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ithinkyouhealedmyheart · 2 months ago

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Ghostwriter CH 25

Unbetad Unedited Unhinged || AO3 Wattpad

Character(s): Kendall Knight, James Diamond, Carlos Garcia, Logan Mitchell, Gustavo Rocque, Kelly Wainwright, Mrs. Knight, Katie Knight, Mr. Clark oc, Veronica Clark oc

Pairing(s): Kendall Knight/Original Female Characters, Kendall Knight & James Diamond & Carlos Garcia & Logan Mitchell,

Word Count: 5544

“Look, the album is called All Over Again, so I want this tour to be called All Over The World!” Gustavo slammed his hand on the map and dragged it across.

So far, Big Time Rush logos were plastered across North America, which was only part of the world. Gustavo and Kelly were in the producer's office with cardboard cutouts of the band. Kelly sat at his desk on the phone, the receiver pressing between her face and shoulder.

“Well, Germany won’t return our calls, and Australia won't answer any of our emails!” Kelly exasperatedly slammed the phone down.

For Big Time Rush’s next biggest tour, the planning situation was starting to look like it wasn’t going as the producer thought. The round man ensured that he apologized to Belgium after accidentally saying, “I hate Brussels” instead of “Brussels sprouts.” Unfortunately, team BTR was having more problems than they thought. Then again, this entire thing was extremely short notice since Griffin spontaneously called at midnight to let Gustavo know he wanted the band to tour the globe. The boys stressed their producer out enough as it is, but Griffin was beginning to take their spot of being a top-tier annoyance.

“Gustavo, we have a problem!” Kendall panicked into the office but stopped when he saw the maps all over the room paired with cardboard cutouts with captions in different languages.

“I know.” Gustavo sighed, but that didn’t stop him from riling himself up. “We’re trying to book venues for your All Over the World tour, but the world won’t call us back!”

“Actually, no.” Kendall chuckled awkwardly. “The guys and I got into a huge fight, and they moved out.”

“They moved out?!” Gustavo and Kelly shouted.

“Yeah, funny story.” The blonde clapped his hands together. “Also, Ronnie hasn’t come out of her apartment in a couple of days, so…”

“You need to fix this!” Gustavo shouted, pointing his half-eaten banana at Kendall. “Whatever is going on with you and your friends, and whatever has Ronnie so upset!”

“That’s easier said than done, and I can’t exactly fix a problem if I don’t know what the problem is–”

“Now!” Gustavo was red in the face.

Kendall didn’t stick around to determine how upset the producer could be. The teenager booked it out of Rocque Records in an instant. Whenever Gustavo was upset, no one wanted to stick around for the aftermath. Except for Kelly, he pays her, so it’s probably a lot different. Halfway out the front door, he turned around, took the elevator upstairs, and walked back into the office.

“No. Can you please yell at the guys so that we can live together again?”

“Yes, because I love yelling, and I don’t need this band to break up before our soon-to-be world tour.” Gustavo practically inhaled the last piece of his banana and then promptly spiked the peel on the floor as a weird way to assert dominance.

“Can you please not spike a banana peel?” Kelly massaged her temples. “And pick that up before you slip and throw your back out.”

“Ha! That only happens in cartoons. This is real life.” Gustavo laughed but complied and bent over to pick up the banana peel since this was his office, and he liked to keep it clean most of the time.

But instead of slipping and throwing his back out, there was a loud and grotesque crack when he bent over. The producer was stuck. Kendall and Kelly gasped, their eyes wide and fearful.

“My back!” Gustavo wheezed.

It wasn’t like Kelly wanted this to happen. She was only making an observation and attempting to steer her boss at least away from an unfortunate accident. Of course, throwing his back out because he bent over to pick something up was just something Gustavo would get himself into. The talent scout moved around him and stood next to Kendall. Under any other circumstance, this would have been fine because he could go to the doctor and cancel a rehearsal, but because they were trying to wring enough venues for the upcoming tour, it was less than ideal.

“Oh, this looks bad.” Kelly winced. Kendall grimaced and nodded.

“I can’t move… or yell.” Gustavo sounded breathy, and he was in excruciating pain.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Kelly shrugged.

“Yes, it is!” Kendall shouted. “He needs to get to the Palm Woods so he can fix us!” The blonde pointed at the producer. Gustavo held his hand up.

“Kendall, you have to do it yourself. You have to keep this band together.” The man was whispering, and it was honestly terrifying. With all their time together, the blonde swore he never wanted to reencounter a quiet Gustavo. “And Kelly, call Doc Hollywood.”

“You know, I’ve never heard him whisper before.”

“I will destroy all of you.” It wasn’t as threatening when he was whispering, but the sentiment was there. Either way, Kendall ran out of the office to get to the Palm Woods as Kelly scrambled to get to the phone to call the doctor.

After a quick, would-be thirty-minute call to the doctor’s office of Doc Hollywood, Kelly somehow managed to get Gustavo up on a table. It was an impressive feat, but she didn’t have time to pat herself on the back.

“Why am I on this table?” Gustavo groaned. He was utterly terrified. The talent scout filed that away as untapped childhood trauma to be rediscovered later.

“Doc Hollywood said you have to lie flat on a hard surface,” she moved the phone away from her mouth.

“Where is Doc Hollywood?”

“Shooting his reality series.” Kelly deadpanned as she put the phone down. “But he said he’s sending over the best in the business.”

“And that would be me.”

Seemingly, out of nowhere, a balding man with long grey hair in a blue tunic covered in beaded jewelry appeared in the doorway. Gustavo turned his head slightly and tensed up. Oh no. No, no, no. There was no way another guru was going to get in the way of his career again.

“Chantal, alternative healer and spiritual advisor to the stars.” The man pressed his hands together and bowed.

“Absolutely not!” Kelly knew what her boss was thinking. She put the phone down and held her hands up. “No robe-y quacks!”

“That’s what Johnny Depp said until I cursed his halitosis.” Chantal deadpanned. “With my palms.” He added in a weird, mysterious voice.

“Cure me!” Gustavo was desperate. He knew his talent scout was floundering as she tried to find venues for Big Time Rush that weren’t in North America. “I have to get up and get our almost world tour going.” Gustavo tried to move, but he whined in pain.

Chantal dropped his bag and stepped forward. His eyes were wide. It was like he was staring into Gustavo’s soul. It was weird, but the producer couldn’t complain. He needed his back fixed pronto and would do anything or try anything to fix it.

“70% of all ailments are in the mind,” Chantal pointed to his temples. “So, we must trick this mind into getting him off this table.” The man waved his hand over Gustavo’s face and gently moved the table on wheels. Thankfully, the table was on wheels.

Kelly was skeptical, of course. The last time a guru was involved was when Buddha Bob used a monkey pinch on Gustavo, and suddenly, the record producer was no longer angry. Gustavo also lost all of his talent when that happened. It was safe to say that she did not want anything like that happening again, as they were incredibly close to starting their tour. She also had a feeling that this Chantal character would attempt to take over Rocque Records. He seemed like the type of washed-up celebrity to do that.

She wasn’t expecting Chantal to push the table with all his strength and send Gustavo flying out of the room. The only problem was that Gustavo couldn’t get up. The producer screamed, and glass shattered in the hallway. Kelly gasped and held her hand over her mouth. She shot a glare at the older man in the robe.

“Okay, now we know it’s not only in his mind.”

It was as if Chantal purposefully feigned innocence. The talent scout knew that Gustavo would sue him for everything he had once this was over.

Unfortunately, Kelly had to get Gustavo back into the office and back on the table because Chantal had shoved him out of the room. Chantal was no help, not that she expected him to be of any help to her. It was an hour of struggling until she finally got him back on the cold metal table, and it was more of a struggle to push the table back into the room. Just as she thought she could take a break, the phone rang, and she raced over.

“Kelly Wainwright, BTR tour manager.” She picked up the phone with lightning-fast reflexes. Gustavo was groaning in pain as Chantal was waving his hands over the producer again.

“Yes!” Kelly gasped and put the phone down.

“What?” Gustavo tried to crane his neck to see what was going on, but a sickening crack came from him again, and he screamed in agony.

“We are playing Vancouver, Canada, which means BTR’s All Over The World Tour is... On!” She took one of the little pushpins and put one in the Canada providence.

“Yes!” Gustavo moved his arms to celebrate this victory, but his bones made an awful crunching sound again.

“Technically, that’s a North American tour. You need to play another continent for a world tour.” Chantal chimed in. Neither Gustavo nor Kelly were impressed with his input.

“Not helping.” Gustavo wheezed.

“And you need to fix him so he can move again!” Kelly jabbed a finger in Chantal’s direction.

“My record is perfect!” Chantal snapped. “But my positive vibes have never faced such negative blocks before.” He kept moving his hands, trying to fix the man on the table.

“Look,” Kelly pulled the album CD out of a drawer. “Our album is called All Over Again, so do what you’re doing all over again until he’s fixed.”

“Then I will resort to more Western chiropractic methods.”

And the weirdo was back to waving his hands over Gustavo as if that would fix anything by moving “energy” around him. Kelly was beginning to doubt this man's credentials.

“I’ll crack the vertebra, thereby creating a space to let the good vibes in.”

Kelly winced as he rolled Gustavo off the table onto the hardwood floor.

“Okay,” Chantal’s shoulders slumped. “This guy is unhealable.”

“I’m going to be on my back forever.” Gustavo looked like he was… Crying? “With no world tour!”

“Wait, perhaps if Chantal uses an unorthodox method to heal him.”

Gustavo moaned in pain. Kelly watched as the strange man picked up one of the flagged needles off the desk and pressed the pad of his index finger against the metal point.

“No, no, no. No acupuncture!” Kelly shook her head and crossed her arms.

“Actually, I’m the spiritual advisor to Sir Huge Concert Promoter in England,”

Gustavo turned his head. He was intrigued.

“I am simply going to advise him to book a Big Time Rush concert in London.” Chantal took the pin and stuck it where the star on the map was.

“Yes!” Gustavo jumped to his feet. “Holy shit! My back! It’s healed!” He gasped.

Chantal pressed his hands together and bowed.

“And as long as Kendall’s healed the guys’ friendship,” Kelly grinned.

“Big Time Rush is going on a world tour!” Gustavo pumped his fist in the air.

With the help of his younger sister, Kendall somehow managed to bring his friends together one last time to give one of his famous speeches. Of course, he had to manipulate his friends to get them into apartment 2J, but the details didn’t matter because he got them together and made them realize how much they meant to each other. Also, it took them an entire day to realize Battleblast 5, Biohazard, was causing them to fight so much. Logan was obsessed with checking statistics for the game and rubbed it in his friends' faces; Carlos wasn’t a team player and was sharing the items with his friends in the game, which upset James and caused them to fight. The only one who was level-headed about it was Kendall.

Ultimately, Kendall gave the game to his mother because he didn’t want to fight with his friends anymore. The last thing to figure out was how to help Ronnie. It was strange he hadn’t seen her all day. Usually, she tried to stay out of the chaos that the four of them caused, but sometimes, she got sucked into whatever scheme of theirs needed to be cleaned up. Not that he thought she should always be around to clean up their messes, but it was disappointing that she wasn’t around at all.

“So now, maybe you will finally go outside and play?” Mrs. Knight gestured to the open door behind her.

“Mom, we’re not eight.” Kendall scoffed.

“Dust off your passports, cause Big Time Rush’s All Over The World tour is a go!” Gustavo opened his jacket to reveal a black t-shirt with a red and white graphic design of a globe and the word Big Time Rush’s All Over the World Tour on it. Kelly was wearing one, too.

It was more than likely they would be selling these as merch for the tour.

The four boys cheered.

“With tour dates in the United States, Canada, and London!” Kelly added.

“We’re going to England?” The boys gasped.

“And we need to start rehearsal now.” Gustavo waved his hands around.

Mrs. Knight smirked. The guys were playing outside, after all.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Carlos, James, and Logan were halfway out the door when Kendall stopped them. “Where’s Ronnie? Where’s our songwriter? Shouldn’t she know about this too?”

“Right, I haven’t seen her all day.” Carlos scratched his chin.

“Oh! Maybe she’s out with her boyfriend!” Logan suggested.

“Can’t be,” Kendall shook his head. “He hasn’t texted her since last week,”

“And how do you know this?” James narrowed his eyes. “Have you been spying on them? Spying on her?”

“She told me.” Kendall nudged James’ shoulder.

“Okay then? Let’s go see what she’s up to.” Carlos’ eyes lit up. “The last one to the elevator has to ring the doorbell!” The dark-haired boy started running.

“No fair, her dad’s terrifying!” Kendall shouted, running after his friend.

Gustavo, Kelly, and Mrs. Knight moved out of the way of the four of them. It was good to know that they worried about her. Mrs. Knight was a little worried they wouldn’t want anything to do with her on their journey to become famous, but it was sweet that she wasn’t left behind.

Carlos got to the elevator first, and Logan got there last. Kendall was thankful it wasn’t him. He was a little scared of Mr. Clark. It was impossible to tell if the guy could be easily impressed. The blonde also felt like Mr. Clark hated him. It was weird, considering they barely interacted. Of course, delivering the tour news was exciting, but no one stopped to ask Gustavo if she would even be allowed on tour with them. The details could be figured out later. They could all celebrate their hard work and revel in their accomplishments. A world tour was the first step to stardom. From then on, they would all be rich and famous.

It was already late in the day. The guys didn’t anticipate her being in her apartment, but they were hoping someone was home in 3G. Logan rang the doorbell and ushered them all to step back. He didn’t want it to seem weird if they were crowding around the front door. The four waited five minutes, and Logan rang the doorbell again.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Clark opened the door and stared down at the boys. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want?”

“Hey, Mister C, is Ronnie home?” Carlos asked with a big, innocent grin.

Mr. Clark furrowed his brows.

“You just missed her. She went out on a date with her boyfriend Curt.” The man shot a glare at Kendall, who tensed up. The boy smiled sheepishly and looked away.

“Oh.” Carlos frowned. “Can you take a message?”

“Can’t you text her?” Mr. Clark asked tiredly. They were interrupting his precious midday nap.

“Well, yes.” James chuckled. “But we thought sharing this information in person would be much better than a simple text.”

“Okay, what is it?” Mr. Clark sighed.

“Big Time Rush is going on their world tour!” The four boys exclaimed excitedly.

Mr. Clark leaned back and blinked twice. That was different from the message he was expecting. Adjusting his glasses, he coughed into his hand.

“If I’m home, I’ll make sure to let her know about this world tour.”

“Thanks,” Logan snapped finger guns awkwardly.

“See you boys.” Mr. Clark closed the door in their faces.

“Okay! Let’s get to rehearsal!” Kendall clapped his hands together, trying to shake off the awkwardness settling in the air.

Ronnie assumed inviting Curt to her apartment would have made him feel better. Tension hung heavy in the air. Her lungs struggled to expand as she unlocked the front door. Her father wasn’t home because he was working late. She wasn’t anxious. She knew something was wrong. There was something that had been off the entire night. Ronnie swallowed audibly and wrung her hands together. She looked at the floor like a guilty little kid.

“What? What’s wrong, now?” There was an edge to Curt’s voice she hadn’t heard before. Her fight or flight kicked in, but she froze. Her head snapped up, and she looked at him with wide eyes.

“Nothing wrong. You’re the one who has been off all evening.”

“Me? I’m the one who’s off?”

“Yes!” Ronnie took a hesitant step back. “You’ve been short with me, and your answers have been cold!”

“I’ve been short with you? Oh, finally, you noticed!” Curt threw his hands up. “This past week, it’s like I’ve been nonexistent to you!”

“I’ve been trying to spend time with you all week,”

“But then, when work calls, you make your getaway.”

“Because my dream is balancing on this second album!” Ronnie snapped. She didn’t like the belligerent tone he’d taken with her. He was talking to her like an annoying child.

“Not everything is about your dream!”

She stared at him with wide, scared eyes—the reality set in almost instantaneously. Curt didn’t know what her dream was. Curt didn’t know why she was in L.A. He didn’t know that her career was balancing precariously on whether Griffin liked the second album. Was she another girl in L.A. to him? Suddenly, the rose-colored glasses came off.

“You change like the wind,” Curt laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “One moment, you’re talking about marriage like some psycho, and the next, you can’t spare me a few moments of your day!” He threw his head back and started laughing hysterically.

“What has gotten into you?” Ronnie’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Me? What has gotten in me?” The hockey player looked offended. For some reason, he looked a bit like Kendall, with his hair messed up and his suit jacket ruffled. “What matters more to you? Me or your job?”

“You can’t make me choose–”

“No, no. It’s just a simple question.” Curt shook his head.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t make me choose–”

“Do you love me? Because you spend a lot of fucking time with Kendall,”

“I work with him…” Ronnie took another step back. “What are you implying? Do you think I’m cheating?”

“I don’t have to because you said it!” Curt jabbed a finger at her. “You’re cheating on me with Kendall. I knew it!”

“I’m not cheating on you with him,”

“But you might as well be. I thought I knew you. I thought you weren’t like other girls.”

“I am like other girls.” Ronnie tensed up. “I– I’m normal. I’m like everyone else,”

“That’s what you’re offended by?” Curt deadpanned.

“I think I like Kendall, but I’m not cheating on you!” Ronnie said quickly. She ripped the truth off like a bandage. She covered her mouth, and her eyes widened.

“You think you like Kendall?” Curt’s words were like venom. His eyes darkened. “Oh, for fucks sake grow up! You love him, and you never loved me at all.”

“No–” Ronnie felt like she was breathing through a straw. “I do love you.”

“You can’t love me if you like someone else,” Curt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, but I figured I would stop liking him if I admitted it. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

“What?” Curt stared blankly at her face. “It’s like I never even knew you at all. That’s your conclusion? Are you a fucking idiot?”

Tears pricked her eyes, and Ronnie balled her hands into fists at her sides. The shame and the anxiety welled the surface, setting her skin ablaze.

“Get out.” Her voice was terrifyingly level and calm.

“You can’t be crying about that.”

“Get out of my apartment, Curt.” Ronnie nudged him to the door. She looked down at her feet, straining to keep her tears in. She shouldn’t fall apart in front of him.

“Seriously?” Curt shuffled towards the door. He was caught off guard by her reaction. He at least expected her to blow up. Instead, it was like she was holding it. “What? You can’t admit you’re a cheater, so your last ditch effort is to kick me out?”

“I didn’t cheat on you, Curt,” Ronnie’s shoulders shook, and her voice cracked. “This wasn’t what I expected, and I guess we didn’t know each other as well as we thought.”

“Veronica–”

“I wanted someone who wanted me, but the only time you’ve shown me you needed me was when I was sick a couple of weeks ago.” Ronnie took a deep breath. “What about when I called and you never answered? What about how ashamed you look in interviews when anyone mentions me?”

“Ronnie, I’m the only guy that could love you.” Curt chuckled and grabbed her shoulders gently. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, baby.”

“I thought I could have hit so many milestones with you and achieved things that other people glorify, but– I don’t– I don’t know why I got my hopes up.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Curt put his foot in the doorframe. “Wait. You can’t break up with me because I’m breaking up with you!”

“Either way,” Ronnie tried to close the door. “Goodbye…”

“You’ll crawl back to me. I know it!”

The songwriter nudged his foot out of the way and finally closed the door in his face. She pressed her back firmly against the door and sighed heavily. Curt would have been her everything. She counted the days until they were old enough to get married and wondered what their future would look like. The tears gathered in the outer corners of her eyes rolled down her face, leaving cold tear stains in their wake. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground. Her world was falling apart around her. There was this pain in her chest as though her heart were ripping in half. Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished so badly that her mother could hug her. Was this her fault for getting too attached? Ronnie hadn’t expected him to pull away when she showed she loved him.

The green-haired girl took her shoes off and stood hesitantly from the floor. The lights in the apartment were dim, and her eyesight was blurry from the tears. Her phone was on the kitchen counter. She could only make it to the couch with her heels in her hand when the damn broke for a second time. Ronnie wiped at her face. There was mascara and makeup on her hands. Her eyes burned. Turning all the lights off and crying in the dark would be extremely dramatic, but she didn’t feel like getting up. Like ivy creeping up the side of a brick building, she hoped to sit there on the couch until no one could tell the difference between her and the couch. She didn’t hear the knock on the door over the pounding in her ears. That or she assumed it was a figment of her imagination. No one would come to save her. No one would pick the pieces of porcelain off the floor to help her rebuild. Ronnie didn’t know if she wanted someone to pick up the pieces. All her life, she had picked the pieces up alone. She was used to doing things by herself. Why would this be any different?

The knock at the door came again, followed by a muffled voice. The floodgate had already been opened; try as she might, the songwriter couldn’t force it closed. Ronnie furiously wiped at her face and brushed her hair back. There was no doubt in her mind that her makeup was smeared and running down her face alongside the cold, sticky tear stains. The door opened, and she jumped. It was unlocked. She only closed the door after Curt left. She thought it was Curt for a split second, but instead of clouded blue eyes, she saw worrying swirling within forest green eyes. At a distance, Kendall didn’t notice she was crying and assumed she had woken up from a nap because she was rubbing at her face.

“I know you weren’t there when Griffin stopped by, but Gustavo announced the tour.” He smiled slightly and mimicked James’ jazz hands. “I came by since you weren’t answering my texts,”

“That’s… Great!” Ronnie’s voice broke, and Kendall's smile was wiped off. She sniffled and turned her head away. She couldn’t let him see her like this.

The blonde’s heart dropped. It sank to the bottom of Kendall’s stomach like a stone in a pond. Her tears were like a slow and simple melody that broke his heart. Had it been building up to this all week? Had he done something wrong? Kendall swallowed thickly and closed the door. He crossed the space between the front door and the couch with ease.

“Ronnie…”

He knelt in front of her. Her hair curled her face, and she was hiding in her hands. The rapid beating in her ears got louder as she held her breath. It wasn’t fair for him to see her like this. They worked together. He didn’t want to be friends with her in the first place. Hesitantly, he touched her hand. He wasn’t sure if she would lash out at him. Ronnie was frozen like a statue. What would he say if he saw her? What would he do? She could already hear his harsh words laced with venom in her mind. She was a mess. He moved her hand gently. Her fingertips were smudged with mascara and eyeshadow that she had tried to wipe away hastily. She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. What was he going to do?

“I’ll get something to wipe your face,”

That soft tone in his voice was strange but welcomed. Ronnie tucked her hair behind her ears and looked down at her hands. How much makeup did she put on? It was like she was the main character in one of those sad romance movies with the running mascara. The thought made her laugh. Unsteadily, she exited the couch and followed him into the bathroom. The singer crouched in the small bathroom, looking through the cabinets under the sink. She spotted the makeup wipes he was looking for on the shelf behind him. Carefully, she leaned over him and grabbed them. Kendall accidentally whacked his head on the cabinet, trying to pull his head out.

“Oh.” At first, Ronnie thought he was commenting about her appearance, but he looked at the makeup wipes in her hand.

“I can wipe my face myself…” She frowned at him.

“That wasn’t what I was going to suggest,” Kendall held his hands up. “But, if you don’t want to–”

Ronnie sighed and handed Kendall the package of makeup wipes. Part of her was giving in because she wanted him to, but mainly, she gave in. After all, if she stared at herself in the mirror, she would start crying again. The songwriter squeezed past Kendall and sat on the closed toilet lid. The package crinkled as the blonde struggled to open it, but the smell of aloe vera bloomed from the container once he finally got it open. Gently, Kendall wiped at her face. He wasn’t sure how gentle her skin was. This little action reminded him of the times he cleaned theatre makeup off James’ face, except James hadn’t been crying for who knows how long.

The makeup wipe was cold against her burning skin. Kendall could feel it. As much as he wanted to ask what happened, he chose not to. She blinked when he carefully dabbed at her eyes. For the most part, she no longer had a lot of makeup on her face.

“Do you– Do you want to watch a movie?” Kendall cleared his throat and looked away. “That uhh– That usually helps… When I’m upset.”

She didn’t respond, afraid her voice would betray her.

“Okay, then.” Kendall took a step backward out of the bathroom and then took another step. He didn’t want to be too close.

“I’ll uhh… Go look at what you have…” He jutted his thumb over his shoulder and headed toward the living room.

Ronnie sighed and stood up from the toilet. She turned the hot water on and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red, and her hair was unkempt, primarily because she’d been running her hands through it all evening. She cupped her hands under the hot water and rubbed the soap against her palms. Hand soap wasn’t advised, but she didn’t feel like getting out of all the skin care products James had gifted her. The songwriter scrubbed at her face until it was red, and she could no longer see the remnants of her ruined makeup. Which, she wore because Curt said something in an interview about how he wished she wore makeup more often.

The light turned off in the bathroom, and she shuffled across the floor to her bedroom. The hardwood was cold on her feet, and her bones were heavy. If the Earth opened to swallow her whole, she wouldn’t think twice about letting it. She didn’t close her bedroom door all the way accidentally. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she let her back hit the mattress and stared at the ceiling. This was her fault. It had to be her fault. Curt wouldn’t have broken up with her if she had been a better girlfriend. Her hair splayed in a halo around her head. She wanted nothing more than to get out of this dress and bundle herself with one of those crocheted blankets her mother made. Instead of sitting up, she rolled onto her side and stared blankly at her dresser. Oh, how she wished clothes would telepathically be moved from the drawers. But maybe that was a little too dramatic. She got up begrudgingly and pulled out non-matching pajamas. The pants were white, fuzzy, and patterned with various fruits. At random, she grabbed an oversized NCIS t-shirt, which belonged to her mother, only because she knew her mother loved NCIS. Before shuffling out of her room, she grabbed a pair of striped fuzzy socks and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail. It didn’t matter what style her hair was in. She needed to be comfortable.

Kendall was still trying to pick a movie when she exited her bedroom. She sat on the end of the couch and grabbed a throw pillow, which she hugged to her chest. Why was he here? Why was he helping her? The television remote was on the end table next to her. She turned the television on, which scared the crap out of Kendall.

“What are you–”

“You’re taking too long to decide,” Ronnie mumbled into the throw pillow. “We’re watching 50 First Dates.”

Kendall rummaged through the DVD box momentarily and pulled out the DVD. Romantic comedies weren’t his favorite, but it wasn’t his call to make. He suggested the movie to help at least ease her pain. The DVD opened with a satisfying pop, and he gingerly placed the disc in the DVD player.

“Do you want ice cream? Popcorn– Wait, how about both? Sweet and salty?” Kendall grinned from ear to ear. “The perfect combination.”

“Do you even know where we keep the popcorn?” Ronnie raised a brow.

“No, but I think I’ll be able to find it. And before you say it, you are not allowed to help me.” He looked down at her and crossed his arms. “Just relax, and let me get you whatever you want.”

#btr #btrtv #big time rush #btrtv oc #btr oc #kendall knight #james diamond #carlos garcia #logan mitchell #oc: veronica clark #ghostwriter fic

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kremlin · 2 years ago

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you know, i don't do the super longform posts like i used to, i mean to say, i don't post them anymore, but i still do write looooong ass walls of text, they don't ever make it to my blog. idk. on re-read they all have a very distinctive, unmistakable smell of "bus stop crazy" to them, and even after fixing all the grammar mistakes & forgotten words & etc they graduate from nutcase scribblings to "manifesto"

all those posts go to pastebin, anonymously, and then on to reddit, which is a huge pain, i have to farm throwaway accounts for like a year, not posting at all, before i can post a pastebin link and not have it be spam filtered, just to gauge how accurate my self-assessment is. it doesn't work because nobody reads it, unlike this blog, where 5-6 people read it.

and even that isn't working due to a wild phenomenon. when you write about niche subjects unappetizing to a normal audience, it only really makes its way to the same freaks that you're already friends with. in my case, these are people i've spoken with at great length solely textually over the internet, for like, twenty fuckin years. it probably wouldn't surprise you to know that they can clock something i've written like eight sentences in. and this sucks, it defeats the purpose of trying to hide my Shame Posts from the world with anonymity, so let me tell you what i did.

i tried just, you know, making a conscious effort to write in the most unkremlin way possible, and the result was indifferentiable than something i wrote normally. like, didn't even fool them any longer than otherwise. sure. fine. i guess that isn't interesting. but i wasn't satisfied.

so i call in an owed favor to a buddy that has zero language skills, like, unless you are speaking to him and standing in front of him, every message, regardless of platform, will read like a business email, signature and all. total dingus. he's like 26 & perpetually on welfare, (like all elite programmers) but writes like he's your dad sending email with that fancy corporate-branded-outlooko client that auto-appends some long ass disclaimer to all your email. anyways, that's besides the point, i gave him something i wrote & asked him to rewrite it in his own voice. no dice. "this sounds like something kremlin wrote but he's doing some kind of joke i don't understand, or maybe he got hit in the head". fuck. so i write a WHOLE new thing, not even solely focused on some niche subject that auto-reduces the potential culprits to like 5 people, and i give his ass the broad strokes of what i wrote and asked him to flesh it out. only a marginal improvement. they still nailed me after just a bit more thinking.

so fuck it. i hit up "Gunther" which i don't have the right keys on my keyboard to type properly, there's two dots over the U. gunther is very clearly a german guy, which you can tell on account of him speaking German, and when you speak to him in english, he's all "wast ist das" and shit. so i try giving HIM the broad strokes and having him re-create it, which was an idea/concept he did not grasp fully or understand on account of us not really sharing a language exactly. guess what. it wasn't immediately recognized, at least, it took about an hour for them to deduce i was the author, and at this point i have given up, i have lost because these increasingly cartoon antics have become my signature, and i will never be able to escape the shame of my Weird Bad Writing. they even figured out it was gunther sort-of-ghostwriting it, since it didn't have the quirks of software translation & was sent using some fucking ISO/IEC charset that europeans prefer over utf-8, at least the ones i talk to, for completely unknown reasons. they try and explain it, and i can't figure out what they're talking about, not because i don't speak french & german but because i don't speak ÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈ

i will never -- and this is a solemn promise -- write in any other way than to bang out the whole thing in 1 hour, never organizing anything, never looking backwards even 2-3 words, never *ever* proofreading (i get someone else to do it for me with explicit instructions to only fix grammar & highlight completely incomprehensible gibberish that they couldn't decipher for my reluctant fixing). i will also never stop posting it.

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tastic-in-its-finest · 1 year ago

Text

Strike Midnight

Ao3

For the @tss-october-ghostwriters event, the prompts transformation, full moon, midnight, ancient, and a little bit of magic were used :)

Warnings and tags: Minor violence, tw blood, mentions of murdering/killing, and animal attacks

Summary: To improve an imperfect world, he does what needs to be done. Roman, a human, hunts the feral and out of control monsters in his path while sparing the misunderstood, along with his twin brother Remus.

However, it's hard to hunt a werewolf when it turns out to be your own brother.

Written by: @tastic-in-its-finest, for my lovely Giftee @edupunkn00b

...

He searched every corner and crevice yet couldn’t find it. Roman checked almost every burrow, climbing many trees of the dark and deep thicket of the forest to survey the area. He knew he wasn’t trying as hard as he should. He wasn’t desperate enough to cannonball into a lake just yet. Yet the ancient bracelet he was trying to find seemed unreachable.

He was given instructions by Janus, a snake deity, of which surrounding area to look, and bribing them with the sweet ‘rewards’ to come with it.

He could try to enjoy the rewards, if not for him, then for his brother Remus. He didn’t hate the Janus, harboring only a slight dislike for him since he’d met him, but they bonded over theater and a love for drama. And he wasn’t about to let his brother down, who was enthralled with any ideas Janus had in mind, even if they were clueless of their prize.

He took a short break to wait for the impending sunset, in the middle of a semi-open clearing with rocks nearby, he could mentally hear Janus scolding him. Where is he meant to find this anyway? Janus didn’t tell them too many specifics to find the bracelet; like a key hidden under a rock.

Well, what did he have to lose?

Looking under one, two, three stones, and the fourth, much larger and stuck in the ground. He pulled harder, and harder, before it popped out and he almost decked his beautiful face. It isn’t stuck to mud however, a shiny silver pendant, or bracelet somehow found itself lost. The bastard who stole and threw it away knew where to hide it. It was the exact description he needed.

“Eureka,” he whispered, drying the wet and dirt, wearing the ancient bracelet, golden, fabulous, the smell of metal grazing his wrist, quite charming, preparing to speak with Remus about his discovery.

A hesitant twig broke close, near one of the large bushes. Roman felt eyes prying the back of his head. He wanted to think Remus was attempting to scare him, poorly, but Remus knew better.

The handle of his sword proved a sturdy grip, seethed in his lightweight holster for now, he waited.

“Show yourself!” He yelled, as he swung his sharp sword out and a fast figure tripped him down, standing unfazed in front of him dark and stormy. A sharp face he found all too familiar these days.

“You.” He pointed his sword, finding the means to pull himself up while looking at the unimpressed emo nightmare, V, short for vampire, held an black spider web umbrella one-handed, big enough to cover him completely.

“You’re too easy sometimes… princey,” Roman glared, remaining serious, yet slightly relaxing the tip of his sword towards the vampire's turtleneck.

“What sort of a nickname is that?”

The pale emo grinned, “If you don’t want to be called a prince, don’t act or dress like one,” the vampire gestured towards his favorite red sash over his hunting clothes.

“Should I call you a dark and stormy knight then, cause that’s exactly what you are,” with layers upon layers of black and gray clothing in the hot grueling sun.

“Real original of you.”

“It’s the only thing I can call you, unless you give me a name.”

“In your dreams.”

His name was not V, but he was called Virgil. Stuck in an open area, one of his many obstacles, he ran into him, all of his stamina diminished, the sun already tiring him. The extremely skilled and dangerous monster hunter, his sword resting near his side, ready to strike him at any moment, “What’s your play vampire?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

"My brother will be here any minute. I'd hate for him to kill you before I do,” he playfully tapped him, but Virgil internally wondered if he was being serious or not.

"Lower your sword, then we can talk," Virgil tried to put the most nonchalant voice imaginable, he cringed when he croaked the words out. The hunter listened.

"...Have you been stalking me?"

Virgil couldn’t help but laugh, “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not the only reason I’m out here,” he stepped forward, looking distantly behind Roman. The side dense area of trees were difficult to traverse by, more difficult with an umbrella no less, however, he could make a run for it, only, a sharp and cold blade tapped and pressed the tip of his bicep before he could move forward.

He blinked rapidly, “You want to do this now?”

“We don’t have a truce at the moment,” The hunter flashed a cocky grin, stance in the ready. He was testing him, always, but Virgil never wanted to believe he couldn’t be. Didn’t think he noticed the wooden stake slotted near his sword holster. Make sure he never touches it.

“Cocky, princey,” Virgil looked into the deadly rays of the sun, the dark umbrella his only protection, assessing his situation. He put his hood up.

From what he could gather, it was a pure coincidence they met again. But Roman was ready to defeat him this time, defend his honor and beat his brother to the kill.

He took the first swing, missing by an inch, another, another, and another, the monster ducked, shielding the blow meant to strike his face as his back sizzled from a lack of protection. The vampire hissed, scratching Roman’s cheek, burning and painful.

Backing away, Roman got stunned by such a violent reaction, furthermore, V remained in defense. Taking a chance, he kept stepping forward, swinging fast, failing to kick his chest, and swiping his legs from under him with a katana. The fiend stumbled into the grass. He tried stomping to the side of his pale face yet rolling out from under him, swiping at Roman’s spine, getting a hard grip on his hands, flipping him onto his back as his hood fell off.

Groaning in pain, pushing himself up, the monster tried kicking him to the ground while he was vulnerable. Roman ducked, slashing the torn Umbrella. Hissing, cowering and retreating from the sun, Roman rushes forward and trying to pin him to the tree, his head hit it too hard, knocking him out cold.

Roman leaned on the tree, catching his breath, the vampire lucky enough to be left in the shade of the leaves. Seething his sword, somehow without a trace of vampire blood, in his holster, fitting the wooden stake in his hand.

Standing over V, blissfully unaware of what could be a stake about to be driven in his heart, turned Roman’s stomach. He gripped the stake, he could do it, rid the world of one more evil. Yet he blanks trying to search for an evil deed V committed. He isn’t feral. This wasn’t honorable, it felt so wrong. He would have hated to be murdered this way.

The stake is slit in its rightful place, along with neatly folding the umbrella. Leaving after his slight distraction.

…

Remus is having the time of his life. Swinging upside down on trees, squeezing his bum into every burrow, and cannonballing into a lake to find an eensie weensie ancient trinket bracelet thing and the magic to neutralize the strengths of those who weld it. He was given sort of clear instructions by his close friend Janus, an idea of the whereabouts, and the sweet long morningstar to come with it.

Like any good friend, he lamented on a large stone, reeking of wet dog, cuddling his stick and staring at his reflection in the water, throwing small stones that emerged in the water at himself. It was going to be hard to earn his trust back, after what he did. One bracelet and he can have his weapon back instead of using a sad and sharp stick to murder monsters when he needs to, and of course, Janus’ unconditional love that he cherished more than anything. If only he could see how hard he is trying now.

Echoing through the thicket, a low whistle drew his attention, a call to warn him of his twin's return, in case Remus tried stabbing him.

“Back so late?”

“I have what we need, let's go,” Roman’s shoulders were unusually tense, Remus didn’t question it. Pulling out a large map to guide them out of the unfamiliar area.

“Want to make time for hunting feral werewolves or Rougaros?”

“Well, if only he thought about that on a night other than a full moon,”

“Boo, you’re such a bore. We can do both.”

Roman gasped, feigning annoyance. They crowd the map. Only a few paces north to reach Umbra, a magical spirited place, reachable by oak trees where Janus resided most of his time. The journey was easy however long it was, hopefully they could get back to do some proper werewolf hunting.

…

The confusing fuzziness began to emb. The bark was rough on his pounding head and scarred back, the tingling burn on the side of his face slowly reconstructing the skin, remembering how he ran away and the umbrella broke.

The hunter is nowhere in sight, he waited, and nothing came of it.

Virgil huffed, moving the umbrella folded neatly in his lap, flexing the panel, a large obnoxious ripe in the fold, great.

Moving along, he couldn’t believe the hunter let him go with only a mild headache. It could have been much worse. Dying wasn’t too far of an option. Probably sparring him out of pity, he wouldn’t doubt it. Virgil just wanted to leave the clearing.

His boot clinks, glaring down, a round metal bracelet under his foot. He reaches down, probably something the prince owned. He tries it for himself, a sudden wash of drowsiness and fatigue traveled from his arm, a scary amount of relaxation as he couldn’t see sharper or hear farther, he yanked it away shrieking.

He’d rather not touch it ever again, but maybe he really wanted to get back at the hunter, maybe repay him for not killing him, as pathetic as it sounds. He pocketed the bracelet and avoided touching it as he squeezed through the bushes, following an obvious trail left by its rightful owner.

…

The sunset started, yet the sky wasn’t fully darkened. Remus’ watch going off and being silenced immediately to watchfully and carefully listen to any howls from werewolves, ready to use his long stake for one they both heard close by. Whilst his brother preoccupied himself, Roman read the map, not surprised if they’ve been walking in circles for the past hour.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Remus took a peek over his shoulder.

“Of course,” he sighed, “We have a long way to go,” Remus held a manic grin, mussing, “Not too far, we can run there.”

“Too risky,” folding the map in his pocket, preparing to traverse first through the tight narrow trees, sticks stabbing his torso, through the rough patch then another path, passed the building, and arriving at the tree, Roman imagined it all going perfectly, hating chopping through the bark. A high pitched whistle turned his attention.

Remus froze, a finger over his lip. Roman stops moving, confused. While it might have been funny to see Roman become frazzled and get attacked by whatever growled in his ear, Janus would chastise him, and Roman would never forgive him. Roman looks petrified, a hand easing down, reaching for his sword.

Remus turns his head around, a black threatening wolf stalks behind them, big, with human eyes, a werewolf, staring at Remus through the trees, a far enough distance where they can run, the closeness of the trees restricting their movements, they decide to run.

Roman is ahead, breaking and hurting his arms as he hurls himself out of the forest.

Remus can’t breathe, he feels the warm breath and slobber on his legs, fighting, fight to get out, he jumps getting yanked by his leg, a sharp and tight bite on his ankle, he kicks its snout shouting, shielding his face, the long jaw chewing on his tough leather jacket, with no weapon but a stupid stick.

“Roman!” He punches, punching as hard as he can until Roman finally stabs it’s head. The wolf whimpered and cried, scattering away into the darkness.

“Are you ok?” Roman kneels down.

“Where were you?!”

“Remus-“

“You watch me get mauled by a wolf and ask me if I’M OK?!” Roman didn’t know how to respond.

“… Are you?” It quieted, Remus never got so frustrated before, it felt off.

“Sorry. I’m fine, check for bites,” Remus prompts his arm, rolling up the sleeve, Roman finds nothing but a tear in his jacket.

“All good, but your leg…” ominously, his boot is torn, notably a sliver of skin, Remus shrugs, pulling off his boot, no need to roll his socks, exposing a long nasty fresh bite on his ankle.

His heart sunk. Was— was he about to turn? No, no, they had until midnight, reach the Umbra and Janus will cure him before he feels anything.

Remus pushes his boot back on, unable to walk properly, letting Roman support his body with his arm on the path.

“Stay calm. You’re going to be fine, I promise,” it was beginning to turn dark.

Doubt seeped in.

“How much longer?”

“Just a bit, past the building, near the tree.”

Remus starts laughing, “Imagine me turning and ripping into your face, blood everywhere, then both of us wouldn’t make it with Janus’ stupid pendent.”

“Don’t think like that,” Remus was silenced for a moment, giving Roman time to check his wrist for the bracelet. All the rest is bare skin.

He lost it.

“… I don’t have the pendent anymore.”

Remus starts to laugh hysterically, Roman jostles him, “Hey, it doesn’t mean anything. Who cares about the pendent, we need to get you someplace safe.”

He hurries his pace, and Remus goes uncharacteristically quiet.

Numb, unconsciously going from zero to hundred, to hearing every chirp, creak, snap, Roman’s booming echoing voice and his own, to utter nothing. His ankle hot flashes every now and again, aching, throbbing, and in need of rest. Remus should have suggested Roman cut off his ankle in favor of ridding him from turning into.. a werewolf, slowly starting to accept that to be his reality, and how unsafe Roman would be once he does.

He needed to get away from him, away, run, limp as fast as he could.

Remus gently loosens his grip then pulls away from Roman, “Remus! What are you doing?”

He couldn’t let Roman get hurt, or bitten.

Roman holds him in a tight embrace, Remus scratches his face instead, straying away from the path running and half limping, going through a narrow path to lose his trace.

Roman covers his bleeding cheek, regaining his focus and chasing after Remus, weaving through the deep forest, his footsteps getting further away, lost to the wind of the woods. He continued forward. Sighting the large building in the distance, reaching the gate and the entrance to the abandoned boarding school from the map, left slightly ajar, pushing through and closing behind him, an air of death and a bone chilling cold, as if something invisible watched him, the place abandoned for years.

The caved in roof glowed the full moon's light on Remus, curled into himself stomach growling, he is a physical ball collapsed in the room, barely holding himself together. Roman slowly whistles, and kneels, rubbing a comforting circle on his back. Remus looked up to him, his eyes more navelly green and sharp, but he smiled a toothy sharp grin upon seeing him, contracting in pain again, shriveling.

He shushes, calms him down, doesn't let his emotions get to him. They can prevent this from happening.

The door creaks open. He can hear Remus’ breath hitch, the animalistic panic in his eyes, no, he rubs more circles and stares at a surprised and concerned figure, in all black and gray, a broken umbrella in his hands.

He’s going to kill that vampire.

He rushes as fast as he can to not disturb Remus any further, “V, what are you doing here!?”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” V backed into the loud door cowering, the bracelet held in his hand snatched from him, “You had this?” Roman couldn’t believe it.

“Leave now,” Roman couldn’t stress enough how in much in danger he was there.

“I wanted to-“

Roman grabbed his neck scruff, pulling out his stake, “Go, I mean it or I will make you!” V’s eyes widened, about to protest or argue.

A large crack interrupted the room, turning around, Remus’ hand was covered in fur, nails sharpening into claws, ears pointing and morphing, screaming in agony, Roman couldn’t look away. Roman lets go, stepping closer, V holds his shoulder, preventing him as his clothes ripped and his back arched of brown fur, except for a silver streak.

(Wolf?) Remus growled, he couldn’t recognize him, and he was stalking towards them as if they were a fresh meal.

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

Wolf Remus snarls and bites the air, they dodge out of the way. Roman held the handle of his sword, but he didn’t feel the urge to pull it out, even with a hungry, feral, and vicious wolf lunging at him, he used his fists, barely able to miss Remus from biting him, scratching him instead. He’s too large, it’s too easy to let him overpower. He couldn’t hurt him, but he needed to defend himself, he took out the stake… he couldn’t do it.

V pushed Remus from attacking Roman again, but dazing him for a bit, “Look, I know that’s your twin, but you are going to need to wake up right now or he is going to have to live with the fact that he murdered his own brother!!” V yelled, bringing all of his attention to him, toying with Remus, giving Roman time to readjust his focus.

Virgil jumps out of the way of Remus’ lunge on the opposite side of the room, letting one of the twins think over his options, to which they barely had any left. He had no inkling of what to do, other than distract Remus until morning, his stamina during the night was exponentially better, yet he could tell he was already losing his focus and Roman would be bit, skilled hunter or not.

At that moment, he remembered the numbness and tingling feeling of the bracelet, making him more powerless than he’d remembered in a long time. It seemed him and the hunter had a similar idea.

“V pin him down!!” Roman waved the bracelet in the air, along with gaining the wolf’s attention. Virgil sprints towards the doorway, gripping his abandoned umbrella, jumping on the wolf's back and blinding him with its leftover remnants. He wiggles and snarls trying to throw him off, a hand on his snout, torso, lightly stepping on his leg and balancing himself.

Roman rushed over, pinning the furry pastern, sliding on the jewelry, holding it in place until it took effect. His escaping efforts faded into slow breathing, enough Virgil removed his blindfold and respectfully removed his strong hands and feet from pinning him, almost lulled to peaceful sleep. It took a long time but then he stopped moving into a slumber.

V and Roman shared a deep breath of relief as they waited until morning.

…

During the night, Virgil and Princey were careful to make a makeshift bed for the werewolf, they debated keeping watch, neither were too comfortable with watching the others sleep and letting the other watch over them, collectively deciding to stay up most of the night.

Virgil zipped up his jacket, needing to leave early to avoid the sun and any prolonged interact with the twins bound to end in despair, seeing the Prince succumbed to sleep either way, he tiptoed to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Prince stared at him, somewhat close to the exit, standing up.

He sighed, “I have to leave before the sun rises, since someone ruined my umbrella,” the hunter blushed in embarrassment, “I apologize for that.”

V couldn’t stop thinking, if he didn’t intrude, he never would have caused such a butterfly effect.

“Look, I feel like a major jerk. Here,” Roman thought he must have been glaring. V rummaged through his pocket, he pulled out a lavender paper colored roll, “What’s this?”

“Wolfsbane bandages, it’ll heal your wounds and his so.. yeah,” V awkwardly walked to open the door.

“V, or, whatever your name is, thank you. Don’t let me catch you,” they shared a smile, the dark of the night beginning to lighten.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

He probably was going to regret this.

“My name… is Virgil,” he noticed the hunter's eyes widen before softening again, mentally assessing the name and accepting it.

“See you around.. Virgil.”

He gave a military salute, “See you Princey.”

He closed the door behind him.

…

The next day in Umbra

Remus felt completely fine, a sore throat and a headache, along with a few bruises cooled by the bandages the hot and mysterious vampire they’ve been hunting for months, given to Roman while he was out cold, were his only issues.

“You can’t move in your state darling. I know it’s going to be impossible. You’re the best couch potato I know, why don’t you stay for a few days?” Janus tried convincing him to remain hostage in Umbra, surprisingly Roman agreed.

The calm and alluring waves of Umbra smoothened his muscles, the hot chamomile tea mixed with potion infusion Janus brewed eased his ribs, and Roman checked on him every now and then while he laid on bed rest. Roman didn’t talk much about what Remus did as a werewolf, his memory went blank, he barely remembered that he had even gone inside the boarding school without one of Roman’s passing comments. But he knew did remember Roman happy to see him awake.

His eyes blared open, blinking ever so slightly to a ruined ceiling laying on the floor. Remus was running, his ankle throbbed, he found a gate, then…

“Remus?” Remus was running away from Roman, he was about to turn into a werewolf.

He hummed in response, the blankets enfolded with his naked body were ragged but warm.

“How are you feeling?” he tilted his head.

Remus grinned, “I’ve never been better.”

...

#sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #creativitwins #platonic prinxiety #platonic dukexiety #sanders sides fanfiction #:)#tw blood #werewolves #murder mention #tssoctobersubmission2023 #i hope i did this justice

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chaifootsteps · 1 year ago

Note

I was just watching the Ember McClain character spotlight for Nickelodeon All Star Brawl 2, and I came to a bit of a realization. Danny Phantom and Hazbin Hotel are basically following a similar pattern for me.

Both won me over immediately with their art style and afterlife concepts. Both had potential that was hinted at early on, that I would have loved to see explored, that were squandered later (Danny Phantom going from "ghosts are spirits of the dead" in Season 1 to "ghosts are just monsters" in Season 3, Hazbin seeming more episodic and "wacky hijinks" than the serialized character study the pilot implied).

Both had their pitch bibles revealed later that seemed like exactly the kind of thing that I would have loved to pieces (DP having te original plan of Danny's parents being interested in ghosts to learn from the dead, Hazbin having character growth with an early Extermination as a looming threat), but the full show steered away from utilizing those concepts (yes Hazbin isn't out yet, but the confirmed episode titles we know are completely different from the ones in the pitch bible so we can assume those were all scrapped, and Helluva's writing with Adam being involved worries me for Hazbin since Adam wrote for that too). Both shows are created by people who did some shady things, look down on others who aren't at their level, and can't take criticism.

And that really, really hurts.

I will give Butch Hartman this though— at the very least, his character designs didn't all blend in with the background. True, a lot of ghost battles in the show took place on Earth, but a fair few took place in the Ghost Zone, which is entirely green with a bit of purple here and there. And while quite a few of those Purgatory-bound ghosts have green on them, the only characters that are nearly entirely green are the Ectopuses, who are background threats.

In the main ghosts we see, there's tons of variety. Technus has green skin but his white hair and gray coat balance it out. Lunch Lady and Desiree are similar. Skulker has has green hair but his skin and armor are blue (his tiny blob form is green but that's only seen in his first appearance). Heck, a good number of ghosts (Ember, Sydney, Ghostwriter, Walker, Spectra) don't have any green on them at all except for their eyes (which reminds me of a previous anon saying the "different colors = different rings" would work better in Helluva if eye color alone was an indicator of which ring they were from). The Box Ghost doesn't even have a speck of green on him anywhere.

Whereas with Hazbin, every single main character has red prominently in their design.

At this point when it comes to animated shows involving the afterlife, I'm taking a "fine, I'll do it myself" approach and pitching my own work, because every afterlife cartoon I've encountered (can't say afterlife show because The Good Place exists and is great) seems to be disappointing me in the "squandered potential when it comes to the afterlife, exploring morality, and existential themes" department.

I'll admit that half of this is lost on me because I never watched Danny Phantom, but I definitely get what you're saying. It's hard to watch something you loved fly close to the mark, miss, and crash into flames.

It's true. Sometimes you've just got to do it yourself.

#ravenstarmedia #vivziepop critical #actual blog post

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the-sparrow-sings · 9 months ago

Note

Which Fable is your favorite and how long have you been playing? :)

I started playing when I was super young myself lol

Thank you for asking! I honestly can't remember how old I was. I know I was pretty young, but I can't remember if my brother was born yet or not when I started playing (I am SIGNIFICANTLY older than my brother, and I did a lot of his raising. If we were in a Fable game, I'd have died in the tutorial).

I do remember buying him his own copy at some point so he could play in his room when he was old enough to play it (my mom had a hyperfixation on fixing broken game consoles, so people would just give us their red-ringing xbox 360s, or she'd buy them super cheap, so even though we lived in a trailer in the woods we each had an xbox in our rooms lol).

Suffice it to say I was fairly young.

In any case, Fable 2 was my first Fable (my Great-Aunt bought it for me for Christmas when I was young because Sparrow on the cover reminded her of the characters I used to draw), and I hold it INCREDIBLY dear.

To me, Fable 2 (and Fable as a whole) had such an absolutely PERFECT aesthetic of "Fantasy that doesn't take itself too seriously", with pirates, steampunk elements, lampshades to its own plotholes/nonsensical worldbuilding, Frankensteining Lady Grey (my last name used to be Gray, so of course she was my favorite wife). NOT TO MENTION THE COMPLETE NORMALIZATION OF BEING BISEXUAL, WITH CANONICALLY LGB CHARACTERS (though transgender people weren't represented, to my knowledge. Outside of Sparrow's ability to change sex with the potion in the castle)...anyway, as a young bisexual, it meant a lot to me to see "Bisexual" in the description for random NPCs. It wasn't "playersexual" or highlighted to the point of making it seem like the developers were doing it for clout or worse, shock value. Reaver's bisexuality, while flagrant, felt natural in universe considering the fact that we could plainly see that bisexuality is common in Albion.

Though, I will say the fact that I play Fable 3 as though I'm Sparrow's ghost watching it all play out says something about how MUCH I love Fable 2 lol

Sparrow being nonverbal and having a difficult relationship with her mother figure really spoke to me too when I was young. I took the entire narrative SO personally, and it still effects me as an adult lol.

. . .

You didn't ask, but I was WEIRDLY attached to Reaver, to the point where it confused me, and then I later found out that Stephen Fry voiced an audiobook cassette I used to listen to to calm myself down when I woke up from night terrors as a child (a frequent occurrence). I was pavloved into finding Reaver EXTREMELY comforting. So I guess it makes sense that I picture Reaver as a sort of toxic unhealthy source of comfort for Sparrow in the aftermath of all that happened with The Spire. (Especially since Reaver himself suffers from night terrors)

I'm the Creative Lead at a ghostwriting agency that specializes in romance (increasingly more Fantasy Romance) and I feel like Fable 2 shaped a lot about my writing. It was just very good at having rich worldbuilding without having to make the narrative point to it like "LOOK AT MY RICH WORLD BUILDING". Spreaver was also THE first major "Ship" that I lost my mind over. So, my career as a romance writer was severely influenced by the way I ship Spreaver.

Reaver and Sparrow are T H E comfort characters for me.

ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!

#asktag #thank you!!#Fable 2 was literally formative for my development

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spectralph · 15 days ago

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An Ode to Her: My Favorite Film.

We all have our comfort films. Something that we can watch over and over. In my case, it is Spike Jonze’s beautifully weird futuristic romance, Her. Released 12 years ago and set in a futuristic LA in the year 2025 (funnily enough is our present year), Her tells the connection that developed between Theodore Twombly, a handwritten letter ghostwriter, and Samantha, a newly launched operating system (OS) upgraded with fast processing, intuition, and capability to grow and evolve.

I first encountered Her during my freshman year in college when it was the film of the moment. For its unique theme, I used it as the topic for my final paper on a pop culture course elective that I took that summer term. As much as I find it interesting, I haven’t had a complete grasp and connection with the movie at that point. It was only during my first summer in Chicago, as a solitary PhD student struggling with dating and relationship burnout, that I was able to rediscover the film. I must say that with each rewatch, I grow more in love with Her, picking up nuances and different takeaways from the story.

As for what Her is all about, It is very clear that it sensitively puts into picture, human longing for connection. The film is exceptional on its portrayal and exploration of our complex desire and oftentimes very difficult journey with love and companionship.

The main protagonist, Theodore, as I said was very sensitive, emotional, and contemplative. He was feeling very lonely, doubtful of himself, and struggling with letting go of his past. Samantha on the other hand, is curious, relatably insecure, and in the end, she grew at an uncontrollable pace that she had to move on and eventually leave Theodore.

Deserving of its Oscar Accolade, the screenplay of her is both sublime and poignant. With relatable lines from Theodore such as “I like being married, sharing and spending my life with somebody” to Amy’s “I can overthink everything a million ways, but I’m only here briefly, so I am going to allow myself… joy” which up to know is my favorite line from a film. It just resonates.

With Theodore as the main protagonist and center point, Samantha on the other hand, is the transcending symbol and essence of Her. The fact that she has no physical form, drives home this interesting thesis that “she doesn’t need to have one.” Whether one argues whether she or the relationship is real or not, Samantha is the embodiment of what Theodore needs in her life at that point. A genuine and confident connection, an opportunity to heal, learn, and experience new things. An openness to a different perspective. Despite not being a true biological being, Samantha represented love, which after all is a feeling! As for Theodore, as weird as the situations he got himself into, he eventually moved on, becoming more in tune with himself which is the most important.

With great acting from the cast, moving backdrop and cinematography, as well as a remarkably complementary score by Arcade Fire. Her, I would say is a hidden gem. A profound love story of our times, and maybe of the future. Forever it will touch me!

Acting - 9.5

Screenplay - 10

Technical - 9.5

Impact - 10

Overall Score - 9.75/10

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newjerseyprelawland-blog · 2 years ago

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Artificial Rappers, Artificial Copyright Claims? How "AI Drake" Could Spell Danger For Musicians Worldwide

By Gregory Martinez, Rutgers University–New Brunswick Class of 2026

June 5, 2023

It started as a trend on Tik Tok. As early as March 2023, content creators began flooding the app with “covers” created using artificial intelligence, taking pre-existing vocals from artists such as Ariana Grande, Kanye West, and Rihanna. Using software such as Chinese-developed DiffSVC, creators could feed clips of real life songs, acapella snippets, and even features by any given artist to this AI until the program could learn to replicate their voice nearly perfectly [1]. From there creators were free to use this voice to sing whatever tune their heart desired, and the humorous adaptations that followed struck gold with the absurdist Tik Tok community, and everything seemed in good fun until user ghostwriter977 uploaded a snippet of his song “Heart on my Sleeve” to Tik Tok halfway through April [2]. The song, which had been posted in full on various streaming platforms some days prior, was an original song with a twist: it featured the voices of Canadian musicians Drake and The Weeknd. Ghostwriter977 claimed that he had used artificial intelligence to put their voices to his words, and it took the online community by storm not only because of the song’s quality, but because of the awe at the method used to create it.

Just as soon as it came it was gone, with Universal Music Group (UMG), who represented both Drake and The Weeknd, requesting the song be removed from streaming services immediately due to alleged copyright infringement, and the platforms readily complying [3]. Many details of the situation remain a mystery, with questions remaining about the legitimacy of the claim that it utilized AI, the claim that Ghostwriter977 even wrote the song, and the existence of any actual lawsuit by UMG over the copyright dispute. The last point in particular has drawn the focus of legal experts across the country, as there remains little legal precedent for issues surrounding relatively new AI technology that is at the root of this musical battle.

Copyright law is a thorny field filled with gray, and when entering seemingly uncharted territory, difficulties arise. Chris Mammen, an intellectual property expert and partner at Womble Bond Dickinson, says that “The law evolves by analogy. Something new comes up, and we figure out what it’s analogous to, and then that gradually becomes settled law. What’s happening right now is this is changing so fast that it’s hard even to come up with the analogies to figure out how we want to think about it before it changes again.” [4]. At the center of the AI cover debate are rights of publicity. A federal decision in the case of Haelean Laboratories, Inc. v. Topps Chewing Gum, Inc. (1953) distinguished the idea of rights of publicity, which amounts to the idea that one cannot use the name or likeness of a celebrity for commercial purposes without authorization [5]. This has been a part of privacy law for decades, but with the nuances for the AI debate come questions of what constitutes “name” or “likeness”. In the case of AI Drake, did Ghostwriter infringe on Drake’s name if he expressly stated that it was made with artificial intelligence? Does one’s voice alone count as part of one’s likeness? UMG reportedly used the argument that Drake’s music was not authorized to be put into the program to create AI Drake’s voice, rendering the final product a violation of the copyright on the song, but what if someone were to create a faux Drake without using any of his songs? Can one copyright a voice? The issue enters the even thornier world of ethics when it comes to artists who have already passed away. In the case of the various Michael Jackson covers floating around the internet, is it even right to use a dead man’s voice and legacy for monetary gain? All of these and more are questions raised by this seemingly innocuous event, and decisions are being made and challenged quickly as time passes.

The US Copyright Office has it stated in the Compendium of U.S. Copyright Office Practices that human authorship is a requirement for something to be copyrighted [6]. This would seemingly discount work made by AI, a machine, logic used to refuse a copyright claim on a piece of AI-generated artwork in February 2022 [7]. However in the case of AI music covers, it could be argued that because a human was required to put in the vocals and train the AI to sound like whatever artist it was imitating, the cover can be considered humanly authored and therefore an independent entity that could itself be copyrighted. Using this argument Ghostwritter977 could claim that his song should be reuploaded on streaming platforms and even available for commercial benefits, sparking an entirely new debate. This would be of great concerns to the artists themselves, who can no longer protect their voice, which is undoubtedly associated with their brand in the public eye, and could hypothetically be removed from the creative process. If a label can use Drake’s vocals to create an entire AI-generated album, then the label does not need to pay Drake anymore. If the law cannot protect these artists, then it has the potential to upend the entire music industry, with production time and expenses drastically reduced by using AI rather than an actual human musician. Court rulings for years to come will help better define in what direction the law chooses to view these issues, and time will tell if AI’s increasing legal protection will come at the detriment of the humans that created it.

______________________________________________________________

[1] Spencer-Elliott, Lydia. “Drake to Ariana Grande: How Tiktokkers Are Making Those Viral AI Cover Songs.” The Tab, 14 Apr. 2023, thetab.com/uk/2023/04/14/how-to-make-ai-song-cover-tik-tok-303346.

[2] Pearson, Jordan. “A Viral AI-Generated Drake Song by ‘ghostwriter’ Has Millions of Listens.” VICE, 17 Apr. 2023, www.vice.com/en/article/wxj5gw/heart-on-my-sleeve-ai-ghostwriter-drake.

[3] Pearson, Jordan. “Viral AI-Generated Drake Song ‘heart on My Sleeve’ Removed from Spotify, YouTube.” VICE, 18 Apr. 2023, www.vice.com/en/article/xgwx44/heart-on-my-sleeve-ai-ghostwriter-drake-spotify.

[4] Schwartz, Drew. “Drake or Fake? A Lawyer Explains the Legality of Ai-Generated Music.” VICE, 21 Apr. 2023, www.vice.com/en/article/4a3vmn/heart-on-my-sleeve-ai-music-drake-the-weeknd-lawyer-explains.

[5] Vile, John R. “Right of Publicity.” Right of Publicity, www.mtsu.edu/first-amendment/article/1011/right-of-publicity#:~:text=fair%20use%2C%20Wikipedia).

[6] U.S. Copyright Office, Compendium of U.S. Copyright Office Practices § 101 (3d ed. 2021).

[7] Re: Second Request for Reconsideration for Refusal to Register A Recent Entrance to Paradise (Correspondence ID 1-3ZPC6C3; SR # 1-7100387071) (Report). Copyright Review Board, United States Copyright Office.

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heyyyharry · 2 years ago

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PREVIEW: Deep End - Chapter 17: Die For Me

...in which Ezi feels betrayed, and Harry just wants to help.

AU: famous!harry, siren!mc, adult modern retelling of the little mermaid? lol, fake dating, enemies to lovers.

WARNING: MATURE THEMES

All chapters / Synopsis / Moodboard / Playlist

A/N: Hi, guys. I'm back! A little bit of summary in case you haven't caught up on my crazy life. For the past year, I have been working as a freelance writer/ghostwriter. I was writing stories for other people, and it took away the joy of writing and my creativity freedom, but I had no choice because I was on a student visa and wasn't allowed to look for full-time jobs. BUT GOOD NEWS, I am now working in editorial at a publisher in London for fantasy and science-fiction books, which means I can stop writing freelance and focus on writing my own stuff 🥹 Thank you to everyone who sticks around and is still looking forward to an update of this series. I'm glad to say that I will continue writing it!

FULL CHAPTER: THURSDAY 15.12.2022 ON PATREON (AND SUNDAY 18.12.2022)

"Get out," she demanded. "No, not you, Maggie. You can stay. I don't want him here."

Harry's gaze jumped to Maggie who was half a step out of the door. She slowly looked up, eyes locked with his. He didn't know what he was expecting, for her to say something maybe? He wished she would defend him and try to convince Ezi to just hear him out. But Maggie only stared back, as if saying, 'Yeah, you should go.'

But you fucking asked me to come here, Harry wanted to say, but he clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

Ezi still refused to meet his eyes. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and an agonising look on her face.

Suddenly, Harry thought about her falling into the dark water, her struggling to swim, drowning and helpless against the currents for the first time in her life. She must have been so scared. He wished he'd been there. He would have jumped in and tried to save her.

"Ezi--"

"What did I say?" she snapped, making him jump. Her pained eyes pinned him to his spot. "Get the hell out or I'll start screaming and the neighbours will come. Maybe they'll even call the police." She whipped her head to Maggie with a threatening glare. "You wouldn't want the police to knock on your door, right?"

Frightened, Maggie tugged gently at Harry's soaked sleeve. "M-Maybe you should go outside for a bit."

He shrugged off her hand and strode over to the bed. Ezi recoiled as he sat down on the edge of it and reached for her. Face distorted, she clutched the duvet tightly against her chest. He recognised that look. She didn't think he meant any harm, did she?

"Hey, listen." He placed his hand on her knee and felt her stiffen against his touch. He hated this. What had he done? "Ezi, please hear me out."

"I've heard enough," she hissed. "My sister tried to kill me, my queendom is in danger, and now I can't go home. Are you happy now?"

"Ezi, how could you say that?"

"Harry, maybe you should go," Maggie chimed in, but they both ignored her.

"Of course I'm not happy," Harry said. "When Maggie told me what happened to you, I was so scared I'd lose you. Why do you think I came?"

"You came because you feel guilty." The words came out of her mouth so fast as if she'd spent so much time thinking of the reason why. "You want me to forgive you for the horrible things you said so you could move on. Well, guess what? I'm not a person, remember? I don't feel."

Harry's heart sank when she gave him that pointed look she'd given him when they'd first met.

"You will never get my forgiveness," she said, her voice shaking and lashes wet. "I can't believe for a second...I was willing to die for you."

#deep end #harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut

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dollanganger-in-the-attic · 3 years ago

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Hi, I'm new to the fandom side of VCA (aside from adoring complete VCA when it was running), and I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of information about why everyone seems to hate AN? I don't have any strong feelings on him, but if he's a bad person, I want to beware. I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go or who to ask.

Hmm im not sure if i know of like a mega thread with all the reasons many VCA fans dislike him so i can only speak to what I feel and what others have told me.

For me its really only a matter of opinion. I still enjoy the books he’s written, the Landry series is prob my second fav vca series in fact. I just don’t agree with certain decisions he’s made. And a lot of it might even be coming from the publisher rather than him personally.

For example: its hard to trust Andrew Neiderman when he was introduced to us under false pretenses. When he took over ghostwriting for VCA, fans were told that he was just finishing the manuscripts and ideas that VCA left behind. But that ended up being a lie and he was just writing new material under her name. He’s even stated that there were no manuscripts ever given to him, before changing his statement. And the family confirmed that none of Virginia’s unfinished work for the casteel series was used in the final books. Anyway to me it seems strange he was chosen at all, considering VCA wrote a lot about what it means to be a young girl terrorized by men- so… you replace her with a male writer? Strange choice. That’s probably why his identity was hidden by the Andrew’s family for quite a while.

To me that wasn’t egregious on its own. He was under contract to create so many books for the VCA brand anyways. But my thinking changed when the fanfiction works started being published. After VCA’s last close relative died, Andrew Neiderman suddenly started taking over works that he didn’t write. He started messing with the original series like Flowers in the Attic and My Sweet Audrina. It felt very disrespectful that not only was he trying to add to a series that was not his own- but he tried to change the canon that Virginia created! He published the Diary series and brought Cory back to life even though Cory was not his character to toy with. It upset a lot of the fans because it was a blatant cashgrab. One that he is still milking with the “first corrine” books. Mind you, his original contract stated that he was PROHIBITED from creating any stories with existing VCA characters. They tried to protect Virginia’s original works and i guess once no one was left alive to stop him, he thought it was free game. Which is yucky.

Another personal grievance of mine is that I’ve seen him be introduced in articles and interviews as the creator of Flowers in the Attic when that is absolutely untrue. Stolen valor lol it feels like he isn’t confident enough in his own work that he needs to tie himself as tightly as he can to Flowers in the Attic. Its like he completely took over the name V.C. Andrews and believes he IS the real Vc Andrews since hes written more books under the name than actual Virginia did. And so with the name he thinks he now owns all of her works- such as Flowers in the Attic etc

Even this biography feels disrespectful and untrustworthy. It feels very much like another cash grab because AN knows he can say anything he wants about Virginia because she isn’t here ti dispute it.

I don’t blame anyone who likes him and his works. And i dont think every fan needs to be in the know about this sentiment. Its ok to just be a fan of the books and not look into the ghostwriter’s approval ratings. It’s just something I feel a bit strongly about so I tend to speak up on it. I hope I shed some light on where I’m coming from. If you’re interested to know more I’d suggest joining one of the VCA fangroups on facebook and asking around. There are people who feel stronger than I do and have more insight :)

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delcat177 · 2 years ago

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I guess there's been a lot of Discourse about Animorphs lately?

I haven't picked one up since (by date) April 1998, at which point the team went to a slaughterhouse and my 11-year-old ass went "I am having Issues", and the last foray I took into them was finding out that one *particular* ghostwriter was responsible for the weirdly obsessive "let's torture Tobias" books, which explains a lot in retrospect.

I remember Animorphs being just right for me until that point, which is to say, dark as hell and deeply affecting. I was still on the cusp of getting into horror, and it was a horror series, Cinnabons or no. I am never gonna scrape Rachel becoming a blue whale but first being a giant human with "pores the size of manhole covers" (blarf) out of my brain, and it fits in with the general whale trauma.

It wasn't the body horror that made me put it down so much, though. It was fucking *dark*. These kids get chosen out of nowhere to be child soldiers and it really shows. They make the terrible decisions 13-year-olds would, and they're constantly finding out awful things about their circumstances. Everyone cheers for exploding giant alien bugs until they find out they're actual *children* who think they're playing a game--I remember how that crept under my skin. The constant inability to trust anyone around them, and in a lot of cases, each other. The whole thing where they ruin a kid's life by turning him into a rat and leaving him on a garbage island, and questioning how the hell it came to something so morbid.

If there's one thing that lives rent-free, it's the time Rachel was bear morphed and got fire ants in her ear canals when they found the android race with all protocols against violence in place, refusing to help them in battle because of it--except the one younger android who is like YEAH DUDE YEAH LEMME FIGHT so they rewrite it so he can, and he takes on a battle with them.

Afterwards, he isn't okay. He isn't harmed, but it's a bloody, terrible battle, and he tells them "I can't forget". They slowly grasp the depth of that--the memories are already fading for the humans, but a machine experiences that memory without degradation, over and over again, fresh as yesterday, forever. They rewrite his code and never use him again, but it's too late.

I think I found that amazing compared to the other stuff I was reading. It could be too late, and it could be too late on shit that *mattered*. Goosebumps ate at least one kid a book, and that was expected, I remember maybe two where they made it out happily and I was distrustful of those endings. It was assumed they were toast. Animorphs was about child soldiers, not kids, and reading any book you pick up, there's a "war is hell" message there.

(Most of the books. The Tobias torture thing is so explicable in retrospect. Please don't molest the wildlife, ma'am.)

Bad things happen, and characters corrode. I'd really love to read the series in full, see what kind of nostalgia glasses I have on if any, and see if Marco, like...made it out okay. He was the one who was like "You know this kind of sucks and shouldn't belong to us as a responsibility" and was Frequently Unwell.

I dunno, I mainly remember that the books challenged my sense of self and well-being and my outlook on the world, and that it was a good thing for a sheltered church kid

Also the acquisition of scouting raptors just to think "Ah yes, it's riding the thermals", the one post is true

I was a giant hawk nerd and still am so sue me

Any of my mutuals Animorphs nerds?

#Animorphs #The Discourse #I was ages I think 9-11 I honestly don't know #Literary #Childhood #Nostalgia #I'm at a doctor's appointment entertain me internet

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moralesispunk · 4 years ago

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Caramel Lattes

Marcus Moreno x Reader

Summary - You meet a handsome stranger in the nearby cafe and it becomes a weekly date.

This is part 1 of my Marcus fic

Master list / part 2

During the week, coffee equated to a quick cup while frantically getting ready for work. At the weekend, your coffee was a lot calmer. Taking time to enjoy a caramel latte while reading whatever book you were in the middle of. Since moving to the city, you found your new Saturday morning coffee spot.

You had found the cafe you were in today a few weeks ago. It was a perfect slice of heaven being a mix of a cafe and library. At the front, there were small tables and mis-matched chairs and at the back there were rows upon rows of books. As you walked in, shaking your umbrella while it was still out of the door, the smell of warm coffee and old books instantly filled your senses. It was a lot cosier in here than it was in the downpour outside.

You placed your umbrella in the umbrella rack, turning to face the barrister.

“Good morning,” you said as you reached the counter, “can I have a caramel latte please.”

“Extra caramel?”

“Yes, please,” you said, already tasting the sweet coffee in your mouth.

The woman smiled at you, telling you to find a table and that she would bring it over to you. You looked around, all but one of the tables already full. There was one left right in the corner with two empty chairs. As you reached the table, you took your jacket off and placed it over the heater next to you to dry. You sighed of relief bringing your book out of your bag noticing that it was still completely dry despite the thrashing rain outside.

You were so engrossed in the book, only having looked up to say thank you as your coffee was placed down in front of you that you hadn’t noticed the tall handsome man standing in front of your table until he cleared his throat.

“Is this seat taken?” his warm voice asked as his hand gripped at the seat across from you.

It took you a moment to answer, your eyes taking in the man in front of you. His warm brown eyes were looking deeply into yours, a gentle half smile on his face. His hair was the same colour as his eyes, a little darker. It looked like there had been some attempt to tame it this morning but any attempt had been stopped by the rain ready to drop of the curls splayed across his forehead.

“N-No,” you replied, pointing to his chair with a smile.

He smiled wider, thanking you as he sat down. As he took his jacket off to place over the back of his chair and brought his own book out of his bag, he turned to thank the woman placing his own coffee in front of him, showing off the dimple on his cheek and crinkles at the side of the eye. He gave off such a warm energy that the cafe already seemed brighter in the two minutes he had been in.

You looked back down to your book, trying to concentrate on the words in front of you. It was pointless. You read and re-read over the same sentence at least six times when all you wanted to do was take another look up at the handsome man in front of you.

“Is that any good?” the warm voice made you look back up at him again, “the book I mean, I’ve heard it’s meant to be good but it’s not my usual type.”

“I love it. It’s quite sad, not exactly an easy read, but the characters are written so beautifully. This is actually my second time reading it,” you admit.

The man smiled back, big enough to show off his dimple again.

“I guess I’ll have to give it a read, see if it’s as good as you make it out to be.”

“How is yours?” you ask, reading the name that was etched into the side of his book.

“It’s great! It’s about a detective who is investigating a murder in his home town,” he replied, sounding as excited as a young child who was showing off their newest toy.

“So, who does he think did it?” you ask, marking your page in your book before placing the book down.

“He’s not sure yet, but I think it’s his old best friend,” he said, while marking his page and setting his book down as well.

You both spent the rest of the morning talking, ignoring your books that had been discarded on the table. Another coffee each later and you found out that his daughter has moved to a swim team just down the street so this was his new cafe of choice while he waited during her practice. You learned that he was a single-dad, widowed a few years ago and no luck in the dating game he had recently went back to. You told him that you had just moved to the city and found this place when looking for a new Saturday morning coffee spot.

The conversation flowed easily after that, talking about everything from books and music to making up stories of others in the cafe, like the old man in the other corner who had been a spy before he retired or the woman who was a ghostwriter and looking for inspiration.

As you both sat laughing, he looked down at his watch and sighed.

“Missy is going to be out soon, I better head,” he said as he stood to put his now dry jacket on.

“Oh, well it was lovely meeting you-”

“Marcus,” he finished for you with a smile.

“Marcus,” you repeated before telling him your name, letting him repeat it as well.

Marcus stayed standing in front of you for a moment before getting enough courage to ask you.

“Maybe if you’re here next week we can do this again?”

“That sounds wonderful,” you answered.

Marcus smiled and pulled his hood up, ready to face the rain that still hadn’t let up outside. You watched as he walked out the door, his pace picking up as he got outside until he reached the window next to you, stopping slightly to smile and wave before running off down the street.

--------

The next week you get up a little earlier than usual, excited to see Marcus again. You looked out a comfortable but nice outfit, spending a bit more time getting ready, and packed the book you finished during the week to give to Marcus in your bag as well.

When you arrive, Marcus is already sitting at the same table as last week. He looks up as soon as he hears the bell of the door, something he had been doing for the last few customers as well. A wide grin comes to his face when he realises it is you and he stands to pull out a chair for you as you walk over.

“I ordered you a coffee, I hope you don’t mind. Caramel Latte right?” he asks.

“Good memory! Missy get dropped at swimming all good?”

He nods, smiling at the fact you asked about his daughter as well.

“Oh, before I forget!” you say while reaching into your bag, “here is that book I was reading last week for you to try. I finished it the other day. I hope you don’t mind but I scribble some notes down while I read.”

“Wow-I- Thank you,” he said smiling, “I actually brought you the one I had been reading for you to try as well. There are also some notes in mine as well.”

You both sit for a moment, smiling at one another as you swap your books over. You open his book, flipping through the pages and noticing the black pen marks scribbled across some pages. He does the same, finding your handwriting in blue, stopping on a page where he finds a love-heart in the corner.

“What’s this for?” he asks, tracing over it with his finger, “is this your favourite bit?”

“No, its- thats the page I was at when we met last week.”

You look down at the table, shying away from his eyes that are probably on your now and not wanting to see whatever expression was covering his face. When you finally look up you notice the smile that is wider than any you have seen before and that damn dimple. Theres a slight sparkle in his eyes as he goes to talk.

“Well, I see you use blue and I use black. Why don’t we leave each other our own notes?”

“I think that sounds like a great idea.”

The morning goes in quickly again and you spend the hour and a half talking about everything and anything. You finally find out about his job, something you had been wondering all week. Apparently he is not a teacher, which is what you had imagined from his warm and welcoming energy, but the leader of the Heroics. While you had heard about them before, everyone had, you had never really paid much attention to them on the news. He asks about yours, listening and asking questions as you go. He tells you more about Missy and his mum and you tell him about your family who you were missing since you moved.

Before you know it, Marcus has to go get Missy again and you are both walking out the cafe door as he pays for both your drinks despite you protesting say it was your turn after he paid for your drinks last week. You both wait outside the cafe, standing awkwardly across from one another for a moment.

“Missy has a competition next week so I won’t be here but the week after?” he asks, looking down as he puts his hands in his pockets..

“It’s a date,” you nod with a smile.

“It’s a date,” he says as he looks up to smile back.

Marcus waits for a moment before leaning forward, giving you a quick hug and walking in the direction of Missy’s swimming practice. It had only been for a moment but you had been surrounded by his warmth and it was comfortable.

----------

You miss the cafe the next week, too busy reading the book Marcus had swapped with you. You found yourself leaving notes in blue as you went.

No way is it the best friend he is too nice!

I think its the old lady down the street, she seems too nosy

So it was the best friend! You should be a detective :)

About half way through the book there was a page with a note in black that read:

The day I met the most beautiful woman in the world.

You couldn’t stop smiling at the note, reading it over and over again. Tracing over the words with your fingertips.

----------

You found yourself even more excited this Saturday, looking forward to seeing Marcus after a week off. The butterflies in your stomach grew wilder the closer you got to the cafe. As you walked by the window of where you and Marcus had sat at the past two weeks there was no sign of him. You weren’t surprised, you were a bit earlier this week, but as you reached to open the door you heard that familiar voice call your name out.

Marcus was standing leaning against the other side of the cafe, two to-go cups in hand. He looked as handsome as ever, his grey t-shirt showing off his biceps more than you had seen before, his bright smile aimed towards you as he handed you a cup.

“It’s a lovely day today, how about we go for a walk around the park?”

“Sounds perfect and thank you for the coffee but I think it was my turn to pay!” you jokingly scold him.

“Well, you can just get the next one,” he replies with a wink.

You start by talking about the books you swapped. Marcus admits that he did cry a few times and he was wondering what you were putting him through until the end made up for it all. You told him that he should give up his superhero day-job and become a detective, explaining all your guesses of who did it before realising it was the best friend - him finding the old lady down the street guess particularly hilarious.

The conversation moves along to asking about how Missy’s competition went, leaning that she came first and Marcus embarrassed her by cheering louder than any other parent. You find a bench to sit on, enjoying the rest of the coffees as the spring sun warms you both.

“I missed seeing you last week,” you admit, turning to face him.

“I missed seeing you too. Not often I get to spend time with such beautiful company.”

“Hm I think your note said ‘the most beautiful woman in the world’,“ you teased, making him blush.

“I forgot about that when I gave it to you,” he admits shyly.

“Well, I am enjoying getting to spend time with such a handsome man.”

You sit for a minute longer, looking at all the spring flowers blooming around you both.

“Listen, I was wondering if maybe one day you would like to go out for dinner sometime? Let me take you on a proper date?”

You turn to look at the man who had for the most part been confident and sure of himself to find that there was some uncertainty in his eye, like he wasn’t sure you would say yes.

“I would love that, Marcus,” you say, reaching and giving his hand a squeeze.

The walk back to your car is comfortably quiet, every so often your hands brushing against one another and making you both turn to smile. The swimming pool where Missy trains is on the walk back to your car and you stop outside.

“So, I should probably give you my number then?”

“Oh yeah, that would help,” Marcus laughs, “sorry, I’m not great at this whole dating thing...”

“You’re doing pretty good so far,” you smile, putting your number and name in his phone. You watch as he takes it back, adding a blue love heart next to your name before saving it again.

“Dad?” you hear a voice call.

You both turn and see someone you couldn’t mistake for anyone other than Marcus’s daughter. She has the same mischievous smile he gives whenever he is teasing you. Marcus had shown you photos of her before but looking at them both in front of you, she was definitely his mini-me.

“Hi sweetie,” he says before introducing you both.

“Hi, its nice to meet you. Your dad has told me so much.”

“Dad has told me a lot about you too, you’re just as beautiful as he said,” she says looking back to her dad.

“Missy!” Marcus scolds as you both blush.

“Well, I hope the both of you enjoy the rest of your day, I better get going. I’ll talk to you?” you say, looking at Marcus.

“Can I call you later?” he asks.

“Of course.”

You say goodbye to Missy and turn to say goodbye to Marcus. He reaches and grabs your arm gently, placing a soft kiss to your cheek, before you give them both a wave and turn and walk away.

His lips had been so soft on your cheek, his hand gentle on your arm. You waited till you had rounded the corner before you let your hand reach up to touch where his lips had met you.

“She really is beautiful Dad,” Missy says as they watch you walk away.

“Told you,” he smiles down at his daughter, looking forward to getting to talk to you on the phone tonight and finally take you on a date.

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno oneshot #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x you #marcus moreno fic #marcus moreno headcannon #headcannon #oneshot #fic #marcus moreno fanfic #marcus moreno fanfiction #we can be heroes #pedro pascal

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lonelyreputation · 4 years ago

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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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x0401x · 4 years ago

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Violet Evergarden Short Story

Please feel free to message me about possible corrections. If you can, consider supporting the creators by purchasing the official releases. In case anyone is feeling generous: Ko-fi | PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

The ingredients that led me to my current self were:

A teaspoon of queen’s pride.

Two tablespoons of love for my husband, a one-sided feeling now required.

Plenty of tears shed in a forest capital where I had no supporters.

Mix the tear batter with the stubbornness of a princess from the country of white camellias, then put it in the oven. Once it bakes until it becomes tough enough to give one a hard time cutting it even with a knife, it is done. No one can tear a bite off it so easily.

My adult self was reborn this way.

But then, what about her? I wondered what kind of adult my favorite girl was by now.

Just as I was curious about this, good news arrived.

The Queen and the Auto-Memories Doll

The marauder came around the time when the red roses were in full bloom.

Said doll, whose lustrous golden hair fluttered in the wind, had jewel-like blue eyes that nailed people down. A dignified young woman, intimidated by nothing. That was the kind of marauder she was.

If I were to talk about my relationship with her, it would be a long story. If I were to explain it leaving out the many stories that happened between us, I would probably say that she was a key figure who became the mediator of my love story in the past, as well as an Auto-Memories Doll engaged in the ghostwriting business at a certain famous postal company.

Although she was the kind of girl who seemed like she could live in solitude forever, she was different when she appeared before me.

“It has been a while, Lady Charlotte.”

I had invited her into our kingdom as a guest of honor because I heard that she was taking a long vacation and traveling around the world – so the passage of time could change people this much.

“I will rush to anywhere that my clients desire...”

The girl, who used to be so ephemeral in the past, had grown up and brought a man to accompany her on the journey, so was it not fitting to call her a marauder? At the very least, she had opened an air hole in my unchangeable royal palace life.

“No, pardon me. This is Violet Evergarden on break from duty, Your Majesty, Queen Charlotte.”

I whispered with the dignified gaze and voice tone of a queen, “It’s been a long time, ghostwriter. No... Violet. Thanks for coming even though you’re on vacation.” I then fixed my stare on the man standing next to Violet.

My adorable ghostwriter possessed a beauty that shone distinctly even in within the palace, which congregated fine-looking women. Therefore, it would not be strange at all if she eventually had a deep relationship with some gentleman, but by no means could I tell if he had that sort of relationship with her.

He greeted me after Violet. Apparently, his name was Gilbert Bougainvillea.

“What’s the relationship between you two?”

As I asked straight to the point, Violet and Gilbert looked at each other’s faces.

Violet then opened her mouth, “He is my former superior officer.”

“So you are related through work.”

“Yes, but I am no longer registered in the military, so maybe I should say that he is my benefactor, whom I am on close terms with nowadays...”

“So you’re close to your benefactor... enough to go on a trip with him, huh.”

“Well...”

Perhaps unable to precisely define her relationship with him, Violet fell silent. But from this, I was able to catch the glimpse of a womanly shyness that I had the feeling I had gone through before.

“The word ‘benefactor’ alone indeed does not cover it.”

“Dear me.”

“I would like to use a more suitable word if there was any, but even I, who work with ghostwriting, do not know an appropriate term for it...”

“Hum, Violet, I’m sorry.”

“‘Reverence’ is not enough and ‘adoration’ might be too trivial...”

“I’m sorry; you can stop there. He’s also embarrassed. You don’t want other people to ask too much about those things, right? It’s under development, isn’t it?”

He smiled, seeming a bit awkward. He was an adult man but looked slightly childish when smiling.

——Isn’t he a fine man?

Hair the color of dusk, blessed physique and virile facial traits. There was some elegance in him. His looks had a male allure that was capable of exhilarating the courtiers of the palace.

——Such a pretty emerald iris.

He was a stunning man. The look in his eye was grievous and had a darkness to it. A mysterious man with an eyepatch. The hardships that he had been burdened with until now oozed out of him. His scent was different from the one of the palace’s knights, but I could feel a similar air coming from him. His build seemed reliable, which looked even more remarkable as he stood next to Violet. I wondered if he had not been quite the pretty boy in his younger years.

He appeared to be apart from Violet in age. I suddenly recalled that I had asked her in the past about what she thought of age gaps between men and women.

——Did she not say no back then because of her relationship with him?

I had many guesses, but I did not voice any of them. I was an adult now.

“Erm, there was an introduction before you came into the room, but I’m going to introduce myself again. I am Charlotte Abelfreya Fluegel. The queen of this country.”

I was Charlotte Abelfreya Drossel before. My lips were finally used to the greeting ever since my name had changed. Even so, I did not want Violet to call me a queen.

“Violet, you put the title of honor ‘Your Majesty the queen’ on me earlier, but you can refer to me in the same way as before. I want you to do that.”

“Is that not disrespectful?”

“It isn’t. I’m asking for it, after all.”

Silence.

“I will punish anyone who opposes to this. Got it, Violet?”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte.”

Right, that was better. After all, when you called me that, I could feel as if I had returned to the times when I was in my homeland where white camellias bloomed. I asked the same thing out of Mr. Bougainvillea, but he refused it due to it being discourteous. Well, this was our first meeting, so maybe there was no helping it.

After that, Violet and I were left on our own. Mr. Bougainvillea took his leave, saying that we must have had things to talk about. I also drove all of the ladies-in-waiting out of the reception room and was at last actually able to breathe.

The suffocation I felt from my daily life in the royal palace did not come only from wearing a corset. When I thought that there were no longer any stares keeping watch on us, I made merry like a little girl.

“Violet.”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte.”

“Violet, Violet! You’ve become an adult, huh!”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte.”

We had first met when we were both girls, so when we reunited, I could feel as if we had gone back to those days. But I did not know if she, who was always expressionless, was happy about it, yet just when I thought this, Violet’s lips were faintly forming an arc.

——My, she laughed.

Much too surprised, I forgot about conducting myself like a queen and opened my mouth wide. “Violet! You...!” I touched her cheeks with both of my hands.

I should not be doing something like that to her, as she was a lady and no longer a girl, but I felt like confirming if such a natural smile was not my hallucination. I kneaded her cheeks pliably. Violet let me do as I pleased.

“Lady—Char—lotte—” Violet spoke, sounding like having her cheeks kneaded was inconvenient.

——How soft; so you had such soft cheeks? No, more importantly...

“Wh-Wh-What’s gotten into you? You’re the one who pinched your cheeks saying you couldn’t smile that one time!”

“My per—formance has im—proved.”

At first, I could not catch what she was saying very well. “My performance has improved”. After ruminating for the words in my head, I finally understood it.

“Huhu—hahaha!”

This mood. This sensation that almost felt like a toy doll was talking to me. I could actually feel that, yes, Violet was indeed in front of me.

Overjoyed, I let out a high-pitched laughter, just like a little girl. Then, I took Violet’s hand. I squeezed it tight, putting into it my sentiment of deep affection for her, the possessor of mechanical arms. “Hey, I’m truly happy to see you. Have you been doing well?”

“Yes. Lady Charlotte, you also appear to be in good health.”

“I became a bit of an adult too, right? How do I look?”

“Yes, you have become an adult woman.”

When I said that I was currently pregnant, Violet blinked, and then told me to “please sit down”. Her attitude was as if she were protecting me almost like a knight. But I shook my head. I invited her to a stroll. Once I told her that walking a little was best for a mother’s body, as expected, she offered her arm in a knightly manner and escorted me.

That part of her had not changed.

“My husband is in the middle of government affairs, but you should be able to see him tonight.”

As there was also the fact that I was carrying the child of King Fluegel, I had changed residences from the royal palace and was resting in the royal villa for now. A garden spread out outside of the villa, which was a good place for a walk.

In Fluegel, nicknamed the Forest Kingdom, both the royal palace and the land surrounding it were enclosed by trees and green meadows. The garden also had a feel unlike that of Drossel, its atmosphere somewhat idyllic. If I were to describe just the environment, I would say that it was a nice place for children.

“A dinner party... is too ceremonious, so I’m thinking of just having a banquet in the royal villa. You’ll stay over, right? I also want you to meet Lord Damian...”

Violet’s eyes went left and right, as if searching for vestiges of Mr. Bougainvillea, who was nowhere to be found. “If that person says it is all right...”

He was supposed to be having a tour around the palace’s interior with the chamberlain by now. I had told the latter to convince him to agree, so there would likely be no problem. The chamberlain was a capable person.

“Please. Just one day is fine. One day is fine, so... Violet, I want to spend it with you.”

“Will you not be bored in my company?”

“No way. If I were, I wouldn’t have told you to ‘come here because I want to see you’.”

“Are you still unused to life here?”

“Yeah, I have clashes from the smallest to the biggest things. It’s gotten better in comparison to the beginning of my marriage, but in the end, I’m all alone in this country. It’s probably hard for you to understand how happy it makes me to be able to see a face I know... but I’m really glad.”

Hearing these words, Violet made a face that looked like she was giving it a thought. “Will you not summon Madam Alberta?”

Alberta was the woman who had influenced my life the most – the courtier who had acted as my foster mother. She was also in the position of chief of the ladies-in-waiting, so she could not go so easily to the princess who had married off to a different country.

“I’d like to. Lord Damian is making sure that she’ll come if my child is born safely. After fulfilling my role as a queen, I can finally... finally ask for what I want.”

“So it could be said that the more valuable the person’s circumstances, the more inconveniences they face.”

“Yeah. Besides, Alberta probably doesn’t want to be away from her country...”

“It did not seem like it to me. Though this is my own speculation.”

“Is that true...? Hey, speaking of which, you were in Drossel before coming here, right? Why did you go see Alberta before coming to me? Was it a geographic issue? Did you have plans to come here?”

“No, we did not have plans to come to Fluegel.”

My mouth distorted. Were my feelings unilateral? That was what I thought, but as she added, “It would be a problem if civilians carefreely came to visit someone from the royal family”, I was at a loss for words. It was just as Violet said.

She said with a face that feigned ignorance at my complicated maiden heart, “In a way, there is a reason. Madam Alberta once interceded for me to take the job of private tutor of a certain lady from the nobility, so I also went to the royal palace in order to report it to her.”

“My, you’d started doing that kind of work?”

“No... she... that person was an exception.” Perhaps remembering this person, Violet looked into the distance for a bit and then closed her eyes. “After that, too, she would introduce jobs to me whenever possible... so my company’s president also told me to express my gratitude if I ever had a chance to see her. Even if I had not... I wanted to show Major – my companion – the beauty of that country.”

“Is that so...? I’m happy. The beauty of my country is my pride.”

“Yes. I could not have thought that we would come here as per Madam Alberta’s arrangement.”

“S-Sorry.”

The courtier Alberta was once my wet nurse, and to Violet, she was a work intermediator. Alberta had persuaded Violet, saying that, since she had come nearby, she probably wanted to see me.

Having received the news about Violet’s visit from Drossel, I had sent a carriage from Fluegel to pick her up without thinking about her convenience. As a result, I had hindered the vacation that this much-demanded Auto-Memories Doll probably was finally able to have... as well as the time that she was getting to spend with her significant other.

Calling her over in a way that bordered forcefulness might be an arrogant conduct coming from the royal family.

“Violet... did you not want to come to Fluegel?”

“That is not the case.”

“Really...?”

“Yes; it is the country that Lady Charlotte married off to, after all. I had interest in it.”

“Thank you... I’m not free, so... I can’t go anywhere on my own... I had no choice but to bring you here.”

As I said this, Violet nodded with an “I am aware”.

Afterwards, we talked about what happened in the meantime that we had not seen each other. About how Lord Damian and I were able to properly fall in love with each other after marrying. About how Violet had managed, through ups and downs, to find the most beloved master that she had been looking for. About the fact that he was Mr. Gilbert. About her wish for two of them, in the life that they would have from now onward, to go to the countries that she had visited as an Auto-Memories Doll, because she wanted him to become acquainted with them as well, even if it took some time. We talked about such things quiet and lightly.

I was so happy for being able to have this kind of conversation with her that I could not help myself.

“Speaking of which, Lady Charlotte, it seems you are funding an orphanage.”

“You think it’s hypocritical of me?”

“No. To tell the truth, a girl who is being taken care of over there is supposed to work with us in the future.”

“Eh, is that so? I... built that orphanage because I was influenced by you.”

We opened our eyes wide at each other’s information, hearts pounding, and then broke into giggles.

Aah, when was the last time that I had been so free of wariness with someone? It was really fun. How many more times would I get to see her like this?

“By the way, how’s the Auto-Memories Doll that was with Lord Damian during the Public Love Letters doing?”

Even though we had barely just started chatting, I suddenly thought about that. It was a bad habit of mine. I was quick to picture the end of things.

“She is doing well. It seems she is... always having fights with her lover, but...”

Life was short. Many things passed in a blink of eye.

“Is that okay?”

I spent my time burying down the intervals in which I could not see her.

“It is. Our company is the same as ever. Everyone is doing fine.”

Even so, we could not be together forever.

We would spend time together today and tomorrow, and once we parted, there was a possibility that we would never meet again. After all, I was a queen and Violet was an Auto-Memories Doll. A woman who could go nowhere and a woman who could go anywhere. As one would expect, our social positions were different.

——Aah, Charlotte, stop thinking, I reprimanded myself. Although this moment was unbearably fun, I was conscious of its end, which caused my chest to tighten somewhat.

I was together with Violet in the time when red roses blossomed. The hours we spent talking in the garden would probably become irreplaceable to me. I might recall it over and over.

——This might not be the case for Violet, though.

Friendships could also be unrequited. That was exactly why this moment was both too happy and too painful.

“Lady Charlotte.”

Having my name called, I frantically raised the corners of my mouth, which had gone down before I realized. A queen had to be always smiling elegantly, as to not make the subjects uneasy.

“Wh-What is it?”

Even though I excelled at faking a smile, for some reason, I could not do it properly right now.

“What is the matter?”

I would end up accidentally showing her my original, anxious self when she was in front of me.

“Nothing; it’s just that my heart is filled to the brim.”

Being overcome with emotion at the irreplaceable “present” out of the blue in the middle of a conversation and feeling sad about it was incomprehensible and nothing but a bother to the other person.

“I simply... thought that I was indeed lonely.”

Violet. I might be no more than a character that had not even amounted to a single page of your life.

“I really wanted to see you.”

But you had played a huge role in mine, so you would always be in my heart.

“Because I’d been remembering the things you said to me whenever I was having a hard time.”

Whenever I was sad and about to burst into tears, your face would appear in my heart and you would speak to me.

“Weird, isn’t it? If you think about it, we aren’t that close. I’m just a client to you anyways. Just one person in a crowd. But...”

But I had never forgotten the things you had done for me.

“But, y’know...”

You had supported my love. Allowed me to be selfish. Told me that I was a crybaby. You were the only girl about as old as me that I could be myself when interacting with.

“But...”

To me, you were my girlhood itself. A symbol of the time when I lived in Drossel, fell in love and was simply Charlotte. It was almost as if I were embracing my child self.

Could you tell? My chest was hurting a lot. What a pain. Why did people become like that when growing up?

“I like you.”

Why did we think that these moments in which we became weak were so bad?

“Lady Charlotte...”

In that instant, Violet came closer, and just when I wondered if she was going to kiss me, she reached out a hand.

“‘I want to stop your tears’.”

And then, the tip of her finger scooped a drop of the tears that were about to overflow.

“If I am certain, I had once told you this, Lady Charlotte.”

I was a bit dumbfounded. I did not think she still remembered that.

“Are you still a crybaby...?”

When she gently asked me that, I felt like one more tear would leak. I suppressed my eyes in a panic. “No way I’d be. I’m a queen already.”

“Yes.”

“I have Lord Damian too. I’m his wife.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve become strong. I... got a bit weak just now, but it was a temporary thing.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

Aah, you. Violet.

“Lady Charlotte, if you like...”

You were extremely insensitive sometimes.

“...if you ever have a chance to travel to Leidenschaftlich...”

And cruel.

“...by all means, do call me. I will hasten to join you.”

But kind enough to make me cry.

“I want to show you that city one day...”

You had no idea that you were saving me with your casual statements.

Before I noticed, Violet was offering me a handkerchief. I accepted it, and while hiding my crying face but making at least my voice sound all right, I said, “I’ll go; I’ll definitely go there one day. And when I do, show me around!”

Violet replied, “Yes” with a tone that indicated she was probably smiling.

“Definitely.”

Surely, even if I managed to meet Violet again someday, the same thing would happen. It was precisely because we could not see each other that I would be both happy and pained once I managed to see her.

“Of course. If it suits you, I can draw up a written oath... Ah, Lady Charlotte. Major is back.”

The contents of our conversations had changed from before. We were no longer talking about one-sided love letters. I would not sulk or curl up on my bed in front of her.

“No way; I can’t show him a face like this.”

Still, it did not matter how many years passed.

“You look beautiful.”

It was not as if my feelings would be gone.

——We were able to meet today like that. Even if we part ways tomorrow, you’ll surely be on a voyage somewhere around the world.

“Aren’t my eyes red?”

“No, Lady Charlotte.”

When I thought about that, I started looking forward to it. Should I try to write her a letter telling her that I wanted to see her by the time that the tales of our journeys had piled up?

“Your Majesty, may I also join Violet?”

“Of course; here, sit down.”

I had already decided on an opening phrase for it.

“Major, I was told a wonderful story. Is it all right to talk about it?”

“Aah, tell me, Violet.”

“The orphanage that Lady Charlotte built is...”

Dear Ms. Violet Evergarden, Are you doing well?

I want to see you.

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