressure, thinking that perhaps the freeze would encourage getting dressed… though he doubted it.

He got dressed slowly, having to talk himself down from crying as he clasped the lacy white bralette on, dragging it into position even though it had no real position on his chest. Then the dress. Splayed out so prettily on the bed, Enji’s declaration. White and patterned with pink poppies, a real housemaid’s frilly skirt and sweetheart neckline and thin shoulder-straps and everything pretty and dainty and feminine, one that worked so perfectly as an underdress for an apron.

The dress was nice and all, nicer than most things he’d ever worn before, but the apron was a real work of art. Frills decorating the edges, sweet swirls and flowery embroidery working its way up the white cloth, still with white thread, looking handmade yet with precision and delicacy. The stocking matched to some degree yet not carrying the same ornate expensive-feel to them, also adorned with a frilly edge were the sock stopped mid-leg. The shoes were plain enough: white with an easy button-over contraption, only slightly high-heeled, yet high enough to make that clicking errand sound when he walked across the marble floors each time Enji rung his service-bell, calling on him from where he sat on his knees with his hands folded neatly in his lap, supposed to wait patiently at Enji’s every beck and call, even though the large man was only a few meters away with a voice that could easily reach him no matter which room he found himself in the mansion, Enji insisted on using the bell. Loving to see how the boy skittered to his feet, hands running timid fingers to smooth over the fabric of his apron, shoes clicking together at the heels. His wintry voice so fragile and scared half to death as he answers Enji’s steely cyan glare: “Yes, Daddy?” His eyes falling sullenly to the floor to watch the cute rounded curve of his glossy shoes instead of looking to meet the fiery yet ice-cold eyes of his captor.

He avoided the mirror, even though he knew he should look over himself one more time for Enji’s sake, or for his own. He was given no boxer, no underwear, no measly thong, nothing, and therefore was subjugated to walk the empty halls in his flowing skirt with the cold air wafting in between his legs, kissing his limp cock each time he made a swift step, his shoes clicking, clicking, clicking, like the clock counting down the minutes until Enji came home.

“Welcome home, Daddy.” He needed to force himself to smile. Crooked in its execution, broken, yet still a smile, a smile Enji was pleased with as he kicked off his shoes, even happier to see him bow down to pick the pair up and place them neatly in the stacked shoe-compartments, despite the stink of them being drenched in sweat after his day of patrolling. His cock was already growing heavy with hunger. “How was your da-” He wasn’t given the time to answer before Enji wrapped both his hands around his waist from the back, slotting his massive warm hard chest against what felt like his paper-thin back, but he didn’t need to be able to carry Enji’s weight as he did most of the lifting himself.

A gravely sigh erupted from the man’s chest, rumbling against the boy’s back. “It’s so nice coming home to someone so appreciative and sweet.” He mumbled up against his spine, nose gliding up his neck, followed by a heavy inhale, breathing in the scent of the shampoo he’d told him to use, seemingly content as he pushed his crotch better against his ass. “I’ve tried getting hard for that slut breeding-cow all month…” Of course, his little experiments. He was a good fuck, but he couldn’t carry children, and producing children, or rather heirs, was something Enji and his fucked-up need to be number one was obsessed with. “You should see her, fucking begging for my cock, like my cock is her god. Pathetic.” He was glad he didn’t have the ability to get pregnant. He could only imagine what those wives of his were feeling, so insignificant, only a means to an end… but… that was rather what he was too. “And you just look at me and my cock is already twitching.” He smelled him again, nose blaring, hands trailing over the fabric of his apron and dress to feel up his thighs, grabbing at them before guiding him out of the entrance and into the living room. “Strip.”

It seemed so unnecessary for him to even be wearing clothes at all when they always ended up on the floor, especially such intricate clothes as well that needed to be removed with elegance and not shaky unsure fingers like his. But that was rather the point. It was a show, he guessed as he reached behind his back to undo the bow of the apron. A rather clunky graceless strip-tease, he mused when the apron fell unceremoniously to the floor, the dress following shortly after.

That was it, he’d learned, the rest Enji wanted to do on his own. He couldn’t understand how a man could still look so intimidating even when on his knees removing his shoes. Large, large hands cupping the small clothed feet, unclasping the buttons and sliding them out of their enclosure. He left the socks on this time, they were going to be part of the show, them and the bralette, and nothing else.

“Bend, I want to see that perfect little ass of yours.” His voice would be casual if it weren’t for the dripping boiling-hot lust that stuck to his tongue as he spun his toy around and pushed him over the back of the white couch, liking how it was too tall to meet his hips for a proper bend and instead aided in lifting him up on the very tips of his toes. He licked his lips, tugging on the crotch of his pants.

Scorching fingers grabbed the ample flesh of his ass, kneading it up like dough before he felt the wet sludge off his tongue gliding a trail up his spine, only stopping once he came to his neck where he began kissing wet, so very wet, drooling kisses up behind his ear. Again, inhaling through his nose as his clothed cock nuzzled neatly between his presented ass, humping into the welcoming heat.

“You smell good, did you shower like I asked...” Asked? They both knew it wasn’t a request, but yet he nodded his head from where he felt the blood beginning to pool where he was resting on the sofa-cushions upside-down. “Such a good pet.” His hips curved into him so he pushed his bulge up into his plushie backside, hands rubbing circles into his midriff, pulling him back to meet his mellow thrusts. “Is your throat still sore from choking on my cock?” His fingers, laid steadily on the softness of the couch, bending to grip the surface in order to hold himself back from crying. “Answer when you’re spoken to, pet.” Enji sounded bored, slightly bitter as he pressed his growing cock harder into his breakable little hostage.

He felt the tears begin to fall despite his efforts. “Sorry.” He pipped, half his face now buried in the couch. “My throat is fine, thank you for asking.” Enji’s hand went back to carelessly wandering, instead of gripping his hips so harshly.

“Good, I’m glad.” The statement didn’t seem heartfelt. “Spread your legs. Give me your hands.” His suspicion was answered through the heartless commands, Enji didn’t care.

He moved his feet away as much as he could without losing contact with the floor, which wasn’t really far at all, but he guessed Enji would steer him into the right position when the urge fell over him. Letting go of his grip on the couch-cushions proved more difficult as he was left sinking even further into the plushie surface without any support, yet he still managed, bending his elbows to fold his arms on his back, making it easier for Enji’s massive hand to grip both his wrists at the same time.

“I’ve been looking forward to taking this ass for so long…” He groaned, his hand giving the ass a rough squeeze. “Perhaps that’s why that slut can’t get me hard anymore, since I know what a perfect little pet I have waiting for me at home.” It was as though he used the fat of his ass as a handle to pull him up, lifting him briefly off the couch before dropping him back down again, hearing him give a little yelp at the action, again causing him to groan in satisfaction as he bumped his erection into where it fit so perfectly between his ass-cheeks. “I’ve been waiting so patiently… and so have you.” Enji mused, as though the boy at his mercy was having any of the same cravings. “I think today is the day we both get our reward.” Enji pulled on his wrists, dragging him off the couch, his feet meeting the cold floors again and quickly yanked into Enji’s hard chest. “I know you’re excited, but let’s get you to the bedroom first.” He taunted when he gave another squeal, looking up to see Enji’s unforgivingly hungry cerulean gaze, having tears and fears and swirling panic brimming in his own. “Wipe those tears, you can comfort yourself with having your face stuffed, use my cock like a pacifier.” The comment did far from comfort him, instead evoking a whimper as he swallowed thickly in a way of suppressing the hiccup that wanted to hitch in his throat at the dark promise.

He must have blacked out or zoned out or something alike it as a form of preparing himself for Enji, for when he came to he was upstairs, already placed on the bed, on his knees, in front of a naked Enji and large thighs made up of pure muscle and scares, and hair. Then of course the centerpiece, Enji’s large intimidating cock standing proudly up against his ripped stomach, with its angry mushroom-shaped swollen head puckering right into his face.

Enji’s hand rubbed lazily over the tip, smearing what precum had already beaded in the slit. Yet, he wasn’t given too long to just stand and admire it as Enji’s other massive hand come up to grip the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his short locks to form a better hold, pulling him down to level with the beast, pushing him further, head mushed and buried to cuddle with the manhood. Enji’s hips leaning in on repeat to meet how his hand pushed his face against the sensitivity of his sex, balls slightly swinging up against his chin.

“Come on, use your tongue.” Enji didn’t waste any time, starting to pull at the roots of his hair in order to frighten him into obeying. He succeeded, as the boy opened his mouth and laid his tongue out flat to taste the salty skin it was pressed against. “Lick from the base.” Enji commanded and the boy listened, dragging his tongue up with the guidance of Enji’s hand steering the back of his head up the entire length of his cock. Pulling him slightly away from the activity, making the boy wince at the sharp stinging off his roots being yanked. Enji’s other hand gripping the base of the giant pole to tap it in a slapping fashion against the lips that seemed so welcoming and warm, the boy shutting his eyes allowing some more tears to drip from where they had been welling. “Open up.” He did as he was told, lips parting to accommodate for Enji’s weeping cockhead. “There you go, taste me.” He groaned as he pushed his head further onto his cock, traveling into his mouth, filling him up and prodding at the back of his throat. The boy knew better than to think he was any less than half-way done, yet he couldn’t hold back the reflex of gagging. Not that Enji paid any mind to the complaint, only placing his other hand to control his chin as he continued nudging himself deeper, sinking down his throat. “Come on, swallow all of me, I want to feel that cute nose buried in my belly with your tongue licking my balls.”

He tried relaxing his throat, choking his length and girth down and down, sniveling as he held back the urge to pull away, knowing how the hand Enji placed at the back of his head wouldn’t allow him to move anyway.

His eyes traveled backwards when the lightheadedness of being barely able to breath got to him, which was when Enji let up, freeing him as both hands took their leave from holding him steady. “Such a good pet, do as your told.”

He coughed into the bedsheets while Enji’s hand pet over his head, his own fingers tightly gripping the fabric beneath, knuckling the textile into his palm, trying to compose himself before his head was guided to look back up at Enji again, who seemed to tower over him even though the both of them were on their knees, though the boy was rather bowing for the giant red-headed man.

Enji’s fat fingers came to pry open his mouth, pushing past everything with little regard. “Suck these fingers for me.” Shoving the digits down his throats and fucking the soreness for a while before retracting them. “Spit in my palm.” He didn’t argue, unless the sniffling cough he gave were to be considered a protest, before spitting all the saliva his mouth had produced when being attacked by the mass that filled him up before. “Get back on that cock.” 

Again, he didn’t waste any time, adamant on making sure Enji knew that there was no need for him to be using his hands to force himself down his throat as he guzzled down on his length, bobbing up and down with his head, letting him kiss the back of his throat as he glugged with his lips forming a tight circle around his girth, using his tongue to slide out to cover what areas of his cock he couldn’t reach when swallowing him down at the pace he was going. Desperately trying to please the beast.

Enji gave no warning, pushing his fat digit into his puckering hole from where he was being such a good boy with sucking him down like he’d asked. Filling and stretching his little ass, dragging an adorable whine from his throat, a whine Enji received on his cock, the unrestrained voice giving nice little tremors to vibrate alongside his girth, settling somewhere at the tip of his cock before traveling down into his heavy balls, making him buck deeper into his face. “Wouldn’t want that cute butt to get lonely while I fuck this pretty face.” He explained, as he sank the finger even further into his ass, listening to him mewl a panicked whine around his cock, simply fucking even deeper into his face, hand clasping around the back of his head to better rut into his skull, finger roughly stretching out the tender tight muscles from behind.

He cursed gruffly once he let up, admiring as his pet drooled and spluttered to breath at the absence of his cock in his mouth, spit slobbering down his chin and landing in thick puddles dampening the bedsheets beneath them. 

“Look at me.” He whimpering as Enji once again grabbed a tight hold on his chin, rough fingertips planted into his cheeks, sliding in saliva as he forced him to look up, lifting him upright, so much so his hands needed to leave their station on the bed in favor of supporting himself against Enji’s chest or else he’d simply be held up by Enji hand like a noose. “Open that mouth up.” He did his best to comply with the demand with how his hand seemed to pressure his jaw shut, though he managed, having his cheeks squeezed and lips puckering like a duck out towards him, a perfect parted hole he could aim and spit right into. “Swallow that for me pet.” It came as a shock having Enji’s warm liquid shot onto his tongue but he quickly recovered, letting it slide down his jugular before he swallowed. “Good boy. What do you say?” He could feel him quenching his pride and all hopes of fighting back in the whimper that ran up beneath his fingers on his throat.

“Thank you, Daddy.” There was no spite in the words, just wholehearted defeat and surrender, and the potency of it all sprung right to Enji’s ego, making his attention-craving cock throb with neediness.

“Good pet.” Hand tightened around his throat to lift him even higher up to meet with his face, kissing his slick face roughly, stiff lips setting the motion, bloated lips following suite, before the hand around his throat once again took advantage of its power and threw him back down on his hands and knees. “Now finish your meal.” The statement held nothing but hungry cruelty, followed by a long blob of spit dripping slowly from his tongue onto his cock, sliding down its length. “Lick it up.” Unsure eyes looked up through stinging saltwater, finding no hint of mercy, encouraging him to do what he was told before earning himself a punishment. Mouth promptly taking the large cock into his mouth again, yet he felt the sting of a slap to his cheek all the same. “I said lick, not suck.” He resisted the urge to soothe the red stinging flesh of his cheek and did as he was corrected, tongue lapping up the underside of the angry cock in his face. “Yes… good… there you go.” He was praised, and though it made his stomach sink, he also felt relief, for at least praise was far away from disappointment and the punishment that followed such a resolution.

What followed was simply Enji’s rumbling groans and moans as his fingers played with the short locks of hair at the back of his head, somewhat steering where his head would go, how far away and how up close and personal, whether to suffocate him with cock or not. He compliantly slurped up and down his length with his tongue hanging out from his mouth, spit dribbling down his chin, down his neck, dropping to the bedsheets beneath them, before Enji groaned again, this time signaling that he was bored, hands yanking him away from the wet activity.

“Lie down on your back.” He wasn’t given much freedom to do so on his own as he was pushed down and kept down as Enji swung his leg over his chest where he laid beneath him, trapping face between his thick deadly hairy thighs, threatening to squish his head until it popped from the pressure. “Open your mouth up pretty.” He gaped, feeling the slick of Enji’s balls slide on his chest as he sat down on top of him, pushing much air from out of his breakable ribcage and the lungs beneath. Cock laid between his nipples, cockhead touching his chin. Again, a blob of his spit met his tongue, accompanied by a light playful slap against his cheek. “Keep it open.” He couldn’t hold up to Enji’s command as rough fingers pulled at his sensitive nipples, squeezing them and tugging at them through the thin lacy fabric of his bralette, rubbing on them, making him whine in discomfort, yet with his hands locked to his side underneath the contraption of Enji’s thighs, he was given no room to fight back. “So pretty.” Enji admired, tweaking the nibs tenderly as he rocked his hips forwards, cock sliding up and down his chest, balls squished against him, before he sat up again, kneeling with his cock and balls hovering over him, threatening to sit down and suffocate him while riding his face.

Enji gripped his cock and tugged it up and down to dance his balls on the pretty face beneath him, though the wet cavern he wanted to dip into shut into a thin line before he could.

“I said keep your mouth open.” He growled and the boy was reminded of the former command, promptly opening wide. “Tongue out, play with these balls, Pretty.” His tongue rolled out, at once met with the size of Enji’s nuts as they slid up and down his wet muscle. “You get to decide today: do you want a face full of cum or do you want me to fill that belly up?” He wasn’t given much air to retort with his mouth being filled with cock and balls, Enji’s hand resting on his forehead to keep him perfect and still for his manhood to abuse. “Come on, pick one.” He made him gag as he forced his entire pole down his throat, allowing him no chance to reply. “That’s fine, you can have both since you’re so spoiled.” Again, he stuffed his mouth with his balls, making him gargle and suckle on them, before he took his shaft in one hand and slapped the side of his face, liking how his eyes squeezed even tighter shut at the sharp contact. His face covered in spit and smeared with precum, slick and glossy, with pretty wet lashes. “Let’s paint that face first.” He slapped his face with the weight of his cock again, before placing it on the middle, balancing the slug on his lips and nose, resting between the bridge between his eyes, chin buried in his ball-sack. “Smile for me, smile for Daddy.” 

He forced on a broken uncomfortable smile where he laid beneath the brute man, eyes still kept shut. Enji smeared what oozing precum had breached his tip onto his lips, as though requesting him to open up, which he did, being met with the entire mass of his cock stuffing his mouth, tickling the back of his throat as he fucked into his face. 

“Swallow me down, Pretty. Stay right there.” He choked and gagged at the feel of him continuously pushing into the tight canal of his throat, yet wasn’t allowed to move as Enji’s hand still balanced his head by tugging at the hairs over his forehead, pushing him into place. He coughed and spluttered desperately once Enji let go, though was given minimum time to collect himself again before Enji gave another growling and ruggedly desperate command. “Smile.”  

He fisted his length in his palm, finger rubbing over the tip, pumping furiously into the face beneath him before thick ropes of white cream came shooting out of the tip, hot and wet and sticky when it landing all over his face, running down his cheek, into his mouth, letting him taste bittersweet salt on his tongue.

Enji continued rubbing himself, though slower now, eyes scrunched close as he held onto the euphoric feeling of exploding, feeling himself gradually and too quickly for his liking, coming down from the high, though as he opened his eyes and looked down at what pretty artwork he’d made on his pet’s face he found that he was far from finished.

“What do you say?” His hand’s movements were slow and calculating as he rubbed himself tenderly, without rush.

“Thank you, Daddy.” He hiccupped, relieved to get some rest even as the stench of Enji aided in his discomfort, feeling his stickiness begin to dry on his skin. The rest didn’t last long though as Enji’s cockhead bumped into his lips, demanding he open up to take him inside his mouth again.

“Clean the tip.” He sucked on the mushroom-head, tongue swiping up to clean out the weeping slit. “Such a hungry spoiled pet. Does Daddy taste good?”

He let go with a pop to answer, knowing it was better to just play along. “Mmh, yes, Daddy.” He kissed the head, strings of slime connecting his lips to the thick pole. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Enji reached his hand behind him to find the perky perfect nipples he played with before, pulling at the nib to retract an open-mouthed whine from the boy, allowing him full access to the welcoming wet hole. “Suck some more, get all your spit out on me, get my cock nice and ready for your little butt.” He felt him whine and whimper on his cock at the sound of his words, the panic feeling delicious as it came out like vibrations tickling alongside his length, settling in his balls as he once again fucked into his little face, with him having no chance of escaping, being trapped so perfectly between his thighs. But, his face had gotten used and abused enough, and it was high time he buried himself balls-deep in the no doubt tight hole of his ass and fucked him into a crippled stupid mess.

“Come on, up on your knees.” Strong hands grabbed his hips as he moved off of him, dragging him up into position before he even knew what was happening, with no strength of his own to support himself, falling face first into the pillow to rest, an agonizingly cute display to the man standing behind him, lining him up. “Little boy is gonna get his ass stuffed by Daddy.” He started to jerk himself off, holding his hip and pulling him close. The hand ascending to his mouth so that he could spit into his palm, gathering wetness before grabbing the limp cock of his pet in his massive warm hand, resulting in the boy jolting out of his resting pose, surprised by the sudden touch of his sensitive member. Though he was pushed back down again by Enji’s other hand, it having left his own cock leaving it to rest between his ass-cheeks. “No, no.” He scolded. “Posture, Babyboy, face down in your pillow.” The massive hand pet over his head, pressuring him to simply lie there and take it. “Get this ass up.” He corrected his stance by pulling his hip up into position, back arching like a cat stretching, ass pulled close into Enji’s crotch. “Hands on your back, give me those hands.” He fished for the limp arms, folding them behind his back, letting go once he was assured the boy knew to listen to the order. “Now spread those knees.” Enji took hold of his thighs and shuffled his knees further to the side, the boy feeling the wetness of cold spit on the sheets, as Enji continued stroking the cock between his thighs so lovingly and tenderly, rubbing over the sensitive tender velvety cockhead again and again, feeling him leaning back and shivering under the touch. “There we go, perfect.” The hand pressed against his back dragged down his spine slowly, before it stopped to cup the ample soft dome of flesh, his thumb swiping over the unprotected tight butthole, all ready for the taking, helpless and broken and all his. “Are you excited?” Enji shuffled back on his knees, giving a quick glance over the perfect ass in front of him to inspect the face that was neatly and snuggly squished against the pillow, happy to see the pretty concoction of fear, surrender and anticipation displayed on his face, just like a submissive pet should look.

He shuddered as he felt Enji’s warm breath on his ass, the exposed sensitive ring of tender flesh slightly burning at the feeling.

“No one’s ever taken this ass before, have they?” The statement was rhetorical as he already knew the answer and was instead a gesture made simply to gloat, as it was followed by a satisfactory hum and a set of warm wet lips pressing a sloppy kiss onto the puckering opening, hand still jerking his cock, having him shivering for him. “You’re all nice and ripe for me?” Another wet kiss was placed at the entrance, though this time the lips remained tightly locked, mouth sucking on the skin, tongue laid out flat as he dragged the rough rigid texture up over the hole, before poking through the sensitive rim, pumping the fat wet muscle in and out of the tightness. He let go with a smacking pop, lips quitting their suction.

His thighs were shaking by the end of it, his cock still held firmly in Enji’s hand, allowing him no room to move away, in fear he might just rip his dick off. Enji balanced his own cock between the perfect set of plump ass-cheeks raised up for him. Putting his thumb into his mouth before he once again rubbed it over the now wet hole, pushing through the tight rings of muscle to bury the digit inside. “So tight.” Came his rugged breath as he groaned, beginning to rock his hips forward while pulling the boy back to meet him by the thumb he had hooked inside him, his thighs meeting with the back of his ass, as his cock stroked through the crack, where large heavy balls clapped against smaller ones.

The thumb was removed, though not the hand handling his cock as he was left drooling into the pillow he was pressed against, his own hands going numb where he’d managed to keep them perfectly folded behind his back. Though the absence of the thick thumb was soon replaced, doubled even, as two fingers sank into the hole, promptly curling them, forcing him to whine like a cat, a moan so wet it stuck in the drool in his throat. He whimpered as the digits parted from each-other inside him, stretching him out, before pumping them in and out slowly, working the tightness.

Enji groaned at the sound of the boy’s measly whimpers, wet and pathetic, perfect. “I think your pretty ass is ready.” He gripped his cock, tugging on it up against his stomach, spitting onto the glistening wet hole presented to him, the one he was soon going to plant himself deep within. He slowly and carefully, taking his precious time, as though savoring it, lined his manhood up at the puckered opening, gently pushing his twitching cock into the back entrance, forcing a cry out of the smaller creature at his mercy. “That’s so tight…” He moaned, closing his eyes, focusing on the tight snug fit pressing around his cockhead, hugging him close. His fingers had definitely made it easier to enter, but it wasn't enough to make it easy by any means. “Does it feel good?” The tone was patronizing, as though he was talking to a child, looking over at the drooling mess he was burying himself inside, feeling his butt twitch around the fatness of his tip, as though sucking on it. “Want me deeper?” He started slowly sliding in inch by agonizing inch. Breaching each ring of muscles that surrounded his fat length. “All the way?” Watching as his hard sex disappeared into the ample ass until he was completely engulfed. The view alone had him pulsing inside.

One hand steadied the ass, making it easier to sink into place without any interruptions or split-second fearful protests, acting as a represent and fear-tactic, threatening to land a sharp painful smack against the soft flesh if he were to go against what Enji had made clear was going to happen one way or the other. The other hand had more or less the same purpose, where it laid slow attentive strokes to the unsheathed throbbing cock. Though as he bottomed out inside his ass, the hand moved from playing with the painfully tender pulsating pole in favor of fondling the balls at its base, gathering both his own and his pet’s in his warm palm and messaging them together before he slid slowly out of the clenching tight hole, enjoying the tremors that seemed to wreck though the frail body he had positioned in prayer-stance before him.

“You like that?” Enji purred, having pulled almost all the way out before pushing back inside the warm walls of his slave. “You like getting taken in your tight little ass?” He wasn’t necessarily fishing for any response, most likely the opposite, simply wanting to prove how right and good and perfect their dynamic was, how this is something they both wanted, both needed. “Nothing to say, pet?” He snickered as he once again stuffed him completely full with his cock, listening to the wet choked moans that were whined into the pillow beneath him. “Is my little pet enjoying himself that much, is my cock that good?” He picked up the pace, only a little, rocking faster, fast enough for his balls to begin swinging to hit the other pair of balls it met with each soft thrust. “Tell me how good my cock is.” The hand steadying him squeezed the plush doughy flesh, a pain sharp enough to bring him to his senses, allowing him to formulate what words he knew Enji wanted to hear.

“Fe- feels good, Daddy, thank you Da- Daddy, feels so, so goo- good.” He croaked, face hugging the pillow close, buried in the fluff of it, the plush sucking up what drool seeped from out the corner of his mouth, and what tears spilled down from the corner of his eyes. The cover wet and sticky and itchy against his skin as he rocked softly further into it each time Enji filled him up and pushed him down.

“That’s right.” Enji drawled with a smirk, gorging at the submissive wet mess he had wrapped around himself. “And you thought you were scared.” He chastised. “When we both knew you were just hungry.”

[lonelyreputation]

Arpeggio

A/N: Woooo a long one! The idea has been on a stick note for three months and it’s finally here 🤧 It was a very fun one to write! I hope you enjoy it & let me know your thoughts! Ahh! 💥🥰💗

Summary: You’re a ghostwriter for a famous singer and Shawn is head over heels in love with the singer who he thinks writes her own music…But little does he know it’s you.

MASTERLIST | LET’S CHAT 🥂

Warnings: Few swear words

WC: 13.7K // Angst & Fluff

--

You sat on the edge of your seat, legs crossed, as you stared intently at the “famed” singer-songwriter who was reading over your lyrics.  She shuffled papers back and forth either humming in distaste when she didn’t like a particular lyric, or slamming a lyric sheet down on the table for a song she wanted to keep.

This was the third album cycle you had done this for her––writing songs and pitching them for her to sing.  All while you sat in the background and collected royalties off the copyright you owned.  

When you were sixteen, you wrote a song that circulated around a publishing company, and she––Zilla––did whatever she could to have the song be put on hold for her.  She was a newer artist, but you heard whispers that she bought out Kacey Musgraves in order to record your song.  

It started with one song as a work for hire, which grew to an EP where you had copyright ownership, and then to a full album…Which led you to sign a contract with her management team as her ghostwriter.

You remember it clear as day––you in their office, with your own entertainment lawyer, as Zilla and her manager slid an NDA across the table.  You remember the manager trying their best to not outright say that Zilla wasn’t talented in songwriting––She just spends so much time making sure her vocals are perfect that she doesn’t have time to write and everyone wants personal songs nowadays.

Zilla’s real name was Willow––but in order to keep the artist name the same as the songwriting credits––she picked a stage name.  So, her stage name was just Zilla, and your songwriting credit would be listed as Zilla Greene.  

While the public knew that Zilla was a stage name for Willow, they thought that she also wrote her own songs under the pseudonym Zilla Greene…But nobody knew how far from the truth that was.

The sound of papers slamming down on a wooden table snapped you out from your daydream, “None of these work,” Zilla leaned back on the couch and crossed her arms over her chest, “I want to change my sound.”

You had spent months crafting the songs in front of her.  Carefully crafted rhyme schemes, imagery that was similar to the second album you wrote for her that won her three Grammys, it had an even mix of upbeat songs and ballads…And she didn’t want any of them.

Your mouth dropped, “But what––You want––Why?”

Zilla shrugged her shoulders and picked at her nails, “The last album was so…Pop,” she cringed, “Too colorful. I need to change it up––Keep listeners on their toes––I’m seeing this album aesthetic as more black and white.”

You picked up your little notebook and scribbled down aesthetics and moods she wanted to match.  With each sentence she rattled off, you wrote down key words––songs that connect in a story, feeling lost, black and white, heartbreak––a bit of your soul crumbled as you saw the songs you worked so hard on lay abandoned on the table without a second thought.

“Give me an album that gives me a perfect score on Pitchfork.”

The pen you frivolously scribbled down ideas on dropped from your hand, “That’s––I can’t control Pitchfork!”

Zilla rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Then you better write a damn good album.”

“But you––Red!” You shouted out to grab her attention as you saw her packing up her bag, “That’s a nine.  Literally one point away from a perfect score.”

Hiking her back over her shoulder, Zilla flicked her perfect loose curls over her shoulder, “Red was a good debut album, 1989 was a good Grammy album, I need something great.”

And with that, the “famed” singer-songwriter walked out of the room.  The clacks of her heels were as loud as the sound of your heart shattering as you continued to stare at the songs on the table…That’ll never have the chance to see the daylight.  

---

It was a new day and the sun shining through your half-opened window as the thin white curtains softly blew with the breeze.  You were sat crossed legged on the floor in a little corner of your apartment that you claimed as your “writing room.”  It wasn’t much of a room––because you literally sat on the floor––but it was where you wrote the best.

You sat in the corner, right under the window, on a small pink and teal woven rug, with a few throw pillows, and lyric sheets scattered all over the floor.  

How were you supposed to create a whole new album when you had a perfect album already written?

With your head buried in your hands, you were at standstill, never having writer's block hit you this hard.  You had songs already written––An album that was hopefully a 7 on Pitchfork’s scale––but it wasn’t good enough for her.  

Nothing seemed to be good enough for her.

Your phone dinged with an email and you read the preview that it was just a Google Alert for Zilla.  You ignored the notification, not wanting to think about how angry you already were at her…even though you were currently writing for her.

A melody slowly came into your mind as you started humming into a voice note.  But it was quickly cut off short when you heard the stomps of Mia––your roommate––come running from the kitchen to where you were.

“Did you see this interview?”

You raised an eyebrow at her and directed your eyes to the strewn papers on the floor, “I’m a little busy?”

She waved you off and couldn’t stop smiling, “Shawn Mendes is like in love with you.”

The phone dropped from your hands, and you cringed because you knew that was going to sound horrendous when you played back the voice note. But that wasn’t what was on your mind.  

“What?!”

Mia nodded at your shocked reaction, but then backed up with her explanation, “Well, not you––Zilla,” she made a little throw up noise, “But he loves your songwriting.”

“How––”

Mia shoved her phone into your face and you saw a paused YouTube video.  In the video you saw Shawn Mendes sitting on a chair, holding a white poster board, as he was in the middle of ripping a paper off.  He was doing a Wired Autocomplete Interview.  You skeptically looked up at Mia, and she gestured with her hands for you to hit play.

So you hit play and immediately cringed at the sound of his nails coming in contact with the poster board as he ripped off the blocking.

“Did Shawn Mendes write a song on Zilla’s last album?”  Shawn let out a small laugh as he shook his head, “I wish she would write a song for me.”  His smile only seemed to grow as he continued talking about her, “She posted an acoustic clip of this new song she was working on––I’m hoping it’s on her new album.”

You felt a flutter of butterflies swarm your stomach because you knew exactly what song he was talking about.  It was the chorus to a song called Cardigan, the first song that Zilla hadn’t turned down for the new album. 

The video Zilla posted on her Instagram was dimly lit as she sat on the ground with her guitar.  And while she frustrated you to no end…You couldn’t deny that she had a beautiful voice.

And apparently Shawn Mendes thought so too.

“Ever since her self-titled EP, I’ve been obsessed with her,” at Shawn’s words you looked up at Mia who mirrored your smile, “There’s just something so personal about her songs and I…” he looked down at his shoes before looking back up at the camera, “I’m fangirling, but I really admire her songwriting.  I hope to write with her one day.”

He went to rip off the next question, but you paused the video, not wanting to hear the scraping sound again.

With the phone slightly shaking in your hands, you slowly picked your head up to look at Mia with a wide smile, “Oh my God.”

Mia nodded excitedly and jumped around in a circle, “Shawn Mendes likes––no loves––your songwriting!  He’s so in love with you––He wants to write songs with you––He––”

You started to feel an overwhelming sense of pride as a jolt of joy was sent from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.  Shawn Mendes––an artist that you admired for his work ethic––admitted to fangirling over your songwriting.  

You were about to get up and dance around with Mia because it felt like a celebration, but with one look at the lyric sheets scattered on the floor…Your excitement slowly diminished.  Because all of these songs––all of your feelings, your poetry, your deepest regrets and highest of loves––were going to her.

Zilla got the credit for your art.

People told Zilla that she inspired them to write songs.

And Shawn admired what he thought was Zilla’s songwriting.

You picked up the pen and twirled it around your fingers, clenching your jaw, as you casted a regretful look at the songs on the floor…They were your pride and joy, even the ones you didn’t like very much, because each song took a little bit of your soul and was then shared with the world.

“He’s in love with Zilla’s writing,” you sucked in a deep breath, “Not mine.”

----

Instead of your safe writing spot at your apartment, you were in the studio for a change.  Since the only people who knew about Zilla’s secret were you, Mia, your lawyer, her manager, and Zilla herself…The record label still booked sessions for Zilla to write.  So you found yourself in the studio a few times a month whenever it came time to write her a new album.

“How’s the album?”

You had been writing for hours and felt so exhausted that you should’ve been surprised when you didn’t hear a door open.  But you were absolutely dreading this album writing process, you were creating emotions––trying to draw from real experience––but nothing was working.

You stretched your arms over your head, squinting an eye when you heard your back crack, and looked up at Zilla with tired eyes, “I have a few songs.”

Her mouth dropped, not liking the progress you were making, “A few?”

“It’s been two and a half months since you said you wanted a whole genre switch,” You snapped at her, “You’re going from pop to some sort of folk alternative––”

Zilla scoffed, “You did this before.  Red was country and 1989 was pop.  This shouldn’t be a problem.”

The two of you were in a glaring match as you set your pen down, “You demanded a seventeen song album––Do you know how hard that is with the soft deadline Columbia gave you?”

“You had songs written before––”

“Then why didn’t you take those songs?” It was a genuine question, but also a question you knew the answer to.  And you were right when she spurted something off about wanting to change up her sound.

“People love me because I’m not predictable,” Zilla walked over to where you were sitting and picked up a lyric sheet, humming in approval before letting it slowly fall to the ground, “And the songs you wrote before weren’t good enough.”

“What do you mean––”

“It’s just writing a few songs,” Zilla huffed out, “I don’t see how you can’t do that between now and the soft release date.”

You closed your eyes and let your head fall on the back of the couch cushion.  You brought your hands up to rub the inside corners of your eyes, “You want a heartbreak album––I’m not in that headspace and you also need to record the songs.” 

You opened your eyes and immediately glared, “Do you remember how Rob Stringer nearly flipped because I still had to finish writing Clean but you lied and said it was just the backing vocals that needed to be done?”

As much as Zilla wanted to refute you, she knew she had no place, because what you said was absolutely true.  That was not a fun phone call to be a part of with the C.E.O. of Sony Music––even if you were on mute.

“It won him Album of the Year at the Grammys,” Zilla said in an unsympathetic voice, “And this album is going to be better than that.”

You let out a very loud and exasperated sigh, “That won’t cut it this time around!  At least I had some inspiration for that album, because I have none––”

“You’re crazy,” Zilla narrowed her eyes, “Just find a random person and have them break your heart.”  You had your mouth open for a rebuttal to tell her that that’s not how songwriting worked, but she picked a piece of lint off her sweater, “You’re pretty…enough.”

You squeezed your eyes tight as you felt yourself begin to seethe at her.  You started to feel a slight pain in your jaw with how hard your teeth were clenched together, but your eyes were still shut as you tried to simmer your anger, as your voice came out dangerously low, “Out.”

“You can’t kick me out!” Zilla laughed and you opened your eyes to look at the woman who had no respect for your artistry…Even though you were the one to give her a career in the first place, “I’m paying for your studio time.”

“No, technically,” you glared over her shoulder at the door, “Columbia is paying for the studio.”

Zilla huffed as she crossed her stiff arms over her chest, “No need to get so angry––”

You felt yourself becoming more angry at her presence.  Her presence was driving you insane and you knew that she was being a nuisance on purpose––poking you like a bear until she got her desired reaction out of you.

“Out!”

She looked at you with shock written all over her face.  You were never one to raise your voice at anyone, and you always bent over backwards to comply with whatever Zilla wanted.  But not now.  You only felt angry and crazy in her presence, and those feelings only intensified in you when she pointed out how crazy and angry you were acting.

Zilla left––you don’t know if it was after you screamed at her or if she stayed for a few moments longer––because for the first time in writing this album for her…You felt inspiration for a song hit.

You heard the light piano keys first, humming the pitch in your head, as the light sound of finger picking on a guitar creeped into the back of your mind.  Fresh off your argument with Zilla, the chorus of the song came first.  You channeled your anger into inspiration as your hand gripped the pen until your knuckles hurt.

You don’t know how long you were writing the song for, but it was almost finished––I’m taking my time––Oh, how you wished you could take your time with this album––Taking my time––Well, maybe you will take your time with this album and get her in trouble with all of her deadlines, even though it would technically be breaking your contract too––Because you took everything from me.

She took your songs away from you.

“Oh, Sorry I––I might be in the wrong room?”

You dropped your pen and slammed your writing journal closed because no one was supposed to be in this room.  With eyes wide, your heart stopped, because there were papers all around the room of potential songs for Zilla’s album.  

Lifting your wrist to look at your watch, you saw that you were eleven minutes past your allotted amount of time Columbia reserved.  Immediately, you scrambled to get off the couch as fast as possible, crunching your lyric sheets in the process.

You shook your head, still not looking up at the person because you wanted to make sure all of the songs were in your possession, “You’re probably in the right room.  I––I’ve stayed past my time just a little and I––This is most likely definitely your room––”

“Wasn’t Zilla in here before?”

You froze and gripped the song sheet that you were currently stuffing in your bag.

Shit.

Slowly, you took a deep breath, and looked up at the person who had the room reserved after you.  And your already wide eyes doubled in size when you saw that it was Shawn Mendes standing in front of you.  The guy you saw on Mia’s cracked iPhone screen a few months ago––fangirling over songs you wrote.

His knuckles were white as he gripped his guitar case––in what you assumed to be excited nerves––as his head darted around the small studio space, hoping to catch a glimpse of the singer-songwriter.

“Oh, yeah she––She was done like forty minutes ago,” you spewed out a lie, “And then she let me use her remaining time.”

Shawn’s shoulders sunk in disappointment, and his smile faltered just a tad, undoubtedly disappointed that he missed his chance to meet a songwriter he admired.  But little did he know that songwriter he actually admired was standing right in front of him.

You never wanted to be in the spotlight, never liked having attention on you, and it’s part of the reason why you agreed to work as Zilla’s ghostwriter.  But with how her career took off, her songs––your stories––were gaining much more recognition than you ever thought.  And it was times like these that you wished you could tell someone––other than your roommate––that they were your songs.

“So…” Shawn rocked on his feet a few times, quickly breaking eye contact with you to look at the remaining papers on the ground, “Are you friends with her?”

You nodded your head as you bent down to pick up the remaining songs, stuffing them deep in your bag, “We’re like––Uh––Yeah, pretty good friends.”  

How else were you supposed to describe your business relationship with her?  In the beginning, you hoped it would be more of a collaborative experience––Zilla telling you stories about her that you could write into songs––but that wasn’t the case.  

She didn’t want to do any work besides reap the benefits of traveling the world and having millions of people adore her.

He ran his free hand through his curls, following your every move of cleaning up your mess, “Do you sing?”

His question caught you off guard, “Pardon?”

Shawn let out a small laugh and gestured to the recording studio the two of you were in, “Are you a musician?”

You immediately shook your head, “Oh no, I’m––I write.”

“Ah, a songwriter,” Shawn softly smiled in appreciation as he went to set his guitar down by the other couch in the room, “Without people like you, us singers would be useless.”

“You write your own stuff.  Not many people do that anymore,” you rolled your eyes at his compliment, “That’s a redeeming quality.”

Shawn shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah, I…I do write my own stuff.  With some help obviously, but it’s rare to find that nowadays.” You nodded in understanding as the two of you stood in silence.  He slipped his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans as a smile lit up his face, “Except for Zilla.  Now she…Wow,” he whistled low, “She’s a once in a lifetime artist.”

You felt your throat tighten up.

“Yeah, that’s…” You let out a fake laugh as you bit the inside of your cheek, “That’s one way to put it.”

Shawn eagerly nodded as he continued to talk about your least favorite topic, “Her words––Her experiences––It’s all so personal.  Sometimes I feel like I’m eavesdropping or reading her diary,” He plopped down on a black rolling chair and his smile grew wider, “Now she’s someone I respect.”

And while you knew he was complimenting your work, he didn’t know it.  The person who he thought he respected so much was in the music industry for all the wrong reasons.  The person he thought so highly sent you a text on the day she got her first Billboard number one––a song that you wrote––and demanded a new song in a few weeks time all while she popped open a bottle of champagne on her Instagram.

You nodded your head, knowing that if you said something, it wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

“I’ll let you get to work,” you picked up your journal from the couch cushion and slipped it in your bag, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

You turned to walk out the door but Shawn’s voice called you back, “Hey––You, um…I think this is yours?”

Turning around, you saw Shawn looking down at a familiar white piece of paper with words scratched out and arrows changing up verses, “This is…This is really good…” he looked up at you, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Y/n,” you rushed out as you snatched the paper out of his hold.

Shawn nodded his head and stood up from the chair, leaning over your shoulder to continue reading the lyrics, “Centennial park…” he scratched his chin, “Nashville?”

You folded the paper in half, shielding your story from his eyes, as you lied, “Different park.”

Still stuck on the song, your mouth dropped as Shawn yanked the piece of paper out of your hands, opening it back up to skim over, “Maybe in the bridge––The last line…” you reached out to grab your paper from him, but he held it over his head, tilting his head back so he could still read the lyrics, “Change string to thread? Change up the lyrics like you did with the chords.”

Once he got his thought out, he lowered the piece of music and you grabbed it back, glaring at him as you stuffed it deep into your bag, “These aren’t mine,” you said bitterly, because while they were your words, they would eventually belong to Zilla, “They’re Zilla’s.  So I’ll let her know.”

Shawn’s eyes bugged out of his head, mouth wide open in shock, “You––You have her lyric sheets?!”  His eyes quickly darted down to your bag.  You pulled your bag closer to your side out of protection, “The things I would do to have whatever job you have.  I mean––To be able to read her songs before they’re out? That’s––I will literally trade places for a day with you.”

You let out a weak laugh, wishing that you got out of the studio on time, “I’m sure your job pays much better than being her…assistant.”

Shawn’s eyes glistened with excitement, “You’re her friend, assistant, and you get to read her songs?”  Shawn ducked his head as he let out a chuckle, “I’d do anything to be you for a day.”

You pulled your eyebrows together, but tried to keep your face neutral, “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” But his smile only widened as he daydreamed about being so close to someone you thought was cousins with the devil, “I should really get going.”

Shawn nodded in understanding but called your name out, “Y/n––I don’t know if this is too forward, but…I mean––You don’t have to do it––But could you give Zilla my number?”  He didn’t get a chance to look at how everything about your appearance dropped.

You were stunned as your mouth hung open, your eyes drooped in sadness, shoulders deflated…But he couldn’t visibly see the weight that you felt like was dropped in your stomach.  He picked up a pen you left on the table and scribbled his number on a sticky note and you couldn’t remember a time where you felt so defeated.

He tore the sticky note off the pad and handed it over to you as he blushed, “I’d really love to write with her.”

You’d love to write with me, your brain screamed at you.  But outing yourself as Zilla’s writer wasn’t worth all the lawsuits you would face.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and numbly nodded, “I’m sure she’d love to write with you too.”

----

Two and a half weeks later you found yourself writing in the same studio.  And while you normally felt cooped up when in the studio, it was better at being at your apartment.  Ever since you told Mia about your run in with Shawn it was the only thing she talked about.

She told you that it was the perfect time to tell the truth about your career––bring that witch down once and for all––were her exact words.  But you didn’t want to deal with the mess of breaking an NDA.  

So the next time you saw Zilla, you told her about your run in, and unenthusiastically handed her the sticky note with his number.  Her smile was as wide as his when you told him you worked with Zilla.  And while Zilla portrayed herself as a down-to-earth singer who transcended all genres of music…She was nothing but the opposite.  

And from your brief run in with Shawn, you knew he was completely opposite of Zilla in every way, shape, and form.

The sound of your phone ringing brought you out of your songwriting process, without looking at caller I.D., you answered, “Hi, this is––”

“Y/n.”

You sucked in a breath when you heard her voice, “I have half of the album written.  I’ll send you the songs and then you can record them,” You doodled in the margin of your journal, “So that way we don’t get in trouble again––”

“No, stop––Shawn is on his way to the studio.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your grip around the pen tightening as it scratched a hole in the paper, “I’m sure the fans will be happy to see pictures––

“No. Shut up for a minute,” at her strict tone you straightened your posture, not liking the way she was talking to you, “He’s coming to you. Where you are.”

You were about to make a quip about how she should talk to you with a little more respect, but when you heard the news of Shawn, your mind went from lyrical songwriting to ultimate panic.

“What?!”

“And I’m like an hour away from you,” you heard a car horn beep on the other end, “God, I hate L.A.––But he––He wants to write songs with me––”

“But you don’t write your own songs.”

“Don’t I fucking know,” she sneered through the phone.

A victorious small smile crept on your face, “Then why did you agree?”

“We had lunch and I told him I had a studio time slotted and he just texted me that he’s ten minutes away,” Zilla said all in one breath as she honked her horn twice, “because he wanted to surprise me.”

“Not much of a surprise if he’s texting you.”

She honked her horn again, “Y/n.”

“Sorry, sorry…I just,” you looked around at the mess you created in the studio.  There were your usual papers strewn around, empty coffee cups, some takeaway food containers on the table that you were too lazy to throw out, “I’ve been here for like seven hours and there’s no way it’ll be clean before he comes.”

“Well do something––”

“Y/n?”

At the sound of your name being said gently in the same room as you, instead of it being yelled at through a phone, you quickly hung up on Zilla and threw your phone to the other end of the couch.  You snapped your head up, and like the first time you saw him, he had his guitar case clutched in his hand, knuckles white.

“Shawn,” You said his name carefully as you looked wearily at him, “Hey.”

He slowly nodded his head, “Is…” and you cringed when you saw him looking around the mess you created in the studio, “…Is Zilla here?”

“Oh she––she just––” you had to think of something quick, “Had to pick something up at the pharmacy and it’s a bit out of the way––and she––so she called me and wanted me to uh––keep watch.”

Shawn looked at you, letting out a confused laugh, as he tilted his head, “Keep watch in a highly secure recording studio where the rooms lock?”

You nodded your head, keeping up with your lie, “She’s very very protective of her work space.”

Again, he nodded his head as he took another look around the messy studio, “I can…see that.”  He shrugged his shoulders at the mess and took a seat on the ground.

You gathered up some of the papers that were on the couch around you, and on the table, and on the floor, “She had to go across town so she’ll be some time,” you shuffled the papers together until they all lined up.  You set them aside and flipped to a clean page in your notebook, “So like––Make yourself at home.”

In the midst of gathering your stuff up to leave, he called you back in, “Y/n,” you lifted your head up to see an amused smirk on his face, “Leaving your watch position in her studio?”

Your eyes widened, “Well, uh––You’re here now so like––I think it’ll be fine if you’re here, and if you have stuff to work on, I don’t want to get in the way––”

Shawn shook his head, “Stay.”

As if you were trapped under a spell, you set your bag down on the couch and sat on the ground across from him.  You sat with your legs criss-crossed as he opened the lid to his guitar case, “So…” you started off slow as you watched him carefully pull out his guitar.

Once he got in a comfortable sitting position with his guitar, you saw him pluck some strings and adjust the tuning pegs.  There was one string that sounded off and you couldn’t hide your cringe.

“That B is flat.  It needs to be higher.”

Shawn moved on to tune the E string, “I think it sounds fine.”

Even though he was looking down at his guitar, you still shook your head, “Get your tuner. It’s flat.”

Shawn let out a playful sigh and picked his head up to look for his tuner.  Once he found it in the case, he clipped it on the head of the guitar, “If it’s not perfect, I buy you a coffee,” he smiled at you, “And if it is perfect, you buy me a coffee.”

You only offered him a smile as your response, already knowing that he would be the one buying you coffee.  And when he got everything set up, plucked the string again, he looked at the tuner and frowned.  He started twisting the peg as he continued to pick at the string until the B string sounded like music to your ears.

Shawn lifted his head up, a small smile toying at the edges of his mouth, as he looked at you through his eyelashes, “Do we have perfect pitch over here?��

You smiled and shrugged your shoulders, not wanting to brag because you did have perfect pitch, “I like a cappuccino––light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso.”  

Shawn laughed at your response and rested his arm along the body of the guitar, “Working on anything exciting?”

You saw him eye the small stack of papers to your left, “Um…” self-consciously, you moved the papers further behind you so they were out of eyesight for him, “No…Not really.” Shawn gave you a look saying that he didn’t believe you, but you flipped the question to him, “What about you?  Getting some inspiration for new songs?”

On the outside, you wiggled your eyebrows in a suggestive manner, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of joking.  But on the inside, you felt your heart squeeze and your lungs collapse.

And it crushed you even more when he ducked his head and blushed, “I’m sure she’s told you plenty.”  You laughed, pretending like you knew he was talking about, but Zilla hadn’t told you anything. 

“She’s just so…Not what I expected,” a part of your spirits lifted, hoping he had seen her for who she truly was, but that was diminished when you noticed the far off dreamlike look in his eyes, “I think it makes me like her even more.”

You breathed out a silent laugh, twisting your hands together, “She’s a tricky one.  Always…always surprising people.”

Shawn nodded his head and slowly strummed the guitar, “I think I like being surprised.”

This time, you threw your head back in genuine laughter, but when you saw his confused stare, you coughed in the crook of your elbow, “Stick with her if you like to be kept on your toes.”

Shawn tried to conceal his smile, but you knew he was already enamored with Zilla, too far gone to be swayed by anything you could say, “I’ll take that advice.”  The two of you sat in another silence, as he softly strummed some chords on his guitar.

“Enough about her,” Shawn offered you a friendly smile, “I’m having trouble with something––Partly why I wanted to see her in the studio––” he leaned over to his backpack to grab out his sheet music and handed it to you, “See, I wanna do this,” he tried playing a chord, “But it’s not––I want it to sound different.”

You snorted and laid the sheet of paper on your knee, “That’s a good way to describe something you want changed.”  Shawn glared at you, and you rolled your eyes, “How about…Have you tried an arpeggio?”

“You definitely went to music school.”

You waved off his comment, “I’m sure you know what it is––just maybe not it’s technical name,” you pushed yourself off from the ground and walked over to grab your guitar.  Having already tuned it when you got in the studio, you sat down and situated the guitar on your lap.

“It’s like; do, do, do, do, do…” You tried humming, but when his face was still confused you started to play one of the most recognizable guitar riffs, “House Of The Rising Sun, the opening is an arpeggio,” you continued to hum along with the notes as you saw everything click in understanding in Shawn’s head.

You continued to play the opening chords on loop, “It’s a broken chord.  So that way you can hear the individual notes,” you explained, “Say on piano, you would play an arpeggio by just playing each individual key, and it’s the same on a guitar.  So when you play it slower,” you slowed down your strumming, “You can hear them more individually.”

Shawn nodded his head in awe of his little music lesson.

“They’re usually played in either ascending or descending order,” you picked up the pace of your strumming, before placing your hand flat on the strings, over the sound hole, to stop playing completely, “They’re also pretty common if you play them in a triad.”

Again, Shawn only nodded, enchanted by the sound of guitar.

“How much do you charge for music lessons?”

You let out a loud laugh and set your guitar over to the side, “I think you’re probably good in that department, but just buy me coffee then we’ll call it even.”

Shawn eagerly nodded his head, “I’m holding you to that––So like, with an arpeggio, is it always obvious that it’s there? Or do you have to listen to it really really closely?”

“I mean…” you tilted your head to the side, trying to find wording for the answer, “I think they’re more common than people realize? It’s a bit technical, because you're consecutively picking notes on different strings, but if you listen really closely, you’ll pick up on the broken chords.”

Shawn nodded, eyes seeming to be unfocused on something behind you, “Broken chords…” he mumbled under his breath a few times.

Feeling a little unsettled with him staring off into space, you cleared your throat, and that did the trick to snap him back to reality.  

He smiled and then nodded his head toward the lyric sheet he handed you, “And these lyrics…I can’t––” He leaned over and slid the lyrics across the floor so that they were placed in between you two, “Something’s off.”

You nodded your head, biting your bottom lip in concentration, trying to figure out the root of the problem.  Because while the lyrics were good, and you were able to hear the melody he had written down in your head, there was something off about them.

“Your rhyme scheme,” you mumbled, eyes still concentrated on the lyric sheet, “It’s a bit all over the place.  So I would just narrow that down, figure out if you’re doing an arpeggio or not, and you should be golden.”

When you looked up, you saw Shawn look at you with the same admiration he had in his eyes during your first conversation when he said how much he respected Zilla’s songwriting.  

You broke eye contact with him and scratched the back of your ear, “But only if you want––I don’t––Zilla is probably the person you should ask about this––”

Shawn shook his head, “She keeps blowing me off whenever I ask for her opinion,” and when you brought your gaze back up to him, he looked unsure of himself, “I know I’m not up to her level, and she’s…nice, but she always seems too busy to write.”

The insecure downcast of his eyes, and shrunken up body language, was a look you knew all too well.  He didn’t think he was good enough to write songs with her.  And what killed you was that he thought that way because she kept giving out false hope to him.  It angered you because if only he knew that he was actually writing songs with the person he admired, he would have a different perspective on everything.

You let out a sigh, knowing exactly how rejected he must feel, and slid the song sheet back over to him, “For a cup of coffee I’ll give you music lessons.”

Everything about Shawn’s demeanor switched like a light.  His posture straightened out, eyes beamed with joy, and his smile looked to be a little too wide after just offering him music lessons, “Please.”

You shyly nodded your head, feeling heat raise up to your cheeks, as you pulled down your phone from the couch and handed it over to him, “You can put your number in and then we can find a time.”

“I really appreciate this,” Shawn said as he swiftly typed away on your phone, “I can’t even––”

“Shawn?”

The voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to you, but you regained your neutral composure before Shawn had the chance to notice any change.  You looked up to see Zilla in the doorway, glaring down at the two of you––with your guitars out and a music sheet in between you.  Shawn quickly handed your phone back to you, his full attention captured by Zilla.

“Hey, Z,” Shawn waved at her, still sitting, “Y/n was just helping me write––”

“Was she?” She gave you a pointed look that was meant to be a silent yell at you to not help him whatsoever because it could blow both of your covers.

You nodded your head, standing up with your guitar, putting as much distance between you and Shawn, “I only helped a little.  I told him you were the one he should go to.”

And with that answer, you still received a glare from her because of course she was useless in helping him with anything music related.  You could never win with her.

He handed his lyric sheet out toward Zilla, “If you want, you can look at what I have––”

“Actually,” Zilla cut him off with a smile, “I thought we could get some lunch.”

Shawn looked down and tapped the screen on his phone, the light illuminating a small portion of his face, as he looked up with eyebrows scrunched together, “It’s five fifteen?”

Zilla clapped her hands together, “Early dinner then.”

When you looked over at Shawn, you could see that he was disappointed that Zilla––once again––brushed off his attempt to write.  With a slump of his shoulders, you heard a barely audible exhale of annoyance come from him, as he packed up his guitar with a nod.

Once his guitar was packed away, he stood up and offered you an apologetic smile.

“Come on,” Zilla reached out her hand for Shawn to take, “There’s this really good sushi restaurant we can go to before it gets too crowded.”

And even though you could tell that all he wanted to do was sit down and write songs, when he looked at her, his smile was genuine.  He melted right at her touch and his eyes softened.  

His eyes flooded with admiration for her because he thought she was the one who wrote the music she sang.  He looked at her like she was his inspiration to keep writing better music. He’s looking at her the way he should be looking at you, your mind screamed.  

His eyes only added insult to the injury that started the day you signed your contract agreeing to be her ghostwriter.

“I’ll see ya for a music lesson later, Y/n.” Shawn smiled over his shoulder as Zilla dragged him out of the door.

Before Shawn looked back at Zilla, she shot you a smirk, as if she was claiming Shawn in victory.  And in a sense, she had won whatever contest she made up in her head.

She won by becoming a household name, she won by not doing any of the grunt work of composing music, she won by having people do the work for her, and she won the heart of the second most famous pop singer-songwriter in the world because he thought she wrote all her own songs.

And just like that, with the slam of the door, you were left exactly in a position you found yourself in plenty of times before.  You were left alone in a studio, with all of your songs, while Zilla pranced around with the newest person who caught her attention.

But this time, instead of both of you not caring about what the other one did, you could feel yourself being exiled from any part of her life that revolved around Shawn.  And you knew she did it purposefully.  She was threatened that your songwriting could easily sway Shawn away from her.  She was threatened because she knew she couldn’t give Shawn exactly what he wanted; a partner to write songs with.

And just like every other time Zilla left you aggravated with too many feelings, you began to write a song.

----

You took your sunglasses off and squitend your eyes as you scanned the outside patio of the coffee shop.  You were about to take your phone out, but when you saw Shawn stand up from the table and excitedly wave his hands above his head, you smiled and weaved through tables.

When you approached the table, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and your smile widened as you brought your arms around his waist.

“My favorite music teacher,” Shawn hummed as he pulled away from the hug.

You were a little disappointed he cut the hug off short, but you had to keep in mind that he was somewhat kind of seeing Zilla.  You tried to get her to define her relationship with Shawn, but she would just wave you off and say it was nothing serious or kept asking if you were jealous.

While you might’ve been a little jealous whenever you saw a low quality paparazzi picture of them out in L.A, knowing that Zilla kept lying to Shawn about her songwriting “ability” always made you sleep with a smile on your face.

Just like the past month and a half when you met Shawn for coffee for one of your “music lessons,” he was always there first.  And like every other time before, he had your cappuccino––light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso––at the spot across from him.

Not wanting to waste any time, Shawn eagerly took out his songwriting journal and flipped open to a random page.  He slid the journal over to you and a laugh escaped your lips every time you saw how chaotic his journal looked.  

He had different color post-it notes sticking up from the top, corners of pages that were worn down because of how frequently he dog-eared them, and the occasional loose leaf paper that was folded up and stuck between two pages.

Taking a sip of your coffee, you leaned closer to his journal, trying to decipher the messy script that was his handwriting.

You leaned back in the chair, nodding as you took another sip of coffee, “I like it.”

“Just like?” Shawn wrinkled his nose.

Shrugging your shoulders you took another look at the lyrics, “I mean…It’s a compliment?”

Shawn let out a sigh and buried his head into his hands for a moment before looking up at you with a pout, “Something’s not right.”  He leaned over the table a bit and pointed at the second verse, “I don’t know what it is, but something isn’t right.”

“I like it.”

Shawn crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair, “No, there’s something you’re not telling me,” he glared at you, “You ripped apart my song last week and now you’re too quiet.”

You took another sip of your coffee to cover up the fact that you did think something was wrong with it.  But like he said before, with the way you tore his song up last week, you felt a little bad.  You didn’t want to make him feel like he wasn’t a good songwriter, because he had a way with words that you found yourself learning from.

He didn’t have quite as many songwriting awards as you, but you knew he wasn’t too far off.

With a sigh you offered him a weak smile, “You’re too vague.”  And with your first point of criticism, Shawn leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he took out a smaller journal and began to write down what you said, “You’ve already had songs that have touched on feeling lonely, and you’re really specific in the first verse, but too general with the second verse…” you trailed off your sentence and pointed at some scribbles on the paper, looking up at him, “Why’d you cross this out?”

Shawn stopped his scribbling to see what you pointed at, and when he saw the lyric, his cheeks turned red and he let his curls shield his embarrassed face, “It’s nothing,” he grumbled, “What should I change it to?”

You shook your head, “Nuh-uh,” you gave him an encouraging smile, “What did you write?”

He shook his head and looked down at the table, “I don’t like it.”

Under the table, you lightly brought your foot up to tap his shin.  You didn’t stop nudging his leg with your foot until you saw a small smile grace his lips when he shyly looked up at you, “I’m wondering.”

Shawn rolled his eyes at your poor pun and retaliated by nudging his foot against yours in order for you to stop teasing him, “It’s…” he shook his head, “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it’s really not as bad as you think,” you smiled at him again, “If you tell me what the lyric was, I’ll tell you what I think you should do music composition wise at the end.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and stepped on your foot, “You’re evil.”

You let out a small laugh as you rounded your hands around the hot coffee, “I see your three starts next to it, I know that’s your little ‘I need help’ symbol.”

Shawn flipped you off and it only caused the small amount of butterflies in your stomach to grow even more.

With a deep breath, he looked down at his hands and started picking at a loose piece of skin, “I wonder…” He peered up to see your anxious gaze, but then diverted his stare back down to his hands as he tore up the paper napkin in front of him, “When I cry into my hands, I’m conditioned to feel like it makes me less of a man.”

You were in the middle of lifting your coffee mug up for another sip, but when you heard the rest of the lyric your hands froze mid-air.  You felt rooted to your seat as you stared at his face that still hadn’t looked up from tearing little pieces off the napkin.

How did he think that that lyric was not good enough?  That was something that you wished you wrote.

It was so vulnerable and honest and most of all, it was true to who he was.  In songwriting, no matter how personal a person thinks their experience is to them, there will always be hundreds upon thousands of people who will resonate with your story.

That was something you learned and used to your advantage.  

On Red, you fought hard for one particular breakup song to stay on the album that Zilla thought was too personal.  She kept saying––No one will care about leaving a scarf at his sister's house…No one will connect with dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light…And absolutely no one has had anyone ever call them up again just to “break them like a promise.”

But you fought hard and it was the song that solidified Zilla as this generation's greatest lyricist.  And it was also the song she performed on the Grammy’s when her debut album was nominated for Album of the Year.

Nervously, Shawn peaked up and saw the neutral expression on your face as you sat frozen.  He ran a hand through his hair and reached a hand across the table to pull his journal back, “See?  You think it’s stupid.  I––That’s why I crossed it off.  It’s too vulnerable and if people heard me say that?” He let out a somber chuckle, “They would think of me as less of a man.”

You pulled his journal back toward you and snatched the pen he had laying next to his other notebook, “That’s…Shawn that’s an incredible lyric.”  

You re-wrote the lyric on top of where it was originally scratched out, “There’s so much strength in vulnerability.  Not enough people––especially male artist’s––are comfortable with their vulnerability.  It’s refreshing and amazing and what you wrote––That lyric…”

When you looked up from re-writing the lyric down in his journal, you saw that he was trying to contain his growing smile by biting his bottom lip.  And this time under the table, when you brought your foot up to his, you gave it a single tap in reassurance, “It might be my favorite lyric ever.”

His voice cracked, “Really?”

You nodded your head, “It fits so well with the theme of self-discovery and being honest with yourself,” his smile widened with every compliment you offered him.  You leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over your chest with a proud smile on your face, “I think you knocked it out of the park with that one.”

Shawn ducked his head again and went back to ripping small pieces off the napkin, “That…That means a lot coming from you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you felt an electric current jolt through your veins, “If that lyric doesn’t make the song I won’t listen to the album.”

With a laugh so loud that it caused a few coffee shop patrons to look at your table, you let a smile overtake your face as you admired how the corners of Shawn’s eyes crinkled in joy.

“I’ll keep that promise,” Shawn scratched the bridge of his nose as he came down from his laughter, “So…” He briefly looked down at his songwriting journal with a smirk before looking back into your eyes, “What should I do with the end?”

You noticed a new flame of confidence in his eyes as he pushed his journal toward you more.  You let out a laugh as you looked at him with your eyebrows raised in excitement, “I’m thinking of a choir and horns…”

----

As your “music lessons” with Shawn continued for the next few months, so did your writing for Zilla’s next album.  And unfortunately, Zilla and Shawn also continued to see each other.  And while it was always a punch in the gut whenever Zilla brought it up, your conversations with Shawn were solely on writing and experimenting with different synthesizers for his new album.

With your contract that essentially hid you from the public, it was so refreshing to be able to collaborate with someone instead of writing by yourself.  Even though you mainly just helped Shawn with a bit of writing and composing some music, it was an experience that gave you new inspiration.  

You always thought you worked best alone, but collaborating with Shawn opened your eyes to everything you were missing out on.

It was all fun until Shawn approached you saying that he wanted to give you credit on his upcoming album.  That was when reality hit you because there was an exclusivity clause in your contract with Zilla stating that you could only write for her.  You tried to politely decline Shawn’s offer, but every time you saw him he brought it up.

It wasn’t until you told him you would stop your music lessons with him if he kept asking you.  

The times after that, you could tell he wanted to bring it up, he was fair in wanting to give credit where credit was due, but you told him not to worry about it.  Someone had been taking credit for your songs for years.

And soon enough the end of July came around and the album you wrote––Zilla’s album––folklore, was released to the world.

The public’s reaction to this album was more than you could’ve imagined.  It started off as an album with no inspiration, just meaningless stories, but it morphed into an album that you held close to your heart.  It had your true feelings, real experiences––that might’ve been exaggerated just a little––but it was still an album based on personal experiences.

And while it only got an eight on Pitchfork––two points off from a perfect album––Rolling Stones gave it a 4.5 out of 5 rating with possibly the most beautiful review Rob Sheffield ever wrote about your songwriting.  You made sure to hound Zilla to send him a thank you basket.

It might’ve been your favorite album you’ve ever written, and while you sipped on a glass of red wine at the album release party, all you had to do was look over to see Shawn’s laughing face to know why it was your favorite album.

He was still clueless that you wrote the album.

He still didn’t get any of the signs you gave about being the true songwriter.  It was always you writing with Shawn while Zilla pulled him away to go out to an expensive restaurant. And while he still looked at Zilla like she was the most inspiring songwriter of today’s generation…He was starting to look at you the same way.

The inspiration behind the album came from everywhere.  It was mostly centered around your frustrations with Zilla and how most of your regrets lied with signing that contract at sixteen.  No matter how hard you tried, it still felt like you wasted most of your potential writing for her instead of yourself.

But then Shawn came into the studio that one day.  He came in and your perspective changed.

You took another sip of red wine as the opening chords of the 1 started to play around the small venue ZIlla rented out to celebrate the release.  Bitterly, you took another sip of wine, as you looked at the boy who inspired the song and threw an arm around the person you despised most in the world.

If one thing had been different…If you were the person who rightfully got credit for your work…Maybe it would’ve been you he threw an arm around and pulled in close to his chest.

Your wine glass was still half full, but you tossed your head back to finish it off.  And when you brought the glass down, you saw Shawn turn his head toward you and offer you a wave.

You tightly smiled back at him and whirled around to the bar to get yourself another glass of wine.

You took full advantage of the open bar Zilla provided and another glass of red wine was placed in your hands.  And as you tasted the alcohol hit the back of your throat, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of them.

If only all of your wishes came true.

----

“And we’re back!” James Corden cheerily smiled at the camera before turning to face the three guests sitting on the couch.

You were backstage watching with Shawn as the crowd clapped at the “return” from the commercial break.  While you never went with Zilla to any of her interviews, you started tagging along to them to fit your “assistant for Zilla” cover story you told Shawn.

And with folklore released just a few weeks ago, you had accompanied Zilla on more than enough of the press tour.  You were back in L.A., which eased your spirits a little, but it didn’t ease the bubble of animosity that you felt toward Zilla every time she talked about her experience writing folklore.

“So, Zilla,” James started off, “Congrats on the new album––folklore.”  Everyone cheered and a smile lit up her face as James continued to praise her songwriting, “I’ve got to say, it’s probably my favorite album of yours.  It’s so different than anything you’ve ever written before.”

Zilla crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knees, “It was…It was a totally different experience writing this album, and when inspiration hits you just have to get it all out…”

As Zilla went on about her fake inspiration for the album, you tuned her out.  You could care less about what she thought the songs meant, but when you heard James bring up a little segment he wanted to do with Zilla, you felt your heart jump to your throat.

James deviously smiled, “As one of the greatest songwriters of our generation––Oh, stop blushing you know you are––I think we should play a little game.”

Zilla let out a small laugh, “Oh?”

Even though you couldn’t stand her, you knew when she was nervous.  Her foot started to bounce and she ran a hand through her hair as she quickly looked down at the ground.

And before James explained his little game, you felt someone rush past you with an acoustic guitar in their hands.  You felt your stomach churn with anxiety because Zilla had already performed on the show, and she was the only musical guest on the show.

The crew member rushed on stage to hand the guitar to James and then quickly ran off.  Your eyes widened and you felt your breath come out short.

“We here at the Late Late Show are obsessed with folklore––and even more obsessed with your songwriting.”

Oh no.

James handed the guitar to Zilla who took it with shaky hands, “And we challenge you to write a mini-song. Right here,” The crowd cheered, “Right now.”

Oh no.

Your jaw dropped the same time as Zilla’s and she whipped her head to look backstage at you with petrified eyes.  

“Oh, James…” Zilla nervously laughed as one of her hands gripped the neck of the guitar, “You can’t just write a song in that amount of time.”

One of the guests spoke up from the couch, “But earlier you said that it only took you seven minutes to write the chorus of hoax.”

But there was a small little detail that everyone was missing.  It didn’t take Zilla seven minutes to write the chorus to that song…It took you seven minutes to write it.

Zilla glared at the guest, “It needed some tweaking after––”

James let out a loud laugh and waved her off, “Oh stop being modest,” he then turned in his seat to face the audience and speak into the camera, “After the break we’ll have a brand new little song from singer-songwriter, Zilla!”

The crowd erupted in cheers while both you and Zilla stood frozen in place.  Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think Zilla would be in this position.  Before every single interview or T.V. appearance, Zilla had her manager carefully pre-screen all of the questions and segments she would be part of to make sure nothing like this happened.

“This is exciting,” Shawn bounced on his feet, and for a moment, you forgot that he was standing next to you, “She always changes topics whenever I try to talk songwriting with her.”

This was definitely not an ideal situation for either her or you.

“That’s…” you looked around to see the audience excitedly talking amongst each other.  You heard one girl in the front row say how she couldn’t believe she was going to witness the Zilla write something in front of her.  You were beginning to feel increasingly hot with ever second that passed, “That’s one way to put it.”

“And we’re back!”

Zilla’s head whirled around again to look at you, but you turned your head to the side to try and find the nearest trash can in case you threw up.

“Zilla…” James started off with a smirk, “You just sat here looking off to the side…I’m hoping you heard the music in your head.”

The audience laughed, Shawn laughed, and Zilla just sat there in silence.

“Well, go on then,” James gestured to the guitar, “Play us what you wrote.”

At least Zilla knew how to play the guitar, and she started off strumming a random chord as she let out a shaky breath before singing.

“Oh…You make me feel like the sky…So…Blue,” you visibly cringed at her lyrics and were reminded as to why you were hired.  But as she continued to sing, you started to feel more and more nauseous, “Oh…I wish you made me feel like…The sun, so bright and…Yellow.”

Everyone was silent.

You couldn’t keep your eyes off her as she still had her eyes shut tight.  You knew exactly how she was feeling; embarrassed, nauseous, and utterly humiliated.  You took a peak at Shawn and saw that his mouth tugged down in a frown, lips slightly parted, with his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

James’s stare was blank before he let out a forced chuckle, side-eyeing the audience, before he turned his attention back to Zilla, “Nice warm up, but now, let the magic flow and sing us the real song.”

Zilla opened her eyes and took in a deep breath, “That––I told you––You can’t push inspiration.”

James nodded his head, eyes wide in surprise at how Zilla snapped at him.  Zilla was always poised, always charming everyone in the room, and never had she ever snapped at anyone in public before.  Her jaw was clenched and you saw her shoulders tense up.  

“I––I get that,” James tried his best to de-escalate the situation, “But you––your songwriting––You’ve always been so vocal about how you can write so fast, even without inspiration––”

You were surprised Zilla hadn’t snapped the neck of the guitar in half with how strong her grip was on it.  She glared at James, “Well, I’m just not feeling it today––”

“I could’ve written something better,” the guest next to her laughed, which caused the audience to laugh along with them, as they continued their teasing, “Might need to take away your songwriting achievements––”

Zilla snapped her head to her right, turning her anger away from James, to the unknown actor who sat next to her, “I hired the best songwriter in in the business. She writes only the best for me––”

“––Because what you just sang was horrific.” They finished off their sentence.

For the third time tonight, you froze.  All of the second-hand embarrassment you felt when she sang disappeared and was replaced with absolutely nothing.  You had no thoughts––You just felt empty. You only had a feeling of absolute devastation, paired with a slight ringing in your ear, as your throat closed up.

You thought that her revelation couldn’t be heard by the actor talking over her.  You thought that no one caught her slip up.  But with the stunned look James had on his face, a few audible gasps of confusion from the audience, and Shawn stiffening up next to you…You knew that she blew her own cover because she didn’t know how to keep her cool.

James cleared his throat, “Your…Songwriter? You have someone else write songs for you?”

Zilla’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as she realized her mistake, and her face lost color, “Well, no––Of course not––It’s me––I’m my own songwriter––”

The other guest to Zilla’s left let out a snort, “There’s no way you wrote exile––”

“And we’ll be back after the break!” James interrupted the trio on the couch before Zilla completely lost her head.

Right as the studio lights lit up more of the room, Zilla tore off her mic and stormed off the stage.  Her hands were balled tight into fists as you could visibly see her face turn a darker shade of red with each stomp she took toward you.  You felt your heartbeat stop as you noticed her fiery glare was tunnel visioned toward you.

“She––You write her songs?”

Oh, shit.

For a moment, you forgot that Shawn was standing next to you because all you were focused on was the death glare Zilla continued to shoot your way as she walked toward you.  You had been at the end of many of her glares, but nothing compared to how she looked at you now.  Everything she had built her career on was crumbling and you knew she was going to blame you.

You rapidly shook your head, and when you looked up at Shawn, all you saw was betrayal and sadness, “No––Of course not––How’d you ever come to that conclusion––”

“You’re always in the studio when she’s supposed to be there,” Shawn cut you off, “She never wants to talk about songwriting while you––we’ve––been writing songs together,” his eyes widened as you saw something click in his mind, “Invisible String…” His voice tapered off as he mentioned the song, “You––You said you were just holding onto it for her.”

As you felt your heart plummet down your throat and into your stomach, you continued to shake your head, “I was just holding it on for her––It’s not––I––”

“I gave you a suggestion to change a lyric and it…You changed it,” his eyes that were full of despair suddenly narrowed at you.

Your voice cracked as he took a step away from you, “Shawn––”

He shook his head, “You lied––”

“This is all your fault,” Zilla shouted at you as she took hold of your elbow, spinning you away from Shawn to face her wrath, “If you could’ve––”

“How is this my fault?!”

Zilla shook with anger as you saw fire in her eyes, “It’s just––You,” she stomped her foot as she continued to throw her tantrum, “It’s all your fault!  If you hadn’t been so caught up in writing with Shawn you would’ve been more focused on me.  Because newsflash,” she took a step forward, “You still work for me.”

“You––Y/n?  So she is your ghostwriter?”

Zilla’s eyes widened because she forgot that Shawn was also backstage with you.  And she basically just confirmed everything she tried so hard to deny when she was on stage.  

You were long forgotten as Zilla turned to face Shawn.  She tried to take hold of his hands, but he shook her off and took a step back, “It’s––We have a partnership––We both write–––”

“You take credit for the songs that Y/n writes,” Shawn said it more as a statement than a question, but his voice was still one of disbelief.

Zilla’s face crumbled.  She knew the only hold she had on Shawn was that he thought she wrote all her own music, “Shawn––”

“Zilla,” her manager came rushing toward her with panic written all over their face, “This––This is bad.  We need to do some serious damage control––”

“The show––It’s pre-recorded,” Zilla hastily said, “Can’t we––Is there any way we can pay them to edit it out?”

Her manager grimaced as they shook their head, “Someone had their phone out, recorded the whole thing, and posted it to Twitter.”  Zilla let out a noise that was a mix between a cry and whine, “Billboard already has a whole article written.  TMZ is having a field day…” Her manager rubbed their temples, “It’s really not looking good.”

This time, Zilla did let out a soft cry as she tilted her head back to look at the ceiling.  Everything she built her career on––The authenticity of songwriting––It was over.

“And you,” her manager gave you a disinterested look, “You should probably leave.  If people saw you two together they might think––”

“Loud and clear,” you grumbled at them, not feeling the least bit sorry that Zilla had a meltdown on television and that it was all on video.  This was the Zilla you knew.  This was the “famed” singer-songwriter you had to deal with for years.  She was rude, nasty, and the most self-centered musician in the industry.

With a deep breath, you were about to turn around and leave, but if this was how they were treating you after everything you gave up for her, you wanted to make one thing clear, “Don’t ever come to me asking for another song again.” You angrily breathed out, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer as I expect that she,” you glared at Zilla, “Violated some term in the contract by admitting to having a ghostwriter.”

You whirled around, hoping that would be the last time you saw Zilla until you had to meet again to officially terminate your contract.  When your back was facing her––all you heard was her crying––but you couldn’t find the one person who deserved an apology.

Shawn was gone.

----

Two months after the public meltdown Zilla had on James Corden, people were still trying to figure out who the ghostwriter was.  But unlike the day you signed the contract at sixteen, there was an extra person who knew that you were Zilla’s ghostwriter.  Shawn was added to the list of you, your roommate, your entertainment lawyer, Zilla’s manager, and Zilla herself that knew your secret identity.

Zilla had come out with a tearful apology less than twenty-four hours after multiple music publications came out calling her a fraud.  And the next time that you saw her in person was with your entertainment lawyer to terminate the contract.  When the contract was labeled “null and void” it felt like the chains Zilla had around your wrist were broken.

And ever since Zilla confirmed she’d been working with a ghostwriter in her tearful YouTube apology video, the internet had not stopped searching.  In her video she said, “out of respect to the writer I worked so closely with over the years, I’m not revealing their identity.”

It was a low blow.  Because everything about that sentence was a lie.  The two of you never worked close together on any songs and you knew she had little to no respect for you.  She made that clear during the years you worked for her.  

Even after everything…You still liked the anonymity that came with the deal.  Especially now, if you were to come out as her ghostwriter, you would have the attention of the world.  And while you wanted credit for your work, you didn’t know if you were ready to be put on that stage yet.

But the thing that killed you the most was not being able to explain everything to Shawn.

He hadn’t responded to any of the messages you left him.  You felt a pang of pain in your chest whenever you pulled up your messages with him and read back through your texts.  You listened to the voice notes he sent you a three in the morning when he was struck with inspiration and you mourned the ridiculous selfies he sent you.

You had taken up a hobby of cooking complicated recipes, that needed your full attention, to keep yourself from hyperfocusing on the regret you felt by not explaining the situation to Shawn sooner.  As you put the beef wellington in the oven, coming to a painful understanding that you would probably never hear from Shawn again, your phone dinged on the counter.

Two months after not hearing from him…He sent you a text.  It was simple, and to a stranger looking in on your friendship, they wouldn’t know what it meant.  But you understood it loud and clear.

Music lesson in twenty?

You yelled out to Mia––telling her to keep an eye out on the oven––as you grabbed your keys and dashed out the door.  After you buckled up, you sent him a response––of course––and broke about every traffic law in the book as you raced to the coffee shop you always had your “music lessons” at.

Your park job was pitiful, but it didn’t matter, because you made it to the coffee shop in a record thirteen minutes with only one person on your mind.  Automatically, your feet carried you through the coffee shop and to the back patio.  You were about to sit at an empty table when you saw that your music partner was already sitting at one.

He was slumped down on the chair, arms tightly crossed over his chest, and even though he was wearing sunglasses you knew that he saw you enter.  But unlike all the other times you had your music lessons, he didn’t jump up and wave his hands above his head.

Like routine, you weaved through the tables until you got to him.

You stood in front of him for the first time since the James Corden incident, and even though you could feel the irritation he felt toward you…You noticed two cups of coffee on the table.  He had his usual black drip coffee and there was a cappuccino.

“Light on the foam with an extra shot of espresso,” Shawn mumbled.

You didn’t know what to say.  So you didn’t say anything.  You promptly sat down and circled your hands around the mug.  Because even though it was October, you still felt cold in California.

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments longer; Shawn was still slumped in his chair while you sat with perfect posture, wanting to be ready for anything that came your way.

It was a silence that came when two people understand each other.

You let out a sigh as you looked at the latte art this particular coffee shop was known for, before you looked up at him with wide apologetic eyes, “I––I know saying sorry isn’t enough of an apology.”  Shawn stayed slumped as he nodded his head.  You saw your reflection in his sunglasses and gulped, “And not telling you because I was contractually obligated to keep quiet about being her ghostwriter…” you let out a pathetic laugh, “Just sounds shallow and shitty.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Why did you do it?  

Truthfully, you didn’t think you had it in you to captivate the attention of record labels and you didn’t think you were interesting enough for a fanbase.  Your plan was to hopefully get a publishing deal, write songs for that specific music publishing house, and have various artists cut your songs for their albums.  But then you caught Zilla’s attention.  And just like how she was with everything else in her life, she was selfish and wanted your talent all to herself.

Wanting to stall before you answered, you picked up the cappuccino and took a sip, but even beneath his sunglasses, you could feel his hard stare on you.

You sighed, “I––I didn’t like the idea of being in front of people.  I was sixteen, didn’t want to be pulled away from home, and I felt like I was better suited for writing and not performing.” 

You tapped your fingers on the side of the ceramic mug, “And before I knew it…Zilla heard one of my demos floating around a publishing company, liked it enough to cut it, and then it turned into signing a contract with her to be her ghostwriter.”

Shawn shook his head as he leaned forward, taking off his sunglasses, tired eyes staring straight into yours as he rested his elbows on the table, “Why’d you let her pretend that she wrote your songs?” 

Shawn briefly covered his face with his hands, before looking at you with a pained expression, “As a songwriter, I can’t…Just thinking about someone else claiming my feelings as their own?”  The look he gave you made you want to hide in a cave for the rest of your life, “Why did you do that?”

You sucked in a breath and shrugged your shoulders, “I––I’m not sure.”

He nodded his head, not because he understood your answer, but in understanding that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of you.

“How’d you do it?” He stared straight into your eyes, not backing down until he got this answer out of you, “I looked at the songwriting credits and they were all under her name.  I searched every performing rights organization database and saw that she––you––whoever––was with B.M.I. And I called the people I knew there and they said that they didn’t have anyone by your name.”  

He let out a defeated sigh, “The only person they had registered for her songs,” the fact that he couldn’t even say Zilla’s name had you smiling just a tad, “Was a Zilla Greene.”

You nodded with a sad smile, “That’s me.”

Shawn tilted his head and scrunched his eyebrows together, “No, that’s not––Zilla Greene––That’s Zilla, not you––”

You shook your head and held up a hand to him, he quickly stopped talking and let you explain, “When Zilla approached me to be her ghostwriter, it was her manager’s idea to have Zilla––whose real name is Willow––perform under a stage name that synced up with a pseudonym for me.”  Shawn slowly nodded his head, “So that way if anyone were to look at the songwriting credits and search her up on a database,” you gave him a pointed look, “It would just look like it was still her stage name. First name, last name, and all.”

Shawn let out a small laugh of disbelief, “I can’t believe you pulled it off for years.”

You shared his laugh and took a sip of your coffee, feeling a small sense of dread in your stomach, “And it would’ve kept going on if she didn’t practically admit it on James Corden.”

The atmosphere went back to feeling tense.

“So, are you…” Shawn lifted his head and looked at the people sitting around them, before he leaned into the middle of the table, whispering, “Still her ghostwriter?”

You let out a small laugh as you shook your head, “She technically broke our contract so, no,” you genuinely smiled for the first time when talking about Zilla, “I don’t write for her anymore.”

Shawn took a sip of his coffee before he mirrored your smile, “All this time…” He looked at you with a hint of remorse, “Whenever I told you how much I wanted to write with Zilla,” he smiled sadly, “I was actually writing with her.”

You nodded your head, “Don’t feel bad,” you waved him off, “I knew the whole time that it was me you wanted to write with.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and lightly nudged his foot against your leg under the table.  At the gesture, you didn’t try to hide the blinding smile that overtook your face.

“I was literally fangirling over you in front of you,” he briefly looked down at the table, letting out a chuckle, before looking back up at you with soft eyes, “And I didn’t even know it.”

You smirked, “Don’t worry, it still boosted my ego all the more.”

Shawn let out a loud laugh as he flipped you off just when you were about to take another sip of the drink he bought for you.  

“So…” Shawn started off slow, briefly breaking eye contact with you, “I’m not sure if you’re comfortable with it yet, but I…I’d be honored if I could credit you as a songwriter on my next album.”

After years of being brushed under the rug, years of someone taking advantage of your feelings for their own monetary benefit, having Shawn saying he would be honored to credit you––actually you––for your work…You felt yourself get choked up at the thought.

You sniffled, trying to hold back the small tears of joy you felt behind your eyes in, “I would really appreciate that.”

Shawn’s smile was wide as he nodded once at you, before he leaned over to reach for something under the table.

He pushed his songwriting journal over towards you and opened it up to a page with music notes.  You looked down and his messy note placement as you heard the composition in your head.

“So, I’ve been practicing arpeggios,” you looked up from the journal to see a sheepish smile on his face, “And while the sound of broken chords sound really cool,” and again, under the table, he brushed his foot on top of yours, “I’d like it better if the chords were together.”

You smiled as you felt a familiar warm feeling in the pit of your stomach cause a shiver to run through your whole body.

“Together,” you repeated his words that most definitely held a double meaning, “I think I’d like if the chords were together, too.”

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The poor implementation of politics in RWBY - Vagueness

Previously i have made a thread about why i think that political messages in RWBY fail, at least in regards to what i thought the problem with the writers themselves was.

While it is important to analyze WHY something might have gone wrong, one also has to not forget to analyze HOW it all went wrong. Were the tools for messaging the wrong tools to use in that moment? Were they used correctly? Were there some extra circumstances that changed the messaging?

To prevent my long-winded threads i will try to focus more on and will make separate threads for specific ways that politics are poorly implemented/explored in canon.

The topic of today is vagueness.

Vague Gestures to Symbolism

There is time for being subtle, there is time for being clever, and there is time to be open with your messaging. While being vague allows a writer more options and abilities for the future, there is also a point at which it becomes detrimental.

Volumes 7 and 8 are an example of that. Especially from the very start. The show vaguely gestures towards authoritarianism and workers-rights through symbolism. The first time we arrive in Mantle we are shown big screens with Ironwood and Weiss in them (The military) talking about keeping order, we are shown people not liking the military presence well by kids vandalizing military tech , we are shown tired workers coming back tired from what can only be assume as work in the mines.

The problem with all of these is that Symbols on their own do not create sufficient meaning or messaging. Symbolism has to feed into something more substancial if used in creative works. A good example of how it can be used badly is something like different Superman adaptations when he is given "Jesus" or "Angel" like symbolism. Since it usually never feeds into anything more it just comes off as pretencious and meaningless.

Great works, movies like 1984 specifically use symbolism to enhance the message that is already being told. All pieces of symbolism feed into one another and form larger pieces of information. The big brother screens are not the only thing showing governmental oversight.

Yet it seems that RWBY as a work thinks that it can do so.

Lack of Substance

The symbolism of RWBY is not inherently bad, some of it is acceptable. It falls apart because the show fails to have substance in the issues it is trying to explore. For example, lets say we want to explore Ironwood and authoritarianism. Okay, let us do that. Lets start with the government.

Ironwood holds 2 seats out of...... How many? Ironwoods responsibilities are...... What exactly? I could create dozens if not more of these comments but i think you can get the point. We cant analyze or explore Authoritarianism in regards to Ironwood, since we know barely ANYTHING about how the government of Atlas is structured in the first place. Some things we can assume with some level of certainty, but others we simply cannot.

Even the Star Wars prequels against all odds manage to make a more coherent message about authoritarianism. An elected leader assuming total control of a state after given emergency control due to a perceived crysis? It mirrors real life and as such can carry a message even with little details.

RWBY does not even have that.

Okay, lets tackle workers rights then. Jacques Schnee from the very start has been set-up as an ultra-capitalist stereotype, there have been hunts thrown around that SDC is not exactly working with clean hands. Now we get to go to Atlas itself, the home of SDC and there is some imagery shown that implicates workers to be unhappy.

And then all we are shown are tired workers after a hard work day and some vague eqipment in a mine? Really? That is all?

As an example i would like to bring up a game i am playing currently called "Sunless sky". In this game workers are forced to refine hours (Yes, literal hours) in work-worlds under grueling conditions. People are allowed to leave, but no transport is provided so they have to stay and work until they die, just to survive. People spend 24 hours of their day refining maybe an hours worth of "pure" hours that the upper class can use to live longer.

To learn the basics  of this does not take a person even 10 minutes. One can delve deeper into this rabbit hole of course. But the basic information is already clear on how the upper clases abuse the workers, how different the life of a worker and an aristocrat is. For fuck sakes, the Queen sits on a literal THRONE of hours and is practically immortal.

And what Atlas shows is nothing, even when it tries the best it can do is one or two stereotypes of those "clueless Atlesians" not understanding the danger they are in and the like.

Create your own story

This results in what i can only describe as a "Create your own story" kind of situation which leads to HUGE disagreements and conflicts when analyzing the show. For some people in the fandom seeing the big screens with Ironwood and Winter in them + Mantle not liking military is enough for them to create an entire narrative for themselves about how Authoritarian Atlas is.

I still remember the first time i was involved in V7 starting episode megathreads. People literally stated that Jaques makes his workers buy their tools with their own money. When i contested this claim i was downvoted to oblivion. There is nothing to indicate that but people decided that it is true and that is that.

And this is especially grating because the lack of information given is seemingly intentional and parts of the fanbase will tell you that you are stupid if you dont create your own story. How many times have we critics seen the claims of "See, critics cant analyze the show" in regards to us disagreeing with the majority opinion or refusing to create headcanons for ourselves?

It is especially annoying when people genuinely believe that their headcanons are genuine canon, and its almost impposible to change such a notion of theirs. Nor very easy to argue.

The fix would not be difficult

Fixing most of this would be easy. Instead of vague gesturing at tired workers we could be shown abuses done by the SDC or other companies? Maybe this would even allow Blake to actually do something in the volume. Instead of vaguely gesturing at them being tired show how they get injured for even the smallest reward ammount and the like, show how the company underpays them.

Instead of vaguely gesturing at Ironwoods control make it known how exactly Atlas political system operates, how many seats there are, what are people on them responsible for etc. You can even have Ironwood slowly assuming power ina belief that he is doing so to protect people.

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 3.4.4 ‘The horizon expands’

The secondhand embarrassment in this chapter is very real, but I appreciate that Marius is allowed to make his case beautifully. Because he does: it’s a bad case to make, but he echoes the naive version of some of the stirring descriptions in the Waterloo section.

I don’t know, I think finally saying his ideas out loud is good for him. I’m proud of him for that, even if they’re very bad ideas. He puts himself in a place to learn a lot here, even if he then runs away from that place indefinitely.

We also see how Marius at seventeen imagines battle, and it’s entirely as glory. Everyone around him is planning a much more realistic fight.

He’s going to learn a lot more about battle by the end of this. :(

Cats-into-Lions watch: a couple of chapters ago, Combeferre referenced a fable about a cat. Now, with “Quia nominor leo“--”because I am named lion” Enjolras is quoting a fable about a lion.

And that fable is really interesting. Here’s a version of it.

tl;dr: the lion has banded together with three other animals cooperatively to hunt a deer, but once the deer is taken down, the lion divides it into four pieces and takes each of them for himself with various excuses, the first of which is “because I am named lion.”

The stated moral of the fable is: “An alliance with the powerful should never be relied upon.”

What does Enjolras intend by that? From the paragraph, which runs:

France needs no Corisca to be great. France is great because she is France. Quia nominor leo.

It sounds like the lion is France. If so, he certainly isn’t intending the perjorative meaning. A positive view of France taking the lion’s share because she deserves it could reflect a twenty-two-year-old Enjolras’s excessive patriotism not yet broadened by the more universal perspectives of his friends.

But also, that fable really is a very good objection to Napoleon: A partnership with a lion may look good on paper, but in truth he’s only looking out for himself and he will take everything for himself in the end. And that also fits Enjolras, who may be many things, but being pro-Great Man isn’t one of them.

So either Enjolras is saying: “France is great because she is France. She deserves the lion’s share,” and the fact that implicit in his metaphor is a pretty trenchant takedown of Napoleon is an accident

OR he’s saying: “France is great because she is France. Partnering with a lion is as unnecessary as it is unwise.”

And I really don’t know which it is. Or how it fits into the more positive lion imagery of this text.

I always find the blocking of the “To be free” scene fascinating. One possible read is that Combeferre says “To be free” and walks out immediately, and then almost everybody instantly follows.

That feels either like the very artificial blocking in a play, which is the feel I get in the 1972 miniseries and which never really works for me. They were all goofing off disorganizedly a moment ago, and even for Combeferre, saying To Be Free and walking out instantly is pretty wild. Let alone the rest of them all leaving at the same instant.

OR it feels like the sudden appearance of martial discipline in a way we haven’t seen yet: there was a cue here they all recognize, and they drop what they’re doing and leave Marius for Enjolras to talk to. That really is possible, and it hints at the “talked loudly about everything and very quietly about something else” or however that quote goes.

BUT I also think we’re easily deep enough in Marius’s head that we’re subject to Marius’s experience of time--and Marius’s experience of time can involve leaning his head against a tree for two hours.

What I’m saying is, I like to think Combeferre sat there staring at him for between fifteen minutes and an hour while Marius bluescreened. And then he eventually walked out, and everyone else trickled out soon after.

Enjolras’s “my mother is the republic” makes SO much more sense having reread their intro chapter--all of them are the true sons of the republic, he’s just the dork who says it out loud.

But also, shoutout to @shitpostingfromthebarricade​‘s really good meta on this scene, which talks about Marius vs. the Amis here as the individual vs the unversal, among other things.

This seems to be the song Combeferre is riffing on

Si le roi m’avait donné Paris, sa grand’ville Je dirais au roi Henri Reprenez votre Paris! J’aime mieux ma mie, O gué! J’aime mieux ma mie!

[If the king had given me Paris, his big city I would tell King Henry Take back your Paris! I prefer my gal, ohé! I prefer my gal!]

(@fremedon found a short audio clip here.)

Which means that both he and Grantaire have been filking songs about various Kings Henry, which feeds into @fremedon‘s Combeferre and Grantaire are mirror versions of each other theory.

[ironmandeficiency]

visions

pairing: plo koon / reader / wolffe

word count: 3291

summary: there’s a game you and plo will play sometimes during briefings that tend to alleviate some of the monotony. neither of you knew that your commander was force-sensitive and knew everything about the past-time until you and your husband offered him a place in your bed.

a/n: force sensitive!wolffe just kinda happened and was not even on the list of ideas for this fic, but i’m so happy i thought of it. it gets real wild real quick and only gets crazier from there. also, i accidentally wrote plo/wolffe in this so if it isn’t your cup of tea, i’m warning you now

warnings: inappropriate use of the force might as well be the title, implied masturbation (m), implied dick riding (f & m), ummmm implied threesomes

“could this be any more tedious? my patience is wearing thin.”

“they most certainly can get more tedious when you say things like that, dear.”

“oh, pardon me for wanting to reward my favorite general for his bravery on our previous mission.”

“a reward, hmm? maybe you could describe this reward to me to pass the time.”

wolffe hadn’t been more grateful to have his helmet since he lost his eye. four months ago the wolfpack was assigned a second jedi general and ever since you arrived on base, general plo has been happier than any of the men had seen him. at first wolffe thought it was because he was finally able to have the same camaraderie with one of his own that the men shared with each other. it was a simple explanation, one that made sense.

then he attended briefings with the both of you and quickly learned there was something much stronger than camaraderie between the two of you. he could hear the playful flirting, the endearing i-love-you’s, the scandalous dirty talk that had wolffe itching to remove his codpiece and slip a hand between the waistband of his blacks. he heard everything through the force, felt it vibrating through his veins all the same. it was that day he thought of the jedi with something more than professionalism for the first time.

weeks have passed since the two generals had enough opportunity to physically show their love and the tension between them was driving wolffe up a wall. it wasn’t enough that his brain had to work doubletime to hide his impure thoughts of his general’s riduur when the nights were lonely, but neither of them bothered to mask their sexual tension through the force because they simply saw no need.

he was losing his kriffing mind.

subliminal images of you riding the kel dor as if he were a racehorse flooded his head mid-sentence, the commander having to obnoxiously cough to cover up the moan that nearly escaped at the sight. your chest was heaving with every bounce and head thrown back in ecstasy, a slick sheen of sweat making you glisten. this was a new image for wolffe and it would be thoroughly enjoyed for months to come.

some days it astounded him as to the ability the two of you had to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was happening through your bond with each other. from what he’d seen, he was the only clone in the 104th that was force sensitive, judging at the way none of them visibly reacted when the generals were having telepathic sex. he had no other names for the sensation and there would be no way for him to ask either of you without raising red flags.

if you or plo found out that he knew about the conversations, wolffe knew there would be consequences. he didn’t know what they would be or whether they would carry over to his duty or to his brothers, but he decided long ago to carry this secret on his own. there was nothing to validate needlessly risking his brothers’ safety all because wolffe couldn’t keep his mouth shut. so keeping his mouth shut was what he did until he got to his private bunk and let himself imagine that it was him you were losing yourself to.

“wolffe, are you okay?” your voice was smooth like honey when you said his name, the concern permeating through the force.

he forced his voice to return to its normal cadence. “i’m perfectly fine, general. little bit of dust just got through the filters is all.” there was no suspicion from either you or plo at the blatant lie, which he was grateful for. this briefing was not the time to reveal his secrets like blacks hanging out to dry after laundry day.

the meeting continued as protocol for a few moments before the dirty talk picked back up, to wolffe’s both detriment and pleasure.

“what a shame our dear commander was losing breath to the dust instead of-”

“not here, dear one. leave our wolffe from our thoughts when he hasn’t consented to be there.”

“he can’t consent if the question is never posed, plo.”

consent? consent to what? wolffe was plenty concerned about what you two could possibly be implying and had to work extra hard to maintain his shields to keep from alerting the jedi to his worry.

“when we’re back on coruscant. he needs to rest before hearing what we have to say.”

“thank you, my love.”

at least wolffe had a timeline for when his fate would be sealed. with that last little bit of security to cling to, he continued with the briefing as if fear wasn’t burrowing into his chest the more time passed between now and arrival to the triple zero.

the arrival into coruscanti airspace thrummed with anticipation, the stale recycled air seeming to know how pivotal the next few hours would be. you had long been teetering on the edge of impatience when it came to the idea of being shared between your loving husband and dutiful commander. it was absolutely unreal how many times you and plo would be just about to bring it up and be immediately silenced by shit luck.

that wasn’t going to happen again, you weren’t going to let it. your patience has been tested for far too long in regards to this matter and even plo would get ruffled when the conversation was stalled yet again. you typically refrained from using the force to guarantee privacy (plo was better at it anyways) but today you were going to pour everything you could into ensuring that the nagging proposition would finally be given.

several hours passed before you and plo were able to free yourselves from the responsibilities thrust upon you both as members of the council. the ‘pack had long since been starting to unwind, many of them wandering to 79’s or to another battalion’s sector of the base to mingle. you looked to your husband, silently asking him to check his bond with wolffe to gauge his location. hopefully he hadn’t slipped to 79’s yet or else the evening’s plans would be tabled for yet another unknown period of time.

plo confirmed that wolffe was in his temporary quarters, thank the force. “is it time?”

“i think we’ve waited long enough.”

wolffe couldn’t believe his ears. he was stunned, his brain running on overdrive to even comprehend the severity of what he was just told.

he already knew that his generals were something more than comrades in arms and that they were secretly married against the confines of their order that they were leaders of. of course he didn’t tell him that he knew already, little gods no, there would be no explaining his way out of that one. there were intimate details about their relationship that he didn’t intend to know, that were just shoved through his mind; even though his shields were some of the most fortified of any clone, he had force bonds with the both of you that apparently ran deeper than he thought they did.

see, a normal force bond between a force-sensitive and a null were as such: a force-sensitive would only be able to project such vivid imagery with someone who was also force-sensitive, the null partner being able to only pick up the feelings behind the image rather than the image itself. when you two were having telepathy sex (and sometimes actual sex), you both took great care to make sure the feelings of the images didn’t leak into your other bonds. but wolffe? he could see the images clear as day and came to his own feelings about them. since you nor plo knew that he could see said images, you both thought you were getting away with something.

these were all things that wolffe knew, knowledge that he could confirm quite easily, information that didn’t betray him.

what had caused wolffe to short-circuit as if he were a measly droid was the way you expressed desire for both your husband and him. your words were beginning to meld together in his ears, none of it making sense. and how was general plo okay with this? he was listening to his wife talk about how she wanted to have sex with another man, a clone no less! most nat-borns would bristle and lash out at even the idea.

he had to get out for a moment, make sure this isn’t some strange and elaborate dream or advanced form of seppie torture. this couldn’t be real. it couldn’t be. so he made his way into his ‘fresher and splashed water on his face, pinched his arms, his cheeks, even nicked himself with the small razor he used to keep his face neatly groomed. every experiment led to the same conclusion: this was real and he was just invited to your bed.

a third in the bed of not just one, but two jedi generals. he, commander wolffe of the one-oh-fourth battalion in the grand army of the republic, was offered the opportunity to sleep with two jedi at once. two jedi that apparently loved him how they loved each other.

he could sense plo approaching him where he stood in the ‘fresher, the mirror being an extra giveaway to his presence that wasn’t particularly needed. “did we make you uncomfortable?” plo was very concerned over wolffe’s wellbeing and the way the normally composed soldier was losing the cool exterior he kept in front of nearly everyone he knew. it was a sight that unnerved the jedi when in the escape pod and when he lost his eye to ventress, and it had the same effect on him right now.

you moved from your seat on the corner of wolffe’s bunk and joined the men in front of the ‘fresher sink. “if this isn’t something you’re okay with, we can pretend this never happened and-”

“no,” wolffe’s voice was louder than he intended for it to be and quickly schooled his emotions before continuing. “you didn’t make me uncomfortable, i just-” a deep breath in through the nose and out through his mouth. maybe he should tell them here that he knows about all of the erotic conversations and images flashed through the bonds, but something stops him.

he decides to give you a small twist of the truth to hide his force sensitivity. “i’ve thought about doing things to you, things that only lovers do, and now that you’re here offering the chance, i don’t know what to say or where to start.” it isn’t like he was completely lying, he had plenty of thoughts of you when not in briefings that counted toward his half-truth. you just didn’t know where or when the thoughts first began.

plo approached wolffe slowly, resting a taloned hand on his shoulder. your husband’s tone washed waves of comfort over wolffe as he spoke, the kel dor’s low timbre having the desired effect. “we can help you with that, wolffe.”

“how?”

“let’s start with simple questions. do you want us to leave?”

“no,” wolffe gripped the feelings of calm sent his way in a vice grip to keep from erupting once more. “ not at all, ge-.”

the honorific being used in such a raw moment set plo off, the jedi’s hand gripping wolffe’s shoulder tighter in warning as he admonished the use of his senate-given title.“you will not address us by rank here in your private space. use our names just as we use yours.”

this was a side to plo that wolffe had never seen in person, this authoritative and borderline furious (and lustful? was his hearing okay?) dimension being unfamiliar territory. it stirred something in wolffe that was achingly familiar yet obscenely foreign; the feelings were similar to those he felt for you, but they ran deeper into a part of himself he didn’t acknowledge much.

it reminded him of the ache in his lungs as the droids began to take apart the escape pod, the unrelated catch in his throat at the way his general was so willing to do whatever it took to save his brothers. when wolffe was a cadet he bristled at the idea of belonging to someone he didn’t know, someone that didn't understand who he was or who his brothers were.

those apprehensions melted away as plo left the relative safety of the pod to defend him and the last two surviving members of their battalion. in that moment he was proud to say he belonged to plo, not just as his commander but as someone who had softened his edges.

this bond only grew the longer wolffe served under plo, and then wolffe met you and it seemed that his heart was capable of being shared between two people. two people that loved each other as deeply as the galaxy was wide. two people that would never hesitate to lay themselves down to protect their lover or their battalion, that treated every living thing with a reverence wolffe didn’t know someone could show.

those very same people were now at his sides, offering him a place of his own with them, space in their bed. and he was yearning for them both.

wolffe was sure of what he wanted. figuring out how he wanted to proceed was the easy part compared to articulating said want. inhaling deeply, he tried to form the words, construct sentences to flow freely from now parted lips. he spent moments trying to calculate the best way to convey the thoughts that led him to his decision but nothing sounded right in his head. he didn’t want to ruin the moment with poorly-chosen words or stumbling over his thoughts as if he were a bumbling drunk.

then a gentle nudge in his brain reminded him of a way to communicate with his jedi that didn’t need words. just his feelings, that’s all he needed right then. so he reached into the force and gripped those feelings like a cadet would a favorite older vod’s leg, and sent them towards the two people in this galaxy that he would do anything for.

wolffe’s silence was both relief and nervous impatience because there was no way for you to know what he was thinking. he had nearly impeccable shields that you had attributed to both his status as a commander as well as your husband’s fierce protection over him, having been the one to fortify them into something so formidable. it was a fortress you weren’t going to penetrate without either permission from wolffe himself or intentionally tearing at his protection, the latter something you’d rather die than even ponder.

he was taking his time with his thoughts, trying his best to not let his confusion turn to frustration and anger. you studied his form and debated whether taking his hand in yours was a good idea before noticing the way he was white-knuckling the sink, taking it upon yourself to save the fixture. the slightest whisper of his hand tightening around yours relaxed you marginally; at least he was acknowledging you despite his deep and almost painful-seeming concentration.

then you’re suddenly hit by something in the force you don’t recognize. they’re emotions, wild ones, and despite their barely-tamed nature they’re safety and devotion and trepidation and love, a love directed towards you that wasn’t from plo. his love for you felt different in the force, much more calm and peaceful after years spent together. this was from someone else entirely, someone who was new and inexperienced in these matters yet determined in expressing them, someone-

wolffe.

how was he projecting like that? only force-sensitives had the ability to transmit emotions like that directly through bonds, but yet it came close to knocking your feet out from under you with the strength. your eyes went to plo and you could sense his own surprise and confusion.

wolffe could feel the way his jedi were shaken by the torrent of his emotions washing over them and the guilt was instant. he turned away from the sink and began to apologize profusely but you silenced him before they could be heard.

his lips were supple and his skin flushed from the sudden closeness. it took the blink of an eye for him to reciprocate the kiss, the hand holding yours lacing your fingers together. you could feel his emotions double in strength through the kiss and the intensity would have taken you to the ground if it weren’t for plo moving to stand beside you.

there were many questions swirling madly through your mind but the most prevalent was “why didn’t you tell us?”

wolffe’s eyes shot to his feet, ashamed of keeping such a big secret from the two of you. “i… i see your thoughts during briefings,” he paused to gauge your reactions, whether he should shut up or explain himself, but he didn’t know which would be better. he felt waves of embarrassment from plo and… wait, you thought it was funny?!

apparently so, seeing as you were now laughing at the current situation, of all the reactions you could have had this was not expected.

if you didn’t laugh at wolffe seeing every dirty thought you’d sent your husband’s way during briefings there’s a good chance you would have cried. how long had he been having to pretend like he was okay during briefings?

you tilted the commander’s chin up and locked your eyes with his, slowly starting to let your feelings seep through your bond. “wolffe, just how much do you know about the relationship between plo and i?”

only a fool wouldn’t be able to sense the lust slowly creeping its way through the bond. plo clearly was beginning to feel it, if the taloned hand creeping along your waist was any indication. it filled wolffe with a confidence he hasn’t felt in hours, since the two of you mentioned him in your thoughts.

he decides to go with it. you and plo both have told him that he was wanted, so it wasn’t like anything bad was going to happen after he does what he’s about to do. wolffe leans in close to you, hot breath fanning along your neck as he begins to speak in a velvet husk. “i’ve seen enough to know how much you enjoy it when he drags his talons down your back, to know how eager you are to please him night after night,” a hot, wet kiss is placed below your ear and the hand holding his grips hard.

plo enjoyed the sight in front of him, watching you slowly starting to submit yourself to wolffe. but that wasn’t tonight’s goal; tonight was about the two of you showing wolffe how much he was appreciated, how deeply he was loved by the two of you. “you are right, she is always eager to please. but tonight is about you, wolffe. let us take care of you the way you deserve to be.” the kel dor glides a talon along wolffe’s jawline and enjoys the lust permeating the latter’s force signature.

your husband’s voice snapped you out of the trance wolffe had you under. he was right, this was about wolffe. so you took the hand he still held and guided him to his bunk, plo close behind. the next several hours were spent worshiping wolffe in all his glory, letting him learn the two of you just as you learned his body. it was the first of many nights spent holding your men as close as you could, knowing that duties would take them away come morning light.

[elocinnicole]

Butterflies Part Two

Pairing: Collin x Black!Reader, Plus Size!Reader 

Summary: Collin and Reader try to figure out where they stand after their moment a few nights ago. 

Rating: M for language 

 AN: I changed Collin’s major to Creative Writing/Poetry. I don’t know why I didn’t do this in the first place, I was over here thinking of what major would Collin have, and it went over my head so yeah, here it is. Again, this is still set in 2020. Let me know if you want to be tagged. There are about two more parts to this

Part One Part Two Part Three

Shaunice Jasmine Turner was born in the wee hours of the morning on July 26, 2020. You were so happy for your friends and the little family they were building.

“You look pretty comfortable holding Shaunice, Y/N.” Ashely teased, it was just the two of you for now. Collin went with Miles to get some breakfast for Jasmine and to pick up Sean so he could meet his little sister.

“Girl bye, I mean the thought has crossed my mind, but I want to have my salon up and running before I even think about having kids.”

“Bish, I used to say that about my non-existent art gallery, and I got two kids now.”

“I mean you could still paint, Ashley.”

“I could, but painting don’t pay the bills. The rent is ridiculous and trying to get a loan from the bank…” Ashely trailed off

“But it’s all good, I wouldn’t change anything,” Ashely smiled at her daughter, “So, what happened when Collin came back from Val’s?”

“Uh, nothing I twisted his hair and that’s when we got the text from Miles.” Ashely examined your face; she’s known you long enough to know when you’re lying.

“Y/N, give me the baby.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re avoiding eye contact, give me my daughter.” You playfully huffed and handed over Shaunice to your friend, “Now, tell me what really happened last night?”

“Well, when he came back, I was a little mad because I’m over here actually being a friend and he drop everything for a booty call. He’s staying with me rent-free, I visited him when he was locked up, put money on his books, shit, I used to let this nigga cheat off me in Chemistry back in high school. Then he tries to kiss me—”

“He what!”

“Yeah and I don’t know what to think about that, because I know that once Val calls, he gonna run after her, like what is it? Does sis have some magic pussy or some shit?”

“Y/N…”

“I know that’s your friend, but she never once checked on him and I don’t know. I’m right in front of him and he doesn’t see me.”

“Make him see you, sis.”

“Well, how the hell do I do that?”

“Bring another nigga around,” You looked wide-eyed at your friend

“Ash!”

“Girl, bye, what about that chef you was tellin’ me about? Hit him up and bring him around Collin.”

“So, you think making him jealous is gonna work?” Ashely didn’t have time to answer because Sean came bursting into the room running over to Ashely’s bed

“Is she here? Is she here Mom?!” Sean asked bouncing with excitement

“Calm down, baby. Yes, she’s here, where’s Dad?”

“Right here, as soon as we got off the elevator he ran off. He’s been asking about the baby since we picked him up from Ms. Nancy’s. Here’s your food babe.” Miles placed the take-out bag on the table and kissed Ashely’s forehead, Collin trailed behind and once he looked at you he adverted his eyes somewhere else.

“Sean, go use the bathroom then you can hold your sister. Miles can you take Shaunice so I can eat, I’m starving.”

“So, what were you two talking about before we got here?” Miles asked,

“Nothing much, I asked Ashely if you were gonna give her a push present.”

“The fuck is that?”

“A present for pushing out your baby!” You nudged Miles’s shoulder.

“What you want baby, a gift card, or some shit like that?”

“Miles, you can’t get her no damn gift card.” Collin reasoned

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because that’s a boring-ass gift, you gotta get her some jewelry or a car, shit like that.”

“Baby, I can hit up my boy Cuttie—”

“Hell no, every time you get something from Cuttie, it’s either stolen or it don’t work.”

“Ash, that’s not true!”

“What about the bike you got from him for Sean’s birthday? Cuttie stole it!” You said

“I ain’t know that shit when he gave me that bike!”

“Then you bought Ashely that purse for Christmas and the Gucci was spelled wrong.”

“It was not, Collin!”

“Babe, Gucci only got two c’s.” Miles looked stunned for a moment before sucking his teeth

“How the hell was I supposed to know that!” Your phone then went off several times even surprising you.

“Who hittin’ you up, Y/N?” Miles teased

“Nobody, just a friend”

“Stop lyin, Y/N, got a date with this ‘friend’ tonight,” Ashely announced earning a glare from you.

“Oh shit, for real!” Miles exclaimed

“Yeah, he’s nice, um he just moved out here from Detroit. He’s a chef and has his own meal prep business.” It wasn’t a lie, you had met a guy on Tinder a few weeks ago and the two of you have been talking to one another.

“So, he be making all that vegan shit?”

“What’s vegan shit?” Sean questioned innocently

“Miles!” Ashely slapped his arm

“What? I cuss all the damn time, it was gonna happen sooner or later babe.” Ashely glared at her husband not amused in the slightest “Alright, alright, Sean don’t say ‘shit’ it’s a bad word, now come over here and sit down in the chair and I’ll let you hold your baby sister.”

While Miles and Ashely were introducing Sean to Shaunice, Collin walked over to you wanting to know more about your ‘date’.

“So, what’s this guy’s name?”

“Um, I’m sorry since when did I have to answer to you, Collin?”

“I’m just askin’ his name. Want to know the person who’s taking my friend out.”

“You’ll find out tonight—”

“Hey, guys!” Everyone’s heads turned toward the door and there stood Val with various pink balloons and a teddy bear

“Hey, Val!” Ashely greeted, she practically ran over to Ashely and engulfed her in a hug.

“Congratulations, girl.” Val looked over at Miles and her smile faded slightly

“You too, Miles,” She looked over at Collin and acted like he wasn’t even there. At that point, you wanted to slap the hell out this bitch, but this wasn’t the time.

“Guys, I have appointments today I gotta head out. I’ll visit when you get home, okay?” Ashely nodded, understanding your need to leave the room.

“See you later?”

“Yeah, bye guys, and congrats again.”

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror getting ready for your date with Trevon. The two of you had been texting one another all day, you even FaceTimed him briefly between clients.

“I don’t wanna spit, I wanna gulp, I wanna gag, I wanna choke, I want you to touch that lil dangly thing that swing in the back of my throat.” You rapped along to the song that made you feel like a bad bitch, Trevon didn’t give you much of a hint as to what the two of you were going to do tonight, but he said to be casual. So, you didn’t go too overboard with your outfit. This was your first date in a while because of your schedule you didn’t have time to date between the hair and makeup clients, on the day you didn’t have to work you stayed home or hung out with friends or your big brother.

“Alright, you got this.” You said to yourself in the mirror, “You a bad bitch. You the baddest bitch, period.”

You came out of the bathroom and immediately bumped into Collin.

“My bad didn’t see you there.”

“Your date is here.” Collin went into the bathroom closing the door firmly. You rolled your eyes at your friend and walked out to the living room to finally see your date, Trevon.

“Wow, you look great, Y/N.” Trevon beamed, you smiled shyly in return

“Thanks, you do too. You ready to go?”

“After you,”

You carefully shut the front door to your apartment not wanting to wake up Collin, knowing that he was a light sleeper and this was his only day off. You couldn’t help but smile about your date with Trevon last night. After he picked you up, he took you to play mini-golf and then after you went go-cart racing. It honestly the most fun you ever had on a first date. Not wanting to go home, the two of you ended up bar hopping the rest of the night until the two of you passed out on his sofa. The smell of breakfast pulled you of your thoughts. You made your way to the kitchen only to see Val in your kitchen cooking at your stove wearing only one of Collin’s Oakland shirts and underwear.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, hey Y/N. You want breakfast?”

“What are you doing here, Val?”

“Collin invited me over last night.” She smirked going back to cooking.

“Can you please put some pants on?”

“Well, Collin doesn’t seem to have a problem with what I’m wearing.”

“Hm, that’s cute but this isn’t Collin’s place, it’s my place and I don’t want your ass cheeks out in my kitchen. ‘Kay?”

“Whatever.”

“Um, where’s Collin?”

“He’s in the shower, I think. Oh, do you have any almond milk?”

“No, bitch I drink soy.” You mumbled storming past her heading for the bathroom. You angrily opened the door surprising Collin, who quickly reached for his towel to cover himself.

“What the fuck, Y/N! Can you knock?”

“What the hell is she doing here?!”

“Oh, what, I can’t have guests over?”

“That’s not the point, why in the fuck is she cooking in my kitchen with no clothes on!”

“She was hungry, what was I supposed to do?”

“Collin, I need you to tell me when you have company.”

“I don’t see why I have to tell you,”

“It’s the principle, Collin! What if you came home and my date, dick swingin’—”

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” Collin frowned, not appreciating the imagery

“Shut up, making breakfast in the damn kitchen?”

“This isn’t even about the principle it’s about you not liking Val!”

“No, it’s because you living in my place RENT FREE and I need to you who you have up in here!”

“Oh, so that’s what this is all about?” You rubbed your temples in frustration

“No, Collin—”

“Collin, breakfast’s ready,” Val called through the door. 

“Go eat with your guest, wouldn’t want your food to get cold.”  You said before leaving the bathroom.

[meta-squash]

Brick Club 1.3.4 “Tholomyes Is So Happy, He Sings A Spanish Song”

I think this chapter title is actually yet another pun. In a later chapter, Favourite mentions that Tholomyes’ first name is Felix, which is Latin for “happy.”

This first paragraph feels like a pretty blatant comparison of the group to the nature mentioned. The flower beds are balmy with perfume, as the ladies may have been, the boughs are gesticulating as the men (and maybe the women) were, the bees pillaging the jasmine is certainly a pretty obvious metaphor, the “bohemian crew of butterflies” would probably be the men, landing briefly on these women for a year or so and then taking flight elsewhere.

(I just looked up bindweed and flashed back to elementary school, where it grew as a weed all over the campus and we’d pick it and put it to our noses and inhale so the petals stuck to our faces, so now I’m imagining them doing that.)

The fact that everyone but Fantine is kissing everyone else is yet another clue that she doesn’t exactly fit in. It also seems like another indication that Favourite should have been paired with Tholomyes.

Fantine’s “dreamy, fierce resistance” (FMA) or “dreaminess and wildness” (Hapgood) is an aspect about her that I feel comes out a little more when she’s back in Montreuil-sur-Mer and has unfortunately hardened a bit. She has quite literally no lines of dialogue until 1.3.8, and her lines up through the letter are superficial, except perhaps for the line about the stagecoaches. Everything we see of Fantine is observational; she’s watching her friends to follow suit, we’re watching her. Later on, in M-sur-M, she’s fiercer, more willing (or perhaps more desperate) to talk back, to talk aloud to herself. The fierce part of her is very inward here, and it’s poverty and desperation that really brings it out. Her confrontation with Bamatabois later, and the moments just before it, bring the “dreaminess” and the “wildness/fierceness” together quite violently.

(Sidenote: The more I read and think about it, the more I’m loving the Fantine-as-autistic headcanon. She’s quiet here because she’s working hard at masking and mimicking; once she’s at her lowest points in M-sur-M, she’s totally given up that effort because she absolutely does not have the energy or mental capacity. So we then get her talking to herself, self-soothing by wringing her hands, shrinking back, etc etc. Idk who came up with that headcanon or where I read it mentioned, but I love it.)

This entire massive paragraph about love in springtime feels very romantically pastoral in its imagery. It certainly fits with the whole leaving urban Paris to go to the park and nature in Saint Cloud (despite the weirdly dark aspects of the area). He continues the theme by mentioning Honore d’Urfe, a pastoral romance author, and Watteau and Lancret, both painters of light, colorful, Baroque style paintings. Watteau painted “The Embarkation for Cythera,” a painting of a fete galante, which is essentially what’s going on in this scene. Cythera is the Greek island said to house a cult of Aphrodite. I’m not sure what the Diderot reference is doing there; I know about his reason vs feeling philosophy, and I know he wrote a “naughty” novel, but I’m not sure how either of those fit into these themes in the rest of the paragraph?

"Beautiful girls lavish their charms with sweet prodigality. We imagine it will never end.” What an interesting pairing of sentences. The second line takes on a tone of quite dark foreshadowing when reading the Brick again. But that first line is interesting to me for the idea of women wasting their charms on men. It feels like an expansion of his “poverty and coquetry are fatal counselors” line, but from a different angle. Flirting or falling in love with a man who is only going to use you for his own pleasure and then drop you is a waste of emotion, not to mention painful if you’re not ready for it. Lavishing “charms” on men only for them to treat a woman in a way that could potentially ruin her is Bad. But if you don’t realize that’s what’s happening, if you think that instead of shallowness or emotional manipulation, you’re actually getting real love and connection, you’re not going to ever want it to end. And then when it does that shock and hurt is so much the worse. Again it’s the difference between Fantine and the others; she seems to think it’s real love on Tholomyes’ side like it is for her, while everyone else seems fairly aware that it’s just a fun little fling and nothing more.

Riding donkeys seems like kind of a ripoff in terms of a date? Maybe another example of Tholomyes’ cheapness as a date as well as an example of his charisma. If he can sell riding an ass as a fun and cute outing instead of a bit of a let down, then no wonder he’s the one in control of this whole endeavor.

I have no idea what plant it is they’re viewing at the Jardins des Plantes, and it’s really bothering me. The only thing I could think of is wisteria, but that can’t be right, since it has leaves, and I have no idea how to search that on google. I’m also wondering what the “mannikin anchorite” at the Chateau d’Issy was. There’s a statue of the actual St. Cloud (Clodoald) in Saint Cloud, but they’re in Issy at this point as far as I can tell, so I have no idea.

As far as I can tell, the satyr-millionaire/Turcaret-Priapus lines are just a joke about rich horny people. I’m not sure why the hall of mirrors is an aphrodisiac? But I suppose the joke is something about voyeurism and watching the person you’re attracted to via means only available to those with lots of money to build a hall of many mirrors? Unless I’m interpreting the entire “cabinet of mirrors” wrong and it’s not even real mirrors. I’m just making guesses at this point.

I think the “Abbe de Bernis” line is a reference to Casanova, but I’m not 100% sure.

Fantine refuses to swing, and Favourite thinks she’s being superior. This seems like another moment pointing out Fantine’s modesty; the “flying skirts” produced by the swinging are maybe a little much for her taste. But it’s another thing that makes me think that maybe the other girls don’t like her very much and are maybe a little frustrated at her prudish behavior compared to the others, or think that that modesty is her thinking she’s better than them.

They’ve now been out and about for about 10 hours, which is a lot. There’s a post somewhere on tumblr about the Russian Mountains, but I love that there was a rollercoaster in Paris in the 1810s. The roller coaster also seems like perhaps an interesting chance at a metaphor for what’s coming: a big climb upward, a rush, and then suddenly much lower than you were a moment ago. For the other women, being back down on the ground is expected at the end of the ride, but for Fantine, it’s an unexpected, painful let down.

Ten (or more) hours is a long time to wait for this “surprise.” I’m wondering if this whole outing has a sort of twofold objective: one as a sort of “last hurrah” date, where they do all the fun things and then there’s the cruel “surprise” at the end. And two, as a way to tire everybody out, so the women would do exactly what they do later on in 1.3.9: get distracted with chatting or just gazing out the window in thought until they suddenly realize how much time has passed, giving the men plenty of time to get away.

[snowflake-of-destruction]

let's hear about FFVIII seifer, if you're still doing this XD

Why I like them: You know my tastes. A green-eyed man is introduced throwing fireballs around, is kind of a condescending jerk but in a fun way, instigates deep conversations on high ground while staring at the sunset...Well, before we even get to villainy, immolation, and redemption arc, I start going “Is this a favorite character?”  I’m joking...kind of. Some of that does factor in, even the fire. 

Okay, so my favorite thing about Seifer’s arc is that, in the limited focus he’s given, he’s complex and layered from the beginning, and his villain arc is a clear and fascinating illustration of “No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks” ….with a side of brainwashing.

Let’s break this down:

What are some of the words used to describe him by those that know him (by himself, by Squall, by Fuu and Rai)? Romantic. Idealistic. Sensitive. He is the one who believes in making a difference in the world--not just as a wish or goal, but as an imperative to do what your heart says is right even if it’s going to cost you--where Squall is just follow-the-orders-and-do-the-job. If you’re already reading this and objecting, I’m not saying Squall doesn’t care...obviously he does, defrosting Mr. Go Talk to a Wall and getting him to a place where he admits how many layers of mask he wears is his character development...but Seifer isn’t just a hothead. He wears his heart on his sleeve. 

Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to deny that Seifer can be an abrasive, self-serving, hypocritical jackass sometimes,  who can fight dirty, wants to “wreak some havoc,” and has a history as a bully--though, gentlefolk of the jury, I submit to the courts that he puts on a tough act like Squall does and they are both different flavors of trying to mimic toxic alpha male--but let’s not forget that some of his establishing character moments are throwing out his future to disobey orders because he sees that the higher-ups have possibly misjudged the situation and civilians could be in danger, and, again, going AWOL because he thinks Squall and Rinoa could be killed. And he calls himself the white knight and holds up a code of honor until the end, even though it gets twisted. He is about duty and honor, with honor even over duty.

Oh, this was only going to be the beginning. I haven’t even begun to touch on what I would want to touch on--this is just surface personality and the beginning of the game before we even get to joining Sorceress Edea, and even then not all I would say-- but this post isn’t actually supposed to be my Ted talk on what you missed if you just think of Seifer as a recurring boss fight. Let’s move on.

ONE MORE THING ACTUALLY. Even though we see a lot of Seifer at his worst, you can use Fujin and Raijin as a mirror. What do they say near the end of the game if we paraphrase/summarize? They knew pretty early on, before even the senseless slaughter and torture era that Seifer was going down a dark path with the sorceress, but they knew it wasn’t him and stayed with him, not because they agreed with his actions, wanted power, or out of fear, but to take care of him and try to break through to him--and not because they are saints, but because he, despite what had happened in the past year, is the type of person who deserves and inspires that kind of loyalty. Let’s think on that.

Now the rest goes under a read more, because I am going to keep rambling and be wordy

Why I don’t: He can be an asshole, and he’s an asshole in an embarrassing way. As in, if one is trying to say he’s not the little punk his KH counterpart is, you remember he still uses the insult chickenwuss (though that is a legacy insult/nickname since he’s known Zell since childhood--and, fyi, Squall uses it too) and he had a little gang in school. Even once he’s a military commander of an evil army set on world domination, he has some moments where his level of petty undermines him.

Favorite episode (scene if movie): The Dollet mission

Favorite line: Sorry, not sorry that the following is my favorite exchange of lines and that the prison torture scene is another of my favorite scenes. For context, Seifer has captured Squall, has him hanging up on the wall in crucified hero imagery, implied to be shirtless even though his character model isn’t because they talk about scar tissue or lack thereof from a recent shoulder injury/Squall being stabbed in the chest/shoulder area. Seifer has been electrocuting Squall for information. By this point, I might as well have put the whole scene here. Also, I am now going to blame Squall and Seifer text boxes in FFVIII for my own abuses of ellipses...

Seifer: " I was hoping you'd be there, Squall. So... how'd I look in my moment of triumph? My childhood dream, fulfilled. I've become the sorceress' knight."

Squall: [internal monologue] ...Sorceress' knight... ...His...romantic dream...? But... Seifer... Now, you're just a…[Out loud] "... torturer."

[Squall passes out.]

Seifer: "What did you say? [Steps closer] Passed out cold, eh? This is the scene where you swear your undying hatred for me! The tale of the evil mercenary versus the sorceress' knight!”

This isn’t just me all “mmm, tension.” Seifer has passed the moral event horizon, and it’s not just faceless NPCs that are collateral damage anymore. We’ve seen him on screen torture the protagonist, who is also one of the only people who he’s shown to have a real bond with that goes beyond superficial. Then we get this and see Seifer thinks he’s the good guy still, on a noble mission where he’s had to make painful sacrifices, and Squall is a representative of the power-hungry evil. Seifer’s been playing a different game, and had his will twisted via magic.

Favorite outfit: The Amano art where the white coat is cast off and he’s wearing the simple black shirt and black jeans under it. Symbolic? Maybe. I wouldn’t give up the coat though. I love the long white/gray coat, the outer embodiment of wanting to wear the white hat, but the desire easily getting tarnished, and the red cross that turns into a sword and becomes Seifer’s symbol and soon to appear other places, emblazoned nice and big on the sleeve. It’s the Cross of Saint James. TRADITIONALLY red represents the blood of Christ, the three lilies represent the honor of the apostle and reference Christ as lily of the valley, and the sword shape represents the torture that St.James suffered before his murder. HOWEVER, my opinion is that here it’s more vague/altered symbolism (For starters, there are other gods not the Christian God in this world) with a side of “looks cool.” We still have something that clearly calls to mind a mission from on high, innocence in the lilies, blood and blood cost, and then war/violence with the sword. And I love it. 

OTP: Seifer/Squall. I should not even start, but lest you think I am just in it for kinky torture scenes: We have these two who, in the beginning, are generally callous or mocking toward everyone, but make each other laugh/smile, see who each other are underneath and describe each other in “soft” terms even if they tease each other for it, repeatedly check in on each other to see if the other is okay, respect each other’s opinion and skills, and...you get the idea. In the words of Zell Dincht, I thought you two were rivals, but you’re all buddy-buddy. 

Pause for a second and let’s just say first impression. That opening fight where they scar each other’s faces? It takes place outside Balamb Garden and the area is shown so we see they are alone. Squall passes out. Squall wakes up in the infirmary within the Garden base. Squall has to explain what happened; people don’t already know. This kind of implies after Squall passed out, Seifer, bleeding from a head wound himself, picked Squall up and carried him home, allowing himself to collapse only when Squall was being safely tended to, because he’s that extra. This is his first (okay, second, after fireballs and face slashing) action in the game even though it’s offscreen. I mean, he could have also just called for help/ran for help, but that’s less fun.

 Seifer is so concerned with being a badass, but he’s admits to Squall all he’s ever wanted was to be the fairytale knight, not a mere soldier. Vulnerability and confession he wants romance....with the first time it’s brought up in game being while they are watching the sun set together, the traditional Square Red Sunset of Shipping. 

Seifer hesitates to defy orders, not for himself, but until he sees Squall is with him. Even though there were other “children of destiny” who all came from the same orphanage, Squall and Seifer were the ones who were never apart, never adopted until it was by a military/mercenary training program, and, even though it may speak more to brotherly than romantic from some angles, there’s a feeling of being the same, knowing each other down to the atoms, adopting an us against the world mindset that trumps trying to best each other when it comes down to it because they are the only constant. When Squall has his breakdown/ breakthrough of why he pushes people away/doesn’t let himself care/tries not to need anyone because people leave/are taken from him and he is scared he isn’t worthy of love and happiness until Rinoa challenges him, this may seem like a dismissal of Seifer, but you can also look at it from “I had no friends or family. I didn’t even have interest in speaking to anyone. I strived to be an unfeeling machine, because all emotion is pain...But also I couldn’t go 48 hours without seeing Seifer.”

Yeah, yeah, we know their main form of hanging out was beating the tar out of each other, but sometimes, especially in older media, this was its own brand of subtext. For more on how Seifer miiiight just view sparring let’s point out that “Isn’t this ROMANTIC?” and “Kneel” as a less easily interpreted as innuendo version of  “I want you on your knees” are battle quotes even in Kingdom Hearts sooo draw your own conclusion. 

We get a line where Squall makes it clear these were friendly matches looked at as pushing their limits beyond what they are allowed to in sanctioned spars, and he feels prepared to take on anything  now because of Seifer. Is it healthy communication  in real life? No! Is this real life? No! Plus, the facial scar was an accident, pretty clearly...on Seifer’s side...I could write another essay on how Seifer draws first blood, but it’s because on Squall’s failed block, AND THEN SQUALL GETS ANGRY AND RETALIATES WITH CLEAR PURPOSE AND MAKES THE OPENING SHOT INTO THE FIRST SIGN GOOD VERSUS BAD GUY ISN’T SO CLEAR CUT (even though they both shouldn’t have been going so hard in a friendly training match to begin with).

 Seifer’s later, repeated threats/expressed desire to give Squall additional scars once he goes evil? That is a different animal, and a horrible one, objectively. Not objectively? No comment. Okay, one comment. Mark you as mine. Two comments. He knows Squall’s lost some memories and he can’t stomach being the next thing forgotten so Squall needs physical reminders.

Hmmm, I was supposed to be talking about the ship, not just the sparring and scars. We can wrap it up with a Marge Simpson. “I just think they’re neat”

BUT ONE MORE THING

Squall’s jacket when he becomes Leon in Kingdom Hearts. His outfit is mostly the same, right? Except the back of the jacket now has a red patch of an emblem (of Rinoa’s angel wings, not Seifer’s cross...for the OT3 feel), and his fight with Sora he throws a fireball like Seifer’s signature. Just, you know, if you want bonus references/feeling.

Brotp: Fuu and Rai. They are willing to commit war crimes with this man, nurse him back from death’s door, and go into exile with him if he can’t return to a normal life even after a redemption arc. This section deserves to be long, but I am beginning to get talked out. Don’t take that as devaluing the friendship though. I’m glad he was allowed to keep his ride or dies in Kingdom Hearts. FRIENDSHIP! They love him, ya know?

Head Canon: What we see of him at the end of the game is a temporary situation and after he heals and refreshes for awhile he’d go back to Balamb and face consequences for his actions, and probably insist on consequences instead of leaning into “an evil sorceress bespelled me and slowly took my free will.” No hiding away in the wilderness. No crossing into and living his life in Esthar. No, “but in the end I broke free and would have been an active, onscreen part of saving the world if Square had let me join the party!” He would insist on being cast into a deep, dark cell. Squall uses pull to get him pardoned, but not before just, flat out, yelling at him for being a martyr.

Unpopular opinion: He did love Rinoa. It may have been a “shallow love,” but he wasn’t just dating her to pass time or because she played into his damsel who needs a hero mindset. There was emotion. He was prepared to die for her and Squall in Timber, and almost did--only being saved by Sorceress Edea...which wasn’t a kindness, but it all worked out in the end. Sure, he gets mind-controlled into using Rinoa as, basically, a human sacrifice and it isn’t Rinoa he wants stripped and brought to his room when we’re taking prisoners, but he cared about her. He does taunt her about their past relationship, but we’ve already established this is just part of his communication skillset.  Yes, I will elaborate more if asked, though it’s more feeling based than text based. 

A wish: If there’s ever a sequel, let him have put out the good in the world that was his dream and be seen as a hero. Let us see a matured and peaceful Seifer. 

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: My one fear if they ever remake FFVIII instead of just porting it, is that some of the creative team have said they like the fan theory where you are dead part way through the game and the rest is a dying dream or purgatory. It’s creative stuff; I will say that. It’s not my favorite, and I don’t agree, but those kinds of fan interpretations when they go in depth are super cool. PLEASE LET THE INTEREST IN IT JUST BE THE SAME AS MINE OF THINKING IT’S CREATIVE BECAUSE MAKING THIS  CANON WOULD BE SO, SO BAD FOR EVERY CHARACTER.

5 words to best describe them: stubborn, misguided, paladin, romantic, petty

My nickname for them: I don’t really have one

[star-killer-md]

Dream a Little Dream of Me Pt. 5

oh MY GOD. I swear this update bent me backwards and fucked me harder than Kylo Ren ever could. Like dear sweet jesus I don’t know why it was so hard for me to get this shit out of my brain and onto my google doc but she really just wasn’t having it. Anyway, here it is. Not entirely certain if I’m all the way happy with it, but it what it is and hopefully the weird symbolism and imagery came across well. I’m an english major so I can’t like not input that shit into my writing even if its a Kylo Ren smut fic. I hope you all enjoy this mess of an update. You’ve all been incredibly sweet and supportive and like you’re just great people. My lovely coworker beta’d this for me and more than one old woman definitely overheard us talking about Kylo’s dick while at work. 

As a side note, I am new to the game of writing smut for the most part (and like long form fic) and I want to branch out Into writing more kinks and such, so if there is anything you want to see from me, please send a message! I need the practice 😂

AO3 Mirror

Part 4

Warnings: nsfw, violence against the reader, violence against Kylo, they may or may not have a physical altercation in this, minor blood mentions (like very minor), dirty talking, inappropriate use of the Force, lots of angst, like oh god so much, cockwarming if you squint, some amount of softness cause the author is a little bitch 

Ship: Kylo Ren x Negotiator!Reader

Word Count: 7.6K (buckle up babes)

He wasn’t looking at you. 

He hadn’t looked at you all morning. 

You were looking though, couldn’t stop looking. Ever since you’d woken to find your bed empty and the Commander sat on the couch across from you, scrolling mindlessly through his datapad. There was a plate with crumbs left scattered on its surface and cup on the nightstand beside him.

You thought it might have been coffee. It was odd to think of him eating or drinking, for some reason you’d assumed before he didn’t need too. That seemed foolish now that you knew just how real he was. 

How did he take it, you wondered. With cream? Sugar to ease the bitterness? Or did he like the way it burned and tingled without anything to numb its acidic sting. 

On the small table in the corner, a silver room service tray sat abandoned. The fresh fruit was growing warm, filling the room with a sickly sweet scent that couldn’t even begin to cover the stench of avoidance that hung in the air. 

He hadn’t spoken to you all morning either. 

You both had yet to speak. 

You might have asked about the coffee, but then you noticed the very clear indent of a head on the pillow beside you. A few black hairs stood out starkly against the cream colored sheets. 

And then you remembered. 

Someone’s breath washing warm over your face, the glimpse of him bare from the waist up, your favorite mole, the shower water pounding over pink skin, his name in your mouth— 

And it became clear why he wasn’t saying anything. 

Because he knew what you’d done. 

And you knew he knew. 

And he knew that you knew he knew. 

It felt horribly awkward breaking the stillness of the room, so you didn’t move from the bed. Just sat up, letting the covers pool in your lap as the fruit slowly rotted and neither of you spoke a word. Once you thought he might have glanced at you from the corner of your eye, but when you turned, he quickly looked back down at the glowing screen in his lap. 

Eventually, you’d had enough. Throwing the sheets off your bare legs, you climbed out of bed and padded quietly into the refresher. You shut the door with a click and heard the immediate shuffling of fabric from outside. Soft footsteps and the sound of pouring liquid filtered in from the main room, but the extra clink of a spoon stirring or the dripping of cream was decidedly absent. 

He drank it black, then. 

The thought settled heavily in you. 

Your reflection in the mirror was pitiable, puffy, tired eyes staring back at you blankly. You ran the water, splashing some on your face and tried not to think about what you’d ‘seen’ the Commander do in the shower behind you last night. 

But one look at the slate gray tiles had images of his hand curling against them, the other wrapped around— 

You buried your face in one of the hand towels and groaned into it. Was he staring at your empty bed and thinking the same thing? Were scenes of you writhing on the sheets playing themselves on loop in the Commander’s head? Could he feel the lingering want for him in the air around you?

Outside the door, you heard something that sounded suspiciously like Ren choking on his coffee. 

Staring down into the basin, you felt a terrible realization cresting over the horizon. He knew about last night—that was a given. You had heard him, seen him, felt him in some ethereal way you could not explain. He’d been in you too, a presence in your head, an audience to all that you thought of him. 

But was that really the first time?

Because—now that you thought about it, really stopped and breathed it all in—the empty, lonely, half-filled and never completed feeling that sat deeply in your bones was only ever gone when he touched you—only ever relieved when he visited you in your sleep. 

And you had been blessedly free of it last night, when you lay breathless and trembling with a pleasure that did not belong to you. 

In fact, you did not feel it even now.

You thought of his face. Too identical, every mole and freckle right down to your favorite of them in the same place. The same eyes, same angle of his teeth, same ears just a bit too big and hair that fell in his face. The same baby curls by the crown of his head. 

It was simply impossible for your mind alone to have crafted such a perfect replica. 

There was no denying it. 

And it was only now dawning on you—that, in fact, it had always been him. 

The Commander Ren who drank black coffee and did everything in his power to enrage you at a moment's notice was one and the same with the Kylo who had plagued your mind for months. Whom you had not so secretly craved like he was ambrosia and you, a starving mortal at his feet. 

Your breath shook as it filled your lungs and clawed its way back out like the secret of it was trying to burst free from its prison in your ribcage. 

Outside, the Commander was moving again, and you listened, feeling the pull in each step—like he was walking through honey. 

The soft swish of his pants was the only sound apart from your shallow breathing. There was something alive in the air and it was waiting. 

The shadow of his feet came to a halt outside the door and you heard the soft thump of his hand resting against it. You were compelled by a force—the Force maybe—some unknowable tugging in your veins. Your feet found their way to stand toe to toe, palm to palm with Kylo Ren, nothing but the thin wood of the door between you. 

There was a stillness settling in the room, and when you closed your eyes, you could see it. 

He was there, clear as the void of space and twice as lovely—standing, staring through the barrier between your bodies. And you felt him see you too. Felt yourself full to the brim and fantastically whole. 

You wanted to touch him. 

Needed to touch him. 

And you knew he would let you. 

Because he always had before and you couldn’t stop your hand from pushing against the wood, prying it away to reveal Kylo, your Kylo, your Commander to you and then— 

Then it all shattered. 

The door between you was flung nearly off its tracks as someone rapped twice loudly from the hall. You barely had time to register the awful sinking sensation, like a knife carving you in two as the Commander met your eyes for the first time that morning and you felt nothing.  

The knocking came again and you gazed at him frantically. 

“Get in,” you hissed under your breath.

He stared at you with his pretty brown eyes, frowning like he always did. The man before you was simply your uncooperative Commander who could do nothing but cause unnecessary inconvenience. There was no more glimmer in his gaze to tell you the last few minutes hadn’t been just another dream. 

Your eye twitched as you stepped out past him and gestured towards the empty space left behind. 

“I’m sorry, would you like to be found out?”

The tapping on the door repeated itself and you pointed harshly at the bathroom until he finally slipped inside, knocking his shoulder into you as he went. You shut the door a little harder than strictly necessary.  

A familiar voice called to you from outside. 

“Miss Negotiator?” 

When you’d opened the door, Lem Alba was standing in the hall just outside. In his hand he held a small package. 

You apologized politely, “I was just about to get in the shower.” 

“Ah,” he nodded. “I won’t keep you too long then, just came to deliver this and to let you know that Representative Gahl has invited you to travel with his personal security team tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh, right,” you tried not to sound disappointed that he hadn’t forgotten your conversation, and took the parcel from his hand. 

It wasn’t that the gesture was entirely unusual, but Gahl didn’t exactly strike you as someone important enough to warrant a whole team of guards. You thought anxiously of Atreus. 

An example. 

“Why with his personal team, may I ask?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this” Lem looked up and down the hall before leaning in conspiratorially, “but one of the staff was found dead a few hours ago, so we’re increasing protection to some of the more high ranking individuals.”

The shock on your face was mostly genuine, “Shit, that’s horrible.” 

Lem nodded and sighed, leaning up against the door frame, “Yes, well that’s what we’ve been dealing with all morning.” 

You chuckled, “Don’t you just love doing jobs that aren’t yours?”

That’s why I’m here, you almost said but thought better of it. Something told you your audience wouldn’t appreciate the comment. The hard, invisible pinch on your thigh confirmed your suspicions. 

“You got that right,” he mumbled and stood up straight. “And I should get back to it.” 

“Of course,” you gave him a thin smile and moved to close the door but Lem’s hand caught it at the last second. 

“Let me know,” he cleared his throat, “if that’s not the right fit. I can have another sent up.” 

Glancing down at the package in your hand, you felt your face grow hot, “I will.” 

You meant to shut the door quietly, Lem still smiling at you from the other side, but the knob was ripped from your hand and it slammed closed with a bang. After a few seconds you heard the bathroom door slide open revealing Kylo Ren, taking up the entire archway. 

His size might have intimidated you if you hadn’t been so angry. 

“Care to explain yourself, sir?” you’d asked, all mercy and craving for him dying away as he stared at you blankly, jaw set on edge. It really was so amazing how this man could flip your moods like a switch. Night and day. Your hatred of him was forever inevitable. 

“I should ask you the same, officer.”

Outwardly he looked unfazed, eyes flicking to the package in your hand, but you’d seen him like this back on the Finalizer. The eerie calm before he snapped like a bowstring and left destruction in his wake. Before the bodies of officers who wronged him littered the floor and you were left to clean up the rubble.

You were walking on thin ice and it was cracking. 

You took another step. 

“If you’re insinuating that I’m the one jeopardizing our position here, then you are sorely mistaken,” your voice came out in a harsh whisper and grated your throat. 

The coffee cup on the nightstand rattled. 

“Remind me,” he took a menacing step towards you, “who here was it that agreed to leave the district with a group plotting against the Order?”

You met him head on, “I’m sorry you’re so woefully ignorant of diplomatic proceedings, but it wasn't exactly as if I had a choice.”

Cracks skittered up the porcelain as Kylo’s hands flexed, curling into fists at his sides. A rush of slick warmth flooded you at the sight. You tried to beat down the rising wave of sick arousal, but truly you couldn’t help it. Not when he looked at you with those pretty eyes blown wide and black with some dangerous suggestions. Not when his fingers were biting into his palms and you were imagining the marks they could leave on you. 

“Watch your mouth,” he gritted out each word, perfect teeth flashing behind his pink lips. 

You didn’t. 

“At least I know not to leave a body for them to find!”

The slight twitch of his eye was the only warning you got before the cup across the room splintered. Shards sharp as knives exploded out in an arch catching on your clothes and littering the rug. In the same split second Kylo Ren pounced like a predator on the hunt. His fist connected with the wall next to your head, dusting the side of your face with paint chips as it crumpled under his hand. 

You stared, gaze flicking between his shaking arm sticking out of the newly formed hole in your wall and his wild eyes—feral, lovely. 

For a minute, neither of you moved, just stood breathing each other's breaths and waiting. Again, he was only inches from you and you wished that you’d gotten to glimpse him before. That you could have slid the barrier between you aside and seen him soft and melting instead of untamed and steel hardened. 

But it seemed neither of you could let go of this savage security blanket of rage for each other. 

And if this was the closest to him you could get, that would have to be enough. 

You felt yourself draining, deflating, shrinking and cast your eyes down in surrender. Kylo pushed off the wall a second later, turning his back to you and burying his hands in his hair. He folded onto the sofa, legs spread and elbows on his knees. 

You’d seen him like this in a dream once, held his face in your hands and begged for him to take you. 

His eyes flicked to you still standing against the wall. 

“You’ve done this before,” he mumbled into his palms. 

You gaped. 

“Um, could be more specific, sir?” 

The look that comment elicited nearly turned you to stone. 

“Oh, if you’re talking about the strategic murder of political elites,” you let out an uneasy laugh and moved to perch on the edge of the bed, “then yes, I’ve arranged them.”

 You weren’t exactly proud of that, but it came with the job description. Par for the course as they say.

It was a dirty thing to do in the world of politics, and you felt much more satisfied when you had properly manipulated your opponent into submission rather than just killing them off. Your throat began to grow tight at the thought of yourself, shot in the back walking away from the mediation table. Just like the man who had this job before you.

Everything in the First Order came stained with blood and you were being called to pay the piper. 

What goes around comes around...as they say. 

“And?” his short tone brought you out of your stupor. 

You furrowed your brow, “Commander, are you asking me how I’d plot my own kidnapping and murder?”

He waved his hand for you to continue as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be asking. You supposed, in this world it was. 

“Alright then,” you sighed and flopped back on the mattress. “I would do it somewhere big, somewhere with an audience so the message gets across. Instill fear and go out with a bang.” 

Kylo’s head shot up, “They're planning on broadcasting the campaign announcement and the Order’s endorsement.”

“What?” you lifted your head off the pillows. “Did the dead body tell you that?”

“He wasn’t dead at the time,” Ren clapped back and pushed himself up in one smooth motion. 

He reached for his helmet sitting by the arm of the couch and slipped it over his head without a word. You watched him replace his layers, clipping the large belt in place and tugging on his boots. 

“Well, if I was going to kill me that’s when I’d do it,” you said, rolling on your side to watch him tighten the laces. 

Kylo didn’t say anything to that. Just stood and marched his way past the hole in the wall and stopped by the door. 

“Don’t—”

“Leave this room,” you interrupted. “I know.” 

The Commander huffed once, nothing more than an exhale of static and let the door click shut behind him. 

*** 

That was almost two days ago, and you hadn’t seen him since. 

Well, he’d certainly been there—the warm spot on your bed told you as much—but he was gone by morning and you’d left with the Representative and his team not long after. 

Currently, you were lounging in one of the large, soft chairs on your private balcony watching the waves and enjoying your first moments alone since arriving at the villa. Most of the day had been filled with hours upon hours of dull discussions where no one really wanted to hear what you had to say, but expected you to say something anyway. Finally, you’d been able to slip out while the rest of the staff sat down for drinks in the drawing room. 

The sound of the sea drifted up from the shore and settled around you, blanketing the small deck in a layer of artificial calm. The sun had begun its descent, and the water glimmered golden in it’s dying light. 

Now, there was just you and the ocean and your thoughts. 

Which, if you were honest with yourself, wasn’t that much of an improvement. 

Because you were thinking of him. 

Because that’s all you ever did anymore. 

Thinking of how you wished he was here and how you never wanted to face him again. Thinking of how you wished everything was simpler. 

And how you didn’t wish that at all. 

It was true, at first Kylo Ren had been nothing to you. His existence was more of a myth, a legend that you heard whispered, but was easy to disbelieve. How could a man like that exist, you’d thought. People didn’t live off of blood and waves of rotting bodies, they didn’t feed on power or bend the very fabric of the universe to their will. 

But they did drink coffee, and brush their teeth, and sleep beside you when they thought you wouldn’t remember. Real people tied their shoes and put holes in your wall when you talked out of turn. 

You thought of your first dreams of him, when Kylo was still soft and kind and not wholly himself—warm and gentle and lacking. You thought of him filling out around the edges, becoming clearer and sharper in words and reality. You thought of him cursing you, of holding his touch hostage and making you come apart cruelly empty of his skin. It was as if you were summoning something old and dark, drawing him more completely to you with each ritual. Everytime you came with his name in your mouth, another hook sunk and dragged him in. 

As if whatever had placed him there had taken its time, pulling pieces of him into your head until even when you were conscious, it was impossible to keep him from slipping into the forefront of your mind. 

And now that you’d been given a taste of it—of relief from the awful pit that drained you dry and was never satisfied—you were shaking again, ravenous like a starved animal with the loss. 

You got the distinct feeling there would always be something standing in between you and the Commander. Always something, always something, always something keeping you just a hair's breadth apart—making sure your palms never quite touched. 

It wasn’t enough to just hate him anymore, to feel your bones shake with the need to make him feel the same pain he inflicted on you. 

In your desperate attempt to craft something to fill the void in your small existence, Kylo Ren had become the tendons and threads which knitted you together into one, cohesive whole. 

You needed all of him, unencumbered, uninterrupted, raw and real with his teeth sunk into you. 

And really, how wrong was that?

Well, you knew the answer was most likely very wrong. But there was a reason you were good at your job and it wasn’t because you were in possession of a perfectly functioning code of ethics. 

You breathed in the salt spray off the sea and let it coat your lungs. The crashing of the waves rumbled in your chest like a drum beat, steady, sure, and comforting. No matter what, there would always be other worlds, other oceans, other lives that kept going even when yours did not. 

You were falling asleep, eyelids heavy and dropping every few seconds. 

And soon, you would dream. 

*** 

He was standing at the end of a dark hallway, just barely silhouetted by the strips of moonlight filtering through the windows.  His back was to you, so you called his name softly. When he turned, his face was blessedly bare and pale and shocked. 

“What are you doing here?” Kylo hissed. 

You stared in confusion as he moved swiftly down the hall, grabbing your arm and tugging until you stumbled behind him into a side passage. 

The second he stopped you wrenched your hand from his grasp. 

“What are you talking about?” you snapped and he whirled on you, massive, gloved hand clamping down over your mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, caging you against the wall. 

The tip of his nose brushed against yours as he spoke. Your cries of protest were muffled by the soft leather, its smoke stained taste invading your tongue when you tried to speak. Shaking your head in his grasp, you manueved one of his fingers between your lips and bit down, hard. The fabric caught on your teeth as he ripped his hand away and cursed. 

“Fuck, you—!” a small trickle of blood dripped from the hole in his glove where your teeth had torn at the flesh. His eyes were venomous, “I told you not to leave your room.”

“I didn’t—” you were cut off abruptly as voices began to echo down the abandoned corridor. 

You both stared wide eyed at each other as the sound of footsteps approaching grew louder. Quickly, he stepped forward, pressing both your bodies flat against the wall. You didn’t dare breathe as two figures passed by your hiding spot in the shadows and entered the door at the end of the hall. 

Kylo was so close you could see his throat move as he swallowed, his chest right up against your face, the scent of him washing over you. Something hard was pressing into your thigh. You convinced yourself it was just his saber, despite the warm pulsing you felt every time you twitched against him. 

He was looking down at you, lips parted as though he might speak, but the voices filtering out from under the door drowned anything he might have said.

“Representative, we can’t be too hasty.” 

Each word dripped down your spine leaving a viscous and greasy trail. You knew that voice. 

An example. 

But why would you be dreaming about Gahl and his so-called advisor? 

“You aren’t dreaming,” Kylo whispered, exasperation clear as he spoke. His eyes bored into you, leaving behind painful trails wherever they darted across your skin. “Now shut your mouth before you get us caught.” 

His hand found your mouth again, his fingers prying it open and pressing hard down on your tongue. You gagged around them, the iron of his blood coating your teeth as he pulled harshly down on your jaw. It ached and popped but no sound escaped. 

You’d read somewhere before that you can’t feel pain in your dreams, but you certainly felt that. 

He was right. Not a dream then. 

You swallowed around Kylo’s fingers, hints of metal and smokey leather dripping down your throat. His eyes were fixed on your lips as they stretched around him. The warm, hard presence at your thigh ground into you by an almost imperceptible inch. 

“You said if we took the girl, he’d come.” 

It was Gahl this time, his voice rougher around the edges with age. You found yourself letting your hips curiously rock up just a hair while you listened for the slight hitch in the Commander’s breath you knew so well. 

Your heart nearly stopped at the sound—not his saber. 

“Ren will come sir,” Atreus purred. “I’m sure of it.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Gahl sounded unconvinced. 

You sucked lightly, letting your tongue trace a slow line in the gap between Kylo’s fingers. He growled low into your ear, “Behave.” 

Yeah, you thought, it’s really gonna be me who gives us away.

“I saw it sir, when he was here before, the girl was in his head.” 

That gave you pause, and you narrowed your eyes searching his face for any reaction. He remained blank but for the slight crease in his brow, and the shaking of his breath. Your mind raced at the implication. You’d certainly been aware that the Commander was constantly in your head, but you were almost entirely sure Kylo Ren hadn’t given you a second thought until very recently. 

“I still don’t understand what is so remarkable about that woman,” Gahl grumbled from behind the door. 

Well you certainly weren’t going to argue with him on that, although it felt a little unnecessary to keep bringing up just how expendable you were. 

“I can’t explain it either sir, but he’ll come for her. And if he doesn’t, her death will prove to be more than motivating enough to draw him in.” 

You felt like gagging at every word leaving that man's mouth. Kylo’s fingers in your mouth turned sour the longer you listened. 

“You had better not be wrong, Atreus,” Gahl warned, his tone darker and sharper than you’d ever heard from the old man. “I want that masked idiot dead and the First Order at my feet by the end of this election cycle.”

Every muscle in your body was tensed, clenched and pulled taught like a coil, your jaw clicked as you worked against the intrusion in your mouth. Suddenly the scent of him was too much—the air hanging heavy in your lungs and never quite exhaling fully. 

Gods, Kylo Ren really was the source of all your turmoil. 

Your tongue and teeth and lips pushed and bit against his fingers until he finally pulled them from your mouth. 

You were going to die here—you were going to die here and it wouldn’t mean anything. They were right, you were unimportant and your death would be nothing more than a blip in the First Order’s radar. And somehow Kylo Ren had managed to put you right in the middle of the crossfire. 

You needed to get away, couldn’t bear to hear whatever came next. 

“Get off me,” you hissed, wrestling against his hands trying to keep you in place. 

“Stay still—” His voice was sandpaper on your skin and you needed to leave, had to leave, had to get as far away as possible— 

“I said,” you managed to position your hands squarely on his chest and shoved with a surprising amount of force, “get off me!”

Kylo Ren stumbled, actually stumbled back and stared at you with an awful, bitter cocktail of shock and anger and something else you didn’t have the time or patience to place. Father down the hall, a door was opening and voices approached from the hall. 

Everything faded to black far before you ever heard what they said. 

***

You were on your feet before you could even open your eyes. 

The sea was calling and you were going to listen, the small stones of the shoreline sinking between your toes as you rushed down the small path from your room. Waves were crashing in pairs when you finally made it to the water's edge, stripping your evening clothes off piece by piece like shedding skin, needing to be free. 

Free of nothing. 

Free of everything. 

The salt spray churned and rolled over your ankles and calves as you waded out into the sea. Something was pulling you, stronger than the currents, tugging you out into deeper water and you let it until your head sank below the surface and the sound of muted thunder waves roiling was a cacophony in your head. 

You were drifting, mind and body being tossed about. 

Confused—reality doesn’t have a clear border anymore and you couldn’t be sure what had happened and what hadn't, what should have happened but didn’t. 

Scared—you didn’t want to die, it wasn’t something you’d thought of before despite the nature of your employment, but you realized now that it was never your strength or wit keeping you alive, just luck. 

Angry—boiling inside at the thought of your unshakeable insignificance.

Angry—unwilling to die over the wounded pride of men who constantly underestimated you.

Angry—at yourself for inexplicably wanting one of them anyway. 

You let out your breath and screamed. Let the bubbles leave your mouth in a rush of air and pent up frustrations. The rumbling shock of diluted sound waves reverberated in your chest. You shrieked until your ears popped and your lungs were empty and water rushed to fill the vacuum left behind. 

And for a few moments, when nothing remained inside you and the world was in a strange, unbalanced limbo, you felt it. Inside that crater within your soul that wept and lamented its lacking, there was a spark. Something bright and firecracker red like a lost ember which had forgotten the fire of its youth. 

And you knew what you needed to do to feed it, to let it burn, to fill yourself to the brim and overflow with totality. 

Your head broke the surface like an eggshell, water streaming into your eyes as you gasped in lungfuls of wind off the sea. Someone was shouting for you. Far on the shoreline, a massive black silhouette stood bathed in starshine and the moon.  

It took a moment for you to realize he was yelling at you.

“What are you doing?!” 

His voice barely carried over the rushing water and the sound of your arms splashing to keep you afloat. 

“None of your business,” you called, turning to swim farther out into the depths. 

You could hear his frustrated shout as the waves kicked up over his boots. 

“Get back here,” he snarled. 

You weren’t able to make out his face, but you were sure his lips were pulled back, bearing crooked teeth ready to rip your throat out. 

He might do just that with a little coaxing. That was fine with you. Your anger was one meant to be shared. 

“Make me.” 

You could feel him snapping even as you drifted deeper out to sea. He was fraying, about to break and you wanted it. Wanted him drowning in the same turmoil as you. 

“You want me to make you?” he was raging now, hands tearing at his clothes, “You want me to fucking make you?”

You watched as he was revealed to you and tumbled into the surf, incoherent fury sapping all the grace from his steps—demise personified parting the waters.  

The moon glinted off Kylo’s skin and he practically glowed with it. In spite of yourself, you thought he looked every bit a prince, so painfully handsome in his own, strange way–inimitable and all the more lovely for it. Inky black water swirled and the breakers crashed against the bare expanse of his chest, like the sea itself was desperate to steal a taste of him.

Something within you–scarlet and glimmering–stirred. 

Something that ached. 

Something that yearned. 

Something hungry.

You watched him wade towards where you were floating, felt the current shift and draw you to him like a sinking ship. In his eyes you saw that same spark, red and crackling and alive. There was a beast in his bones and it smiled. 

And you knew, you would let it take you. 

But not without a fight. 

You kicked and struggled against the Force pulling you to him, not certain if he was the one controlling it or if it had its own mind and movement. But it was a futile effort either way. He was on you in seconds, fingers like claws grasping your ankle and ripping you through the water to him. 

He growled and grabbed a fistful of your hair, dragging your head underwater without warning. But you flailed and felt your foot connect with the hard plane of his stomach and his grip on you slipped. 

“This is your fault,” you screeched when you came up again. 

He was heavier than you, larger and sunk faster in the deep water. You maneuvered your hands into his hair as well while he tried to stay above the surface and yanked him down—shouts turned to bubbles—until he raked his nails across your bare chest and the sharp pain made you let go. 

Kylo’s head connected with your jaw as he came spluttering to the surface and your mouth flooded with the metallic taste of blood. It dripped from your lips in a stream and you spat out a mess of red stained sea water, watching it splattered over his handsome face in rivulets. 

“You brought this on yourself, you arrogant little slut,” he roared, shaking your shoulders in his hands until the back of your hand cracked across his face. 

“I’m the slut?!” you shrieked. “You can’t even be in the same room with me without your dick getting hard!”

He was right now too, you could feel the prominent, warm pressure of his cock slotted against your stomach. And whether or not there was a heat building between your thighs at the thought of it was neither here nor there. 

Blood still dripped down your chin as you both ripped at each other's hair, slippery with sea salt and plastered to your skulls. 

“You think I can’t hear you begging for me,” his face is so close you can see all the hairline scars that ran through it, connecting the dots between his freckles. 

Your nose brushed against his, “I’m not the one avoiding the subject!”

His knee slipped hard into the space between your legs and you yelped. 

“You have no idea what’s at stake here,” he gritted through his teeth. 

“My life, asshole,” you bristled. “I’m gonna die here trying to fix the mess you started!”

Neither of you spoke after the words died on your lips, just floating and gasping with the exertion of staying afloat. In the following silence, with the adrenaline pounding behind your ears, Kylo’s eyes were locked onto yours—black pools like the dark water. 

Seconds passed and you let whatever dying flame was inside your chest grow until its heat under your skin was blistering and driving you forward into the only thing that would offer any relief. 

Kylo’s lips were plump and soft under yours as they crashed together, your teeth clacking with the impact. It didn’t matter, not when his tongue licking into your mouth was the most soothing sensation you’d ever felt. 

His hands were frantic, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh and pulling you as close to him as possible, leaving no inch of skin untouched. Your legs wound around his hips, locking ankles just above the lovely curve of his ass. He groaned into your lips and you felt it in your bones. 

Tell me, he spoke in your head, and it felt as though he had always belonged there. 

Your ribs were cracking open to let him spill in, to fill in all the holes that riddled you. 

Tell me, he repeated again and it sounded like praying. 

His teeth caught your lip, sucking blood into his mouth so you could be inside him too. And he was so hot against you, all pale naked and sinful. You’d never realized someone could feel so solid, so painfully real and not just a trick of the light in your mind. Arms of pure, corded muscle locked around your back and crushed you to him as his feet found purchase on the soft sand. 

The sea was spitting you back onto the shoreline, waves crashing over your entangled limbs. It was no longer clear where you ended and Kylo began. 

It was not close enough. 

Kylo, you whimpered hoping the connection went both ways and he would hear you too. 

I’m here, you felt the pebbles of the beach kick up as he stood out of the surf and walked you up the beach. I’m here, tell me. 

His mouth never ceased to move against yours, biting, sucking, drinking you down to soothe the burn of the salt. Between your bodies, his cock was twitching. And now that you were blessedly free of the water, you could feel yourself dripping with need for him. 

You’d been this close once before, but it hadn’t felt anything like this. 

Kylo walked you up the beach, kneeling down in front of his pile of discarded clothes and landing in a heap on top of you. He ground his hips down, the tip of his length catching on your clit. The sound you made was inhuman, pure desire. 

The rocks of the beach bit into your back through his cloak, but you hardly noticed when his lips wandered down your neck. He growled and sunk his teeth into the flesh between your shoulder and neck, sucking a mark into your skin you would never be able to hide. 

You reared up, ready to paint more bruises on his skin when a hand closed around your throat and slammed you back into the earth. 

Tell me or you can’t touch, he groaned. 

You huffed and whined when he pinned your wrists in one hand above your head. No matter how hard you pulled, you couldn’t break his grip and you knew before he must have been letting you hit and kick and scratch at him. Must have liked it. 

You squirmed at the thought. 

His lips ghosted over your collarbone, other hand skimming up to palm at your breasts. Kylo’s mouth closed over a nipple, rolling it on his tongue and nipping when you bucked your hips into him. 

You watched him lap at your skin, loving the wet streaks he left behind. 

I hate you, you shot back. 

He smirked against your chest and moved on to torment your other breast, all the while grinding his cock between your soaked lips, coating himself in you. 

Lying won’t get you anywhere, he punctuated the statement with a particularly hard thrust over your clit. 

The slide of it was delicious and maddening and you needed more. 

I’m not lying, you said, although the string of moans leaving your mouth when he circled the tip of his dick over your entrance was not at all convincing.He pushed in just barely, never hard enough to actually grant you any relief. 

I know a lie when I hear one, his voice was velvet and it was driving you off the edge. 

But you would fight till the very end. It was one of your few redeeming qualities. 

Fuck you. 

That’s a bit more accurate, yes. 

He chuckled darkly resting his head on your sternum so he could watch as you helplessly rolled your hips while his cock remained frustratingly not in your pussy. 

Fine, you signed and he flicked his eyes back to your face. 

Kylo’s movements stilled and he pulled his hands back, leaning down to rest on his elbows above you. Some of his pretty sea-curled hair tickled your nose. 

“II wantwant youyou,” you whispered feeling it echo through whatever presence was allowing you to transfer your thoughts without really speaking. 

His breath hitched in that beautiful way that you loved. 

And then you were screaming—really truly screaming—his hand clamping down on your mouth to stifle the noise. 

But the wave of otherworldly pleasure and searing pain that washed over you when he thrust his hips, cock sinking into your cunt to the hilt in one swift motion was entirely too much bare. 

Though, Kylo was not faring much better. His face fell into the crook of your neck and he groaned into the skin. He didn’t move for a few moments, and you felt your walls tighten around him. He was massive, you’d known that, but never had you expected to feel so full.

You cared very little then, about whether or not you were going to die on this godforsaken planet, not if he could fuck you like this. Not if you got to feel Kylo Ren in every conceivable part of your body. 

He let out a shaky breath into your neck and pulled himself up. 

“I’m going to ruin you,” he gasped, drawing his cock out of you until only the tip remained sheathed in your warmth. “Ruin this pretty little pussy for anyone else.” 

Kylo slammed back into you, making your tits bounce as his hips slapped against your ass. You knew he was right. There would be no coming back from this—for him or you.  

“No one will ever feel like I do,” you retorted, clenching harder around him as he worked up a steady rhythm. 

You watched the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you tightened yourself and he reared back on his knees, grabbing your waist with his massive hands and hoisting your lower body off the ground. 

The new angle stretched you even more and every thrust caught that elusive spot inside you that had your thighs trying to snap shut against his hips. 

“Fuck, Kylo!” you cried, as shameless as always. 

“What?” he grunted. “You want it harder? Want me deeper?”

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” you babbled, needing anything he would give you. 

Kylo delivered on your request. You felt him in your stomach, each thrust was quick and sharp and angled just right and you had never felt anything like you did now. 

He was in your head still, his presence was warm and glowed a dim, sultry red that made your mind hazy—illuminated parts of yourself you’d thought were forgotten. Passion, that’s what he felt like, deep and forbidden. Delicious truth. 

“You keep saying you aren’t a whore, but look how well you’re taking my cock,” Kylo mused. 

You knew you were in his head too, could feel yourself leaking in through the cracks. He was thinking about how magnificent your pussy felt swallowing his length, how badly he wanted to cum in you, claim you and make you keep his release inside. 

There was fear there too. 

Longing and something darker. 

You wanted to take it away. 

“Only for you,” you muttered between thrusts, crying out when the Force loosed it tendrils over your skin. A shapeless finger rolled and teased your clit while two others kneaded at your chest. 

“You’re a whore just for me?” he was coming unhinged, you could sense it in the way his cock was pulsing in you. 

You nodded, bringing a hand to rest over his on your waist.

“Good girl.” 

He threw his head back, and you admired the lovely angle of his throat against the night sky. The Force on your clit was unrelenting and you wouldn’t last much longer, the tight coil of pleasure was building in your gut and spreading through your veins like quicksilver. 

“Kylo, I’m gonna—” you were cut off by his hand grabbing you by the hair and crushing you up into his chest. 

He sat your ass on his knees and lifted you up, dragging you back down onto his cock. You were like a rag doll in his hands as he wrapped his arms around your back and slammed you down. There was no space left between your bodies, nothing but the slide of your sweat slicked skin and his breath on your face. 

Even surrounded by the scent of sex and the sea you could still smell fresh mint lingering on his tongue. 

That might have been what finally sent you toppling over the edge. Or maybe it was the look on his face—brows furrowed and lips parted in a pleasure only you could bring him. Or maybe it was just the finality of it all. 

That Kylo Ren was unequivocally and irreparably linked to you now in some way. Be it through the blood in your mouths or his cock painting your insides with cum as you sobbed and clenched around him, circling in a feedback loop of each other’s orgasm. He was panting in your ear, spewing curses you couldn’t comprehend and fucking you through your release and his. 

This was something bigger than it seemed, you knew it when you heard him grunt your name while his mouth latched back on to the mark on your neck. Knew it when the glowing red presence in your head didn’t fade and the empty feeling you’d called friend all these years didn’t return. 

Knew it when he let you stay wrapped in his arms for a few precious seconds, his softening length still filling you with its pleasant, stinging warmth. 

Knew it when you felt the softest press of his lips to your neck when he lifted his head and pressed yours to his chest with a massive hand. 

His heart beat steadily under all the bone and sinew. 

It wasn’t until then that you became consciously aware he had one. 

“You aren’t going to die,” he whispered. 

And you wished you could believe him. Almost said so, but the words never came out, got lost somewhere in between your lips and how his skin was so much softer than you ever imagined it would be. Then he was pressing two fingers to your temple, a wave of unwilling sleep falling over you in a lovely, red blanket. 

And this time, you didn’t dream.  

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

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@thewilddingleberries​ @contesa-lui-alucard​ @obsessionprofessional​ @kit-jpg​ @findyourdarkness​

[writings-of-a-daphodil]

Fire Keeper: Chapter 19.5

Douxie x fem reader

Masterlist in Bio!

Series Summary: You are Jim’s older sister who is taking a break from college and has moved back home to Arcadia. You end up joining Jim and his friends on their adventures.

Chapter 19.5 summary: Archie and Lake are back and they are ready to find whoever Morgana sent to kill Arthur.

A/n: It’s finally here and it’s a lot longer than normal half chapters, so yeah, enjoy!!

“Good morning beautiful!” Douxie greeted. You looked up from your book and smiled at him. He was balancing a breakfast tray in one hand and opening the door with the other. A cup was awful close to falling off, so you sent a little magic it’s way to keep it in place.

“Hey.” He set the tray down in front of you. “Thanks for the food.”

“Of course, I know Merlin kinda put you on home arrest while he sees if Arthur remembers you committing treason.”

You laughed. “If somebody had told me a year ago that I would have been stuck in twelfth century Camelot with my wizard boyfriend, and that I had committed treason to save my half-troll brother then I would have thought they were crazy.” You looked to Douxie to see how he would react to you calling him your boyfriend and you saw a smile light up his face.

“It’s been a wild year.”

“Indeed it has.”

It had technically only been a few hours since Douxie kissed you and you were very happy with how everything had turned out.

You ate together, chatting like you hadn’t a care in the world. It was so nice to relax. Ever since you had fallen through the portal it had been pretty much nonstop action.

Unfortunately Douxie had to leave, but he had promised you a date later. You didn’t know what Camelot had to offer in way of dates, but you were sure you’d enjoy anything you and Douxie did together.

Eventually you got bored of just reading in the room and you decided to go see if Merlin needed your help.

“I swear, Morgana's not dead!” You heard Claire yell from inside Merlin’s tower. You wondered what all of that was about.

“Rubbish,” Merlin responded as you walked into the room.

“It's true, Master. She saw her in the Shadow Realm, which is great for saving history,” Douxie pointed out.

“But she's coming to attack the kingdom any second!” Claire reminded.

Douxie sighed. “Which is less great.”

“We are all in grave danger,” Archie said, trying to reason with Merlin. You walked up to Douxie and took his hand.

“And what were you doing in the Shadow Realm, hmm? Its dark mirrors trick you, sozzle your mind. Morgana is dead, and no magic can change that. I haven't time to chase ghosts. We have more immediate threats.”

Claire scowled. “Morgana is a threat!”

“Listen well, girl. Even if she had cheated death, we don't stand a chance if Gunmar attacks before I finish the amulet,” Merlin explained.

You jumped a bit as Past Douxie came in. “I've got everything, Master. Amulet designs, alloys for the heart, and my lute for some background music.”

Douxie looked at the supplies. “You're working on getting us back home?”

Merlin gave a small smile. “Of course. The heart is the only way to get the lot of you out of my hair.”

“Not that he has much left,” Archie muttered and you laughed.

Merlin frowned at the both of you. “I heard that.”

“Master, Claire's onto something,” Douxie said.

Claire scowled. “I know you think we're a bunch of dumb teens, but we have to defend Camelot from disaster.”

Merlin raised his arm, waving it. “Silence!” He ordered and green gags appeared on Douxie and Claire's mouths. You kept your own shut to avoid a similar fate.

Archie chuckled. “Wizard got your tongues?”

Merlin sighed. “If you truly believe the kingdom's in danger, then go protect it...outside. I've an amulet to finish.”

You sighed, and led the way out of the room towards the training grounds. In the distance Arthur got up and addressed the crowd. “Good people of Camelot, we've suffered many hardships. Our enemies claim that I am broken. But I have overcome. Behold the light of Excalibur reborn!”

Douxie grunted, trying his best to get the gag off, but failing, you laughed at his attempt and he frowned at you.

Claire coughed as her gag glowed blue and faded off. “No sign of Morgana anywhere.”

Douxie coughed, his own gag disappearing. “Nothing but unwashed plebeians stuffing their faces, eh, Steve?”

You looked around for Steve and saw him trying to buy food.

“The monsters at our door will fall. To ready our hearts for the battle ahead, I host a private tournament. The winner shall stand at my side...and have the honor of striking down the monster, Bular the Butcher.”

You turned your attention back to Douxie. “We know Arthur is the main target. I'll draw stasis traps around the perimeter, put up defensive wards-“ Douxie stopped mid explanation to shove a muffin in his mouth. “Mm! I forgot how good these tasted. The ones in the future aren't the same.”

You reached for one, but quickly withdrew your hand as Steve spit out some weird white thing that had been in his. You gaged a bit.

Claire sighed. “Guys, this is Morgana we're talking about. We can't just wait for her to slice our throats.”

“Why not?” Steve asked and you gave him a look. What kind of question was that?

“She'll find a way in,” Claire said.

“Well then, it’s time to do some detective work. Archie and Lake is back in business!” You exclaimed, pumping your fist.

“Archie and Lake?” Archie questioned.

“You’ll understand in about nine hundred years, but for now, we have an assassin to find.”

You were cut off from saying anything as Douxie and Steve jumped, the former latching onto your hand as a child spoke. “Yeah! I, noble King Arthur, will strike down the terrible trolls!” The boy swung his play sword around ‘threateningly’ at Bular.

“I will protect you, troll! I am Morgana, the evil witch! Shadow bolt! Shadow bolt!” A girl dressed as Morgana responded.

“You betray me, the noble king? Die, sister! Die!” The fake Arthur cried.

You watched as the real King Arthur stood and cleared his throat. “That's enough!”

There was a moment of silence as Bular roared at the children who ran off. Arthur sighed and sat down. “I crave a true battle. Let the tournament continue.”

Archie flew and did a lap around the arena. “No sign of any sorceresses. Then again, all you humans do look alike.”

Claire glowered. “She is crafty. She'll try to infiltrate the tournament. We have to go on the offensive, root the witch out!”

Douxie nodded. “You do that, and we'll secure the castle.”

“Douxie, wait! What about Steve?” Archie asked, but Douxie didn’t hear him.

You gave one last slightly concerned look before you and Archie went off in search of the assassin. The familier was incredibly helpful in this, seeing as he knew Camelot well and could identify any discrepancies.

However, there didn’t seem to be any discrepancies, there were no odd auras or anything anywhere. You made your way from the heart of Camelot outwards, but if there was someone helping Morgana, the two of you must have missed them.

You were walking the last stretch of the castle wall losing hope as you chatted with Archie.

“You’ll have to help me in the future with Mao,” you were saying.

Archie hummed. “I look forward to it.”

You walked over to the edge of the wall, stumbling a bit. You caught yourself on the rail, but when you leaned over the edge you noticed some odd bags that had been dumped over the edges. You had walked past the town dump earlier so these weren’t trash bags and for a twelfth century kingdom Camelot wasn’t that dirty.

“Hey Arch?”

“Yes?”

“Do these bags look suspicious to you?” Archie came over and flew past you. He landed beside one of the bags and after a second he looked up to you.

“Y/n you need to see this.”

You leapt off the wall and floated down towards Archie. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s war-Y/n! Don't!” Archie warned, but by then you had already stuck your hand in the bag. You yelped, yanking your hand out of the bag hissing and jumping in pain. Your hand was burned. It felt like you had put it in a bag of fire.

“Owwww!” You cried, yelping out as you tried to heal yourself?

“The bag is warded,” Archie explained, a slightly guilty look on his face.

“Ah, well then. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” you said, gritting your teeth against the slowly fading pain.

Archie sighed. “You and Douxie really are perfect for each other. A few weeks before you arrived Merlin brought in a warded bag and Douxie did exactly what you did.”

“So, is this one of Merlin’s?” You asked, smiling at the imagery of Douxie doing exactly what you did.

“No, Merlin only had the one and he took the ward off.”

“Oh, we better go tell Douxie about this then, maybe he’ll have an idea,” you suggested.

~~~~

“And there! The king's chambers and Merlin's tower, completely warded. No evil sorceress is getting in now, eh, Arch? Y/n?” Douxie asked as you walked over to him. The walls and floors near him were covered in glowing blue wards.

“Oh, you've done it, all right. Overdone it,” Archie said as one of the squires got trapped. Douxie helped him out while you got the squire’s bag.  

“Well, at least the castle's safe,” Douxie stated optimistically. You went to see what was in the squire's awfully heavy bag, but before you could he snatched it away from you and took off.

You frowned. “About that-“

“Oy, the king summons you! Come with me at once! Galahad yelled.

“What-?” Douxie trailed off, yelping as Galahad pulled him.

“I think I have a theory, meet me back here when you’re done?” You suggested and Archie nodded, flying off after Douxie.

Now you had to test that theory. You ran back towards the bags that you and Archie had found. You examined it and you knew it was the same as the bag that the squire had been so protective of it. His suspicions behavior encouraged you to investigate what was inside the bags, against your better judgement.

This time you wrapped your thin tulle sweater around your hand and reached into the bag, opening it. You hissed as you still felt the burning even threw the fabric. You whimpered, biting down through the pain.

You eventually managed to get the bag open and saw that there were dwarkstones nestled inside, a.k.a troll bombs. Blinky had an odd affinity for them and you knew the damage one could cause. Who knew how much damage this many would do.

You stood up and raced back to the place you said you would meet Archie in. As you made your way through the town, you tore your sweater off your hand. The results were not pretty, your hand was burned badly by the wards.

You would take care of those later, right now you had an assassin to stop. “Arch!” You called, slightly breathless.

He flew towards you. “Y/n! What’s wrong?”

“I know who did it, it’s that squire who Douxie accidentally trapped earlier.”

“Then we need to find him.” Archie shape shifted into a dragon and leapt into the air. You followed him through the town where he eventually led you to the arena.

“The witch is disqualified!” You heard Galahad yell as you ran towards Arthur. You watched in horror as the squire snuck up from behind and got ready to stab Arthur.

The king didn’t notice, focusing on Claire. “You both fight with no honor! Begone!”

“Hail Morgana!” The changeling yelled. He raised his knife and just in time you got there, tackling the would-be assassin off of Arthur’s balcony. It wasn’t going to be that big of a fall, but as the changeling adjusted his knife to stab you, you knew you wouldn’t make it to the ground.

“No!” Claire cried.

“Claire! Portal!” You yelped, but Claire was already ahead of you. You felt yourself enter the shadow realm and a second later you were out. The changeling crashed onto a piece of wood while you were safely delivered to your friends sides.

“A changeling? Protect the king!” Douxie ordered, running to check on you.

“Are you alright, love?” Douxie asked, helping you up.

“I’ve been better,” you said, watching as Bular was set free. Of course him being free was good for history, but it wasn’t good for Arthur.

Douxie rushed to shield the king from Bular’s attack. You couldn’t help but feel proud to call him your boyfriend. He cried out as Bular punched the shield and you got off the ground to help him.

Orange and blue swirled together as Bular punched the shield again, sending you, Arthur, and Douxie rolling out of the arena. You crashed into a fountain, and you didn’t have a second to rest before Bular came at you again. You and Douxie got ready to shield Arthur, but Bular swatted you and Douxie to the side. You felt Douxie’s arm wrap around you, protecting you from the impact.

Bular and Arthur fought and as knights ran up to defend the king, you summoned your own sword. “You’ll die in Camelot, Bucher!” Arthur threatened and Bular roared.

The ground rattled and you yelped as explosions rang out. A wave of guilt washed over you, you wished you had been unable to stop the dwarkstones from destroying Camelot.

With yours and the knights’ distraction, Bular took his opportunity to escape. You didn't bother going after him, knowing that it was better for history if he was free.

You heard the swishing of blades and snapped around to see one of Douxie’s blue shields keeping Arthur safe from the changeling’s sneak attack.

“Stay back!” Douxie yelled.

Morgana's changeling laughed, triggering more explosions. “Fools! I've already won.”

You expected to see more flames, fueled by the gentle breeze, but instead of dozens of devastating explosions, shields of Douxie’s blue magic contained them, blooming up all over Camelot.

“Merlin's tower!” Douxie said, realizing that his wards had in fact helped.

“Good call with those defenses, Doux!” Claire congratulated and you smiled at him.

“Yeah, but they won't last long,” Douxie pointed out.

Archie gasped. “Oh, no! Douxie!”

Douxie turned to him. “What?”

Archie sighed. “The other Douxie! With the man bun, in the tower?”

“Oh, fuzz buckets!” You, Claire, Douxie, and Archie ran off to the tower, trusting the knights to defend Arthur. You couldn’t let Douxie die. That would seriously mess up history.

You raced to the tower, watching as Douxie’s wards were barely able to contain the dwarkstone explosions. You didn't hesitate to run into the towers though. You had to save Past Douxie and Merlin.

“We have to go!” Your Douxie called, bursting into the tower.

“But I'm in the middle of creating-“ Merlin was cut off by his windows bursting. He stumbled towards the middle of the room. “Dworkstone? We need a way out.”

“Already ahead of you,” Claire said, creating a portal. You jumped in and immediately fell out right by Arthur. You winced as Past Douxie didn’t get as lucky a landing as you.

“Camelot is closed, Morgana,” Claire said as Douxie trapped the changeling in chains. Steve ran at him with his axe, bashing him backwards. You scowled as the changeling broke free.

Claire was on it though, using a portal to send him right back to you. He crashed to the ground and Douxie raised his hands. You mimicked him, using your magic to contain the changeling. Beams of green, blue, and orange swirled together to create a trap. The changeling fought, but suddenly fire swirled up, obliterating him.

You smiled at Douxie as Merlin silently congratulated him. You rushed over to hug him immediately after.

“You did great,” you cheered.

“We both did,” Douxie said, kissing you. You broke away and watched as Steve was declared an official knight. He may not have been the best fighter, but he was brave when it counted and smart even. You knew he deserved it.

However, the celebration was over in mere seconds when Merlin spoke, “Camelot's defenses are destroyed... her best knights injured or dead.”

You looked around and saw the area where you were was almost completely blown apart and there were fires all around Camelot. You were only shook out of your trance by Past Douxie.

“Oh, my everything hurts!” He groaned, collapsing. “I think I'm gonna stay in here a bit longer.”

You winced, going over to heal him. It was honestly really entertaining to actually meet Douxie’s younger self and to see how dorky and goofy Douxie had been, not that much had changed. You recalled when you had first gone to the book shop and Douxie had panicked when you noticed Archie was wearing glasses, putting them on and claiming they were his. You smiled at the memory.

Merlin coughed, drawing your attention back to him and the devastation. “We need allies in the war to come.”

Arthur sighed, looking defeated. “Our enemies are many, but how will we face them alone? I am a king with half an army.”

Claire looked at you and Douxie. “Jim,” she suggested.

Douxie grinned and you nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Then we go to the good trolls,” Douxie announced.

****

Voila! I really hope y’all liked it and are excited for more. I can't believe we only have two more chapters! I'll continue the series once the movie comes out, but once chapter 21 comes out it'll be on pause. Anyways, thank you all so much for all the kind comments and I hope you have a fantastically safe and wonderful day!!

P.S. if you want to be on the taglist feel free to ask. I hope it works and please message me if it doesn’t.