#if i ignore an alert too long she Will Start Throwing Shoes At Me

[saltpixiefibercraft]

More from this lovely tencel/cotton warp, with bonus cameo from the studio "bear"

Tabitha says hello to you all, she is the one who loves photoboming these videos the most 😂 best studio helper.

[lightvsdark18]

Obey Me- When Everything Was Angelic (Chapter 1)

Inspired by @obey-me-angel-bros

How did this happen?

I was in the common room of The Demon Lord's Castle when Number 2 faceplant the sofa and demanded I hide. Escaped demons were breaking in and neither the seven brothers, Barbatos or Diavolo was anywhere near the castle. Number 2 escorted me to a closet next to Diavolo's room and ran out to call Barbatos, however, the demons found me before any help could be alerted.

I have no magic or pacts, I can't protect myself magical or summon any of the brothers. I was defenseless when they dragged me out and started beating me, throwing me down the stairs, slamming me against the furniture. I almost didn't notice them taking me to Barbatos' room and tossing me into one of the many doors.

I felt my body free falling through a gentle breeze, then landed on soft grass that cushioned my descension. I hissed and cringed in pain, unable to move or see by the bright light above me.

Where am I?

Through the small opening of my eyelids I saw trees and a blue sky. A sound of grass crunching under someone's shoes companied the silence, then stopped and started again in the distance of me. I gently rolled my head to find the person, but the adrenaline was dying down and I couldn't ignore how exhaustion I was. My consciousness slipped away when the person finally found me.

A smell of wood and clean fabric is the first thing that greets me when I awake. My eyes slowly open to a room of navy blue curtains blocking bright light from coming in, and a person in a chair reading a book.

Belphie?

I mentally shake my head.

No, this person is too younger to be Belphie. This kid just looks like Belphie. But what am I?

The person peeks up from the book and jumps slightly at not expecting my awakening. He smiles and closes the book to set it on the nightstand.

"How are you feeling? Is there any pain? What happened? Why were in that forest? Did someone do this to you?"

I pull back at the rapid fire questions thrown at me.

He pauses. "Uh, sorry." He scratches his cheek. "You have been sleeping for a few hours now and I kept getting more curious about you. My name's Belphegor, but you can call me Belphie."

I freeze at the greeting. "... What's your name?"

"Belphie, what's yours?"

My mind blanks on how to respond. What do I do? Should I give him my real name or a fake one?

He notices my hesitation and asks if I'm having a hard time remembering. I answer, "uh, yes, I just woke up so my memory is a bit hazy. Could, could you get me a glass of water?"

He nods energetically and bounces up to quickly exit the room. With him gone, it'll give me time to think and understand my situation. From the bright light outside, the young looking Belphie, and being thrown in one of Barbatos' doors, I might be in the Celestial Realm during the past. But how far am I?

Pain creeps up my right leg and sharply hiss through my teeth. How bad are my injuries?

Belphie comes out with water and helps me sit up to down the water. He makes a light joke about how thirsty I was, then places the glass on the nightstand and lie me back down.

"What do you remember?"

I pretend to try remember and respond I was attacked, but don't know by who. He asks what I was doing before I was attacked when the door swings open and reveals a man. Gold, white and blue attire that radiates importance and power, long black hair that is pinned behind the head, and piercing ruby eyes glancing at us.

Oh no...

"Lucy!" Belphie yells and runs up to the man, hugging his waist.

He smiles down at his little brother and ruffs his hair, then drops his smile when he sees me. "Who are you?" He sternly asks.

My heart pounds against my chest in fear. "Uh, S-Sandy." I quickly thought up.

"I found her near the forest. She said she was attacked," Belphie explains.

Lucy's eyes widens. "Attacked?" He glances back at me. "What h-" he pauses and looks back down at his brother again- "what is the state of her injuries?"

Belphie pulls back to count on his fingers as he informs his brother, "a busted lip, black eye, cuts on her arms, cheek and jaw, bruises on her neck and stomach-"

"The neck?" The tone of Lucy's voice is between shock and anger, but kept a stern, emotionlessness behind it.

He approaches me and gently reaches a hand to hold my chin and carefully lift it up to see the handprints on my neck. There is an almost startled inhale of breath, then asks for Belphie to continue.

"And a broken right leg. I did what I could with bandaging after dragging her here... And I realized I need to workout," he timidly confesses.

Lucy chuckles and turns towards his little brother to ruff his hair which annoys the youngest a little bit.

"You did a good job, Belphie. I'll keep an eye on her right now, go say hi to your brothers." Belphie smiles at the eldest and happily runs off.

Lucy frowns when the boy leaves the room and grabs the chair to take a seat. The atmosphere around him makes the room cold and tense, making me grow more uneasy by his presence with every passing second. I couldn't meet his piercing eyes when they stare at me like they are burning into my body.

"What happened to you?"

The atmosphere melts away instant by his soft voice, carrying a level of concern towards me.

I gather my strength to speak, "I... was in my friend's house, waiting for them to come back from whatever they were doing. While I was waiting, a group of... people broke in and attacked me. I hid in a closet before they came in, but they still found me."

I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt at replaying the events.

"The last thing I remembered before I passed out was falling through something and landing on grass, somewhere in a forest."

"What did the people look like?"

"... I don't know, it happened so fast I can't remember. I... only remember the colors yellow, orange, and maybe blue. It could be possible they were wearing masks, but my memories escapes me on their appearance," I honestly told.

He holds his chin in thought at this information. "And who is your friend?"

I choose my words carefully. "DD. Dark skin, reddish hair, energy of a golden retriever."

"A golden retriever?"

That's not a thing yet.

"His words, not mine."

He bites his lip to scroll through the list of angels in his head and stands up, requesting I get more rest, then helps me lie down and pull the blanket over me. He tells me to not worry for his home is safe and will speak with Michael about what happened and punish the individuals who did this.

"Dinner will be ready soon." He brushes my hair out of my face.

".. Thank you," I whisper.

He smiles and faces away to exit the room and close the door, but not shut it. I glances around the room to take in the sight of my surroundings: a small bookcase on the other side of the room, a chest at the end of the bed, two windows on the wall the bed is against, and the nightstand. A small but comfortable room for an unexpected guest.

I lie my head on the pillow and wonder how everything in the Demon Lord's Castle is. Did the others come back in time and punished my attackers? Were they too late? Are they currently hunting the group down while looking for me? How will they find me?

I sigh and roll over, hissing once more and closing my eyes to sleep.

Sometime later, the door creaks open and reveals Lucy again with a plate of food and a new glass of water. I peek over at him to hear him apologize for waking me and hands me the plate, then glass.

I eagerly drink the water and catch his eyes staring at me, turning my gaze towards him and him quickly looking away.

"... Is there something on your mind?" I question.

"Yes, I informed Michael of what happened and he wishes to speak to you in the morning." A spark of anxiety lights. "The youngest of my family will be your caregiver for the time being."

He looks towards the door and three teenagers enter the room. My eyes immediately falls on the lilac hair.

"You already met Belphie." The boy smiles. "This is Beel-" Lucy points to the orange haired boy- "and Lily." He points to my very great grandmother.

Dark skin, long curly hair, black eyes with yellow. It feels unreal to look at this girl, to know what will happen to her and the fact I'm her descendant.

Lily is the first one of the three to approach me and speak, "hi, Sandy. Belphie told me what happened. I'm the one who's going to help you the most because I don't think you want one of them to help you use the bathroom."

"Lily! You didn't need to be blunt." Lucy sighs heavily. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay. Uh, Lily, could you walk me to the bathroom after I'm done eating?"

"Of course!" She has a strong energy radiating off of her.

Lucy places a hand on his sister's shoulder and warns me about his other brothers probably coming in to bother me. I respond I don't mind and would rather have something to fill the silent in the room. He doesn't look pleased at my answer.

He turns to push the twins out which they both complain and demand why Lily gets to stay as she sits in the chair beside the bed. Lucy repeats what I said and my lack of need for them right now.

Lily chuckles at the three and asks if I want to hear about the rest of the family. I nod, taking a bite of the steak they gave me. She starts on explaining Belphie and Beel, how they were created together, the difference they share and similarities as well.

Then she speaks about Asmo and his love for pretty things, Levi and his tall stacks of novels, Mams and shiny things, and lastly Lucy who works the hardest out of all of them. A feeling of sadness comes over at me at realizing Satan doesn't exist and won't hear her talking about him unlike his brothers.

Lily takes the empty plate from my hands and helps me get up from the bed. I hiss and fight to stand properly. Everything hurts. She leans me more over her to carry most of the weight and walks me to the bathroom.

A wide hallway greets me, doors with a piece paper on each one, names written upon it to indicate who owns that room. My attention couldn't focus clearly what is in the hallway, getting glimpses of outlines of words or images.

Lily stops and carefully turns us to face a door without a paper, asking me to twist the knob and kick it open for us to enter. I request she bring me over to the counter where I grab the sink and shift my weight to the countertop, hissing once more.

"I can take care of the rest, could you wait outside?" I request.

"Okay, yell if you need anything, I'll come running." She chuckles at her little joke.

The door shuts behind her, leaving me alone in the large bathroom. I take a quick look at the space, seeing a basic bathroom despite the time period I'm in. Maybe the Celestial Realm is ahead of the human world in technology and home improvement.

I do my business with the pain making it almost impossible. I wash my hands and gaze up at the mirror to my damaged face. My fingers brush against the bruise around my throat, causing me to tremble as the memories of what happened replayed in my head. I try to shake my senses back to focus on the main task.

I need to return home before the timeline can be altered.

I limp to the door and open it to see Lily leaning against the wall and watch her eyes become sad when they fall upon me.

"Please, don't give me sad eyes, Lily." She jumps at my comment and apologizes.

She places my arm over her shoulder and takes me back to the guest room. I carefully lie down and shift around to get comfortable. She asks if I need anything and I respond no.

She scratches her chin with her bottom lip pursed in thought, then asks if I want to see her drawings. I smile and nod. Her eyes light up and excitedly dashes out of the room to hers, making me chuckle. I look towards the curtains and notice the light is still bright, not seeming it has changed at all.

Then something Luke told me in the Devildom about the eternal light in the Celestial Realm comes to mind.

Then it will never be night time here? Crap.

Lily comes back with a sketchbook in hand and quickly opens it to the first page. Many of the drawings are pictures of her brothers and herself, typical drawings for a teenager. She points to one page with a blonde woman standing with what seemed to be her brothers.

"This is the end of the hurtful world and the start of the healing." She stares at the picture with a pain but accepting expression.

My stomach twists at the drawing and her expression, questioning if she knew-

"Lily!" A voice cuts through my thoughts and enters the room.

A younger Levi pops in, dressed like a soldier coming back from a official meeting. His eyes have a distrust and meanness behind them when he gaze down at me and quickly hides it away.

I see how it is.

"Asmo is stealing your cookies."

"What?!" She jumps up and dashes out while shouting, "Asmo! Keep your hands off my stuff!"

I laugh at the heated anger from the adorable sister. However, my laugher dies at the intense glaring from the blue haired man.

"What? Do you think I faked my injured or something?"

My question startles him, not expecting me to speak. The expression he carries as he rubs the back of the head and apologizes.

"Uh, no, it's not like that. I'm still in work mode, I'm sorry for making you think I distrust you.'

He acts embarrassed, but I'm not stupid, he's very on-guard around me.

"So, what's your work?"

"What?"

"Your role or job for the Celestial Realm, unless you're still studying, then what are you studying?"

Crap, I need to think of something.

"I'm studying to be a painter, but I'm struggling to master it at the moment."

"Who's your mentor?"

I understand it's your job to weed out people that have evil intentions, but come on, I have a broken leg and pretty bad bruises.

"Agnes."

"Hm." He narrows his eyes. "I don't know any Agnes who are-"

"I'm back!" Lily busts into the room at the right time. "Sandy, I brought you a cookie."

She hands me a cookie and I take it with a thanks.

"Hey, how come she gets one of your cookies?" Levi pouts like a spoiled child.

"Because only girls can have my cookies."

I take a bite and taste dry fruit inside. It has a... interesting flavor. She asks how it is and I of course lie to not hurt the girl's feelings. She grins proudly before taking her seat and continues showing me the drawings.

Levi just stares at me which makes me uncomfortable under his glare. Luckily, Lily notices the discomfort and she tells her brother for making me scared. He shields himself against her punches and turns his attention back on me.

"Who attacked you?" I grip the covers tightly in my hands.

"... I don't know, I explained to your eldest brother I couldn't remember their faces because how fast it happened. Sorry."

Lily immediately tells me to not apologize. However, the brother behind her hardens his face.

"Do you know if they were angels?"

That question has Lily and I tilt our heads at him.

"Look at the state she's in, you think angels did this, Lily?"

She shrinks down at the question and inquires what he meant.

"Demons. Could demons snuck in and attacked a fellow angel?"

Anxiety clenches at my chest as she grows scared at the possibility. I know I have to diffuse the situation.

"Hold on-" I grab their attention- "I highly doubt I was attacked by demons. There was no sign of demonic energy on or around me, but also why would they make their presence known by attacking a random angel? They would plan and aim for those in higher power."

"Yeah!" Lily shouts. "So don't scare me like that, Levi!"

He raises his hands and admits defeat, backing out of the room. She huffs and turns back to me.

"Scaring us like that, Lucy would know if you were attacked by demons or not by just looking at you."

I bite my lip. "By looking at me?"

"Yeah, he's so powerful he could tell by your injuries or the energy coming off of you."

She flips through the pages and stops on one that holds a memory, but I couldn't force on her words, I need to leave this place before I'm found out.

[myonepiece]

Hello 😳 so I saw your post about Kyoshiro and Bartolomeo with a clingy short fem!S/O who's also a scary cat, and let me tell you, that post AWAKENED something inside of me 🤤💞 so I would like to request a King, Sanji, and Mihawk with clingy short fem!S/O who's also a scary cat if your request are still opened that is 😚👉👈 thank you in advance, and you can ignore this request if you want. I hope you have a good day or night luv 😚💗

King, Sanji with a clingy short fem!S/O who’s a scaredy cat

King x Reader,   Sanji x Reader

Description: King & Sanji (seperate) with a short fem!S/O who is clingy and gets scared easily + oneshot/drabble with her getting scared and hiding behind character

Warnings: very mild implied sexual harrassment (in King’s oneshot), mild cursing

A/N: I’m so glad you liked it, it was so fun to write! 💐 (I love how you used so many emojis in your request) and I hope it’s okay I only did sanji and king, it’s just that this situation ends up fairly long 💕

*for King let’s say you’re around his height, the top of your head is a little above his waist 

King is definitely not the most affectionate person, he’s not a fan of PDA other than having you sit on his lap. if you get too physically affectionate (which is very) then King will warn you in a stern voice to stop, and if you don’t then he’ll move you away or simply place you on the ground and push you away

in private he’s more okay with you being clingy, still not the fondest though

he has nothing against your height, he (secretly) finds it adorable and he likes to watch you walk around the Beast Pirates crew because he finds it amusing to see the height differences between you and everyone else, your height is another reason he prefers having you stay on his lap often or at least have you right next to him- he’s worried someone (Kaido) will step on you

he also likes the way your hand looks on him, whether it’s resting on his arm, his chest, or his own hand, he always stares at the interaction and admires how precious and sweet you look

he sometimes finds your cowardness irritating, but even as he scolds you or strictly teases you for being scared so easily, he’s happy that you come to him to feel safe- honestly he never thought someone would feel safe with him nor did he want someone to until he met you

and after he scolds you he always pushes you away or behind him so he can handle whoever messed with his angel (usually it’s Queen, he likes messing with King and one of the most effective ways to do that is to mess with you) he also uses his wings as somewhat of a shield for you, providing cover usually 

+ oneshot

You tentatively walked through the dimly lit hall in the Beast Pirates base, the cold stone chilling the air around you and creating a slight echo of the patter of your shoes.

keeping your eyes trained on the ground while a few lesser crew members passed you, you followed the little cracks in the stone, branching out and creating intricate patterns- your eyes fell upon a pair of shoes and you froze midstep, looking up and perceiving Queen staring down at you, an unsettling smirk contorting his face

you smiled slightly up at him, trying to step around him and continue only to be stopped by his hand reaching out and tilting your head to look at him, the touch seding shivers down your spine, the bad kind of shivers

it wasn’t unusual for Queen to mess with you, enjoying your disturbed and fearful reactions as the sadistic man he is, and the reaction he gets from King is pure gold to him- he enjoys making King get protective so he can tease him for being so smitten

“______, how bout you come with me! some of the crew are going to sumo wrestle! come see their heads pop off!”

Queen laughed at your unsettled expression before leaning down a bit and blowing smoke out into your face,

“or maybe I should snap the collar on you an’ throw you into the ring”

you gasped, causing Queen to chortle in amusement- you took the moment of his distraction to move away from his touch and scurry off down the hall, hearing Queen call after you in a mocking tone and follow in pursuit

you hurried through the halls and spotted King at the end in the large room at the end, he stood at the table conversing with Jack, though clearly uninterested with the subject

you picked up your pace and your heels clicked against the ground alerting King, who knew you are the only one who wears shoes that make that sound. he turned to the entrance happy to have something to do other than play with Jack, but he didn’t like the worried expression on your face- nor Queen rounding the corner after you having all too familar mischievous expression on his lips. 

scurrying into the room, you ran over to King and hid behind his large wings. his glare never left Queen as the large man entered the room and moved towards where you stood huddled against King’s wings, stopping in front of the armored man and taking a long drag on his cigar. 

“what are you doing you moron”

Queen laughed at King’s protectiveness already showing, finding amusement in his crewmember’s smittenesque.

“I was inviting her to play a game you jackass!”

he laughed heartily at King’s insulted and angry expression. your boyfriend took a step forward, now only a few feet away from Queen- the atmosphere in the room grew tense and Jack was watching with wary eyes matching yours as you watched the two calamities square up, both ready to strike if it came to it. but King is observant, he saw that Queen had no intention of hurting him, he simply wanted to scare you and get a rise out of him.

he scoffed and turned begrudgingly back to you, moving to take a seat at the table and lifting you onto his lap with ease. you settled against his steel covered chest, still slightly shaking from Queen’s scare- King’s eyes narrowed at Queen when he chuckled again and sat in the chair between King and Jack, throwing a wink in your direction. King visibly flinched and his behind left the chair momentarily before returning, remembering that’s what Queen wanted- and you were safe on his lap. 

Sanji is super clingy himself, he has no problem at all with your affection and neediness. he’s always more than happy to hug you or cuddle you or kiss you, it’s one of his favorite things to do- he’s constantly asking himself how he got so lucky to have a girl like you

one of the things Sanji finds most adorable about you is your height, no matter what you do Sanji thinks you’re the cutest thing ever, he’s always offering to carry you, he always pulls you onto his lap- back hugs are another one of his favorite things because your body is so much smaller than his own and he thinks it’s adorable how perfectly you fit in his embrace, and don’t even get him started on how cute your hands look holding onto his hand

your slight cowardness gives him an excuse to hold you even more, he offers his hand or arm for you to hold, and whenever you grab onto him he has to fight back the squeals and focus on the problem at hand, making sure you feel safe and are completely out of harm’s way

+ oneshot 

the island you docked at had a quaint little town, small but bustling with life- you had gone to look at a store for some new clothes. unfortunately you couldn’t find anything and you had to head back to the ship empty handed. to make things even worse, while you were watching the ground you bumped into someone, who happened to be much bigger than you and piss drunk. 

“oi! what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stuttering out an apology that only seemed to make the man madder. 

“you need to fucking watch where you’re... you’re going”

he swayed on his feet and leaned down so that he was face level with you, pointing an accusing finger in your face and once again his alcohol filled breath invaded your senses.

“you-you have no idea who you’re dealing with”

his words slurred together and his unbalance caused him to lean forward slightly and you took a step back- all of a sudden you heard a familiar voice over the crowd’s chatter.

“______-swaaaan!!”

you looked to the side and spotted the relieving blond hair bouncing through the crowd while your boyfriend quickly weaved his way through the crowd towards you. stopping beside you and throwing his hands wielding shopping bags into the air.

“I got you gifts my beautiful  _____-swan!” 

this is when he noticed the man far too close for his liking, his face fell with his arms, turning to one of suspicion and confusion, then to one of disgust and slight anger. he handed you the bags gently and stepped in front of the man, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“why are you bothering my little _____-swan?”

his voice was tight and you could tell he was mad, but the strager didn’t seem to pick up on the danger in his drunkness. you reached up and clutched the bottom of Sanji’s jacket in your hand, he felt the action rigth away and his anger dissipated and his face broke into a huge grin. he spun on his heel and threw his arms around your waist, picking you up and smushing his cheek against yours while he rambled about how adorable you are- his perfect moment ruined by the stranger’s words.

“she ran into me you bastard, make her *hiccup* apologize before I do”

“oi, don’t ignore me!”

Sanji’s smile faltered slightly and he lifted his foot, spinning quickly and kicking the man with such force that it sent him flying away through the wall of the shop behind. 

“I’m trying to hug my angel! don’t interupt you idiot!”

“_____-swan I’m so sorry you had to see that~!”

you giggled at Sanji’s foolishness, leaning you head down to peck his nose- making his cheeks turn an even brighter red and he squealed. 

“ooh we need to get back to the ship so you can try on the clothes I got for you my dear!”

he placed his arm under you, switching to holding you in a bridal style, and he pranced off down the street towards the awaiting ship- his face still dangerously flushed and his eyes closed in joy.

[twinklelilstarkey]

Kicked Out - Rafe Cameron

Words: 1.8k+

Type: Angst

Summary: Rafe is kicked out of the house by Ward and runs to you when it happens.

Warnings: Being kicked out. And a whole lot of crying. This is so depressing, jeez louise.

DO NOT REPOST, REWRITE OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORK!

(You can imagine this with canon Rafe, since it’s based of a scene from the show. But that literally doesn’t change a thing to the story, so... do what you’d like)

Credits

Tears are already dry on Rafe’s face. They’ve stopped running down his cheeks as he was able to walk his way out of the Cut. And now, he’s just a few steps away from his home.

Or at least what he used to call home.

His phone is already low on battery, but from the times he checked it, it has been almost an hour since his dad left him with Barry.

The muscles of his legs are aching as he continues to walk his way to the front door. The front door and front garden are illuminated by the automatic yellow lights, which almost seem blinding his sensitive eyes.

He unlocks the front door with his key slowly to try and keep the house with its natural silence.

He steps in, head pounding under his fingertips once he brings them to his temples.

And all he can feel is pure exhaustion.

Passing through the lobby of the house was easy, his shoes didn’t make any loud noise to catch anyone’s attention and he didn’t knock anything over. But that invisibility to his family only lasted until he walked past the living room.

“Rafe?” Wheezie says over the sound of the TV, still sitting next to her mom.

“Shit” He whispers to himself.

He ignores his stepsister’s voice and forces his legs to move towards the stairs and up to his room.

The small girl, with the absence of his answer, gets up from the couch and walks towards the door. But as she got there, Rafe has already made his way up the stairs.

She follows him, without a care in the world, only trying to make simple conversation. But as soon as her eyes land on him, she frowns. He looked tense and seemed as if he was careful to even step into the floor of his own home.

He opens the door of his room and sighs, taking in the last looks before he has to leave.

Wheezie, equally as careful with her steps, walks to his wide-open door and is surprised to see him grab a duffel bag and a backpack from the last drawer of the wardrobe.

“Are you going camping or something?” She finally talks.

Rafe looks up quickly, alert by the loud sound of his sister’s voice, and the girl scowls at his face.

Eyes swollen and red and cheeks flushed. Which could mean many things. But his sniffles were the last clue.

“Have you been cri-” She starts but a voice stops her.

“Wheezie what are you doing in Ra- What are you doing here?” Ward asks as he peeks inside the room and sees the son he just kicked out.

“I- Uhm... I-I’m packing” Rafe answers, careful with his words.

Ward studies his son with a rigid look on his face and clenches his jaw.

“Make it quick”

“Yes, sir” He answers, looking back down to his bags.

Rafe, right there and then, turned to his wardrobe and grabbed everything he could see, shoving it into the bags.

“What is going on?” Wheezie asks her brother loudly as he runs through the room, trying to find everything he might need.

“I got kicked out”

Rafe sniffles again and opens one more drawer, grabbing all the socks and underwear he could see.

The silence fills the room once more, and this time it’s heavy and dense. Almost making it hard to breathe.

Wheezie stands in the doorway, holding her own sweaty hands while watching Rafe pack up all of his belongings in silence, not knowing what to say or ask.

Rafe grabs his charger from his desk and shoves it in the already full bag. He stands straight quickly and pulls his phone out of his pocket, 2%.

He quickly unlocks it and scrolls through his contacts, clicking on your name. He stares down at the contact picture before bringing it to his ear, as wave of warmth and comfort washes over him as he stares at you.

His eyes fill up in tears and he stares up at the wall, bringing the phone up to his ear, listening to the ringing and waiting for you to pick up.

Voice mail.

“Fuck” He whispers to himself.

He can always sleep over at Topper’s but that doesn’t seem... right.

He turns back to his bags once more and closes them, throwing both over his shoulder as he checks around the room to see if he forgot anything.

“Where are you going to stay?” Wheezie asks, making the boy look down at her again.

“I don’t know yet” He answers, voice cracking slightly at the end.

Rafe clears his throat as to act as if it wasn’t what it sounded like and Wheezie’s eyes fill with tears at the sound of it. Rafe looks away, biting his lip as a way to fight the wave of emotions that’s coming his way, and walks towards the doorway, closer to her.

“Will you visit?” She asks.

Her voice is low, almost a whisper. Almost sounding as if she’s scared of what words to use. But filled with sadness and shaking at every syllable.

“I don’t think I can” He replies, voice as shaky.

Wheezie, with that, wraps her arms around Rafe and hugs his torso. A sob escapes her mouth and Rafe looks away from her again, not wanting to break down once more.

(...)

You’re deep into your sleep at around midnight, notifications off your phone and random episodes of a random reality show play as background noise.

You’ve had a rough week with college, but you’re finally done with your tests. You only have to worry about projects now.

A light knock on your door awakes you and you stare at the darkness of your dorm in confusion. Who in their right mind is knocking at your door at 3am?

You try and ignore it, hoping that it’s just a drunk college student, trying to find his room while intoxicated.

But the person doesn’t give up.

You sigh loudly while throwing your covers off you, letting the cold air touch your warm skin. You shiver slightly as you put on the hoodie that rests at the end of your bed but it’s warmth quickly calms you down.

You walk towards the door, trying your best to not trip over anything on the dark room, and open it.

“Rafe?” You ask in a whisper.

You cringe at the strong lighting of the hallways and your boyfriend stares down at you. You turn on the light beside you and you frown at him.

“What’s wrong?”

Rafe visits you every weekend, so seeing him at your door at a Friday night is not too rare. But he’s never this late.

Or with bags this full.

“Can I come in?” He asks, low tone.

You nod and open the door widely so he can walk in comfortably.

The warmth of the room welcomes Rafe as soon as he steps in, and he puts down both of his bags beside the door.

You grab his hand, not only to get a hold of him but also to get his attention, and he looks away from the floor to look at you.

“Is everything okay?” You ask with the sweetest tone you could pull off.

Rafe lifts his gaze somewhere else at your question, not wanting to continue eye contact. He just shakes his head as a ‘no’, as emotions overflow him and make his chin shake.

You pull his hand towards your hip and quickly wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. Rafe does the same, wrapping his arms around you as he lays his head on top of yours.

He doesn’t want to cry in front of you, but it’s getting harder and harder as he holds it in.

“You can tell me anything” You whisper into his chest, voice muffled by his shirt, “You know that”

“I know” He says, this time louder, but shakier.

You lift your head up to look at him and the sight just breaks your heart into an uncountable amount of pieces.

“Let’s sit” You tell him as a way to try and make him feel more comfortable.

He nods and let’s go of you for that minute, slowly. You grab his hand again and pull him to sit next to you on the bed. You sit quietly looking at him as his hand grabs onto yours tightly.

“Dad kicked me out” He whispers while looking at the ground, not wanting to see your reaction.

“What?” You ask shocked, “why?”

“I fucked up” He replies, shrugging his shoulders, “Like always” he adds.

With that you let go of his hand and cup his face. His warm hand now sits on your cold leg as you force him to look at you.

Tears have escaped Rafe’s eyes as he stared into the ground, and when staring at you, it only made it worse.

“Bubba, I-”

“I fucked up really bad” He emphasizes.

You clean his tears with your thumbs and he stares at you silently.

“Do you have a place to stay?” You ask him and he shakes his head.

Rafe looks away again, blinking his new tears away as he pretends to look out of the window. Your hands now resting at his jaw and back of his head, caressing him.

“You can stay here, with me” You offer, “I don’t share this dorm with anyone... And they almost never check who is sleeping on each dorm, anyways”

He stares back at you and clenches his jaw.

“Can I?” He asks, “It will be temporary, I- I promise”

“Of course, you can. As long as you need”

Rafe gives you a small broken smile and wraps his arms around you again, pulling you towards his side in a hug. You wrap your arms around his neck and give in to the tight hug. One of your hands rests over his hair and you play with it slowly, as a way to comfort him.

You two stay like this for a bit, just until you need to go lock your dorm room door again and turn off the lights.

Rafe lays with you as you come back to bed, and after you offered to give him more blankets or even more comfortable clothes (previously stolen a few months back from his room).

You lay over his chest, letting him play with the ends of your hair as always as you watched whatever is on the screen of your laptop.

You fell asleep almost an hour later of cuddling and laying in the silence.

But Rafe didn’t. The first minutes of you being asleep were calm and quiet. Almost made it seem like he was back to his past reality.

But he didn’t blink an eye the whole night. Because that’s his true reality now. He’s not ready to walk alone for the rest of his life. Even with you. He’s not ready for anything.

Nobody prepared him for this, especially his own dad. And he’s scared of it. Maybe even terrified of what’s to come.

And there’s nothing he can do but let it happen. And that terrifies him.

- - - - - - -

Why do I only write angst? Is this too depressing? I’m so sorry.

My requests for Rafe are still open! You can request anything (except for smut)!

[Ask Box]

[starfirette]

Ok but Helena Bertinelli x fem!reader where Helena takes all her pent up anger out on reader thru sex and she just tops the FUCK out of R and it’s super hot and R lowkey loves when Helena gets angry when it leads to steamy sex👀 oof I need a MINUUUTE😫

a/n: this is very smutty. it is more emotionally angry, and y/n more takes her anger out on helena, BUT i think it's good. .......i think?? | 18+

masterlist | more helena | inbox | ships + requests open

Every single piece of furniture was toppled over.

The fine china that you’d once had shelved on display littered the floor in ground little pieces.

It was a shocking scene to say the least, especially when you were expecting to walk through the door and take an instant nap.

After being in Moscow for the week, both you and Helena had been looking forward to coming back to the shared Alaska home high up in the mountains.

As you stared around in a state of shock, Helena pulled you by the waist. It was as though she wanted to shield you from the destruction that laid before your eyes.

You weren’t naive. At least, not too naive. You could recognize what was going on.

The last time something similar happened was three years ago. At that time, you and Helena had recently been married. It was the threats and destruction that followed Helena which caused her to leave Gotham with you in tow. Together, you traveled halfway across the across the country, in search for a haven that would protect you from Helena’s enemies.

But they’d found you. Again.

“Get your coat,” Helena instructed as she pushed you towards the foyer. 

“But-”

“Get your coat, now, Y/n,” she snapped again, not bothering to look at you. 

You felt oddly embarrassed by the way your wife had spoken to you. You mustered a submissive nod as you hurried to pull on the coat you’d just taken off.

Helena’s angry, Italian cursing bounced off the walls as she turned through the house, her shoes crunching over glass. She spoke with someone in the phone. Her words were fast and icy. She rarely spoke in Italian, but you’d been with her long enough to learn some of the lingo.  She spoke about a safe house and about a rabbit--

Maybe rabbit wasn’t the right word. 

But you’re positive it’s something about a safehouse. 

You waited in the foyer, shivering in the heavy coat you wore despite the warmth it was generating. 

Helena came rushing to you after her phone conversation ended. “We’re getting back in the car,” she instructed you, using her hands to physically turn you back to face the door. 

“Wait, what’s going on?” you asked, feeling dumb as she snatched a random sweater from the coat closet. 

“We’ve been found, so we’re leaving,” Helena said again, slowing her words as if she was trying to dumb it down for you. She put her arm around your waist, ushering you out of the house and carefully down the snowy pathway that led to your driveway. The fresh powdered snow had two sets of footprints, your own and Helena’s. You didn’t see any others, nothing that would have alerted you to thinking someone had broken in. 

Your face burned with warmth as Helena buckle you into the passenger seat. You don’t like being babied by her. You were tempted to bitch about the way she was treating you, but you knew better. At least, right now. You try to remember she’s in a panic, and she’s running on auto pilot. 

The car raced down the long driveway that wrapped in a spiral down the mini mountain. 

Your heart thumped in your throat as she sped away from the house. You clutched into your seatbelt, letting it dig into your palms. “Slow down,” you finally blurted out.

Helena grunted in response. Her foot reluctantly pumped the break.  

You know she doesn’t like to be told to slow down, or to relax, or to be safe. Even so, Helena knows you don’t like when she drives to fast, or goes into a rage, or puts her safety on the line. 

The drive was silent as she expertly navigated some snowy backroads. You wanted to talk to her, maybe even distract her from whatever was boiling in her brain. She didn’t explain what was happening. You were left to your own devices. You could only assume she was taking you to one of her safe checkpoints in Cordova. That had been ingrained into to your mind; Cordova is safe. If anything happens, go to Cordova and call someone, whether it be Harley or one of Helena’s contacts in Italy.

You slumped down your seat, shifting all of your body to lean against your door, your head against the window. "I love you," you muttered.

Helena didn't say anything.

The underground house in Cordova spans 500 square feet. It's nothing fancy. It's more of a basic studio flat than a house, really, with a very well structured lay out. The kitchen consisted of a two burner stove and an old fashioned ice box. On that same note, the given bedroom was really just a queen size mattress on the floor, shoved in a corner against the north eastern wall. It had a pile of new pillows, still wrapped in their Macy's store liners.

You dropped your coat on the little coffee table in the dead center of the room. It faced an outdated, but thorough, television set, with a boxy TV and VHS player. Stacks of worn VHS tapes and magazines were laced neatly on the little coffee table, alongside the clunky television remote.

A single door was on the western wall, and you assumed it led to the bathroom.

You pried off your shoes as Helena closed the heavy vault door, turning all of the metal spires so the locks clicked, leaving only you and her within the room.

It was a heavy silence for a couple minutes. Helena didn't do anything but stand, staring intensely at the vaulted door, as if it was responsible for destroying your mountain top mansion.

You curled into the bed. The quilts had the consistency of hotel blankets, thin and flimsy, allowing all the cold air to pass through the threads.

The side of the bed sank when Helena sat down, her long legs bent at the knees awkwardly. Her hand placed softly on your back, which was huddled in the corner of the bed, pulled over with the quilts.

"Are you okay?" Helena asked. Her voice was hard. She sounded as if she were in a great deal of pain.

You rolled over. You faced your own wall, turning your back on her. When you did not answer, Helena asked again. "Don't ignore me," she snapped.

You jerked upright.

Helena looked momentarily surprised, as if she'd watched a corpse rise from his grave. You stared at her with wide, angry eyes.

"Don’t even start,” you snapped, holding up a finger to stop whatever words Helena was about to start blabbering out.

"You're not allowed to speak to me any way you want, any time you want," you added with a jab of your finger. You scrambled to leave the bed, tripping over the bedding as you clumsily plunged out of her reach.

"I understand that you're stressed," you said, trying to control the volume at which you spoke. "But you always take it out on me. You always make me feel like the world's going to end."

Helena pinched her nose, bending so her elbows rested on her knees. She looked stressed, just so stressed, just about as stressed as you were feeling, but maybe less angry and shaky. "This is serious, Y/n," she said slowly, as if she didn't think you would have understood her otherwise.

"Even so, we have to keep our wits about us. We have to keep our relationship steady, otherwise we're just going to fall apart and fail. This relationship will not last. It will not last. We are always going to be chased by these troubles, by your enemies. I think I could handle it if we didn't get into massive fucking fights every time it happened. It feels like I'm a kid again, watching my parents go back and forth, staying together 'for us kids', when it's pretty clear that divorce would just be better for all of us."

Helena by now had released her face. She had a blank expression as she stared at you.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

You couldn't muster much energy, so you shrugged and collapsed on the little sofa. "I don't care anymore," you muttered. "I just want water. I want to sleep."

Helena ran to your side. She knelt at your feet, quite literally on her hands and knees for you. She braced her hands on your thighs. "How can I make it up to you?"

You stared down at her, unsure of what to say.

"I cannot lose you," she said next. "There wouldn't be a reason to have such safehouses like this if I lost you."

"I cannot handle these fights anymore. It's too much."

"What can I do?"

"I just want to sleep," you sighed. "I'd rather just...listen to the television."

Helena led you to the bed, straightening out the mess you'd made when you'd trampled out of it. You shimmied out of your pants, throwing them out so you could sleep comfortably.

"Please just talk to me," Helena begged as she laid behind you. She wrapped her arms around you tenderly, your back pressed against her chest. "I'm just tired, Helena," you sighed as you let your eyes fall shut.

Helena dragged her hand up the stomach of your shirt, her calloused palm tucking close against your belly.

"I'm tired," you whispered.

Her fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear. Her palm cupped your warmth, her lips pressing soothing kisses behind your ear.

She did not tease that night. She swept two finger tips into the opening of your hot, twitchy cunt, swiping drops of arousal and then spreading it around your clit. The lubricant beneath her fingertips made the sensation slippery and slick. You slowly gasped at the feeling. The sensation got you to slip out of your body for a split second, as if you could see the scene playing out in front of you. Your hips were grinding fast and hard into Helena's hand.

You snatched her wrist and pushed her hand down. "Inside," you snapped. "If you're really sorry, then inside."

"As you wish," Helena murmured. Her three fingers pushed up and in, stretching the velvety walls of your cunt out. You wanted to scream. Her fingers curled and reached up at the spongey spot way inside of you, like the brightest star in all the galaxy.

"Shit!" you cried. You lurched your head back, your hair scrunching up into Helena's face and nose. She didn't seem to care as she slowly pumped in and out, always making sure to press up at your starpoint.

"Never again," you cried as you gripped at Helena's forearm. You used this as an anchor point to keep you grounded while you wiggled your hips into Helena's hand. "You're never again going to treat me this way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dove, yes," Helena assured you in a soothing voice. "You're such a good bird for me," she sighed, her cool breath tickling your ear. "And you deserve good things. You deserve to cum all over my hand."

Yes, an internal voice shrieked within you. You thought another version of yourself would punch through your chest and take over, take over everything.

Your entire existence rolled up into nothing but pure light as you felt your high coming on quickly. You knew you were cumming, and Helena did too, for she used her other hand to simultaneously stimulate your clit.

The pressure released, like a balloon snapping in your belly.

You were breathing heavily as you sank into Helena's arms. You hadn't realized how tense you'd been until all of your muscles relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Dove," Helena murmured into your ear. She held you tight and close. Her natural perfume, a blend of rosewater and fresh flowers, flooded your senses. With your energy dwindling after such an exertion, you didn't have the strength to argue or complain. You laid there, silently accepting her apology. No longer were you distracted by the wanton desires for orgasm and relief. And in the same way, you were no longer consumed with bitter anger.

"Do you promise we're going to be alright?" you asked, voice cracking and hoarse.

Helena kissed your neck.

"I do."

[lonelyreputation]

Arpeggio

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

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

MASTERLIST | LET’S CHAT 🥂

Warnings: Few swear words

WC: 13.7K // Angst & Fluff

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Nothing seemed to be good enough for her.

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

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

“Did you see this interview?”

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

“How––”

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently Shawn Mendes thought so too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zilla got the credit for your art.

People told Zilla that she inspired them to write songs.

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

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

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

----

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

“How’s the album?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had songs written before––”

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

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

“What do you mean––”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Out!”

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

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

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

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

She took your songs away from you.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t Zilla in here before?”

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His question caught you off guard, “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your throat tighten up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

“But you don’t write your own songs.”

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

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

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

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

She honked her horn again, “Y/n.”

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

“Well do something––”

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shawn shook his head, “Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You definitely went to music school.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much do you charge for music lessons?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shawn?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just like?” Shawn wrinkled his nose.

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

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

“I like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was something you learned and used to your advantage.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice cracked, “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was still clueless that you wrote the album.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only all of your wishes came true.

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zilla let out a small laugh, “Oh?”

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And we’re back!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She––You write her songs?”

Oh, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head, “You lied––”

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

“How is this my fault?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shawn was gone.

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Music lesson in twenty?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’d you do it?”

Why did you do it?  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The atmosphere went back to feeling tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taglist (add / remove yourself!): @adelaidestreets, @alilovesshawn, @alina--jpeg, @fallinallincurls, @lights-on-mendes, @mendesficsxbombay, @now-that-i-saw-u, @particularnarry, @shawnmendez, @shawnsreputation, @turtoix, @vinylmendes, @5-seconds-of-mendes, @pupsandducks @musicalkeys, @madatmendes @im-salt-but-not-salty @sunkisseddreamer, @crossedties @fortheloveoftheaussies, @illuminatepotter , @par_r, @perfectlywrongsm

[fanfics-with-coffee]

The simple pleasures

Your friend had so kindly set you up on a date with Kuroo Tetsurou, her classmate. And it’s been going great! But after your third date, another friend alerts you to the fact that you may want to check out his twitter... where he advertises his onlyfans. Of course you had to see what was hidden behind the paywall. 

Genre: Smut, smut, oh and did i mention smut? Pairing: Kuroo x reader Kinks: Could probably consider this some voyeurism, mastrubation, oral (both ways), little bit of orgasm denial, little bit of choking, mastrubation instructions for females. Words: 6000

“This was your place right?” The car slowly comes to a stop in front of your house, right between two streetlights. They dimly light up the inside of his car making it easier to see him as he turns his head to look at you, one hand still on the wheel. You couldn’t help but notice the other was placed on his upper leg, leading your eyes to his obviously thick thighs. 

“Yeah, this is still the place! Thanks again, Kuroo.” You quickly look up at his face again while smiling. Even in this light you can see his bright, cat like eyes watching your every move with slight amusement. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand but you don’t want to make that apparent. You know that showing any sign of weakness would just make his teasing even worse.

He hums and nods his head, unbuckling his belt in one smooth move as he left his own car. You mimic him, climbing out from the warm car and out into the chilly evening air. Leaning back in, you grab your jacket before slamming the door closed. On the other side of the car, Kuroo is rummaging through his backseat, soon emerging with the giant cat plushie he had managed to win you earlier in the evening. You giggle while watching the grin on his face, still surprised by the comical size of the thing. Putting on your jacket while walking, you approach him and are about to take it out of his arms so you could carry it home by yourself. But before you could grab it, he moves it further away from you.

“Eh? You know, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave this guy with you…” He looks at the kitty plushie with a clearly fake sadness, hugging it closer to him. You just cross your arms over your chest and stare at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. Looking back at you, you see him melting a little. “Lemme walk you two to the door at least. So I can say goodbye to him properly.” 

As much as you had rolled your eyes at him, you happily have him follow you to the door. He radiates warmth despite having ditched his leather jacket in the car so you couldn’t help but drift closer to him. Absorbing his warmth before he could leave for today. This had been your third date with the man and each time it was over, you had missed him just a little more. This time had been especially fun since you hung out at the amusement park until just minutes before closing. The plushie had just been the cherry on top of a great day with an amazing guy.

“Well this is it.” You walk up to your door, fishing for your keys in your pocket. Before unlocking it though, you turn on your heel to face him, intending on grabbing Mr. Kitty. He comes strolling up to you, taking his sweet time and not so subtly soaking in your figure all the while. When he comes face to face with you you’re forced to tilt your head back a little so you could get a clear look at him. 

“I guess so.” He does his signature smirk while handing you the oversized plushie, watching you lean back before getting a good grip on it. With two hands now freed, he places one on your hip softly and slowly, keeping an eye on you in case you don’t accept his advances. You don’t shy away from his touch, having gotten used to his hands innocently touching your body throughout the day. What makes you surprised is when he brings his other hand up to cup your cheek. You feel yourself do a sharp inhale, staring into his half lidded eyes. But as he leans in, you do the same, closing your eyes.

The kiss is soft and lasts only a second before he pulls away again. Though it was quick, your whole belly was filled with butterflies fluttering around like crazy. You don’t realize you’re giving him big doe eyes until he has to cover his mouth with the side of his fist to contain a laugh. That’s when you snap out of your awed daze and lightly slap his chest.

“Sorry, sorry. You just looked so cute like that.” He has a shit eating grin while he speaks but does take a small step away from you. “I’ll text you later though so don’t ignore me. Oh and I’ll miss you.” You’re about to start blushing again at his last words until he softly grabs the back of your plushies head and kisses it's forehead. You let out an offended gasp until he laughs and does the same action to you. 

“There we go. Now you can leave.” You give him a teasing grin and he just softly shakes his head, turning to leave you. But not before he gives you a small wave, placing his other hand in his pocket. You watch him walk towards his black car, his silhouette lit up by the car's lights when he unlocks it. Even from this distance you can hear his cheery whistling. Satisfied, you turn around and finally unlock your door.

As soon as your foot hits the floor inside your home, you feel your shoulders relax and you let out a breath. As if in a trance you take off your shoes and jacket, throwing your handbag to the hallway floor with no need for it anymore. Carrying your new plushie with you, you move into your living room and throw it on the couch, your own body following soon after in the darkness. 

You cuddle up to your new found friend, his size perfect to lean on. And having been carried around by Kuroo since he won it, his scent had been rubbed off onto it. That simple fact made you smile like an idiot. You reminded yourself that you had your friend to thank for this since she had been the one to set you two up the first time. So while you move to pull up your phone, you took the time to light one of the floor lamps next to the couch and turn on the TV to fill the silence in the room. And then you sitt there, phone in hand, ready to tell your closest friends about the day you had just had.

You can barely believe your eyes as you read through the screenshot. While you had seen people sharing their onlyfans link you didn’t think anyone you knew would have one. But you shouldn’t judge it too quickly, you knew onlyfans advertised to a wide variety of people, one of them being professional trainers. Kuroo talked about his love for training… so maybe?

Now that your curiosity has been piqued you couldn’t just let it go. Sitting up properly, you type the link into your phone. Onlyfans.com/… domkuroo… That training theory didn’t sound as likely anymore. But you continue, met with the login screen. You go ahead and download the app and create your account, heart in your throat. You only pause when his subscription page popped up, your whole face lighting up by your bright screen.

$15 per month.

It wasn’t a meekly sum but was it worth it to realize what was going? Of course it was. 

Minutes later you’re allowed onto his page and you can physically feel the blood rush to your face. He certainly wasn’t a professional trainer even though you can clearly see he got the body of one. Your eyes are drawn to his profile picture even though it lacks his face. A slanted shot with just his abdomen shown thanks to him raising his black t-shirt. You can see a hint of a grin peeking out from the edge of the picture. Simple but effective. His banner was in similar spirit, three pictures of him shirtless next to each other. Two from the front and one showing off his defined back muscles, all of them with teasing or joking facial expressions. Your eyes were roaming over his pictures, eyes wide open. Three dates and you hadn’t even seen a peek of these swatches of skin but now you kinda felt like you couldn’t wait for it. 

Your phone had already buzzed a couple times, your friends messages popping up as notifications above your screen but you don’t pay them any mind. Already too absorbed in the new found treasure chest of content from one of the hottest men you’ve ever met.

Shifting in your seat, you use a shaky finger to scroll down to the first post. The content was similar to the first pictures you’d seen. Him, shirtless, in what looks to be his bathroom mirror, doing a peace sign and sticking out his tongue. The caption simply read “Don’t wanna go to class tomorrow but alas. But you guys can have a little something before I go to bed early”. Cute…

The small smile that adorns your face fell quickly when you scrolled onto the next post. Another picture but this time he wasn’t using it to show off his abs. Instead you came face to face with his bulge as it pushed against his pants, the same pants he had worn just earlier today. He used his hand to accentuate it, letting it tent between his fingers. You couldn’t help but stare, not just at the bulge but his hands. You had never gotten such a good look at them before, the long fingers with their prominent knuckles and the veins which softly protruded from his skin. You remember how they had felt against your cheek but now you imagined how they’d feel dragging across other parts of your skin. How his softly calloused hand would feel gripping your thigh, slowly and gently dragging further up and inwards… How they’d push down on your hips while his damned teasing tongue was put to better wor—

You caught your own mind wandering and how you had unconsciously pressed your thighs together in anticipation which would ultimately lead nowhere. You lick your dry lips and take a deep breath before looking at the caption. 

“Hate when this happens, any cute kitten willing to help out?” 

It was aloof, casual even. It was infuriating in the best way. You could see the amount of people who had left comments and just shook your head. You had been afraid you’d get discouraged by the whole thing, the thought of Kuroo sharing more than just… his face… had you worried. But now you just felt a sense of pride welling up in you. The way he treats you was much more intimate so there was no doubt in your mind that this little side business wouldn’t have an impact on your romantic relationship. But that also meant that you don’t have a problem enjoying this side of him as well. 

With this newfound confidence you scroll down even further, the sound of the tv just a white noise by now. It was a new format on your screen, a video. It was like a new step, a new hurdle to cross. But unlike earlier, you aren’t as hesitant. Throwing your phone on your couch, face up as you scramble to find a pair of headphones. Luckily it was just to reach over to your table, a pair of flimsy earphones haphazardly laid there. Plugging them in and putting them on, you sit down on your couch again, pulling your plushie closer as you pressed the play button, your teeth chewing softly on your lower lip.

Immersed in the video, you first heard Kuroo’s soft breathing against your ears. The camera was clumsily adjusted until his whole face was in view and he smiled, seemingly looking so it recorded properly. When he had assured himself of that, he laughed quietly and posed, letting his tongue slip past two fingers in a suggestive manner, giving the camera a wink. Your cheeks heat up again at his teasing mannerisms. 

The camera shook a little and suddenly the view switch and you almost gasp. You should’ve suspected it yet when you were face to face with his cock, it still surprised you. In the background you could see glimpses of his laptop, set up with a paused video of it of what must’ve helped him get ready. But you don’t really pay it any mind, much more focused on the center of the screen. His dick was lean and rather big, that’s your guess anyways, based on what could be seen. A vein or two decorated the shaft and a neat tuft of hair was at its base. His hand finally appeared, wasting no time in grasping his own dick. And as his thumb swiped over the tip he let out a shuddering sigh which made you tense up. 

“I remember how much you cuties liked that last video… So I’ll try to remember to talk more.” His voice filled your ears, a light growl in his voice thanks to how quietly he was speaking. “Since my voice obviously made you so horny.” It went down another octave when he spoke this time and he spoke even closer to the mic. He started to get into it, slowly jerking himself off with a steady hand. You couldn’t possibly break away from watching him now, you were too invested at this point. Your own hand had even moved down your bare thigh.

“Hah… Now if you’re gonna jerk someone off like this… Start slow. No— mgh… No stress.” —he moved his thumb over the head, you could clearly hear his voice catch in his throat— “but when you’re alone like this, it’s hard not to get impatient.” The chuckle he had started with unraveled into a throaty groan as he started to speed up his own movements. Pulling on his own member, his breathing sped up and droplets of pre-cum was forming on the tip.

“I’m not going to try and… pull something fancy this time… fuck… Sometimes just a good ol’ handy is enough, you know?” The fact that he could still joke under all this made you kinda impressed. You knew yourself that had you been in a similar position, you wouldn’t be able to make any sense. If he had you against a wall, his fingers playing with your clit as he towered over you. His other hand holding onto your wrists to force you to rely on him for pleasure. No matter how many times he’d ask what you wanted from him, you doubt you would be able to give him a reply that would satisfy. “You’d look so pretty, you know?”

Kuroo’s voice brought you back to reality and back to the video. 

“I would’ve loved to have you here, your cute… pink lips… wrapped around my cock. You’d eagerly suck it, wouldn’t you? Kitten? Ah fuck—” he slowed himself down to a crawl again. His breathing had developed into panting to the point where you could see his abdomen rising and falling. And just below the skin you could see his muscles tens and relax, trying to prolong the inevitable end. He shuddered before speaking again. “Your eyes would just beg me to fuck your face. Ask me to destroy you, use you for my own pleasures. ‘Cus you know I’d happily do the same in return.” 

He picked up his own pace again and you had unconsciously let your hand move to the button on your shorts, playing with it.

“But right now I’d love nothing more than to thread my fingers through your hair and grab it. Hold you right there as I buck my hips into that filthy fucking mouth of yours. Just imagining the sounds are getting me so… fucking close…” The way he said it went straight to your core. He was rambling and it was obvious he was going to cum any second now. You couldn’t help but hold your breath. “You’d be such a good girl and just take it—” With a sudden gasp you saw cum start to shoot from his cock but it only lasted a second until he turned the camera again. 

He had thrown his head back, the camera shaking slightly from his orgasm. His back had clearly arched off whatever he was sitting on and sweat had formed on his exposed chest and collarbone. You could even see how he jerked and twitched as his orgasm overtook him. The scene was almost hotter than the whole process of getting to it. But it didn’t last nearly as long as you had hoped it would. Catching his breath, he let his head fall to the side with a lazy, smug grin. He looked into the camera with half lidded eyes. And then the video ended.

You could barely stand this anymore. What began as a curious look into a side of a date you had never seen is ending up making you more horny than you have been in a long time. Yet you knew you couldn’t stop now just as much as you know you need to take care of yourself.

Thinking it over for just a moment, you decide that it was worth the embarrassment of facing him again after this. You turn off your phone and place it besides you on the couch before jumping up from the couch. It takes you mere seconds to pull off your top and shorts, you even take off your bra for good measure. The soft light from the lamp bounces off your skin and the sudden chill from the loss of clothes makes goosebumps appear up your thighs and arms. But your blood rush soon catches up to you and you feel comfortably warm when you sit back down on your couch. You grab your phone and in one swift motion you throw up your feet on the plush seat next to you. You positioned your gigantic cat to act as a backrest. A pleasant surprise in reaction to this was how Kuroo’s intoxicating smell now enveloped you even further. 

You push your knees together while turning on your phone again, this time fully aware of what to expect when you put in your earphones again. And you aren’t disappointed when you scroll down further, past a couple more pictures in similar fashion to the earlier content. You only stop when you see another play button on your screen. You look at the caption.

“This little thing has been highly requested so since I got some time over and I’m in dire need to release some steam I thought why not? ft. my favorite toy” Well now you have to play it.

“So here’s a little treat for all you lovely ladies.” The video started with a shot of his face and parts of his, once again, bare upper body. He was sitting in the same seat as last time, leaning back and resting his cheek on his fist. “I’ll be honest and say that is the first time I’ve instructed anyone on how to touch themsleves— Mh, wait no,”—he smiled to himself—”it’s the first time I’ve planned out the instructions ahead of time. So if you aren’t satisfied with this video, you’re very welcome to come up with a fitting punishment down in the comments. Sounds fair? ...Good. With that out of the way…” 

“Let’s play.”

Your heart catches in your throat, the daring tone in his voice making you fidgety. But it caught your attention and you were just about ready to do anything this man told you to do, as long as he did it in that deep voice of his. The screen changes and this time he was wearing a pair of black dress pants and his bright red underwear was peeking out from underneath. While restricted, you could still see that he was hard underneath the layers.

“Now I hope you’re prepared yourself, babygirl, because I’m not going to be waiting for you to get undressed. You should know what you were going to end up doing if you’re listening to me right now. So lay back… and spread your legs for me.” You sink down even further in your seat, almost laying down while letting your legs fall open without any resistance. One of your legs hit the couch back but it doesn’t bother you, you know you still have full access to everything you need. He shifted his legs a little, spreading them even more. While doing so, he managed to unbutton his pants and slowly pull the zipper down.

“Good girl. Now use one of your hands and just let it slowly move down your soft belly.” You obediently do as you are told, watching him as he hooked his thumb in his underwear. He probably knew anyone watching would be anticipating this moment so he made sure to take his sweet time pulling them down. You even caught yourself licking your lower lip without thinking when you finally saw the swollen head of his cock. It is almost embarrassing how much he affects you but you are shameless right now. And as his whole length sprung free, bouncing up thanks to it's new found freedom, your eyes follow it. But you aren’t the only one affected by this move, Kuroo groaned quietly when the fabric rubbed against his crotch. He didn’t care enough to take off his garments and instead pulled them down just enough for them to get out of the way. 

“When you get to your sweet spot I want you to just lightly tease your slit with one finger. Don’t press too hard or you’re gonna ruin the whole fun here. And we’re here to have fun aren’t we?” The smile on his face could be heard through his voice. He reached his hand somewhere off screen and when it came back in frame, you could see something liquid and shiny on his fingers. It became obvious what it was when he carefully smeared it over his shaft. He took a sharp intake of air through his teeth before relaxing and letting it out again. “Ah crap… So cold… You girls have it way easier, you get so damn wet on your own.” 

“Speaking of wet, why don’t you finally dip a finger into yourself? And maybe even a second one. Rub them on either side of your clit and that little hole of yours. Don’t touch them though, got it?”—he pauses for a second—”It’s almost funny how quickly you melt for me. How easily you’re following my instructions.” He was calling you out. But you couldn’t help but do as he said, your fingers slipping under your underwear almost too easily. He had begun slowly stroking his own dick in a steady pace while he was talking, once in a while teasing the head like he had done in the earlier video.

“It’s so cute… I love when you listen to me like this. When you trust me enough to let me do this to you. It makes me want to push you down a little, see how much you can take. How much you’ll let me use and abuse you. So rub your clit for me, kitten. Slow circles. Don’t get impatient, I’m not there to stop you today. But maybe that’s good, I could probably keep you in that limbo until you’re crying and begging me to fuck you.” The chuckle he made after was tethering on being evil, as if the thought of your desperate cries was amusing to him. It was kinda hot. 

The comment bounces around in your head, the thought of him pushing you to the edge like that. Maybe he’d do it in the back of his car, the one he took you home in. Parked just outside your house after a date, you two would be crammed into the back. He lifted your legs over his shoulders, the blood rushing to your head from the angle he was holding them up at. Your hands were pushing against the door from the inside, stuck staring at him as he ate you out. Slowly and calculating. He was taking his sweet time with you, his tongue gently circling your bundle of nerves. He was doing it hard enough to make your hips twitch and your mouth whine but not enough to rile you up further than that. If you were starting to zone out too far he’d introduce his fingers to you again. Pushing two inside with ease and fucking you with them until you were raising your hips even further and about to cum. Then he’d pull away fully, leaving you to fall from your high in the matter of seconds. All because he wanted you to watch him properly as he made it all start over again. 

“Rub faster now. I want to see you unravel before me... Now I should probably tell you that I expect that you wait for my permission to cum. It’s important that you do so or I’ll end up having to make a punishment video for you as well. Or maybe that’s more your style.” He could barely even laugh at his own comments anymore. He had been increasing his own pace along with you and the heavy breathing had just kicked into full effect. “Maybe you’re the type to smile while I tie you up. Get excited at the thought of cum denial and pain. At being gagged and fucked raw until you’re sore.”

He spent another moment just jerking off, letting you take care of yourself. All the while he was letting out quiet groans and pleasured sighs which were all clearly picked up by his microphone. 

“And stop.” —He quite suddenly, and almost hesitantly, let go of his own cock— “I told you not to get impatient didn’t I? Now take a deep breath and let’s try that again.” You mindlessly followed, removing your hand from your pussy, a trail of your own wetness connecting your fingers to your pussy lips. But you aren’t happy, you may have listened but you frown at his sudden demand. 

While you were busy pouting, he had reached over to somewhere off screen again. Once you had gotten over your own annoyance you realize what he was holding when his hand came back into frame. You haven’t seen any in real life but you knew what the toy he had mentioned in his caption was now. A translucent pocket pussy. The obscene nature of it would make you blush if you weren't already burning up. 

“Let’s finish this, eh?”—he cleared his throat before speaking again—”Take a finger and slowly start fucking yourself with it. Use two if one doesn’t suffice. And well if you have a dildo, I’m sure you know what to do with it. Oh but please... don’t imagine it’s me fucking you.” The sarcasm dripping from his voice would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t in the position you were in now. Because right now, you would love nothing more than for him to fuck your brains out. But like he told you to, you can only do it slowly for now. He seemed to keep that in mind as well when he pushed his dick into the toy, slowly letting it take him to the hilt.

“Because I’m certainly not imagining that this is you right now. Slowly pushing yourself down onto my cock, moaning like a bitch in heat. And then back up again just to let yourself  slide back down. Over… and over… getting faster each time. Hah...I’d help you of course, I’d grab your ass and set the pace.” He was quickening his own pace in time with his talking and you followed suit without being instructed to do so. You are getting too invested in the fantasy, his words turning into vivid images in your head.

You could almost feel his dick pounding into you, filling you. And how his big hands fit on your hips. You could remember how it felt when he did so earlier while he kissed you. But the kiss you were imagining now was much more sinful. Tongues intertwined in open mouth kisses, only broken by your own moans. The sound of skin hitting skin was clear in your head, the pacing matching your own fingers thrust. He wasn’t soft or careful like he had been with you during the day, behind closed doors he was rough and raw. No longer afraid to leave marks of his fingers on your hips or a red handprint on your ass. It exhilarated you, how calculated yet reckless each move he made on you was. 

“Fuck yourself, just like you— F-fuck… like you think I’d fuck you. And now a little faster than that, I don’t think you really understand just how badly I need you right now, kitten.” You can barely even think for yourself anymore, you don’t need to. You have a faraway look in your eyes while staring at the screen, watching him pump himself with the toy. Strings of lube connecting his skin and the silicone together with each thrust, the sound perfectly mimicking that of skin against skin. Even the clothes he had pulled down didn’t go unstained, making the scene even more pornographic. 

His erratic thrusts were a clear indication of how close he was getting again. The grip on his toy was growing tighter too and you wish you could feel how desperate he was. He would grab a fistful of your hair close to your scalp and pull, forcing your head back and breaking your open mouthed kisses. His need to claim you as his too great, manifesting in the licks and bites he made along your neck and collarbone. The sweet pain of creating a hickey mixed with his powerful thrusts into you was overwhelming.

“I’m s-so close…” You told him in your head, your hands mentally grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself steady. 

“I… Hah… mgh-!..I know you’re getting there, babygirl. Let me count you down… I don’t care how you fucking do it, but I need you to cum on 5. Can you do that for me?” He asked and you nodded vigorously, your back arching off the couch. You didn’t care that he couldn’t hear you, you replied like a good girl should. “G-good.”

“5”

You closed your eyes, too overwhelmed by his, or rather your own, actions. But in your mind he was counting you down, a dangerous grin on his face when he looked up at you above him. He had purposely slowed himself down to make sure you could last the whole time without cumming. 

“4”

He let go of your hair, instead moving his hand to hold it around your throat loosely. Meeting his eyes it was as if they were glowing in the low light, watching your rapidly rising and falling chest. His other hand was firmly placed on your hip, helping you bounce on his dick. Your hands holding his shoulders were grabbing on harder.

“3”

The number left his lips and he started to speed up your movements, the wet slapping sound getting louder. Your moaning was starting to match those you hear in pornos, sweet and needy. His own voice sounds strained when he speaks again.

“2, you’re doing so well, pretty girl”

There was a small smile on your lips at his words but it was interrupted by his thumb pressing down on your clit. It started rubbing the nerves frantically, no longer concerned by how long you were supposed to last. He trusted that you could hold yourself. 

“1”

You were chasing your release, eagerly fucking yourself on his dick. He sped up his thumb as it was working on you while he happily watched yourself lose your mind thanks to purely his voice and your own need to please him. 

“Fuck! Cum for me—!”

You can’t see him cum, but you swear you can feel it. And as you do, your own orgasm comes washing over you like a tidal wave, hitting your hard and fast. Your whole body tensed up and you pushed your thighs together, curling up instinctively. The whole room was warm and your panting mixed in with the murmurs of the people on the TV. You rubbed your clit slowly, riding out your own high in a daze, lips parted while you twitch. 

Kuroo’s heavy breathing finally registers in your brain and you focus on the video again. He had flipped the camera to his face again and you were glad he did. He looked pretty fucked up himself, a similarly dazed look in his eyes while he recouped. But when he wetted his own lips, he seemed to regain control and energy enough to laugh at himself.

“Ho-o-oly crap, well that wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t sure how much I would enjoy that but I’m not gonna lie, that was really good.” —he stretched his neck muscles, tilting his head from side to side—”I’m gonna need to go lie down a bit and drink some water… You do the same, stay hydrated. And uh, right, comment underneath if you enjoyed this or if I need to make a… punishment video. But anyways, I’ll catch you guys later. Heh..” 

With a final smile, the video ends and you are left alone in your home. But you don’t feel alone, you are honestly still exhilarated. Maybe it was because you just came but maybe it was because you now had a hint of what to expect if you and Kuroo got serious and you loved it. The fact that you so easily obeyed everything a guy who didn’t even know you were watching said to you was a sign of the confidence he had with every command he told you to follow. And you loved that about him.

But what now? You knew of this side of him, should you bring it up? Or act like nothing had happened, as hard as that would be.

You let the thought simmer in your head as you get up, grabbing your clothes from the floor on the way to clean yourself up in the bathroom. You make quick work of it, tired from the whole experience. But as you splash some water in your face, you hear a notification go off on your phone. Curious, you look at the locked screen.

“Onlyfans: Domkuroo just posted something! Be the first to check it out!”

Your stomach does a flip as you read the banner and without thinking, you unlock your phone to check the new post.

Another picture post, this time he was in his car. The lights were turned on in it which lit up the photo, giving it a yellow tint. It was of his crotch, the zipper of his black pants pulled down and his white boxer briefs were clearly tented and pushing against the fabric. It couldn’t be anything other than a hard on being displayed. 

It made your breath catch in your throat as you realize the implications of the post. Your suspicions were confirmed once you read the caption.

“I blame her and her soft lips for this. Can’t get it outta my head.”

You can’t ignore this. It took you mere seconds to find his number in your phone and while still riding your confidence high, you call him. It beeps twice before you hear him pick up.

“Hey, y/n. Isn’t it a bit late, what’s up?” His voice was breathy and a little quiet, it reminds you of the way he sounds in his videos. Maybe you interrupted him while he was—? No… But the thought makes you blush.

You had to take a deep breath before you responded to him, going over what you wanted to say once more in your head before speaking.

“I’ll happily take the blame for your situation, Kuroo.” You feigned confidence but your heart feels like it was going to beat out your chest. Now he just needs to understand what you meant, but you doubted you had to worry.

“Huh—? Oh.”—His voice went down an octave when he spoke again—”Oh, is that so? Well why don’t I come pick you up again so you can take responsibility for this, kitten?” Despite how teasing he sounds, you can see a grin form on your own face in the mirror at the suggestion.

“Pick me up in 30.”

“Got it.”

[joonkorre]

(love) is a heartache

@drarrymicrofic prompt: hope is a heartache - léon

let it be known that harry goes through life purely on vibes. half of his reasons why for every decision at his big age are “idk imma just hope for the best”

ao3

People’s hearts twinge sometimes. For Draco, he can barely remember the last time he doesn’t have these twinges. It’s pretty normal at this point.

“No, it’s not,” Pansy says. She’s a Healer, so she’s probably right. But Draco prefers to ignore that.

“Leave it be,” Draco murmurs, lips against her scalp, “I’m fine. Say, are you free tomorrow?”

“Yeah. You want to go somewhere?”

“Mm. Sleep.”

They go out the next morning, Pansy in thick makeup and Draco practically drunk under nine layers of Charms. The air is a bit humid, which seems to get worse when the bustling street intensifies in volume into a roaring din. Pansy pulls him under an awning, yanking at his sleeve a bit to try out her disgusting sugary coffee. She always does this whenever she wants to take his attention away from something, which means he just has to look at exactly where she’s doesn’t want him to. As his lips wrap around her lipstick-stained straw, he glances up.

Across the street, a couple strolls through a gushing crowd. Fiery red hair, airy laughter, a pale arm wrapped around her fiancé’s waist. Curls of black, sleek spectacles, a protective palm on his fiancee’s shoulder. They make the perfect picture, a vibrant oil painting. Their existence is formed from bold strokes of sunlight and starburst kisses, with the focal point being a shock of phthalo green and cadmium lemon, two minute specks that make all the difference. As all good paintings do, they pin the viewer on the spot, as if the viewer himself is a thing to behold. Then they shift away.

The exhibit moves forward and out of sight. It’s closing time, the viewer has overstayed his welcome.

Something leaps in Draco’s chest and splatters on the floor of his stomach. Placing her hand over his heart, Pansy frowns at him. She doesn’t ask why Potter stared at someone who looked like a stranger to him. Only tells him to start finding answers.

Months later, on the most awaited day in recent Wizarding history, there’s a knock on Draco’s door.

He throws on a sweater, and a throw, too, for good measure. Ambling to the door, he checks the mail slot before peeking through the peephole. Nobody but a package is outside. Draco hums and unlocks his door, crouching down the moment it opens. What feels like soft satin brushes against his cheek, cool and smooth. With a flash, a pair of shiny dress shoes appear before him.

“Draco.”

Draco peers up as he rises, hands around the package. Potter has his maddening Invisibility Cloak slung over his arm, his roguish charm heightened by a perfectly fitted three-piece suit. A tiny posy is pinned on his left lapel, muted green hellebores with a few sprigs of privet berries. He’s dressed like a man in love.

Draco feels something he hasn’t felt in months at the sight. He’s trained himself to suppress it the moment it showed itself and has been relatively successful until now. The sting, without warning, bursts from within his chest, calling forth a slight wince. Potter’s brows furrow.

"How do you know where I live?"

“How long has this been going on?”

Draco frowns. “Pardon?”

“That,” Potter gestures at Draco’s chest. “The heartache.”

He rears back. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? At Potter’s unchanging expression, Draco shoves his hair out of his face with a quiet huff and puts a hand on the doorknob.

“It’s none of your business. Please leave.”

“It is, actually,” Potter stops the closing door with one arm.

“Excuse me? We haven't had a proper conversation in more than a decade and suddenly you want to act like we're friends? Leave, now.”

“Listen to me. How can it not be my business when I feel it, too?”

“Check with a Healer, then. If you can put past grudges aside, I can hand you Pansy Parkinson’s business card,” Draco grits through his teeth, pushing against the door with his entire body, his throw slipping to the ground.

“Draco, stop, I already know, stop.”

“Know what? No, I don't care. Leave at once, else I’d alert the Aurors.”

A rough slam sends Draco staggering back. Potter pants, hard lines on his face. His chest heaves under his crisp white shirt, its top two buttons unclasped, and he steps over the threshold, closing the door.

“You think they’d believe you?”

The pain shoots from his chest to the rest of his body, and for several seconds, his lungs wouldn’t work. He whips his head away from Potter, who groans and sags against the wall.

“I told you to leave.”

“I’m sorry, that was a shitty thing to say,” Potter says immediately, sweat dotting his temples.

After an uncomfortable pause, clearing his throat, he picks up the near-forgotten package from the carpet. His hand feels around the outline of the object within, rectangular and heavy. Glancing at Draco, he says hoarsely. “I know why you bought this book.”

“Know this, know that, you know nothing,” Draco lunges forward, only for Potter to twist out of the way and raise the package out of his reach.

“The Life-long Burden of Dark Curses: A Caution by Elise Arrowlane, limited edition,” he says, unbothered by Draco’s slackened jaw. “You ordered it from the new bookstore on Diagon months ago. You were small and old and grey, but I recognized you. I always could.”

“Okay,” Draco sneers, “so you’re a stalker. Old news. Anything else?”

“There’s no need to order one. I would’ve borrowed it from Hermione if you had only asked,” Potter says. “Instead, I got curious and read it for myself. That’s how I connected the dots about the heartache, how I realized we’ve both had it since that day years ago.”

“Oh, the day you slashed me into ribbons and almost cut through my heart?” Draco clenches his jaw.

Being able to shout this ugly kind of truth into the perpetrator’s face feels oddly liberating. That is, if liberation also comes with a specific kind of agony that makes Draco want to fall to his knees.

“Dark Magic leaves a mark on both the wizard and their victim, doesn’t it? No need for a book to tell us that,” Potter says, the harsh afternoon glow of him gentled by the soft lamplight in Draco’s hallway. “In certain cases, it even leaves a link. A connection.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek and looks away. The only consequence from that horrid night was his fucked up heart and nothing else, nothing at all. Whatever Potter is insinuating, he hates it. He hates this. He hates him.

“How are you so sure there’s a connection.”

“I wasn’t,” Potter says. “The Healers said it’s a health thing I developed after the War and I just needed to avoid strenuous activity. I didn’t think much of it, but then I read the book and realized that it usually flared up whenever you watched me.”

Scoffing, Draco turns and stalks into the kitchen. Walking past the boiling kettle, he throws a cabinet door open and grabs a mug, his hand trembling.

“Interesting how my health suffers when I see the bastard who quite literally carved me open.”

“I was eating dinner when I thought I was going to die of a heart attack at 23,” Potter continues. Draco pulls the drawers out, unable to find a single bag of tea for several excruciating moments. “The next day, I was reading about your mother’s death on the Daily Prophet. That was the first sign.”

Grabbing a rag and wetting it, Draco wipes the countertop even as he’s just done so last night.

“When Ginny saw you on the street during our date and extended her hand toward you, you shook it. But your heart ached.

“I saw you looking at the picture of Ginny and I kissing on the front page of Witch Weekly. Your hair was brown and your back was curved, but I saw you. Your heart ached.

“When I announced my engagement to her on the Battle of Hogwarts’s 10th Anniversary, you were clapping along with everyone else. But your heart ached.”

Draco throws the rag on the counter. The kettle whistles, a piercing sound. “What’s your point? Are you here purely to flaunt your relationship and imply that I’m in love with Ginevra Weasley? If so, I got it. Thank you so very much, it’s been enlightening. Now get out.”

“The point is,” Potter says, lifting the kettle off the burner to pour it into Draco’s mug, placing his tea bag in, “unless the article about you being gay was wrong, Ginny isn’t the one you’re in love with.”

“What arti—” Draco stops. “That was years ago.”

His sexuality was leaked to some irrelevant gossip rag, not even making the front page. Nobody noticed, nothing changed, and it hasn’t entered his mind in what feels like forever until Potter reminds him.

“I remember.”

“You—” Draco frowns. His eyes strain on the cup of tea until they hurt. He squeezes them shut, sighing. “It doesn’t prove anything. Perhaps I’m jealous of my childhood nemesis having a better life than me, ever thought of that?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, “I’ve thought about this a lot. Which is why I’m here. To make sure.”

Draco takes it in, then, unable to help himself, curls his lips at Potter and his attire. At his artfully gelled hair, his hanging bow tie, the elegant boutonniere on the lapel of his dark blue suit. His empty ring finger.

“Couldn’t you have chosen a better date to make sure? Preferably before your wedding day?”

Potter steps closer. A respectable distance away, but closer.

“I could’ve, but I spent most of those days in denial. Then the dots connected and I couldn’t deny it anymore, so I decided to just go through with the wedding regardless, be with the woman I loved. Hoped that maybe the odd emotions I had would go away,” he shrugs, raising his eyes to meet Draco’s. “Saw Ginny at the end of the aisle and, well, I couldn’t stop thinking that it should’ve been someone else. All this time, I’ve thought that she didn’t feel… right in my arms, but I pushed it down. And there she was in that white dress.

“Seeing that today was the last straw. I had to leave.”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. Swallowing it down, he grabs his mug, scooping out the tea bag just to have something to do. He takes a sip without blowing, ignoring its scalding heat.

“That was stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Draco can feel a headache building. “That was a horrible decision. I never imagined you—you!—out of all people, could be this irresponsible. What the fuck.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. Merlin, that poor fucking woman. If your purpose here is to make me feel bad for Ginevra and all 300 of her relatives for once in my life, you’ve succeeded, congratulations.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that to me, say that to—oh, you’d do what you want no matter what I say, wouldn’t you?”

“Depends on the situation.”

“‘Depends on the situation,’ he says,” Draco mocks, getting a carton of milk from the fridge to save his bitter, bitter tea. Potter doesn’t reply. Stirring the milk in, Draco lets out a heavy sigh.

“What do you want me to do about this?” He says. “I didn’t make you run out of your own wedding. If you expect me to take the blame for your inane decisions, the first person I Floo wouldn’t be the Aurors, but Ginevra Weasley herself.”

A small smile graces Potter’s lips. “I don’t expect anything from you but honesty.”

Draco squints.

“And how will you know if what I say is a lie? Will you reject my genuine answer if it’s not what you want to hear?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Potter says. “I trust your heart will speak the truth for us both.”

There’s a pang in Draco’s chest, and judging from the twitch of Potter’s brow, he can feel it too. Not another word is said, the two men merely facing each other from across a tiny kitchen, considering. Draco can feel the warmth of sunlight beaming through the little window and coating his nape as he leans against the sink, earl grey on his tongue. Lovely citric notes of bergamot drift up his nose. He closes his eyes. What to do, what to do.

Weightless oxfords clack against the yellowed tiles, clear and bright in Draco’s ears. Fabric rustles as Potter slips a hand into his pocket only to retrieve it a second later. Draco lets himself be cornered, barely glancing at the wool-clad arms caging either side of his waist. A clink catches his attention, however, and he tilts his head to the left.

Millimeters beside Draco’s hand on the counter, glinting in the sun, is a wedding band. Draco knows Potter and Ginevra’s in and out, has examined the picture on that day’s issue of the Daily Prophet more times than he should have. He knows the marquise droplets of Ginevra’s gems and the chevron curve of her ring, the blankness of Potter’s own band a dream and a question in his mind.

The band that’s resting on the counter is different. Rustic gold and a fissure in the middle, the fertile earth splitting open to reveal a stream of diamonds, a sparkling river. Draco sets his mug to the side and holds the ring up close, his finger smoothing over the grooves of its texture.

“Did you make a stop at a jewelry store before breaking into my home?” He asks.

“No,” Harry murmurs. Draco looks at him in surprise. “I’ve had this with me for months.”

A pause.

“I thought you said you were in denial.”

“I was, but I knew, somewhat, that I wanted someone else,” Harry’s head lowers, slow and careful, until his forehead rests against Draco’s shoulder. “I told myself that I just liked the way it looked, had to get it in case I didn’t want the other ring anymore. But I got it a size smaller. Been carrying it in my pocket ever since.”

Draco’s heart throbs and throbs. Large hands circle his waist, bunching up the back of his sweater and pressing him close, chest to chest. A blanket of pure heat envelops his body as he breathes in the timeless saffron and neroli of cologne, half-lidded eyes pinned on the band he’s given. Oh, dear, he thinks, and again when it settles at the base of his ring finger with ease, as if it belongs there and never left. Oh, dear.

[ditch-witches]

asa butterfield x reader

request: wasn’t requested, but we wrote this in march and decided to post. we’re opening our inbox to other actors and characters, so feel free to send us a request :)

warnings: mentions of sex (slight), crude language, a family gathering

word count: ~2000

Your grandmother threw open her front door, hair in curlers to match her fuzzy pink slippers. Her face brightened at the sight of you, yet once her eyes fell to Asa it was like you were last year's ham. She nearly hooted in excitement before throwing her arms around him and dragging him inside, Asa’s face furrowing as he looked back at you. You smirked slightly, hanging your jacket on the already full coat tree by the door and kicking off your shoes before meandering through her gigantic house in search of your boyfriend. There were various cousins sprawled out around her living room and hanging out of the archway to the kitchen while watching whatever sport was on TV. 

You furrowed your brows at the group and half of them pointed down the hallway where a round of hollering and an old crackly radio was sounding off. You nodded and moved in the direction they sent you, turning a few corners before going through the sliding glass door in the back, spotting Asa being shown off to several of your uncles from different generations and your older cousins by your small grandmother. You sighed, coming out from behind them and capturing the attention of the group who greeted you with smiles and a few pinches on the arm. The stereotypical conversation questions were thrown around briefly: How is school? How’s the job? Are you hungry? 

Some of the guys were talking to Asa and shaking his hand a ridiculous amount until you finally had enough. “Oma, maybe you should go get ready?” You suggested, finally taking hold of Asa’s arm to pull him from her grasp. She inhaled sharply as if forgetting she was walking around in a housecoat while her guests continued to fill her house. You were sure Asa would already be overwhelmed, him being whisked off was not what you had expected, but he remained smiling, talking to whoever started conversations with him. You couldn’t really believe it but Asa was prospering. 

Before you knew it, the two of you were sat beside each other at a long table of most of your cousins, separate from the massive group of adults, passing food amongst yourself and talking over the polka music that seemed to always be playing from the radio in the living room. You leaned over to Asa as he passed you a basket of rolls. “Are you all right?” You whispered, passing the food again. 

He smiled at you slightly, his icy blue eyes seemingly lighting up even more. “Never better. Relax, okay?” He mumbled, sending you a wink. You hadn’t realized how tensed up you were as you dropped your shoulders at his words. If you weren’t surrounded by family members, you would have kissed him. The meal went on without ripples, listening to how people were doing in school and sitting through several of the members of the family closer to your age tell embarrassing stories about yourself to Asa like it had happened last week, not when you were three and still wearing Garanimals. 

“You’re Asa, right?” One of your middle school aged cousins asked from across the table. She put her chin in her hand, her makeup more intricate than you ever could master. He shook his head hesitantly. “You’re probably so good you don’t use protection. Am I right?” Her almost seductive glance and question made you choke on your water and Asa’s mouth dropped open a bit as the man beside her cackled heavily. 

“Oh, my God,” you breathed. “You can’t say that,” you hissed and she shrugged. 

Her eyes trailed him from across the table. “I don’t hear a ‘no’.” 

You groaned, telling Asa to ignore her through gritted teeth. “You should always use protection,” he answered instead, attempting to hold back his own laugh as you kicked him under the table, sending the man next to her into even greater fits of laughter. 

“Are you staying at oma’s tonight?” Another asked, thankfully one that hadn’t heard the previous topic. 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, debating if it was too late to get a hotel. “No, I haven’t drawn a card yet…” You mumbled, trying not to alert Asa beside you. 

Your actions were for nothing as he piped up. “What is drawing a card?” 

At his question, several of the cousins attempted to answer at once, urging you to let him be the one to draw this time and you shook your head. “My grandmother has a deck of cards that have locations written on them and whenever there’s a family gathering, you draw a card to figure out where you’re staying. It’s because my dad’s generation all fought over who was staying with Uncle Mike,” you answered, closer to his ear to combat the several voices. “But we should just get a hotel room-” 

“That’s breaking the rules and you know it!” Another cousin yelled, pointing his fork at you. 

You shook your head. “You’re a grown ass man and you still want a shot at staying with Uncle Mike?” You almost snapped, making him shrug. 

“You’re just pissed because you never get it!” He snapped back. 

You shook your head almost dramatically. “What if I didn’t want to stay with Uncle Mike?” 

“Liar!” 

“I like staying with oma!” 

He sent you a sarcastic smile as if to call your bullshit. “Fine then, we’re taking bets on who has to sleep in the tent.” 

You had almost forgotten Asa was there until he piped up. “I have ten on you then,” he quipped and your heart slightly fluttered at him as your cousin pointed to him, leaning over the table aggressively to shake Asa’s hand as the other cousins began saying it was other people. One got up to grab an old pad of paper to take down the bets and you pinched the bridge of your nose between your index finger and thumb. Asa was loving every minute of this. 

After dinner, half of your great uncles were passed out on the couch and your grandmother was shuffling her beat up deck of cards, long past the date it should have been retired. Your heart began to beat slightly, the adrenaline rushing through you as you thought about the bets that were made and the possibility of having to sleep outdoors. You sat on the couch, watching closely as the deck was brought around, shuffled and fanned out for each of the kids. Meanwhile Asa leaned his elbows on his knees, playing Cat’s Cradle with one of your younger cousins. Your leg rested against his as you focused on the cards, maybe it wasn’t the chance that you would have to sleep in a beat up old tent, but rather the rush of competition. So far, most of the spaces in the upper level of your grandma’s house had been taken as well as the spots in your cousin’s. Uncle Mike’s had yet to be completely claimed and the tent still hung in the air. 

The deck came towards you, your grandmother swooping down slightly for the cousin that was entranced by the string game. She drew a card: the top bunk of one of many stacked beds at Uncle Mike’s. Her older brother cheered, knowing that you now had an even bigger chance of getting the tent. The deck was offered to Asa, your grandmother raising an eyebrow. “No, I don’t trust him,” you quickly stated, ignoring his sarcastically hurt expression. The deck was turned to you. “I love you, but you have some of the worst luck.” Your mind raced at what was left and then you realized that Asa would be sleeping with you. Then you prayed to whatever higher being could help you to not give you an upper floor. “We have a lot riding on this,” you muttered as she fanned the cards for you. You drew your card, quickly turning it over and snapping it around towards your cousins who all groaned at the fluent, swirling writing your grandma was known for. 

“Are you kidding!” 

“How?” 

“Fuck! I could have bought a ton of M&M’s with that money.” 

Your grandma whipped around to the last cousin to speak, yanking on his ear quickly and hissing, “Halt deinen Mund!” He put his hands up in defense looking at her with wide eyes and you smirked. 

“Yeah, Halt deinen Mund,” you mocked and she snapped her fingers at you, making you close your mouth quickly before she moved on. You all broke out into a fit of giggles silently, relieved that no one had the tent yet. The one who made the bet with Asa was who you hoped would get it, in all honesty. You finally let out a breath, relaxing completely. 

You snuggled into your seat, crossing your legs and throwing an arm around the section of the back of the couch where Asa was sitting. He leaned back, tucking under your arm slightly, raising an eyebrow in your direction. “And where did we get?” 

You handed him the card. “Oma’s back basement room. There’s a waterbed, but other than that, it’s a win.” 

He chuckled, flipping the card between his long fingers. “That could be fun,” he whispered slightly and you pushed his face away with your hand as he laughed. As the party died down enough that people were heading to their designated spots or out back to set piles of leaves on fire, you and Asa grabbed your bags and headed through the maze of a house to your room for the night and possibly the next. It really depended on how much Asa could actually take of your family. 

Your room was just off the retro bar that was always used around the winter holidays. You thanked whoever was looking out for you up above as you threw your bags down on one of the dated couches and peaked into the newly renovated bathroom. “So, how are you feeling?” You asked, putting your hands on your hips as he slipped his sweater over his head and readjusting his t-shirt. 

“I’m exhausted,” he stated, biting back a wide grin before plopping down into the middle of the bed, it sloshed around under his movements and he giggled slightly before laying back. You perked an eyebrow. “I’m ready. Fuck me on a waterbed,” he jeered, smirking up at you. 

He tucked his arms beneath his head, and you sent him a tilted expression. “You are so strange.”

[thefanficmonster]

Never Satisfied [Chapter 5]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: !!DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF A PANIC ATTACK!!; Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

Note from the authors: Hello dear readers! This chapter, as mentioned in the warnings above, has a detailed description of a panic attack which might be highly triggering for some individuals. That being said this chapter is NOT A MUST-READ. You can understand the further progression of the story perfectly well without reading this chapter. If you decide to skip this chapter, which we recommend if you are easily triggered, we’ll be seeing you in the next chapter. If you’re sticking around for the ride, enjoy 🖤🖤🖤

“headed for a breakdown“

“I’ll catch you later, feel free to text me anytime.” Cora smiles warmly, standing outside Corpse’s apartment complex, where they’ve spent almost half an hour just talking in his car before she finally mentioned she had to get going which led to them both stepping out of the car and into the late afternoon air. At first, Corpse thought it must have been something he had said or did but before the panic could start eating away at his calmness, Cora was quick to reassure him, promising she had a client meeting her in about two hours which is why she needed to get going.

Now he finds himself standing in his apartment, feeling cold and alone. He feels like a huge chunk is missing from his life now, despite that very chunk not even being a part of it just a few hours prior. He allowed Cora to bring him some happiness, relief and ease for those few hours, and now that she’s gone, he realizes how unprepared he is to be dealing with his loneliness again. He’s aware he shouldn’t get this attached to someone he barely knows, or to anyone really, but she made him feel so much, and none of the feelings unpleasant: she allowed him security, safety, comfort; she gave him some of the most genuine laughs of his life, managed to speed up his heart because of excitement and joy, not anxiety or insecurity. She provided him with what he’s been longing for for so long, and she did all that in less than a day.

With all that taken into consideration, one would find him missing her more than reasonable, but Corpse isn’t so easy on himself. Quite the contrary actually, he’s scolding himself for it in this very moment as he paces the living room. 

He shifts from one foot to the other, tipping his head down as he carefully toes off his shoes. He stops in one spot suddenly, feeling himself consumed by the deafening silence, a lump starting to form in his throat as well as tightness building in his jaw. The telling sign. His eyes sting, burning red and painful. His head is swarmed, buzzing statically like a TV on a dead air channel.

I fucked up

I fuck everything up

I am a fuck up

These thoughts begin to cloud his brain with such intensity there is no way of him even having a chance at fighting them or pushing them away. They take firm hold on his brain and refuse to let go. He’s no stranger to them but that doesn’t mean he has any defenses ready for when they show themselves. He’s helpless and hopeless even after all the times he’s had to deal with them though it seems like they get progressively stronger instead of weaker.

This time, they appear the strongest yet.

Tears burn his eyes so he covers one eye with the palm of his hand in a hopeless attempt at keeping them at bay, choking out a soft noise from his throat as everything starts welling up in his heart, causing him excruciating pain in his chest. 

He’s sure he did something wrong. Said the wrong thing. Had the wrong reaction. Messed something up. 

He plays every second back in his mind over and over again, searching between the lines of conversation, skimming through each word they exchanged for something, anything that would indicate that his worries and anxiety are grounded and concrete. His heart is galloping, his mind is going haywire. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to defend himself against the raging storm that has taken over his head and the incoming waves of negativity that are for sure to attack him in the horrible, painful minutes to come.

He wants to sit down, lie down, anything just to get off his shaking feet and relieve his knees that are threatening to give up on him any second now. However, he simultaneously wants to punch a wall, a mirror, break something, ruin something as a piece of evidence that he always ruins things for himself and others. That he is exactly what he claims to be - a fuck up.

You aren’t worth it

You aren’t good enough

You are never good enough

People deserve better than you

They don’t want you around

She doesn’t want you

AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

His mind races, spins, betrays him, leaves him to drown in the darkness that is slowly consuming him. The room feels both too big and too small at the same time, suffocating yet he feels so small in comparison to it. His knees finally give, let him down just like his mind has and he drops down to his knees, clutching at his chest. Breaths come at a rapid pace as he starts hyperventilating, wheezing and sobbing with each passing moment, barely able to squeeze enough air into his lungs as to not pass out. He digs his nails into the carpet in desperate attempts to ease the pain or just to keep himself awake and stable, as stable as he could possibly be during a panic attack.

Pity Grief  Loneliness Disgust  Sorrow Dread

His checkpoint isn’t here and the demons in his head are telling him she’ll never be again. Telling him he isn’t worth it, telling him she deserves better and shouldn’t be wasting her time on him anyway. 

He forces himself to his still and even more so unsteady feet, swaying dangerously before finding some weak stability to carry himself to his room to avoid being any more miserable than he already is by lying on the floor. His body doesn’t seem to agree with him though, flashing warning signs at him that he shouldn’t be standing up right now. He ignores all the warnings, the clouded and then vignetted vision, the much harder process of breathing and the retching that is steadily climbing from the pit of his stomach up towards his throat.

All signs telling him this is not a battle he can win.  

                                                               *  *  *

Corpse wakes up on the floor, having dropped before he could reach his bed, vomit beside him. His breathing is shaky, almost as much as his hands. Ignoring the warning signs yet again he pushes himself in a sitting position, causing his head to spin even worse due to the sudden movement which is the last thing he needed in this state the panic attack has left him in.

I blacked out. I can’t even have a panic attack right, He thinks to himself, the toxicity remaining in his mind just to pollute it for the next couple of days or so.

He’s trembling horribly yet he still chooses to not allow himself the rest he so desperately needs and instead gets up onto his feet to clean the mess on the carpet he’ll probably need to buy a stain remover for. His jaw clenches, his shaking hands doing a poor job at making anything better, actually worsening the situation he’s trying to fix. With another fail added to his list of fuck ups, he gives up on the carpet, removing his stained sweatshirt with force and throwing it across the room before he climbs into bed, wrapping the blankets around him like a safety cocoon.

Just as he thinks he’s about to drift off to sleep, his only refuge, his phone chimes, startling him more than it probably should’ve.

Out of instinct, he reaches out and fishes for it among the many items littering his nightstand. Finally feeling the rectangular device under his touch, he retrieves it and checks what the chime is alerting him of.

It’s a text from an unknown number but the message’s content clears up the identity of the sender right away.

Digital Checkpoint activated. Reply to save progress. 💜 — Cora

With minimal contemplation he replies seconds later.

Corpse: save

Cora: your progress has been saved. Thank you for choosing A.S.S. - the Automated Save System. You are now free to activate the digital checkpoint at any time. 

Cora: I had a nice time. Text me whenever you need to. We’ll hang out again soon, deal?

Corpse: thank you

Cora: anytime sugar ;)

Funny how a text exchange so simple and short can turn so much around for a person. Funny how a huge weight lifts off him the second he locks his phone, suddenly finding it easier to breathe, to move, to blink, to function - to live. She gives him that kick he needs to be reminded to live and not just be alive. He’s still not comfortable with how much he’s relying on her but seeing her effect on him is nothing but positive, the most and best thing he can do for himself is go with the flow and let things happen. No overthinking, no planning, no shooting guesses, just facing things as they come face-to-face with him. He may never get used to it, but he won’t know that until he tries, will he?

@fockingwhore  @vixenl  @annshit  @wineandionysus  @wiseflamingoqueen

[whump-town]

Cracks in the Ceiling

little hurt LOT comfort

my version of Route 66 bc how are you going to cut him open and give such minimal comfort?? like damn

Morgan’s tearing through the open case file in front of him, attention more or less on his teammates debating the case openly around him. His head is pounding, there’s this ache fixated on his right temple that no amount of Tylenol has managed to dull. If it weren’t for the pain he’d lean over and make Rossi aware of the fact that he’s 100% certain that Hotch slept in his office last night. He’s no snitch but this is the second time this week and it’s a pattern of behavior that has never been good in the past. It’s a behavior worth noting. For now, he decides to leave it. The others are gathering, filling into place, everyone’s mostly in their usual seats at the round table. He isn’t alerted or even too worried about Hotch standing rather than sitting, dark eyes darting over them. It’s probably nothing, Morgan shakes his head, not a big deal.

They jump into the work, Morgan keeps quiet. He’s got some things scratched into the margins of his file but he’ll bring them up now. Nothing worth stating just yet, not even proper observations but maybe Reid will have something to spitball. “--as you know, the amber alert is…” Morgan looks up, frowning at the sound of just how breathless Hotch is. As if he’s just run a marathon or taken down an Unsub by himself. Morgan looks the man up and down. The stark contrast of his boss’ pale face to the red of his tie. Morgan frowns, “Hotch?” He’s already on his feet, heart hammering, standing just as Hotch rasps an “excuse me”.

“Aaron!”

Rossi gets to him first. Kneeling right down on the ground, no reservations left for personal space. Anywhere else, anything else and it might have been funny. Rossi is so careful about himself. He won’t get his shoes dirty and he’s not putting creases in his pants let alone kneeling on the ground and risking wearing down the material around his knee and yet here he is. Placing a crease in his shoes at the toes and digging a knee in the, no doubt, filthy carpet. His clothes don’t matter, he’s paying them no mind as he calls Hotch’s name again. Begging-- “Look at me! Aaron? Aaron!”

It’s all snippets, no solidity.

Rossi’s rough palm, his skin radiating an intense uncomfortable heat against Hotch’s cheek. The rings on his fingers biting with their chilled metal, startlingly present in a haze of sensations he can’t name. All too much information for his brain, warmth and the chill, and how heavy his diaphragm feels as he draws in breathes.

Bright lights, rocking, and back and forth. White, bright white dancing from one eye over to the other.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

Drugs. He can feel them in his veins, thick as sludge crawling up his throat.

“Mr. Hotchner, can you hear me?”

Pulse is thready.

He’s not responding.

He can see Rossi-- it’s not worry pulling his face down, it’s hopelessness. A deep realization that he can do nothing, that he’s powerless and clueless. He can do nothing but sit there as the paramedics work, providing no commentary, having generally no idea what to do.

Starting lactated ringers.

Systolic is dropping.

BP is 90/60.

Systolic is his heart, which Rossi knows isn’t good. His blood pressure runs low, he takes medication for that. Maybe… Maybe he just didn’t take his meds this morning. That’s an easy enough explanation. No need to think the worst.

But the worst is what they get.

Foyet returned from the grave. Sometimes it’s like that man never really left. Hotch still looks over his shoulder, wakes up in the middle of the night thinking about him. Catches himself thinking like a trapped animal, reflexively isolating himself. It was only a few months but the paranoia is something he’s never been able to shake. He put his family at risk, lost Haley and Jack for months, and every time he was alone with a team member Foyet could be watching and if Foyet wanted to… he couldn’t even keep a serial killer from breaking into his home. He’s nearly lost all of them to serial killers, what’s he really going to be able to do to stop Foyet from killing them?

Back from the grave?

It’s like he never left.

Garcia approaches the bed slowly, put off by the stark contrast of the bags under Hotch’s eyes, and the intense pallor of his face. The only reassurance he’s even alive is the fog, the oxygen mask flushed with each of his shaky and choked breaths. “Sir?” She slowly reaches down and takes his right hand in both of her own. His hand is freezing, limp, and heavy in her hand. Lifeless. Even his veins look wrong, the colors aren’t right.

Settling herself with a deep breath, Garcia runs her thumb across his knuckles. Trying to draw some sort of stability, some consciousness to the madness buzzing around them. The hospital alight with all the wrong sorts of energy.

His head is turned slightly to her, lips parted as his breathing labors on. Leaving his lungs in harsh rasps. His left arm is curled limply around the light pink basin in his lap. It makes her stomach ache to imagine him alone back here, even if he wasn’t awake.

“Ma’am,” a nurse steps into the room, followed by two men on each of her sides. “They’re ready for him in OR 2. We’re going take him there now.”

Garcia nods, hands shaking a little harder than she’d like at the thought of him going somewhere she can’t watch over. This isn’t the same as the field. There she can hear what he hears. She’s right there with them but… “O--Okay,” she whispers, nodding tightly as she gently lays his hand back down on the bed. She looks him back over once more. Memorizing all that she can and biting back the emotion working up her throat. “Take care of him,” she says, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He’s really important to me.”

The nurse stops, ignoring the other two men as they place all the machines they can around and in Hotch’s lap. She squeezes Garcia’s arm gently, “he’s in the best hands.” She nods, a small sympathetic smile in place. “We’ll take care of him, ma’am. I promise.”

Garcia nods, “okay.” She has to trust them and she can do that. She believes in medicine. She understands it. He’s going to be okay. Eventually. Not right now but soon and she’ll stay with him for as long as she can.

“Hello?” She answers her phone on the second ring, her hands shaking so badly she misses the answer button the first time. Her eyes stay on Hotch, watching and struggling to keep up with the fast pace of the staff pushing him down the hall. Distracted enough to not even care that it’s Morgan calling her and that she should greet him with their usual luster. She just can’t find it in herself to conjure it up right now.

Morgan greets her a second later, a mind centered on just getting this case over with. He can’t think about Hotch. Can’t get distracted. “Hey, Baby Girl,” he says, pulling the phone back and hitting the speakerphone so JJ can hear. “It’s Morgan. How’s Hotch?”

Garcia really wishes she hadn’t worn heels today. The heels along with her much shorter legs are making it really hard to keep pace with Hotch. “He’s still out,” she informs him. Which kind of sucks. She’d feel really good right now if she’d just seen him awake. To talk to him. He’s always really good at calming her down. “They’re taking him to surgery.”

Morgan sighs, shaking his head. Damn, he’d really been hoping whatever this was to pass over as the flu. “Okay,” is all he says, hoping his disappointment doesn’t write itself all over his body. He clears his throat and tries to shake this awful feeling in his gut. “Alright, well, we need you to look through Samantha Wilcox’s text and email correspondents.”

Garcia nods her head, hoping what he’s saying actually sticks in her brain. She’d hate to have to call back and tell them she didn’t catch a word being said. Not after promising Dave, she would be okay to stay behind with Hotch. “Okay.” She agrees, “what am I looking for? Anything in particular?”

JJ’s voice cuts through and that takes Garcia by pleasant surprise. “She’s been in touch with her dad.”

Oh. Garcia thinks. That’s probably not good.

“And check vicap,” Morgan adds.

Garcia had seen the doors coming and the nurses and doctor’s throwing on scrub caps from down the hall. She’d seen them but she hadn’t thought this was where they part. Nervously, her eyes flicker over to Hotch. Maybe it’s better he’s not awake to see her like this. The last thing he needs is worrying about trying to soothe her nerves. “W-Why,” she stops as a nurse sympathetically directs her to.

She doesn’t hear a thing from then on. Her ears are ringing, words coming from the line but she doesn’t hear it. She just stands there. “They just took him back,” she manages. He’s gone from her sight. The hall is empty. It’s just her standing here.

For the sake of appearances she finds a seat in the waiting room, tries to manage deep even breathes. Remain calm. But Morgan’s request doesn’t take that long, he doesn’t even try to stay on the line with her. The conversation dies the second she tells him Hotch is in surgery and no one’s told her anything.

Out of boredom, unable to sit still a moment longer while her mind replays the pain of the day that it happened. Being forced to stay at her desk while knowing, while having listened as Emily explained the mess in his apartment. The tumbler shattered on the ground. Clear, composed Emily Pretniss’ voice trembling, the shattered glass in her throat. Not enough blood to know he’s dead but not enough to survive.

She goes to the gift shop to distract herself with the signs and clothes for expecting parents, for balloons that wish parents and grandparents a speedy recovery. So that she can stand amongst the aisle of teddy bears and t-shirts and exist in space and time that feels mute, feels non-existent.

She buys herself a sucker shaped like a heart and Hotch a teddy bear with a t-shirt that says “I love you” because he’ll pretend to hate it. He’ll hate the attention maybe but it’ll keep him company. After what Foyet did to him she gave him a troll, it’s all she had on her when was finally able to get to the hospital to see him. He was asleep by the time she got there, the doctor gave him sedatives. He got agitated after Haley and Jack left, tore stitches in restlessness. They set up a schedule, made sure he wasn’t alone after that.

She placed the troll in the palm of his hand, curled his fingers around it. He gave it back when he returned to work. She found it on her desk with a note, a simple “Thank you -H”. What a silly man, she’d meant for him just to keep it. She slipped it back into his go-bag the second he wasn’t watching. He got the message then.

It’s still in his go-bag.

The recovery room is filled with the sounds of heart monitors.

It’s good. Logically, Penelope Garcia knows it’s good but she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Yet she’d fought rather bravely to get here, to be allowed someplace she should not be. Listening to the crowd of heart monitors softly ringing out the promise of ongoing survival, she feels hopeful. She’s not naive enough to feel safe.

She’d watched them extubate him. She’d stepped into the room a little prematurely, seen him attached to all those machines. Watched his chest rise and fall under the guide of the ventilator. Slivers of his eyes present as a doctor talked to him, guiding him through the process. He gags and chokes, still absent of mind as they move him. By the time anyone pays any attention to her he’s already back under the pull of the drugs. Asleep. They move him on the bed, settle his arms back to his sides and pull the blankets up to his chest. He’s no more than a body to manipulate.

“He’ll—He’ll be okay, right?” She’d seen the doctor extubate Hotch and her chest hurts at the sight of him. He’d been so limp as they pulled that tube out, coughing and curling into himself. Unaware of everything around him, he’d wrapped his arms around his chest. He’s as pale as the bedsheets he’s laying on and her protective streak wants nothing more than to gather all six feet of him up into a comfy blanket and cuddle his pain away. “Is he in any pain?”

The doctor clenches his teeth, taking a breath like he’s either uncertain or afraid to tell her the truth. He places his arms over his chest, “there was a lot of internal damage.” But he’s still chewing on what he’s really afraid to admit to, turning it over. Weighing the pros and cons— “We lost him on the table but—” panic strikes the happy blonde like a hand. “We got him right back, ma’am. He’s responding appropriately to the medication. Your friend is tough, his recovery is already coming along nicely.”

Garcia lets out a shaky breath. “Is there anything I can do? You know, until you move him?” They get hurt all the time and she tries really hard to stay objective, to keep coasting along because that’s always what the others do. Emily never loses her head and Hotch always stays in the field, takes care of more than his share of the work. So she can do that, she’s capable of that.

The doctor smiles, “yeah. When he wakes up, his throat’s going to be pretty agitated. Try to get him to drink some water. It’ll help later, make him stronger when the nurses come around wanting him back on his feet in a few hours.” He extends his hand for her to shake, “and I’m sure with you here, Agent Hotchner will make a speedy recovery.”

Garcia blushes and shakes his hand.

“So,” the doctor stuffs his hands in his lab coat. “Are the rumors true?”

Garcia frowns, tilting her head.

“Did he really…” the doctor’s eyes move to the man on the bed. He shakes his head, “was it really a serial killer that did all that to him?”

Garcia pulls in a heated breath, she’s an even-tempered woman. She’s not going to be hot-headed about any old thing but why would he even say something like that. With Hotch right there. Just as she’s about to lay into him Hotch mumbles something from the bed, turning his head and blinking heavily as he takes in the darkroom. She can’t make it out but he shakes his head and makes a clumsy pull at the nasal canal under his nose, trying to dislodge it. She throws the doctor a dirty look and moves to his side, calling his name. Garcia takes his hand, “what? What is it, sir?”

He frowns, tight. Grimacing as he swallows, adam’s apple bouncing as he shakes his head again. He looks at her, eyes drooping before his lips part, his mouth clumsily forming her name. He pushes at the nasal canal again, his discomfort obvious. “Is he here?” he rasps. “Foyet?”

Garcia curses that stupid doctor but she knows it’s not his fault. Old injuries and old scars. “No, honey,” she soothes, her thumb running over his knuckles. If he weren’t so high, so bogged down with the drugs he wouldn’t be so confused. He’d fuss over her endearment but instead, he leans closer. Turns his face towards her, trusts her. “Foyet’s long gone. He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.” The news seems to be surprising at first but she can see the moment he remembers. Foyet is dead. It puts him at some ease, helps but he’s still visibly uncomfortable.

She releases his hand, her heart breaking at the soft sound he makes. His panic swells as she steps to the side of the bed, going to the water pitcher. She pours a cup, holding it up so he can see what she’s doing. He shakes his head, making another clumsy tug at the oxygen canal and successfully moving it this time.

“Take a sip of this and I’ll bring you a strawberry milkshake later,” Garcia promises with a kind smile. “Come on, sir,” she urges. “One sip of water for your favorite milkshake?” She places the straw to his chapped lips and smiles when he takes a tentative sip.

He manages to raise his left hand, struggling to form a good hold on the cup. She lets him have it though, her palm just under it in case he drops it. “I don’t like strawberry milkshakes,” he rasps, sipping slowly at the water working numbers on his raw throat.

Garcia smiles, “I know sir.” She reaches up and lightly taps a finger against his temple, “I was just making sure they didn’t scramble your brains, that’s all.” She takes the cup back, noticing him slowly losing his grip, fighting the anesthesia still coursing through his veins.

He grins sleepily at her, eyes falling shut. “No more scrambled than usual,” he jokes softly.

She grins and takes his hand in her own, squeezing his limp fingers. “Oh, but that’s why we love you, sir.”

He nods, eyes shut as he slips back under the lingering anesthesia. “Garcia,” he mumbles, fingers curling around hers. “You don’t have to stay.”

She shakes her head, “I’m not gonna leave you back here all alone.” She looks around, he may be fighting sleep and will most likely spend his hour back here asleep but it’s creepy and she knows he wouldn’t leave her. “It’s kind of scary back here,” she admits and squeezes his hand. “And you wouldn’t leave me back here all by myself so don’t expect me to leave you.”

Hotch grumbles something under his breath she can’t quite hear but she takes it as his usual self-deprecating, overbearing nature sort of thing and lets it slip. “Get some sleep, sir.”

He doesn’t remember a word of their previous conversation.

A nurse comes in and they run through all the same old stuff. He’s given a pink bucket even though he doesn’t express he’s nauseous, still clutches it to his chest. Pink plastic rubbing against the surgical staples, he’s afraid breathing the wrong way will split him open. The morphine is making his head fuzzy, makes his dreams weird and his thoughts overwhelmingly rippled. But the world distorts a little and he sees Garica sitting there, all of the brightness in the world scribbling away on her notepad so that she can make sure he abides by every word they advise. He feels a little better with her here.

“Mmm,” he’s leaning into his side but he perks up a little when he hears the nurse say something about food. Tells them he can’t eat anything for the next forty-eight hours. His noise draws their attention, the first real reaction he’s had since this all began. “No milkshake then.”

Garcia frowns at him and then the nurse. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, “sorry, sir.”

He clears his throat, pressing the bucket harder into his stomach. “S’okay.” He really doesn’t care about that. The main concern right now is not throwing up. A battle that it feels like he won’t be winning.

“Mr. Hotchner?”

He cracks an eye open and knows that a good stretch of time has just passed. There are no markers for it within the room, the blinds are shut on the one window and there’s not a visible clock within his line of sight but intuitively he knows.

“I need to change your bandages.”

He nods, faintly able to recall this part of the healing from years ago. The constant monitoring, the bandage changes. Sucks. All of it. “Garcia?” they ask him if she can stay. He doesn’t want to do that to her but he also doesn’t want to force her away. “You don’t have to stay.” He finds her in the mix of people, around the sound of gauze being opened, and things shuffled around. “Take a break,” he manages a sliver of control. “Get some fresh air.”

She shakes her head.

“Garcia.” They’re waiting on his permission, to go on or kick her out. “Penelope,” he whispers, “you don’t have to look. You don’t want to.”

She frowns, standing to contest his nonsense head-on. “Sir, you’re one of the three most attractive men I know.” She stands there and dares him to say otherwise. He’s a good bit older than she is but she knows an attractive man when she sees one. She’s not blind.

He smirks, too loosely for it to be entirely of his volition and nothing to do with the drugs. “One of three, huh? That makes me the third?” She rolls her eyes and he waves her off, makes a motion for her to go. “Go eat, Penelope. Call Morgan. Get out of here.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want him to ever leave her line of sight again but she nods and listens.

Morgan tells her everything with the Wilcox case went decently. They got the dad and the girl made it out alive. She tells him Hotch is awake, facing this new disaster with his usual stoic ways. They end the awkwardly, neither really in the headspace to play around.

He’s asleep again when she comes back. Gown askew across his shoulders, leaving his collarbones scandalously out in the open. Makes him look naked but she can’t look away. Under all those layers, suits that haven’t really changed in the decade she’s known him, he’s deceivingly pale. She can see muscle, the way it lays, and yet the soft corners of him. Years of fatherhood having worn him down in places softened him in others. He’s gained weight but this has set him back again and she realizes that if she’s looking at his too-thin body here then he’s lost weight before her eyes. How long has he been sick?

Visiting hours are over, she’s supposed to be making her goodbyes for the night. This sullen feeling in her stomach only doubles, makes her feel sick. She can’t leave him. Don’t they understand that? He’s in no state to be left by himself. “Sir?” she whispers. She touches his hand and he flinches.

His sleepy frown deepens but he hears her whisper for him again. He hums, eyelids too heavy to lift fully. “Mhmm?”

“I have to go,” she says. “Visiting hours are over.”

He hums again, nods.

She takes advantage of his current state leans down and kisses his forehead, hugs him while he lets her. “I love you, sir, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She takes a moment, his eyes still closed, to move his hair off of his forehead. “Are you okay? Will you be okay?”

He nods, swallowing thickly against the dryness in his throat. Facing the next few hours alone sounds miserable but he’s more than mastered the art of sleeping off stays in the hospital. It’s going to be a long night but not an impossible one.

“Oh,” she mumbles, “okay.” She moves to gather her stuff when she remembers the teddy bear. “Sir?”

He opens his eyes, just sliver but he’s there.

“I thought… maybe…” she places the bear in his lap. “To keep you company?”

He smirks, “thank you, Garcia.” There’s something about the way he rubs at the bear’s ear, softly and entirely content that gives her hope. He’ll be okay, she knows, but that doesn’t stop her from worrying. He looks up at her, that same lopsided grin she’s seen all afternoon. The drugs will wear off and she’ll be left without that smile again. Having to barter her way into sad grins instead.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she promises.

“Not until you’ve had breakfast,” he mumbles. “Eat first.”

She can’t help but smile even if she intends to listen. “Yes, sir.” So bossy. He’s lucky he’s cute or she’d have smacked him up the side of the head by now. She leaves, it hurts and she really, really doesn’t want to but she leaves.

He’ll be okay, she knows that.

And he is. There’s no good way to measure the day’s passing but a nurse comes in and tells it’s eight o’clock and that someone called the nurse’s desk asking for him, a name that came with a badge. Which confuses him but that really only leaves a small group of people, he assumes that means the team is back home.

It’s not them.

She gets there at nine o’clock and it’s only her badge and artfully mumbling something about Interpol that gets her back. They know he’s a federal agent and she’s betting on that. She’s always been good at poker.

He’s sleeping when she finds him, the only light in the room coming from the heart monitor. She wishes she knew how to read it, how to understand what the numbers mean so that she might be able to get a better grasp on the situation. All she knows is what Morgan told her over the phone but that seemed crazy. Hotch wasn’t even sick, Morgan said he was fine. Maybe a little off but he’s Hotch, he just simply is off.

“Emily?”

She steps into the room, following the sound of his sleep-disturbed voice.

“What’re you doing here?”

He’s obviously confused, frowning at her more than happy to see her. The morphine always gives him crazy dreams, he’s probably assuming that’s what this is. “I know I’m not your favorite,” she mumbles sarcastically, “but you don’t have to make it so abundantly clear.” With an eye roll, she sits herself down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, as his tired brain processes what she’s said, she fears what she fears every time she comes home-- that things between them have changed. That distance hasn’t made him fond but rather angry or has changed one of them so drastically that they no longer know one another.

He groans at her, shaking his head and grumbling her name in that bothered way he’s perfected over the years.

With a smile, she knows nothing has changed. He still manages to say her name like “leave me alone” meant to be taken as an endearment, an invitation to stay. “It’s okay,” she assures, tapping the back of her hand against his hip. “No hard feelings.”

He hums, not going to even bother with refuting any of her statements. That’s the beauty of their companionship, they never really have to say anything. That’s what she’s so afraid will change because she knows that if one day she comes home and he can’t read the “I love you” hidden in her sarcasm and the “please, don’t scare me like that again” in her playful proximity then that’s it. She can find the words for Reid and she’s always been able to suck up the physical comfort for Garcia or JJ but she just can’t with Hotch. She tried so hard after Foyet to be able to say something, to wrangle up comfort, but she just couldn’t.

But there was a moment, one night when the world seemed to be drowning in a rainstorm, that she woke up sick. His abdomen was still ablaze from Foyet’s attack, too fresh for him to be up and moving around. He’d followed the sound of her getting sick to the bathroom, making his slow way down the hall held upright by the wall. Moving forward only because stopping would cause him to fall. He didn’t leave her once he understood the noise just settled down on the ground beside her, back leaning on the bathtub. Neither said a word but she looked over at him and she saw all the comfort he couldn’t manage to bring to words. His worry etched across his face. She was supposed to be taking care of him and yet they’d ended up shoulder-to-shoulder waiting out a storm on the bathroom floor.

She has a fever-hazed memory of waking up with her head on his shoulder. A glass of water against her knee and the warmth of a heating pad against her stomach. No idea how he did it or when but they never spoke of it. Never had to. Somehow someone she can’t even manage to tell that she loves or that she even remotely feels concerned for turned out to be one of her closest friends. The asshole she once thought untrustworthy. He’s still an asshole but it’s one of those things that you just learn to look over.

Makes him interesting.

“So,” she says with a sigh, “you gonna scoot over or what?”

She gets another blanket out of a cabinet she sees in the corner of the room, distracts herself so that he’s certain she doesn’t see him moving. That’s what she’s talking about, there’s no communication needed. He can move himself over a little bit but it’s painful and he’s weak and he doesn’t want her to see that. She also knows he runs cold and won’t share his blankets with her. Loves her enough to share his bed but she’s yet to encounter someone he loves enough to share his blankets.

“What happened to your arm?” he can see it once she moves away again. A simple sling keeps it pinned to her chest, he assumes she’s either dislocated or been shot. Wonders why she didn’t call, why she didn’t tell anyone.

She sighs, he can’t see her roll her eyes but he knows that sigh and knows she’s done it even if he can’t see. “This prick,” she tosses the blanket on his legs as she climbs up beside him. “He kicked me, sent me down a flight of stairs.” He can tell she’s more embarrassed than hurt, which is good. She puffs out an agitated breath but despite this is very gentle as she gets closer to him. Hyperaware of the wounds she can’t see.

Her warmth is alluring, despite himself he leans closer, and she doesn’t say a word when his cheek comes to her shoulder.

“I’m okay, though,” she finally states. Moves some of her blanket over him, checks again that he’s comfortable. Which she assumes he is, or he wouldn’t be sleeping. “Clyde had given me three weeks off, told me to take a break. That’s why I came. I promise I didn’t take any unnecessary time off.”

He hums, appreciates this addition. She knew he would.

Her throat is sore where it catches the words she doesn’t know how to say. That she’s missed him terribly or that she loves him or that when Morgan told her what happened she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think or move. He takes her hand and she has to pinch her eyes shut so that she doesn’t cry and he squeezes her hand.

He’s missed her too.

He loves her.

He’s glad she came.

“Go to sleep,” she mumbles.

He hums.

--------------

The others come in at six, pilling into the room in dirty clothes from the day before and sore from the jet ride home. They’re too tired to speak, to do anything more than grumble and shove at one another to get through the door. As they pile in they take stock of the sight before them. Emily’s dark bruises, the black eye that the night had hidden from Hotch. Her hand still holding his. Hotch breathing, laying there entirely whole. Slowly returning to his normal colors.

They have questions, concerns to raise with both sleeping parties, but those can wait for a better hour.

They settle down in the room, squeezing together on chairs.

Morgan sees Hotch wake a little, a soft shift in his breathing.

“Back to sleep,” Morgan whispers, trying to keep the others from hearing. Hotch’s face pinches, mouth opening to ask the question Morgan already knows. “Everything went fine. Samantha is safe, no one got hurt.” He glances at Emily and shakes his head, “go back to sleep, Hotch. We’ll talk in the morning.”

And it settles once again.

Nothing but the soft sound of sleeping agents.

[justauthoring]

stranded.

Request(s): Hello, darling! Could I please request a Finnick Odair imagine where they get separated in the Quarter Quell and the reader ends up with Johana where her and the others get caught in the blood raining from the sky? Maybe reader isn’t too fond of blood and passes out before she reaches the beach so Finnick goes in to get her? She wakes up and literally tackles him because she missed him. Thank you, love, if you write this! I love your writing a lot! It always makes my day and makes me smile.

hi! i love the hunger games so i’m so excited that you’re getting into it! can i request something for finnick where the reader is also reaped for the quarter quell and they’re trying to protect each other throughout the games and are figuring out how they’re gonna make it through together?

hiii, could get a finnick imagine where they’re victors from different districts and go to the quarter quell together and they confess their love for each other or something. thanksss

Could you do a hurt/comfort fic with Finnick please??????? By the way I love you work 🥺

Just... anything Finnick... please ❤️❤️

Requested by: @arcadianmoonlight & @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 1,622 Please don’t plagiarize my work!

Finnick was reaped first.

They went in order of the districts. And being from district six, you had to watch Finnick, a dear friend you’d made during your horrifying time in the Capitol, be reaped for those terrible, terrible games once again. When you heard his name be called, the worry of being reaped yourself seemed to no long matter.

You wanted to be reaped. If only to be with Finnick, even if they were your final days.

And when the sweet, old lady who had never been anything but kind to you was called, it wasn’t a matter of thought or hesitation before you volunteered for her. You did it for selfless reasons, even if as you stepped forward and called out the words that by right meant your death you were shaking from fear beyond relief, you knew you were at least saving one woman’s life who’d gone through enough turmoil for a life time.

And... that meant you could be with Finnick. That in itself was enough.

Joining the rebellion was one of the easiest decisions you’d ever made. Half because of what it stood for, and half because Finnick had been there, and being with him always made you feel ten times braver then you actually ever felt. 

The night before the games, you thought you were prepared. It was a numb feeling more than anything. You weren’t scared, weren’t even really angry honestly. You never wanted to go through the games ever again in your life, but you felt as if a change was coming, and even if you never got to see the end of it, you knew your sacrifice was not pointless.

If you were to die in the games, you’d be dying protecting the chance of a new world.

And that’s something you’d always dreamed of.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the feeling of standing on those pedestals, staring around at the arena like the first time. It was so alike and yet, so different then you remembered. You remember trying to look for Finnick, desperately so, but unable to see him. Your heart was pounding madly against your chest, racing, and it felt as if you might throw up. Your nails were digging into the palms of your hands and you were trying to keep a level head, but ultimately failing.

Then the games started.

You ran fast to the cornucopia, somehow managing to make it there without running into anyone. You made a beeline for the weapons, all while trying to keep out a careful eye for familiar faces, namely Finnick. When your eyes land on a katana, a small bout of hope manages to flood through you, knowing that if you could get your hands on that, you were ten times saver.

Just as you move to reach it, someone jumps in front of you. It’s one of the careers.

In his hand is a staff.

You barely manage to dodge a hit, ducking with stride, nearly tipping into the water beside you. You strike your leg out, managing a hit, but it ultimately not really doing anything. You try to slip past him, get behind him so you can grab your katana, but the second you try, you’re nearly knocked in the shoulder.

Just as the career is about to send a deadly hit to your head, an axe stabs him square in the middle of his back. Your lips part as you watch his eyes widen, then dull, and he tips, falling into the water with a loud splash.

Behind him stands Johanna.

You meet her eyes, and with a nod, you rush forward, grabbing your katana before turning to you. “Have you seen Finnick?”

She shakes her head; “but I found Wiress and Beetee, like I was told. Come on!”

You want to argue. Want to look for Finnick. But you don’t. Instead, you follow her, rushing off with her and her district partner in tow, bringing Wiress and Beetee along, into a section of the jungle. You don’t really stop running until you’re in the depths of the trees, surrounded and hidden from view.

When you slow to a stop, everyone’s exhausted but alert. You grip your katana tightly in your hand, shaking.

“We should be good here.”

“For now.”

You drown out the chatter, glancing around.

“Did...” And you start off slow, breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Did anyone... Did anyone see Finnick? Or-Or Mags? Did anyone--”

You meet their eyes, seeing the pity on their gazes, even Johanna looks at you with sympathy, and you know right then and there, your question is useless. Everything had happened so quickly and suddenly... Finnick could be anywhere.

He could be... he could be dead.

You shake your head free of the thought, knowing nothing good will come from thinking like that.

You keep your mind busy with helping the rest of the group. You all continue to walk, going further and further into the depths of the jungle, keeping your ears on alert for any noise of someone approaching. You help set up camp and volunteer to keep first watch when night falls, knowing that you won’t be able to sleep anyway.

Hours, you’re sure, pass. And it’s reaching sunrise when you’re woken up by a raindrop falling on your forehead. You blink yourself awake as more raindrops fall on your head, groaning lightly in response as you push yourself up, meeting Johanna’s gaze, who’d taken last watch, sharing a similar expression.

Holding your hand out before you, you expect a simply drop of water to fall on your hand.

It’s not water. It’s akin to your worst nightmare.

“I-It’s blood...”

-

“You just left her there!”

“I had to get them out! That’s what you told me!”

Scoffing, Finnick brushes past Johanna without another word, ignoring the calls of his group as he rushes back the way Johanna, Wiress and Beetee had just run from. His lips snarl in disgust and discomfort at the traces of blood left from the blood rain, it coating his shoes, creating a thick and tense turmoil for him to rush through.

He has no sense of which direction to go. You could... You could be anywhere.

But he couldn’t just leave you in here. Not if there was a chance you were still alive. He... He had to find you.

He couldn’t lose you.

He wanders for a while, your name leaving his lips in a desperate shriek, hoping that just once he’ll hear you call back. He never does. Finnick doesn’t hear you respond not once, and his hope starts to dwindle while his desperation becomes tenfold, eyes frantically searching for your figure.

And then... then Finnick sees you.

He’d notice you anywhere. The sight of you brings such a deep, immediate relief to him as he instantly picks up the pace in his step, rushing towards you, and falling to his knees next to your limp body. Pressing his ear against your chest assures him you’re still alive because of your faint breathing. He brushes back the strands of blood-soaked hair that sticks to your face, looking for signs of any life-threatening injuries.

There’s scratches along your cheeks, probably from branches, and you’re covered in blood, but other then that, you look fine.

Slipping his arm under your knees and the other behind your back, Finnick gently pulls you up in his arms bridal style, while making sure to grab your weapon too. You stir gently in response, a moan of discomfort leaving your lips, but you don’t wake up. The trek back to the rest is with a lighter heart, though Finnick doesn’t once slow his step, desperate to get you cleaned up.

The others watch him carefully as he submerges from the jungle, but he doesn’t say anything, bringing you into the water carefully but quickly. You jump in response to the cold water, but Finnick keeps you safely tucked in his arm, using his free hand to wipe away the dried blood off of your skin, suit and hair.

A soft, relieved smile curls onto his lips as your eyes flutter open.

You choke at first, coughing the blood that you’d swallowed involuntarily, and Finnick helps ease you best he can. And at first you jump, confused, the last memory you have being in the depths of the jungle, choking on blood, but then your eyes find Finnick’s and you ease almost immediately.

“You found me...”

“Of course I found you,” Finnick whispers, pulling you up against his chest as you breathe heavily, trying to calm your racing heart. 

“Did the others--Did--”

“They’re safe! They’re safe!” Pulling back, Finnick points behind himself, to the rest of the group that scatters around in the water and on the beach itself. You ease in his grip as you let your eyes flicker across them all, meeting Johanna’s eyes briefly and nodding when you she sends you a look.

Turning to Finnick, you smile gently, bringing your hand up to cup his cheeks. “You went to look for me?”

Finnick shakes his head; “I couldn’t just leave you there.’

Letting your thumb stroke his cheek gently, you nod, voice a light whisper; “thank you...”

“I...” And he hesitates, face twisting for a moment as you watch with a blink, confused. “I have to say this. In case... In case...” You soothe his hesitation, stuttering with a gentle smile, cupping his cheek. “I love you...”

And your heart flutters in response, leaning up in his grasp to press your lips against his own in a quick, but meaningful and heartfelt kiss.

“I love you too, Finnick Odair,” you laugh lightly. “I have for a long time now.”

-

Let me know what you thought?

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Phosphene | Damian Wayne

✦ pairing — older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader (she/her)

✦ word count — 6k

✦ summary — Damian’s plans are never bad; one of them even found the cure to your insomnia.

✦ warnings — mentions of the experience of being fat but not in a bad way, hints of angst, insomnia, anxiety, a little jealousy sprinkled there, Damian being petty, mostly fluff; this was an excuse to write Damian fluff.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

The plan was simple according to Damian, you would have to visit the area where the type of flora the imported species that was causing people to hallucinate lived and wait there until people went to retrieve it in order to catch them.

You had thought he was joking at first, but there were no records left of the shipments that had brought the flower to the country. Without them, catching whoever was behind this would be impossible.

“What if it was your mom again? No offense.”

“None taken.” He swatted a hand. “It wasn’t her, I’ve never seen that type of flower near any of the League’s headquarters.”

“Well, you should take someone else.”

Damian lifted an eyebrow. “Raven will drive me insane, Blue Beetle is unbearable, Beast Boy doesn’t take anything seriously, Flash is...” He saw you wince as he mentioned your ex-boyfriend, “Well, you know how he is.”

“But he’s fast. You could send him on his ow—“

“Absolutely not. I am the leader of this team.”

Ah, yes, you forgot about his stupid pride for a second there. “Cyborg?”

“Busy with The League.”

You groaned. “I will slow you down.”

He now lifted both eyebrows, glaring at you.

“That wasn’t a joke about my weight,” you defended yourself. “I’m... tired.”

“Because you need fresh air and this mission is perfect for that,” he insisted. “It’ll be fun.”

“You hate having fun.”

He ignored your comment. “Don’t make me force you by saying it’s an order.”

You knew he’d never do it. You gave in, everyone around you did so all the time and you weren’t immune to his stubbornness.

The problem with the stupid mission, apart from how drained you felt, was knowing there was nothing you would really contribute. Everything would be easier if Damian would just take Wally, he would save you from endless headaches AND finish the mission quicker.

Damian was already in the living room, waiting for you with his duffel bag in hand and backpack hanging off his broad shoulders. He opened his mouth, about to ask if you hadn’t forgotten anything, when Wally’s voice interrupted.

“Can we talk before you leave?”

You shook your head at Wally’s question. “I would appreciate it if you covered for me with my family, though.”

“We’ll talk when you’re back?”

“Yeah,” you promised. “Be safe.”

“You too.”

Damian pushed the button to summon the elevator, impatient to leave already. You followed him inside as the doors slid open, silently standing beside him.

His glance shifted between the buttons and yourself throughout the elevator ride. He looked like a child who wanted to ask something they knew they shouldn’t.

In your experience, knowing he shouldn’t do or say certain things had never stopped Damian. After three years of being around him almost every day, you were used to his bluntness. You had been told he used to be worse as a teen, but you didn’t really understand what they meant.

Traveling by bus wasn’t something you ever imagined Damian doing. He never had enough time for that, and with the amount of wealth his family had it was also pointless. He had explained it was to go unnoticed with less hassle.

“Are you sure no one will recognize you?”

“Relax.”

Yeah, you wished you could. You had a bad feeling, Damian would dismiss it because you were tired so you kept it to yourself throughout the ride.

As the bus made the first stop, he asked if you wanted anything from the gas station store. Shaking your head, you took time to look out of the window.

As a sheltered kid, you had never been out that much. You had stumbled into being a superhero by mistake, when you discovered you were decent at fighting while at work.

Your family had owned a shop for a while, a client had gotten too aggressive and you broke his nose almost as a reflex. You started training boxing soon after; your mom thought it would be a chance for you to lose weight.

The weight loss didn’t occur, your body type would only change through surgery and you didn’t have the desire to get a procedure. You were fine with your body, and with your personality for the most part.

Something cold fell onto your lap. Looking down, you found your reusable water bottle. When had he snatched it off your backpack?

Damian took his spot next to you. “You look worried.”

You shifted your head to face him, grasping the bottle in your hand so it wouldn’t fall as you shifted your body too. “I’ve never been around nature that much,” you confessed.

“I’m with you.”

That was oddly comforting. Scratch that. It was comforting, period. Damian knew how to do everything, you would trust him with your life and your loved ones’ safety in a heartbeat.

A yawn broke through you. Not now, you thought. Rolling your head to the other side, you rested it on the window, the light would keep you from falling asleep.

Giving in to your exhaustion was tempting, after many long sleepless nights anything would be helpful. You were on a mission, Damian needed you to be alert; that was why you were there, not to fall asleep.

And who even feels the need of falling asleep in a bus but not on the comfort of their bed?

You let the desire of closing your eyes win. Familiar splashes of color appeared against the dark background, slowly fading as they molded with the pitch-black canvas.

Your head bounced as the bus followed what you assumed to be a bumpy road. Your first name was whispered softly, in a tone no one else had ever used. Blinking to adjust to the light, the first things your eyes could make were grey cloth and olive skin.

Lifting your head, you found Damian’s eyes on you. “We are about to arrive.”

”I’m sorry for falling asleep on you.”

He allowed a pause to linger between you. “It’s fine, you said you were tired earlier.”

Rubbing your eyes, avoiding Damian’s face at every cost as you tried to guess what time it was, you found yourself wishing you would’ve bought a watch for these types of scenarios — then again, you weren’t the adventurer from the team.

The place was packed. Couples and families alike were out and about all over the area, Damian had said they would, but you had underestimated how many people he was talking about.

“Wouldn’t it be better if we slept in tents and wore our suits? There’s a lot of people around.”

“That would look more suspicious. We’re here vacationing like everyone else.”

Lifting both hands in mock surrender, you walked past him and into the building.

You let him chose whether he wanted the bed closest to the door or not. He did, throwing his belongings onto the mattress to then pull out a map.

Approaching him, you leaned over to look at what he was seeing. He explained the path you would have to walk through to find the flowers. The hotel was too far away from the area.

“We should sleep. We’re waking up at dawn.”

“I’m not tired anymore,” you assured him.

His eyes lingered on you, silently asking if you were sure. When your only answer was the tilt of your head, he shook his own. “Then rest some more.”

You walked back to your side of the room in order to find some clothes to change into. You hadn’t really packed pajamas, but a pair of leggings and a t-shirt would be enough and had more utility.

You saw Damian pull a pair of sweatpants out from your peripheral view which prompted you to grip your clothes and get into the bathroom so he could have enough privacy.

He was already in bed when you came out, the only light left was the one emanating from the lamp at your right. Dropping the clothes you had taken off into your duffel bag, you turned the lamp off as silently as its switch made it possible.

You laid on the bed with your legs stretched out. The silence, comforting and mildly warm, was your only source of entertainment. It didn’t cross your mind to bring a book or something to pass the time so you would have to make do with your own imagination, the ceiling fan, and the silence.

Exploring the area didn’t sound so bad, but you would attract too much attention by walking around the trees with a flashlight in hand in the middle of the night. Besides, you didn’t know which kind of creatures could be lurking around in the darkness.

You needed a better plan to locate the flowers, and Damian’s permission.

He huffed on his bed. Turning around to lay on his side in hopes to finally fall asleep. He was thankful over the fact that you didn’t need to keep the lights on like Reyes, but frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t sleep anyway.

Groaning, he sat up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“How did you know I was awake?”

“Your breathing is too even for you to be asleep.”

You sat up on the bed too, looking for your sneakers. Once you had tied the shoes on, you stood up.

Damian threw a sweatshirt on, groaning as his left shoulder cracked.

Seeing you go through your backpack, he placed a hand on your forearm to stop you. “Only bring some water and a flashlight, no knives.”

Quirking an eyebrow, you looked at him through your eyelashes. “You are the one who trained me to use knives.”

“That’s exactly why I know when you should or shouldn’t carry them.” There was a hint of lighthearted teasing in his voice.

Under your feet, the old floor creaked. Walking down the hallway and crossing the lobby had been a cringing nightmare.

The two of you walked in verbal silence, letting the whooshing of the wind and the crickets’ chirping mix with the crushing leaves.

Damian would check the compass from time to time, making sure you were following the right path. The action reminded you of the reason you were there in the first place.

The soothing smell of earth made you feel like you were far away, perhaps in a dream.

Damian burst the soothing bubble by breaking the silence with a question. “Why did you refuse to speak with West?”

“Some things just don’t work out the way we want them to.”

Wally had been a good boyfriend, sweet and goofy. He always cheered you up when you were sad and took you out on cute dates. You had innocently assumed it would be enough forever, how couldn’t it be when he treated you so well?

Sadly, he wasn’t what you wanted in a partner anymore. You wouldn’t call him immature because he definitely wasn’t that; Wally was too... lively, too chirpy, somewhat hyperactive. You needed peace, enough stress knotted your muscles already without the headaches he triggered.

“Sounds like you don’t want them to work.”

“He gets on my nerves sometimes, I think it’s fair to say it doesn’t matter if I want things to work or not.”

“And you wanted me to take him with me instead.”

“He’s better at this than me.”

Damian lifted his bottle of water, lips grazing the edge of it as he said, “You sell yourself too short.”

You opened your water bottle too, shrugging. “He’s the sporty type.”

“I would hope so.”

You laughed against the lip of the bottle, “Why did you ask?”

“I imagined you wouldn’t like to get mauled by a bear without talking to him.”

“Are you saying you will let a bear maul me?”

He turned serious. “You know I would never.”

Silence fell between you again, as comfortable as always.

By the time you arrived at the point where the specific kind of flowers bloomed at, the sky was starting to appear dark blue instead of pitch black.

“Why don’t we steal them and then track whoever comes looking for them?”

“Because we wouldn’t have proof they’re the ones doing it.” Damian added, “But we should be closer, you were right.”

“Say that again?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

Smirking, too pleased with yourself to ruin the moment, you asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Have you ever camped?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. Stay here and make sure no one gets close, I’ll make a phone call.”

“I didn’t bring my knives,” you reminded him.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a hand, he sighed deeply. “You have your fists.”

He walked past you in the direction you had come from together. Before he could be too far away, you called for him, “And if I’m overcrowded?”

He craned his neck backward to give you a smirk. “Choke some of them with your thighs.”

Looking down at your thighs, you frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

You never found out what Damian meant by that. No one came near the area, seemingly due to how early in the morning it was. If you were to steal some flowers, you would personally do it at night when tourists were busy partying or sleeping.

Then again, stealing flowers wasn’t your expertise.

Damian took longer than you felt comfortable with, but he brought yours and his belongings with him alongside a few other things.

In silence, he slanted his head, motioning for you to follow him.

You snatched your duffel bag from his grasp. “What did you do?”

“I bought the camping essentials I found at the store.”

“I told you I’ve never gone camping!”

“I haven’t forgotten. But last night you wanted to sleep in a tent, didn’t you?”

You shook your head. “I said it because I can stay awake for long periods of time.”

“We’ll take turns.”

You would rather not. Camping as a fat person was a no-no. Well, not really, but many factors could ruin the experience for you and in that case for Damian.

The last thing you wanted was to put up his grumpy version.

You avoided him throughout the day, exploring the area near where he insisted on camping.

He really should’ve listened to you and taken someone else. Someone who wouldn’t get nervous. It wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t have known the reasons behind your reluctance.

Calling it insecurity would be reductive when you were comfortable with yourself. It was annoyance over not having control of the circumstances in which you would go camping for the first time.

“I think we should get some sleep,” he said from behind you.

You would only trouble him. There was only one tent, you didn’t know how narrow it would get and for the past four months, there hadn’t been a single night in which you didn’t end up tangled in the sheets over how much you twisted in attempts to find a comfortable position.

Sleep had become elusive even before you broke up with Wally. You tried every treatment in existence with no positive results, there was simply something wrong in your brain.

Damian was sure you wouldn’t come in if he didn’t force you, expecting otherwise would mean not being familiar with your antics. He didn’t want to pressure you, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing you were out there alone.

You could defend yourself rather well, it was irrational on his behalf to be so worried. His brain chose to nag him about it still so he listened to it.

He found you with your feet in the river, looking at the rippling water as you made slow movements with your fingers.

“It’s nice out here,” you commented, feeling his presence.

He hummed softly, taking a seat next to you. It smelled like a proper river, unlike Gotham’s.

“Did you get some sleep?”

“No,” he admitted, using his fingers to make movements in the water too.

“Do you have a lot on your mind?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“No.”

He hummed again. Your peaceful semblance was a nice addition to the scenery, with the moon shining in your eyes.

“I can take care of the morning roundabout if you want.”

“You should sleep a little first. We can set schedules later.”

You could’ve sworn his voice carried worry.

His sloppy steps halted as he held the tent open for you to get in. With a sigh, you complied and kneeled on the sleeping pad. At least he wouldn’t force you into a sleeping bag.

When he didn’t make a move to lay down, you begrudgingly did so. His ability to bend you to his will was annoyingly astounding — or astoundingly annoying, it changed day to day.

Damian immediately laid down next to you, facing the ceiling of the tent.

Your hand brushed his by mistake. “Sorry,” you whispered. Damian didn’t answer, he was already asleep.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Mission briefings were everything but fun. Damian’s dry orders always made someone complain — or worse, they sometimes forced the leader to repeat himself.

You were dreading this particular one. Everyone was in a prickly mood due to how much the flower thing was stretching and you could only assume this mission would be part two to stopping whoever was placing the orders.

Damian handed you a large box. Opening it, you found a deep red dress in your size.

“Where are ours?” Jamie asked.

“You are not attending the party as yourselves. (Name) and I will tell you when it’s safe to get in.”

“Why (Name)?”

“Would you prefer I take Raven?” Damian mocked.

Garfield shook his head. “But you don’t need a date to go to a party.”

Wally shifted in his seat.

“You want Bruce Wayne’s son to attend a party by himself without raising suspicion?”

Snorting, you only stared at him in hopes he would give more details. Of course he would say that.

You had to give it to Damian, he had good taste. The dress fitted you perfectly, it hid your thigh holster better than you thought it would when you took it out of the box which was a relief.

He had told you to not carry them, but the knives surely would come in handy if something went wrong.

With his hand on your waist, he guided you into the venue. People, eager to impress him, swarmed around him to compliment him and yourself. Their eyes would linger on you, but you didn’t care about what they could have to say; they wouldn’t dare to say it in front of him either way.

You leaned to speak into his ear, “Have they approached us yet?”

“Let’s dance.”

You both made your way toward the dancing area, inpatient for his answer. There was something off about that place and you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

Now with both hands on you, he leaned forward so only you could listen to him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I have a bad feeling.”

His touch turned into a grip as the words left your mouth. Your body responded to it by pressing closer to him, hands firm on his shoulders as you searched for his eyes.

“I’m with you.”

Nodding, you barely mumbled, “I never said I was scared.”

His mouth twitched upward. You tilted your head as his gaze fell on your nose. If his eyes continued the path...

Damian was pushed off you. As a reflex, you withdrew a knife from your holster and pointed it at whoever had interrupted.

“Woah,” Wally exclaimed, “It’s me.”

You turned to look at Damian but he was focused on the railway. A gun went off outside, prompting Wally to run in aid of your friends.

You slipped your knife back into the holster before it would grab anyone else’s attention. It would be hard for Damian to explain why his date had been carrying a weapon and you didn’t want to get him into trouble because you hadn’t listened to him.

Approaching him, you wrapped an arm around his waist. “Did they escape?”

Throwing his arm around your shoulders, he answered with another question, “Are you injured?”

“No.”

If looks could kill, Wally West would’ve fallen dead in the middle of Damian’s office thirty seconds ago. Not only had he made Damian look like a fool, but he had also let Marconi’s men escape.

Loosening his tie, he didn’t even try to control his voice. “What the hell was that?”

“Oh, you’re mad because people might know we are acquainted?”

“I am angry because you almost got (Name) hurt.”

“She’s the one who carried knives!”

Damian inhaled deeply, holding his head higher than usual. “There was no need for you to intervene.”

Wally gritted, “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I am the leader of this team.”

“You were flirting with her.”

Narrowing his eyes, Damian placed both palms on the desk. “I’m going to ask you to leave if you can’t separate your obligations with my team from your personal life.”

“So you weren’t flirting?”

Damian shook his head, exasperated.

He left the office before his head would explode. He was supposed to talk to the others too, but he didn’t want to.

His insomnia was getting worse, between his responsibilities at Wayne Enterprises and the newfound ineptitude of 70% of the team, he was close to combust.

Damian was confident in his leadership, he was more skilled than the team could even imagine. If he wasn’t so fucking tired, he would’ve solved this problem all by himself.

His legs carried him to the bedroom area. He had the intention of taking a shower and trying to get some sleep but they went out of the window when he heard your laugh.

Pushing your door open, he stuck his head inside. You beckoned him in, following his movements with your tired eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I didn’t hurt myself. And I’m the one who carried the knives...”

Damian set his jaw. Sitting down on your bed, he nodded upward at the TV. “What are we watching?”

“The cooking channel.”

“You hate cooking.”

“I hate following recipes for things that don’t need measurements,” you clarified.

He kicked his shoes off, swinging his legs onto the mattress as he rested his back against the bed frame.

Knowing he wasn’t a fan of cooking shows that didn’t entail some type of competition, you surfed through the channels in search of something that wouldn’t warrant you a whiny Damian.

His whining was fun, but you were too tired to not punch him. Remembering what you had wanted to ask since he entered, you breathed in. “Did you fight with Wally for not following your orders?”

“Something like that.”

His dry tone made you shift so you could gaze at him. Apart from his tiredness, he looked really angry still — the frown hadn’t disappeared from his face, his clenched jaw could’ve popped in front of you and you wouldn’t be surprised.

“We’ll catch them.”

Damian stared at you for a prolonged moment, mapping out the shape of your nose and how sunk your eyes were. Your blinking slowed down to a passive rhythm and he felt himself focusing on his own rhythm to mirror yours.

You bit down your bottom lip, gnawing on it. Stretching his hand, he stopped you from drawing blood by pulling your lip out with his thumb. He breathily concurred, “Yeah.”

Your eyes followed the movement of his hand as he withdrew it. Silently handing him the tv remote, you laid on your side, curled up as you went back to stare at the tv screen.

Damian allowed his body to relax as he skipped channels. Growing bored, he switched to Netflix.

You sighed deeply beside him, humming to yourself. He turned the lights off, then the TV.

Harsh knocking against the door woke him up. Looking down at the weight on his chest, he felt his breath hitch.

Whoever was knocking got fed up and forced the door open themselves. “Hey, (Nickname), have you seen Rob—“

Damian placed a finger against his lips, motioning for Raven to shut up.

She nodded enthusiastically, surprised by the tenderness of Damian’s touch as he lifted your head off his chest and placed it onto the pillow.

He left the bed slowly, picking his shoes from the floor and using them to gesture for Rachel to leave the room. He followed her, putting his shoes on once away from your bedroom.

“Did you need me?”

“Is there something going on between—“

Damian cut her off, “You were looking for me. Tell me what for.”

“Victor found a lead.”

Your bedroom door creaked open. Damian turned around to see you tumbling towards the kitchen, undoubtedly in need of some caffeine.

Glaring at Raven, he ordered, “Tell everyone to get ready.”

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Damian deviated his eyes to the side in order to rest them, placing a bookmark on the page. Logan was soundly asleep, with his head against the window like you had been that time on the bus.

He remembered vividly the tremble in his fingers as he moved your head to rest on his shoulder so you would be more comfortable, and the way his heart skipped a beat when you sighed contently against his skin.

Turning to the other side, he saw your hunched over form, hovering over the small table in front of you. How you could have the patience to fill a coloring book in the middle of a flight after such a tiring fight was a mystery.

Wally beside you caught him staring, again.

Damian thought he couldn’t dislike the mission more; oh, how wrong had he been. First, he hadn’t been able to bend the plans this time, the only thing he could do was give orders and split the team in the most efficient manner.

And it had worked, but at the cost of his sleeping pattern getting worse. The mission served two purposes, the first was obvious; the second one was more complicated, he came to a few conclusions — they made all the sense in the world in his opinion, but sense wouldn’t change the fact that he couldn’t sleep without you.

There was something in the heady smell of your shampoo that his monkey brain found soothing. He needed to sneak into your bathroom and check which brand you used. Or ask you. Yeah, that.

You were probably making up with your ex-boyfriend while he longed for sleeping next to you. And he hated it.

Moving your head left to right as you scratched your itchy nose, you found yourself wafting Wally’s sweet cologne.

Wally awkwardly nodded upward. The two of you hadn’t spoken much throughout the mission. You nodded back before scratching your nose again.

“Bored?”

Looking down, you shook your head. It wasn’t even worth mentioning at this point, or feeling some kind of shame for it — what embarrassed you was the conclusion you had come to a few mornings ago.

You couldn’t sleep without Damian. There was something about him, maybe his stillness, that relaxed you to the point of being able to sleep eight hours. Your pre-insomnia self had never slept more than five.

“Then?”

“Lots in my mind. I’m worried about—“

“Robin.”

You whirled your head to look at him, wide-eyed.

“I’m not surprised.” Hurt laced his hushed voice. “There’s always been something going on between you two.”

“That’s not true. And I’m worried about a lot of things.”

“He’s been staring at you the entire mission, he hates me, you said you didn’t trust Alexis and he broke up with her, you always give him the benefit of the doubt when his ideas are bad... I could go on and on.”

“Well, Damian’s ideas are never truly bad...”

“You call him Damian.”

“So?”

“No one else from the team does. He’s Robin to us, we are our superhero aliases to him and nothing else.”

“It’s not like you guys have ever tried to see him differently!” Your indignant whisper-shout surprised you while Wally hadn’t even flinched.

He hung his head backward. “You’re defending him again.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Is that why you worry about him to the point of no sleep? Because I know you never cared about me that way.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t love me, I know you did.” Wally gave you a sad smile, “But if I made you choose, you would pick him.”

“I wouldn’t pick someone who makes me choose between them or a dear friend.”

Shaking your head in frustration, you picked another marker and went back to your coloring book.

He had been the first relationship you took seriously, the first person you had truly loved in a romantic sense. How could he say those things? Even if they were true, they were uncalled for.

Wally leaned closer to you. “I won’t get mad, just stop lying to yourself.”

You were the first one to leave the plane after landing. Wally’s words made all the sense in the world, that didn’t mean you wanted them to.

No. The truth was that you wanted them to make sense and that bothered you more. You wanted to believe you weren’t the only one in a dilemma.

A stupid dilemma at that. Damian was your friend, you could tell him you needed him in an entirely platonic way — it would be a nice compromise and a pathetic cop-out at once.

Damian placed a hand on your shoulder as you passed him on your way to the living area. “Can you come to my office?”

“Just let me check my phone.”

Nodding, he slowly slid his hand back until it fell onto your arm for a fleeting second before he withdrew it.

Your skin buzzed the entire time it took you to answer texts from your family. Now that the mission was over, you would be able to see them — and to put up with their reaction to your break up with Wally.

Telling them that you had feelings for someone else wasn’t an option, and explaining it was Bruce Wayne’s son would make you sound insane to them.

Sat directly on his desk, with his cellphone in his grasp and frown upon his face, Damian was waiting for you.

From the doorway, you asked, “Are you okay?”

He didn’t look up. “No.”

The answer took you aback. Without invitation, you entered the office. Closing the door behind you, —carelessly and louder than you would’ve liked— you approached him.

He looked fine. Tired, but fine. You knew for a fact he hadn’t been injured, and the mission had been a success so his crankiness was worrying, to say the least.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like I’m worried?” You saw him nod. “Do you want me to scoop my eyes out?”

“Do you look at other people like that?”

“Yes.”

Damian huffed.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop acting like a brat with me, Damian.”

He put his cellphone to the side, finally lifting his head.“Is that really what you want?”

“Preferably. Your act, whatever thing you come up with on the next minutes, won’t push me away.”

“You are driving me absolutely insane!” He wiped his mouth after having spoken so abruptly. “You distract me, I can’t sleep without you next to me, your stupid ex-boyfriend being so close to you killed me the entire mission—“

“Three days?”

He glared at you. You said it so easily, like three nights of no sleep and headaches were pleasant.

You rested a hand on each of his shoulders. “I can’t sleep without you either.”

He opened his legs for you to stand between them. You did so, feeling his hands on your lower back. “Is this awkward?”

Shaking your head, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “We’ve been in more awkward situations.”

His arms snaked around you, pulling you flush against him. You inhaled the smell that lingered on his clothes, vanilla and almonds with a hint of something earthy.

“Couldn’t you tell me this in my room? Or yours?”

Damian rested his head on your shoulder. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“What did you want?”

“To keep you from spending more time with West,” he mumbled the admission.

You shouldn’t have found it so funny, but there you were shaking out of laughter.

He whined against your neck, “Don’t laugh at me.”

You slipped your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp. “It’s silly, though, he’s my teammate.”

“And your ex-boyfriend who wants you back.”

“Not anymore.” Feeling him tense under your touch, you elaborated, “He knows I like you.”

Damian’s embrace tightened. He hummed on your skin, nuzzling against your t-shirt. You played with his hair for a few more minutes until he started to get heavier against you.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you warned.

He hummed again.

“Damian,” you tried to make your voice come out sternly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be harsh. “You’ll wake up sore. At least let’s go to the living room.”

Reluctantly, he pulled away from you. He couldn’t contain a whine as your fingers slid off his hair, making you giggle. He grabbed said hand, practically dragging you out of the office.

Thankful for not bumping into anyone, you made it to his bedroom. You imagined he had stopped there because it was the closest one to his office.

He didn’t let go of your hand as he sat down on the bed and kicked his shoes off. You had to wiggle your fingers off his to round the bed and lay down without pulling him with you.

As soon as your back touched the bed, Damian rested his head on your chest, sliding his hand between the mattress and your back.

Your fingers went back to his hair, which was what he had been seeking in the first place, massaging circles on his scalp. It didn’t take much for his breath to even out.

When you woke up, Damian was laying on his side, hugging you tightly from behind with his other arm. His light breathing fanned on your shoulder, tickling up to your neck.

Torn between leaving the bed to follow your routine and staying in the comfortable position against his chest, you shuffled as slowly as you could until you were facing him.

Damian had never looked that serene. Anyone who didn’t know him would have assumed he didn’t have a single responsibility or weight on his shoulders if they could see him at that moment with his mouth ever so slightly parted.

Your heavy eyes lid closed. You weren’t sure as to what time it was, you only knew that the light of the day was gone already, but the comfort of Damian’s frame and his light breathing was better than anything you had to do.

Nestling your face on his chest, you felt his hand move down your back.

Sleepily, he said. “We could go out to dinner.”

His deep voice made you feel more awake. Draping an arm over his torso, you joked, “Are you asking me out?”

Now with his hand on your thigh, he spoke more seriously. “More than that. But first things first.”

You hummed. As nice as it sounded, you didn’t want to get up.

Damian pinched your thigh. “Come on, I’ll give you an excuse to wear the red dress again.”

You lifted your head off his chest. “Do you have a fixation with that dress or something?”

“I mean, I bought it for a reason...”

You playfully hit his chest. He smirked, fingers trailing up your thigh, giving you goosebumps.

You sighed, “Do you think the team will say anything?”

“It’s not like I care.”

You knew he cared deep down, but fighting him on it would be losing your time. It wouldn’t affect him either way, not like it would to you if they looked at you differently or judged you.

Damian left a kiss on your forehead. “I’m with you,” he reminded you.

[ateezmakemeweep]

you’re taking reaction/imagine requests? asdfghjkl um- can we have an imagine with ateez teasing and embarrassing you in front of your classmates during your online classes during quarantine? i know it sounds lame zxcbxm

❥ kim hongjoong

“so i was thinking i could do this part and maybe you could do-“

hongjoong opened the door to your shared bedroom, making you look up from your computer and narrow your eyes at your boyfriend. you subtly shake your head at him before continuing to speak to your project partners. 

he had heard you complain for the past week about how they hadn’t been doing anything, that their powerpoint slides and essay portion still wasn’t done despite the deadline being tomorrow. he raised an eyebrow at the girl’s nasally voice saying that she still didn’t quite understand what she had to do. 

he could only listen to you for so long try to explain it to her, voice high and shaky the way it always is when you’re uncomfortable; he knows how much you prefer working alone, that group work and public speaking are the two worst aspects for you in school. 

it’s why he prances his way over to your desk as you look into the camera, only sensing his presence when he leans over your shoulder and places his arm down on the desk. “are these the girls who weren’t doing shit?” he asks, mouth in your ear but the words loud enough for everyone to hear. your cheeks flame and you push him away from the desk, stuttering out an apology as you glare at hongjoong who’s looking at you from across the room. 

embarrassment and all, though, it must’ve hit a nerve in them because when you checked back at the document a few hours later, after yelling and scolding hongjoong for a good thirty minutes, everything was completed. 

❥ park seonghwa

you had told him to stay out of the camera. that you would stay in the living room with him but that he couldn’t make a sound or have his presence known. 

and it’d been working until your teacher called on you to answer a question, his voice hard and commanding the way all of your classmates have grown used to. everyone had just thought the man hated you all, his blunt way of speaking and loud, booming tone scaring the shit out of all of you for the first few weeks of class.

you came to learn that’s just how he was, a severe case of tough love that some long-time professors just harbor after dealing with loudmouth college kids. but when seonghwa heard the man harshly call your name, his head looked up from his phone and he narrowed his eyes; he didn’t like someone talking to you like that. 

“can you give us your thoughts since you’ve just been sitting there with a stupid look on your face.” 

he isn’t able to see the small smirk on your face at the professor’s words, instead throwing his phone aside and poking your arm gently. 

“who the fuck is he talking to like that?” 

your eyes widen as you immediately mute your sound, pushing seonghwa back and shaking your head at him. “seonghwa, are you crazy!?” your laptop is turned away so your classmates and professor don’t see you and your boyfriend talking back and forth, the crazy overprotective man next to you saying he doesn’t care who it is, no one’s allowed to say shit like that to you. 

“he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, he’s just like that!” but when seonghwa shakes his head and deems that’s completely unnecessary, you take your laptop and stomp off toward the bedroom. you ignore the call of seonghwa’s voice before you close the door, warning him through gritted your teeth he better not follow you. 

when you turn your camera back on, your cheeks are warm and embarrassment floods through you at the smirk on your teacher’s lips and the curious looks of your classmates. 

“your boyfriend’s not gonna beat me up, is he?”

❥ jeong yunho

you were listening to the professor’s lecture with your feet in yunho’s lap, the boy quietly doing his own studies as he listened to music through his headphones. 

the video session was scheduled for an hour and a half, looking at the time in the corner to reveal only forty minutes have passed. you let out a sigh, resting your head on your hand as you do everything in power to pay attention to the professor’s monotone voice. 

yunho looks up and sees the bored expression on your face, pausing his music but remaining nonchalant as he moves his gaze back to his textbook. but just as he hears you start to yawn, he moves his long finger to your foot and scratches up the bottom of your sock-covered skin.

and thank god your mic is muted because you jump and yelp at the ticklish feeling and your laptop falls over into the couch cushion, your squeaky “yunho!” followed by his deep chuckle making you smack him playfully as you adjust yourself again. 

you notice a few of your classmates smirking and hope it has nothing to do with your little mishap, squinting at yunho as he continues to laugh at you. when the teacher announces it’s time for a class discussion, you go to move your feet but he grabs your ankle, a pout on his face as he promises not to do it again. 

but you missed the way his pointer and middle finger were crossed behind his thigh, the mischievous boy waiting until you started talking to scratch his nail under the bottom of your foot. 

“and i think that’s something really import-ANT…in this lesson,” you say, the way you jump making him snort. you kick him in the side before sitting up, apologizing to your professor before you attempt to continue your intellectual discussion. 

❥ kang yeosang

you thought it was lucky that your class time matched up with yeosang’s practice time, a quiet peaceful hour and a half for you to sip your coffee and really pay attention to the lecture. 

but since you were in your room, you didn’t hear the front door or the sound of shoes hitting the floor. you only became aware of your boyfriend at the same time as your whole class, your bedroom door pushing open and yeosang jumping to belly flop onto the bed directly behind you. 

“hi, baby! shit, i am so sweaty, i can’t believe-“

“uh, yeosang-“ you try to say but the boy only takes a heavy breath and continues to talk, going on about how difficult the new choreography is and how if he doesn’t start working out hard, it’s gonna be the death of him. and you love that he’s telling you all of this, you really do, but you’re also not ignorant of the fact that your entire call has turned silent in amusement and fascination at yeosang’s cute rambling. 

“why are you sitting over there, can’t you just lay with me so i can-“

“yeosang, please stop talking,” you beg him quietly, the panic in your voice causing him to look up; your cheeks are burning and you look about ready to burst out into awkward laughter, the boy’s face dropping when he sees about 25 boxes of random faces staring at him. 

“oh-oh my god! oh my, god! i’m so sorry, i’m just gonna- why wouldn’t you tell me!” he frantically runs out of the room, your own hand covering your face because it’s not even like he gave you a chance. 

“i’m sorry,” you say to your class, your pink cheeks causing your professor to smile and shake her head, carrying on with the lesson like you and your boyfriend aren’t gonna hide under the covers in embarrassment for the rest of the day over this. 

❥ choi san

your teacher didn’t require sound during lectures but she liked to make sure everyone was up and awake for the eight a.m class, always asking you guys to leave your cameras on so she can see you’re “attentive and alert.”

and usually you didn’t mind but today san was fast asleep so you had your headphones in, your camera turned away from your bed and facing the bright window as you tried your hardest not to nod off right then and there. 

you didn’t think you woke san when you snuck out from under his arm but you found that you were sadly mistaken, just twenty minutes into the lecture his whiny morning voice starting. 

“baby….come back to bed,” he mumbled into the pillow, a smirk on your lips as you look over at him. his one eye peeks open and he sees you sitting at the desk in front of your laptop, wearing his shirt and a pair of shorts with knee high socks that makes him all too desperate and needy to have you back in bed with him. 

you watch his eyes rake over you and a pout make its way on his face, holding his arm out as he whines out your name. “soon, san, i’m almost done,” you tell him, even though it’s a lie and you hope he’ll fall back asleep within the next few minutes

but he waits for all about five before he gets up, concentrating on writing notes down with the professor’s voice in your ear that you miss the way he shuffles toward you. it’s not until he wraps his arms around you from behind and buries his face in your neck that you realize he’s here, your eyes shooting to the camera and cheeks flushing before raising it to the ceiling. 

“san! my whole class just saw that!” you squeal, the way he pulls your neck back to kiss your lips proving he’s completely unbothered by the fact; he just wants you back in the warm bed, who cares about school?

❥ song mingi

“guys, you have to be quiet!” your roommate tells the boys, “y/n’s on a video chat with her class and-”

mingi, in a burst of excitement to finally see you after being apart for a week, ignores the girl’s words and bursts right into your room. his deep, happy yelp of your name and excited waves causes you to snap your head back and smile immediately at him; your heart softens at the way he’s bouncing like a giant child. 

you return a small wave before nodding toward the door, holding up your two palms and wiggling your fingers to indicate ten more minutes. but the boy just doesn’t get it, making his way over to you before he stops and sees a whole laptop of people staring at him. 

he looks at you in surprise, like he wasn’t already warned that you were doing this, before jumping to the side and waiting politely in your bean bag chair. 

you turn back around and have to fight the smiling desperate to make it’s way on your pink cheeks, ignoring the way your friend in the class starts private messaging you asking who the cute boy behind you was. 

❥ jung wooyoung

“why’s your camera off, y/n?”

your eyes narrow at the obnoxiously familiar voice coming through your laptop speakers, shaking your head as you do your best not to curse him out. 

given that your real class time is over two hours, your professor allows for a fifteen minute break where usually everyone either turns off their cameras to eat or has one big chaotic chat, usually led by no other than 

“wooyoung, shut up,” you snap when you can’t take it anymore, his nonstop questioning and high pitched giggle piercing right through your eyes. 

“why don’t you say it to my face?” he counters and you can just hear the smirk in his voice. you leave your computer and stomp out of your bedroom and down the hall, kicking open the door to see the boy himself sitting in front of his laptop with a shit eating grin on his face. 

“we are never taking another class together again!”

❥ choi jongho

“any last minute questions?”

“oh, um yes!” you reluctantly speak up, hating to ask in the first place and especially now over this new type of video chat set up. “about the project,  should we be using apa format or-”

“goodbye, baby, goodbye!” 

your mouth drops open and heat immediately creeps on your face, jongho walking past you with headphones in as he sings and dances like there’s no one around. but there’s about thirty of you around, his singing piercing through the speakers of every single one of your classmates as they watch him shimmy and shake across the room.

he continues his singing until he closes the door to the bathroom and you don’t even think he noticed you sitting in your desk at the corner, an awkward laugh threatening to bubble out of your mouth as you try to regain your composure. 

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt out, cheeks pink as you shake your head and try to ignore the giggles coming from your classmate when, even from the bathroom, they can hear jongho singing his heart out.

[zodiyack]

Wrong Girl, Right Time

Requested by anon: Helloo! I am a big fan of your writing and I had an idea about a kinda dark angsty tommy x reader fic taking place in season 1 where the reader is a childhood of the boys and when tommy spends his first night with Grace inspector Campbell goes after the reader (maybe one of his men physically assaults her) and tommy learns about it the next day and realises he messed up big time and tries to fix everything. Thank you so much and I will understand if you don't want to do it.

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, angst that was written while half asleep, implied smut, physical assault, fluff, me not proofreading

Note: Aaa! I hope you like it, I tried! Enjoy!

Taglist: @captivatedbycillianmurphy, @stydia-4-ever, @matth1w, @redspaceace, @jenepleurepasbaby, @simonsbluee, @peakysputain​

Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist

Y/n walked back to her sofa, wrapping her sweater tighter around her body. The warmth of Tommy’s kind hugs, the firewood he’d bring her after he’d scold her for risking her life living in such a cold temperature, the smiles that warmed her insides- even if they weren’t directed toward her.

She sighed, plopping down on the cushions. She’d fallen for Tommy, since they were kids, and she had no idea how to tell him. Or if he even felt the same.

“Fuck.” She rolled over, curling into a ball and hugging herself, hoping for warmth. Hoping for Tommy to show up with firewood even if it meant he’d scold her. Hoping for Tommy to hug her tightly and kiss her hairline even if it meant she’d have to suffer knowing it was platonically. Y/n didn’t care the consequence, she just wanted him.

And somewhere out there, he was with her. Just not Y/n “her”. It was the woman he gave his heart too. Or rather, wanted to give his heart to, but, for once in his life, he broke down and verbally admitted he was too much of a coward to do so.

They danced together. Twirling around the room. Lust filled Tommy’s eyes, a mirrored look in Grace’s. They leaned in, connecting their lips and relieving themselves of the desire they both knew they felt.

Outside of Grace’s place, was officer Campbell. Tommy knew. He knew the man would have a high chance of coming across this. And he could care less for the man’s thoughts on the situation.

He smiled softly into the kiss, deepening it and their contact, suddenly becoming more cocky inside knowing Campbell saw him and Grace. But the lust remained, and like he’d told others and himself time and time again, he just really couldn’t find the fucks to give.

Unfortunately, thanks to his discovery, Campbell decided to retaliate. He knew of Y/n L/n. The girl who hung around the Shelby boys as a young girl, who looked at Tommy with longing in her eyes, who smiled and hid the hurt in her heart when she met Grace.

He chuckled as he walked to the girl’s home. He sent his men to the door, told them to break in, have two grab Y/n, rough up the place and then meet in the living room with the girl.

Officer Campbell kicked a shard of glass that lied on the floor. “Look at this place, Y/n. It’s a bloody wreck!”

“Because of you, asshole!” She spat on his shoes. Campbell gave eye contact to one of the men next to Y/n, and smiled when he heard the sound of a smack and a yelp of pain. Y/n sobbed and looked up at him, a red hand mark rested on her face.

“My goodness, Miss L/n, you really ought to cover that up! Don’t want Tommy thinking you’re a weak link, eh? Maybe he’ll find you ugly, inside and out, when he learns you went insane, trashed up your own place, then fought someone for no reason... and lost.”

She furrowed her eyebrows and big the inside of her cheek.

“What do you think? Y/n?”

Still, Y/n kept quiet, refusing to give into his game. She continued to glare at him, but kept her mouth shut. It pissed him off, to say the least. He nodded to the men again. Another yelp left her mouth. Blood leaked from her nose.

“Ooooh!” The officer scrunched his face in reaction to her face, “That’s got to hurt, doesn’t it? Well I can make it stop hurting. Just tell me whatever you can about your little crush, okay?”

He growled when she didn’t respond. A man behind her yanked her head back with his hold on her hair. A whimper escaped her lips.

“Answer me, you bitch!” She smiled. He returned it with the thought that he’d won. “Good. Now-” His face paled, then crinkled in disgust.

“That’s all I know, sorry love.” Y/n quipped with a mischievous smirk, wiping her mouth on her shoulder and looking down at Campbell’s shoe. A wad of her saliva coated the top of it.

“Alright then, if we can’t get information out of you, we’ll just... leave Tommy a little surprise.” He nodded to the man before walking out the door, the rest of the men following.

“You fucked up big time, princess.”

“Thomas?” His foot steps slowed, then rushed again. His breathing was unsteady as he ran up the stairs and to the room the person he was looking for was occupying.

“Oh God- what did he do to you?” Tommy heard his voice crack as he knelt beside Y/n’s bed. He regretted everything. The night he shared with Grace, the deal he made with Campbell, the mistake of giving Y/n the space she never asked for.

“It’s okay-” she coughed, causing Tommy to wince, “go back to Grace.”

“What? No, are you crazy?” He truly thought she was joking. He smiled with the side of his mouth and forced out a small chuckle of his own. “You need to rest, and I,” He grunted as he sat down next to her, “am not going to leave until you get better.”

“Why? You could be having the time of your life right now, why stay with me when I’m sick and possibly very ugly-” she dawned a goofy smile, unknowingly making Tommy’s heart race faster than it already was, “I dunno, I haven’t been able to look in a mirror quite yet.”

“You’re beautiful. You don’t need a mirror to see that.”

He let go of his tougher exterior, smiling brightly and genuinely. He grabbed Y/n’s hand and kissed it softly.

“Thomas Michael Shelby, what on Earth are you doing to me?”

Tommy looked up with slight confusion and noticed Y/n’s state, mental absence being a perfect words to describe it. She looked out of it, but still, just as beautiful out of it as she would be if she was unharmed. He was about to ask her what she meant, but she’d already turned over and slipped away into peaceful slumber again.

When she woke up again, her consciousnesses was more alert, as her body was healing while she slept, the foggy mind effect her injuries gave her was fading away with every moment she rested.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“Tommy? Oh.” She clenched her jaw. Y/n really had missed him, but that night gave her a lot of arguments to settle with Tommy, things she needed him to answer.

“Pol told me you collapsed on the floor, already unconscious by the time she discovered you, and that she got Arthur to help you into your bed. She said you were healing, nothing major, just bruises and some blood here and there.”

“Tommy.”

“Said she didn’t know what happened.”

“Tom.”

“So what happened, Y/n? Tell me so I can be on my merry way, and blind them. That’s what you want, right? Me to like you enough to go and blind some bastard? Well you’re wrong if you think I don’t. Y/n, some things you underestimate about me, like how much I care abou-”

“Thomas!”

“...you- ...Yes?”

“He tossed me around like a fucking rag-doll.” Y/n ignored the ache of her head and held her composure. If there was ever a time to give Tommy a piece of her mind, it was now.

“I- Who?” Her eyes studied Tommy, the way he clenched his fists with anger.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no. You don’t get to be mad. You went out there, fucked Grace, and I was stuck here, alone, cold, oh and abused by Inspector Chester fucking Campbell!” She stood up, wobbling slightly due to her lack of movement in bed rest. Tommy tried to help her stand, but she pushed his hands away with a huff. “I hoped, I hoped, that you’d show up. But you never did.”

“Campbell did that to you?” He looked at Y/n’s face, flinching internally at the purple, blue, and kind of brownish hues that marked her skin.

“Fuck you Thomas Shelby.” He flinched. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Fuck you!” She stumbled over to him and hit his arms, punching him while breaking into tears. Tommy just stood there. He took her hits. His eyes closed in pain, not from her actions but from the situation; the pain striking him in the heart.

Finally, she broke. When she stopped punching him and began to drop to her knees, Tommy caught her. “I hate you.” She cried.

He felt the tears begin to form, spilling without his consent, “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, I’m here-”

“I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you!” Though she was muttering words of her pain, she clung to Tommy tightly and refused to let go of him, as if her letting go of him now would be letting go of him forever. Her face was reddening and her nose was snotty, the tears were flooding.

“Let it all out, it’s alright, love. I’m here-”

“You weren’t the night Campbell gifted me to one of his men to use as a fucking pinata.”

He stopped. His heart ached. “I know... I’ll never forgive myself for that. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I didn’t show up, I’m sorry I-”

“Stop saying sorry. You’re not sorry. You slept with the woman you’ve been eyeing.Congratulations! Hey, want another medal? This one’s for world’s worst best friend! And another! Another for world’s best heart-breaker! Gonna throw ‘em in the cut too, huh? A man fights in a war for his home, but can’t bloody protect the girl who loves him the most? Why?? Oh, maybe because he’s too busy, I don’t know, starting another fucking war?!”

“W-what?” He muttered quietly, dropping with Y/n, who was pulling away to spew more angry words at her childhood crush. She looked him in the eyes with fury and hurt.

“You could’ve been there! You.. you could’ve been there, but you chose her... you chose her over me.. Just like you always did...with every girl... ever since we were kids...”

“Oh Y/n...” He cupped her cheeks, and this time- she did not fight. “You’ve been hiding that? For so long?”

She nodded, reaching up and wiping her eyes with her arm. “I was hoping... I was hoping you’d pick me one day. But that day never came. So I kept waiting. I watched you flirt, I watched you admire, I watched you be admired... I know, it’s silly, but no matter how many times I’ve tried to get over you, I can’t. And I know you don’t li-”

Tommy cut her off with a harsh, desperate, yet somewhat soft, kiss. “To be honest, Y/n,” He lifted her off the ground, swooped her off her feet and carried her back to her bed, setting her on the comfy mattress and tucking her in. “It’s not silly. I’ve tried the same, and yet, here I am.”

“Wait- How- But you-”

“Grace was a distraction, like the whores. Something to get my mind off of you. I suppose I just didn’t realize I was thinking of you...” He pulled away from the bed and grabbed his hat, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To make this right.��� Tommy turned, a small smile gracing his face. “Do you have problem with that?”

“Yes, actually. I do.” Y/n smiled softly at Tommy as he raised his eyebrows in question, “You can make it right later. For now, I’m healing and I’ll be needing some company, preferably from my favorite of the infamous Shelby boys.”

“Finn?”

“No, dummy, you!” She giggled when Tommy rolled his eyes, his smile bigger than before, and crawled into the bed with her, draping an arm lazily around her waist and kissing her forehead. “Thank you, Tommy.”

“For you? Anything and anytime. You’re welcome, Y/n.” He closed the space between them, kissing her softly. Eventually, the pair fell asleep, unaware of Polly walking into the room a couple hours later, curious to where Tommy was and how Y/n was doing. 

She smiled at the sight; Y/n, smiling with her cheek pressed against her arm, chest heaving with each breath she took, Tommy’s head resting on it. Her hand was buried in his hair from her attempt of lulling him to sleep, and Tommy’s mouth was parted slightly, his chest moved up and down like Y/n’s.

“Really was the wrong girl, but had you been with the right one, I’d say damn near fantastic timing, Thomas.” Pol closed the door behind her. She knew this couple would happen; Polly Gray is always right.

[dragons-socks]

bby bumblebee chptr 6

A tall woman stood in front of Bee with an ever present scowl on her face. A handful of shoeless kids in all white clothes were practicing movements behind her. Bee turned back to Lennox and shook his head. He wasn’t going to put on pajamas and make a fool of himself. He’d rather be at the hands of Starscream.

“Too late, we’ve already paid for you to be here for a month. So you’ll have to tough it out.” Lennox shrugged.

‘That kid just fell.’ Bee watched as a kid kept tripping over his pant legs and then knocked over another kid and like a domino effect they all toppled to the ground. The woman closed her eyes as she heard the commotion and her students started to fight.

“Silence!” She yelled over the noise and the kids got back into their lines. “Jacob, I thought you said your mom got the right sized gi this time.”

“She said I’d grow into them.” The boy that was the epicenter crossed his arms. “I tried to explain it to her, but she said not to argue with her.”

“Alright, alright. Go get the spare out of my office. The rest of you continue practicing.” She turned back to Bumblebee and Lennox. “Is he deaf?” She asked.

“No, he can hear you just fine. He’s just mute.” Lennox answered.

“Ah, I understand. It’s nice to see a parent taking action to help their child’s confidence. I’ve had many kids here come in mute and leave little chatterboxes.” The woman said.

“It has to be some miracle to get Bumblebee to talk. He lost his voice in an accident when he was younger. His vocal chords are all but ripped out.” Lennox explained, motioning Bee to tilt his head up and reveal the gruesome scars around his neck. Bee didn’t really care for his scars. He came to terms with them long ago.

“That would be difficult to restore his voice, but no matter, we aren’t throat doctors and I have a harsh zero tolerance policy on any sort of bullying so rest assured your son is in a safe place.” The woman knelt down to be at the same height as Bee. “Hello, Bumblebee, I am Laura Alves. You may call me Sensei Alves or just Sensei. I’ll be your instructor until you decide to leave my classroom.”

“Alright, Bee, I’ll be back to pick you up in about -”

“We train for two hours a day.”

“Two hours, kid.” Lennox ruffled Bee’s hair and walked out. Bee slumped in defeat as he was left with the angry looking woman and about fifteen other kids.

The first thing she had Bee do was take off his shoes and socks. The floor was cool on his feet, making his toes curl. And then the woman led him into her office and handed him a box with the same white pajamas as the other kids.

“This is called a ‘gi’. It will be your uniform when you come here. It will be your responsibility to bring them back each time. I like to start each of my students with a practice match against me. Don’t be frightened, I’m not going to go all out, my young student. It’s just for me to see your capabilities. Sometimes you kids soak up some knowledge in fighting by watching television.” Laura talked almost as much as Raven. Bee nodded along and made a few clicking noises to let her know he was listening. “After that we’ll decide on the disciplines to start you out with.”

The class was surrounding the mat. A girl with a high ponytail let out a whoop and told the sensei to ‘have his ass’. Laura told the girl to stand in the corner for time out. She looked about Annabell’s age.

“Okay, are you ready, Bumblebee?” Laura asked. Bee nodded, mimicking the teacher’s pose. He took a deep breath and nodded.

Bee was a trained soldier, he wasn’t just a scout. He was the scout for Optimus Prime. Or was the scout for Optimus Prime. He wasn’t going to go down so easily, and he never has. Even when Megatron ripped out his voice box it wasn’t without a fight.

The height difference was like fighting Optimus Prime in his original form. Laura towered over him. He blocked a few blows and threw a punch of his own. This body’s muscles didn’t have the same extreme training as his old one had. This body wouldn’t listen to all of his commands like it was breathing. He hit the floor.

He hit the floor in a matter of minutes.

“That was really good, Bumblebee.” Laura held her hand out to him. He was about to ignore it, but decided not to. He wanted to be angry with the teacher for his defeat. He even wanted to be mad at himself. He couldn’t. He knew how much work and skills he had. He survived in a multi-century old war when a lot of his race was killed out. It wasn’t his fault. It was the decepticon’s fault. It was Knockout. It was Starscream. It was Megatron, who was to blame for this and any future failures of his. This was the first step in making sure he’d be able to make Megatron pay.

With a determined look, Bee threw the first punch to the air along with a group of earth children.

___________

Annabell was hiding from Sarah again and it was up to Bee to find her. It was surprisingly difficult to find one five year old in just a two story house. There were a few places he could instantly cross off his list. Lennox’s office was off limits to anyone who wasn’t ‘physically an adult, don’t argue with me, Bumblebee,’ and Annabell was terrified of the attic storage space. That left a lot of places to cover.

Sarah had started using Bumblebee as her own scout, searching out her daughter. Bee couldn’t deny the fact that he sort of enjoyed this intense version of hide-n’-go-seek. Until today when he searched up and down the normal spots and still couldn’t find Annabell. He took a long look at the office, but still didn’t dare go there first. He walked to the attic stairs, looking up the darkened path to see if he could get a glimpse of the little Lennox.

“Bee!” Annabell popped out of the shadows, giving Bee a heart attack. “Look what I found!” She held out a small violin. Bee’s music teacher had one of these hanging on his classroom walls. She strummed the strings violently. Bee waved his hands to stop her, but it wasn’t fast enough. One of the brittle stings snapped and lashed back at the girl. Her high pitched scream alerted the mother to the mess. Bee tried to see if she was seriously hurt, but Annabell kept pushing him away.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah ran into the hall, oven mitts still on.

‘She found an old violin and the string snapped.’ Bee pointed to the busted instrument he had pushed away.

“Alright, alright. Let’s see the damage.” Sarah said, her voice calming down and coaxed her daughter into moving her hand away from her face. There was a scratch across her cheek, and a little blood was coming out, but nothing that looked too serious. Sarah picked up Annabell and brought her to the bathroom to get cleaned off and a few bandaids where the bleeding was originating.

Bee went back to the hall and picked up the violin. It fit right in his hands. He didn’t touch the strings though. He used to use the lyrics of musicians on the radio for his voice. He could communicate with his team and with Sam by switching through thousands of channels and stations to construct his own thoughts. Or he’d use the radio waves and the makeshift coder Ratchet had fixed him up with. It would translate the thoughts he wanted to speak into binary code and beep it to the world, which was automatically translated by the other transformers. His music teacher keeps saying music had a voice of its own. Even the instruments and their notes could give a message to people.

Bumblebee didn’t know why, but he found himself stashing the violin under his bed. He’d get his strength back with Laura and her class. With Sign Language, he’d have his words back. But with this violin, he’d get his voice back. He’ll move waves of people if it meant crashing on a safer shore.

It wasn’t until after the three ate dinner that Lennox came home from work that day. Ironhide’s loud rumble alerting them to their arrival. The man came through, ruffling both his kid’s hairs and giving them a kiss on the cheek before going to his wife to properly greet her. It had been established after the first week that this process was to take place. Even so, Bee never really got used to the contact. It made his skin tingle and cheeks warm up. He brushed the ‘older’ man away each time.

“What happened to Bell?” Lennox asked, inspecting his daughter’s battle wound.

“She had a fight with your old violin. I told you to throw that thing away.” Sarah said. Bee’s heart started to pound in his chest. He kept his head down, but an eye on the couple.

“Well, I guess it has to go if its already got a body count.” Lennox walked to the attic before Bee could stall him. He came back down with an empty case. “Where is it?”

“Bumblebee said he put it back? Bee, where is the violin?” Sarah asked. Bee shook his head and shrugged. He tried to get his breathing under control.

“Come on, Bee. Go get it.” Lennox’s voice was stern, almost a sprinkle of disappointment could be heard. Bee couldn’t stand when the man was disappointed in him. He shuffled to his room, already uncovering his hiding spot. It hadn’t even been two hours since it was there. His declaration crumbling in his hands. Lennox was at his door, but instead of a scowl, a soft smile was on his face.

‘What?’ Bee asked, hunching his shoulders around the violin.

“Do you want to learn how to play?” Lennox smirked. “Don’t be shy to ask if you want to do something. I know I’m sort of forcing you to take self defence classes, so its only fair for you to do something you want to do.”

Bee nodded his head so fast it almost felt like it could pop off. Lennox laughed, taking the violin from Bee’s hands and walked back into the kitchen. Bee followed, his feet lighter and heart fluttering in excitement. Until it dropped when he saw the instrument in the trash. He ran to get it out, but was stopped by Lennox

“Woah, there. What’s wrong, Bee?” Lennox asked, hands solid on Bee’s shoulders

‘I thought you said I could learn how to play it?’ Bee signed frantically.

“Yeah, but Bee, that one is broken and busted. We can get you a new one.” Lennox explained. Bee shook his head. He hadn’t cried for a week, not since he ran away. And yet here he was, breaking that record.

‘I can fix it!’ He tried to push Lennox away, but again the man was stronger. ‘Please, it can be fixed. Don’t throw it away!’

Lennox made eye contact with his wife. It would be cheaper just to buy a new Violin, he’d probably have to buy a new set of every piece of equipment for it, not to mention he hasn’t touched the thing since he was fourteen, and its been sitting in his childhood treasures ever since in various attics and storage units. The repairs would be expensive. But he also had a feeling Bee was panicking about more than just a broken instrument. How could he explain to the kid that he wasn’t going to throw him away even though he was ‘broken’ when his last family all but decided to do just that?

“Now, Bumblebee. It’s just a violin, sometimes -” Sarah began, but Lennox gave her another look. “Will, you can’t be serious. No, Will- Fine, fine.” Bee trilled happily as he fished the violin out of the trash. Sarah brought the mood down as she told him and Annabell to get ready and go to bed. Bee wanted to fight back, it wasn’t eight yet and so it wasn’t time for that. He had already lost the fight of ‘he’s not technically a child and didn’t need a bedtime’ long ago. Sarah wasn’t having any of it.

Bee was crawling into bed when he realised he had left his blanket in the living room from earlier that day. He tried to assure himself that he wasn’t a child and didn’t need that specific blanket to fall asleep. He had plenty of others he could use. He changed his mind after shifting and shuffling about his bed for half an hour. As he crept out of his room he could hear Sarah and Lennox talking about something. The closer he got to his living room the easier it was to hear.

“- but you’re taking him to his lessons.”

“That’s not fair to Bee.” Lennox shot up. “You know that I keep odd hours for tracking down decepticons. It’s my job. Even if Prime is at an unknown location, Ironhide and I still have that job to do.”

“Then find a more stable one. One that has a less possibility of getting you killed by giant robot aliens. I can’t take care of both Bee and Annabell by myself. And Annabell is our child.” Sarah’s voice was cold steel to Bee’s spine. “If I had to, I’d choose her every time.”

“Bumblebee isn’t some dog, Sarah. He’s a kid too. You wouldn’t seriously just throw him out?” Lennox wasn’t shouting, but he didn’t have too. Bumblebee could see his blanket draped across the same couch these two were having this conversation. He couldn’t bring himself to peel away from the wall’s shadows and get it.

“He’s not a kid, though. He knows it, you know it. I know it. It’s his favorite argument. He loves pointing it out.” Sarah ran a hand down her face.

“You know that isn’t completely true. Sure, Bee has more memories than most eight year olds, but he’s a kid. He’d be helpless on his own. I couldn’t just do that to him.”

“I know. But it just feels like I’m the one taking care of him, while you’re off doing god knows what. My life has been flipped upside down and you seem like none of this ever happened. You get to come home and in an hour or two he’s asleep. Do you know how hard it is to juggle a job, taking care of those two, and learning a whole new language, just so I can understand one of them. You brought Bumblebee home. I wasn’t a part of this decision.” Sarah’s voice was thick and full of tears.

“Stop talking like he’s an expendable animal, Sarah. Yeah, I was the one to decide that Bumblebee doesn’t deserve to be thrown to the dogs. But you said it was fine. You didn’t think it was such an awful idea seven months ago. You can’t turn back around and act like I twisted your arm.” Lennox stood up, pacing the length of the couch.

“I’m just asking you to switch your MOS to give you more time with your family, and make sure you have more time with family.” Sarah stressed.

“I’m not mad about that. I’m mad that you think tossing Bee aside is okay.” Lennox’s voice was like gravel at this point, but still didn’t rise in volume. Bee was choking. He couldn’t breath, his heart was beating and body was burning. He thought he was finally getting along with Sarah. They threw snacks at galra after she helped him with his homework everyday. She taught him how to make cookies last week. She was nice. And she hated him. He couldn’t even run away again, Lennox would be devastated.

“It’s not like I want to. Just make sure I don’t have to make that choice.” Sarah was outright crying now. Bee’s stomach dropped as Lennox promised his wife he’d look into changing jobs. Bee sunk back into his room, foregoing his blanket for tonight. He had others that were just fine.

He couldn’t go to sleep. The conversation ran through his head, bouncing between one ear to the next. An emotionally draining game of ping-pong. And the blue blanket was too scratchy, the green one too large, the one with trucks on it was too puffy. They all lay, kicked off, on the floor. He held his stuffed bunny tight to his chest, the soft ears positioned over his eyes to soak up his tears if they ever decided to spill.

He didn’t move as his door was cracked open. He made sure his breathing stayed even and calm. Soft footsteps approached his bed, and a familiar warmth was draped over his body. Large, rough hands tucked the blanket snuggly around him.

“I won’t let you be thrown away again, Bee. I promise.” Lennox whispered.

With tired hands, Bee found himself signing ‘good night, dad.’

“Good night, kid.”