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billthedrake · 3 months

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SUGAR DADDY (PART TWO)

The next day I was a little bit of a wreck. Still coming down from the high of my fantasy time with Mike Keenan. Sucking his cock. Kissing him. Enjoying the privacy and the deep conversation. I thought of texting him but decided that wouldn't be welcome. It hadn't been a date, it had ust been something that had happened. A combination of Mike taking pity on me and wanting to get his rocks off. We both got something out of it, but it was surely a one-time thing.

I had class that next morning and baseball practice that afternoon, then weightlifting. It was early evening when I got done and saw I had a text from Mike.

"Hi Luke, sorry no contact, I had a long day here. Enjoyed last night. Any chance for a repeat some time?"

My heart pounded. Maybe I was the one overthinking things. Mr. Keenan just wanted his cock sucked again.

"I'd love that," I wrote.

"Nice," came the reply. "You around to talk?"

I said good night to my buddies and told them I had to get back to study for a test. Then I texted a "yes" to Mike. A second later my phone rang.

"Hey," I said. God, I was majorly crushed out on the guy.

"Hey Luke," he said. His voice was sexy as fuck. "What are you up to?"

"Just getting out of practice. Bout to grab some dinner."

"I haven't eaten either. Want to come over? We can get dinner in the hotel bar."

"I probably need to change," I said. I was still in my workout clothes.

"I bet you look sexy as fuck," he growled. It was a trip to hear him lust for another man. "But take your time."

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't go to some fancy bar in my gym clothes."

"They don't give a fuck," he said. "But do what you feel comfortable with."

"All right," I said. "I'll text you when I'm on my way."

"Take an Uber," he said. "I'll pay."

"OK." Then I hung up. I was going to object, but I was eager to see the man. And truth be told I was hungry, real hungry. Maybe that's what made me decided to head right over, underdressed as I was.

"OK, I'm getting in my Uber," I typed to him five minutes later.

He sent a smiley face reply.

The man was in his suit, without tie, on one of the bar stools and his eyes lit up as I walked in. He had a smirk as I set down my backpack and pulled out the adjacent stool to sit. "I was right," he said softly. "Sexy as fuck."

I blushed. "I didn't think you went for guys that way," I whispered.

His blue eyes twinkled some as he patted my back. "No labels, remember?"

I was getting hard in my shorts. Unfortunately the thin fabric wasn't going to hide my boner, but fortunately, it was hidden by the bar. And my hunger was going to win out.

"The steak here is great," the man said as he handed me a menu.

"I dunno," I said as I looked over the option. "A burger is fine." Of course I was concerned about the price.

Mr. K could read me, though. "Get the steak," he grunted.

I felt a little chastised and said something I instantly regretted. "Is that how the Sugar Daddy treatment works?"

Mike gave me a quick glance then replied without missing a beat. "Buddy, you don't eye me up like a cash machine like those girls do. You don't know how nice a change that is."

I blushed and I felt his hand pat my bare thigh.

"I like that I can be honest with you, Luke, for real." His bossy tone was gone, replaced with the old Mr. Keenan charm.

I gulped. "I like being honest with you, too," I said. Until Mr. Keenan re-entered my life six months prior, I hadn't realized how rare it was I could be honest about things. I gave him a smile and saw him smile in return.

"Since I'm being honest," I started, but just then the bartender came over to take our order.

"Two steaks," Mr. Keenan said, ordering for me. "And another scotch and..." he turned to me.

"An IPA?" I asked. The bartender nodded and named off some brewery. Sounded good. We watched as he poured our drinks in front of us and placed them on the bar before going off to ring up our order.

"So..." Mike picked up. "Since you're being honest..."

I lowered my voice. "It's like I said before. You don't need to pay for anything, Mike. Or be a sugar daddy or anything."

He grinned. "There's always trade offs," he said. "And maybe I enjoy the control."

"Control?" I asked dumbly.

"If you're paying, you get your say in a lot of things," he said. He paused and watched me blush. "You think less of me."

"Honesty, right? You don't know how crushed out I am on you."

He smiled. "I have an idea. It's flattering." He took a sip of his scotch and looked over at me like a wolf eyeing up his prey. "I'm hoping you stay over tonight."

I was in over my head. Emotionally, but also with a man like Keenan. Decisive. "If you want, I will," I said.

"Good," he said, satisfied.

***

Mike Keenan surprised me that evening. After we ate and he paid the check, we went up to our room. We showered together, making out, feeling each other up. I was surprised how much this straight man was into my very male body and my cock. Well, he was probably bi and in any case had his no-labels motto. I was gonna embrace it.

Particularly as we made out on the bed, me beneath his middle aged, fit hairy body. I'd eventually find a real boyfriend, I knew, but I also knew it was going to be hard for any man to live up to hot how Mr. K was. His cock felt hard and even bigger as we humped our bodies together and kissed.

"So, Luke... you up for me being inside you?"

I nodded, hungrily. "God yeah, Mr. Keenan."

He grinned. "You have much experience?" That concern coming in.

"A couple of guys, yeah," I said. Then with deep candor, I added, "I wish you'd taken my cherry, Mike."

His voice got husky. "I've done anal a couple of times. With an ex-girlfriend."

His words made me actually break out into goosebumps. For some reason the idea of Mr. K doing some woman in the backdoor seemed kinky as fuck. But also the way he unmistakeably was communicating that he knew how to fuck me. "You liked it, I bet," I said with a lusty smile.

He nodded and winked just as he leaned up and knelt on the bed. His hardon looked magnificent, the thickness perfectly framed by his hairy, DILF-y body. I decided then and there I'd have a hard time sleeping with a man under 40. "Oh, yeah, buddy," he said. Then my body shivered again as I watched the confidence with which he picked up the lube he'd set out next to the bed. As he returned his focus, I pulled back my legs and spread them some, letting his slick hand in to lube up my hole. "It's probably my favorite thing. Hard to talk a woman into it, though."

"I can imagine," I hissed, enjoying the cool contact of the lubed finger on my ring. "I bet that costs extra huh?" Maybe that sounded accusatory, but from my tone it was clear that it was a joke, and Mr. Keenan picked up on that.

He laughed. "I don't hire hookers, but don't think I haven't thought about it." His cock jerked, and I was relieved that being with a dude seemed to work for him as much as fucking a chick.

He pressed in and worked me open some. "That feel OK, buddy?"

I looked at him excitedly and nodded. I kept expecting resistance as the man fingered me but there was none. At all. "Feels amazing Mr. K." My longtime nickname for him just slipped off my tongue, but the man seemed excited to hear it. His cock actually jerked.

He now slipped in a third finger, twisting me open and working in and out. "You're ready," he said, though I knew there was a questioning behind his assured tone.

"Yes, sir," I hissed.

Mike was horny, too, I realized as he scooted in to place and nudged his meaty cock right into place. I don't know the approach he took with women, but he angled his finger to let his prick push in just as he withdrew his hand. Kind of a shoehorn move that slid his meaty cock right into me. Three solid inches inside me in one go.

"There ya go," he said with satisfaction. Then he moved forward, his hips driving more meat into me, as he leaned his upper body forward. I was getting well and truly penetrated.

The thing was, my insides were starting their natural resistance, my guts clenching down on the invader and trying to repel it. Mr. Keenan mistook my discomfort for a natural stimulation of an ass on his cock. "That's goddamn nice, buddy," he hissed and like that he was kissing me, hard and possessively.

I met his tongue as well as I could, but there was something that clicked in me. I was a dude, a masculine dude. I didn't like to think of myself as feminine, and I got offended by the way people would associate gay sex with being feminized. And yet, I was pinned down beneath Mike Keenan and all I could think was to compare myself to those college chicks Mike banged. My hole relaxed around him and I wrapped my legs around his waist. Not slutty or anything, but damn I needed and wanted a Mike Keenan fuck.

He must have sensed the change but in any case pulled back from the kiss. "I guess I didn't even ask about protection," he hissed, his hips slowly pumping me.

"This is perfect, Mr. K," I growled. His dick was rubbing right over my prostate, not punching the button, but playing it like a violin string. It was a surprisingly new sensation for me.

The man liked my answer. He pulled back, further back, and pushed all the way. Then again. Not rushing it, but definitely claiming me with this cock. All the while his blue eyes bore down on mine. "How do you normally like it, Luke?" he asked.

I racked my brain. It was actually hard to think with the man's cock pressing in and out. And I'd only had a few experiences bottoming. "Slow, I guess," I replied. But then as I felt up the man's naked torso and strong arms, I wanted more. "But this is weird to ask... but I'd like you to show me how I like it."

THAT turned Mike on like crazy. "Yeah?" His nostrils flared. "I can do that buddy."

He pulled back and I felt his prick punch into me. In retrospect it probably wasn't rough, but I'd never been fucked with that much force. Then another. Slow, steady, and hard.

The fact that it was Rich's dad doing this drove me wild. I looked up into his handsome face and imagined him rough fucking some sugar baby who'd have to work for her apartment money.

"Shit!" I gasped. My prick was dripping already, a telltale sign that I was about to cum. I gripped it, just in time to let the pleasure boil to a full orgasm, all while Mr. Keenan pounded it out of me.

His own face was scrunching into a clear sign of pleasure. The man was ejaculating into my guts, and good.

"Well, fuck me," he sighed as he lay his forehead against mine. We lay like that, my hands on him and my legs wrapped around him. His more mature, fit body resting on top of me as he caught his breath. "Please tell me you liked that buddy," he hissed.

I felt weirdly emotional. I don't know, it wasn't just the crush I had on Mr. K. It was the hormonal rush on top of the mind fuck of having had such hot sex. "A little too much," I admitted.

That made him smile.

He finally leaned up and slid out of me, and off me. His dick was thick and plump but softening, and very wet. He looked down on me with a mix of surprise, paternal-like affection, and pride in conquest. I loved it all, and it was then that I realized I was hooked on the Mike Keenan experience.

"I thought I was pushing my luck asking you to meet me again," he said as he stepped off the bed and down some water from a water bottle. His middle-aged muscle was covered in a sheen of sweat. The man was sexy as fuck. His eyes barely left my nakedness. "But I guess not," he continued.

I felt all sorts of weird, and more than a little cheap now that the endorphins were wearing off. I sat up in bed, my hole feeling used and wet now. "You really do like being on control, don't you, Mike?"

My words caught him by surprise. "I guess I come on strong, huh?"

"A little," I admitted. "I should probably go," I said as I searched for my briefs.

"Will it make you feel better to stay over?" he asked.

It was my turn to be surprised. "You think I'm like a chick?" I asked. I wasn't sure I was upset he was stereotyping me as a gay guy. Or upset because maybe he was right.

"It's just a question, Luke," he replied. "I'll give you Uber money."

I swallowed my pride. "I'd love to stay. Sorry I was giving you grief."

He smiled. "It's fine buddy. I'm used to game playing. But you're a straight shooter. I like that." Then matter of factly, he added, "I get up early."

"That's cool," I said.

****

I gave Mr. K a blowjob early the next morning. And he stroked me off. I guess I was leaning toward being a bottom before Mike Keenan, but I'd never embraced the label. What the fuck, the man was making me realize the shoe fit.

I was happy and content all day. I kind of wanted a text from Mr. K, but I didn't need one. Even being young and naive, I knew I had to take this for what it was, or not at all.

Around 5:30 I got a text. "Dinner?"

I had a late game and plans with my buddies. "I'm tied up, Mike," I wrote. "Sorry."

"What time you done?" came that reply.

"I don't know. 10?"

"Come over then. You know the room number."

Maybe it should have rubbed me the wrong way, but it didn't. I was horny for this man. So bad.

Only after I replied with an OK, I got a Venmo alert. Mr. K had sent me money. Not an exhorbitant amount. But a lot.

Oh shit.

***

I was nervous as Mike ushered me in. The worst part was how fucking handsome he looked, even in his readers and plush hotel bathrobe. He didn't look exactly sleepy, but he seemed in a relaxed, tired state as he looked me up and down.

"Thanks for coming, Luke," he said. That easygoing charm I remember from going over to his place when I was visiting my buddy Rich.

"Sure," I said. Looking around, I wondered what it was like to live in a hotel like this a few nights a week, always being on the road. I smelled Mr. Keenan's cologne before I felt his hand on my shoulder and his warm body press against my back. Already he was kissing softly at my neck.

"Listen, Mr. K... can we talk about the money thing?"

His voice had a throaty growl. Maybe he'd been thinking all evening, all day about sex, because he seemed to be in a horny mode. "Sure. Was it not enough?"

"No, Jesus," I hissed, feeling his fingers already running beneath the hem of my T-shirt tracking my abs. "I don't need anything. For real."

OK, now his fingers stopped their seductive movement. I guess the man was getting it. "You offended?" he asked.

I blushed. "I dunno," I replied. "It didn't make me feel great."

I felt his breath against my neck. "You deserve the money more than Kimberly," he said. "Or the others. It's just a little something, Luke. Use it to have fun. Or save it for a rainy day."

I don't know how Mike Keenan was so persuasive a man, but he was. Maybe because those fingers are once again tracing up my abs and pulling my shirt with them. "Come on, buddy, let me see that hot baseball jock body," he urged.

I went with it. I knew I was good looking, and even if I had some bulking goals for the off season, I knew I had a solid body. But the fact Mr. Keenan was into it had me so turned on. I turned around to see a smile on his five-o-clock-shadowed face.

"Nice," he said, eyes sweeping up and down my build. "Lose the shorts, Luke," he said.

Mr. K had talked about enjoying being in control. I was now wrestling with the fact that I enjoyed being bossed around, at least by this man. I stepped back and undid my shorts, stripping down completely for him. I was rock hard.

My heart pounded as I watched Mike get a more serious look on his face, as his hands reached down to undo the tie on the robe. The white terry cloth flapped open to show off his furry fit torso and, beneath that, his thick boner. "Come on buddy," he said in a deep whisper, nodding down at his crotch in an unmistakable signal.

I gulped. I assumed my normal catcher's squat, a position which made my hard dick stick up at an angle.

"Fuck yeah," Mike said. He scooted up to offer me his prick. It was fat and veiny, and while not porn-long that dick was pretty damn big.

I leaned forward just an inch to start licking him. Top to bottom. Along his furry nuts. Tasting every inch of Mike Keenan. Maybe his relaxed vibe gave me the implicit permission to take my time.

Only by the time I actually began sucking him, working my mouth up and down on him and doing my best to coordinate suction and tongue along his shaft, the man was starting to get worked up.

"Easy there, buddy," he hissed, gently pushing me off his dick, which throbbed and jerked a little, wet with my saliva. "I almost blew there."

I grinned. I felt so fucking proud. I didn't have a ton of sexual experience and it was good to know I was doing something right to get Mike so close so soon. "Why don't you?" I asked, sitting back on my haunches and looking up at him. I was getting more confident in having sex with this older man.

He let out a heavy sigh, like he was fighting off the urge to do just that. A smile crossed his lips, though. "Guess I'm like a kid with a new toy," he explained.

It took me a second to get it. "You wanna fuck me again." Half statement, half question.

Mike nodded. "Been thinking about it all fucking day, man. Your ass is so fucking tight."

I knew this was a possibility, and I wondered if I should be giving my hole some rest. But I also knew it was going to be hard to turn down a Mr. Keenan fuck. I stood up, my dick riding that crest between pure excited hardness and nervous flagging.

"Ok if we kiss a little, Mike?" I asked feeling almost embarrassed to ask. "You know, make out a little?"

My buddy's dad nodded and grinned as he stepped up to me, placing his hands on my waist. "I guess I can come on strong, huh?" he asked.

God, feeling his dick press against mine and the heat and the soft-hard combo of fur and muscle against me was going to drive me wild. "Some, yeah," I admitted with a laugh. Then blushing, I added, "Part of me really likes it, but fuck it's intimidating too, you know?"

Mike didn't reply but just gave a sympathetic nod and leaned in for a soft kiss. We made out some, and it was incredible to feel the contrast between the gentle approach kissing and the mauling of his hands on my jock body, particularly my butt. Mr. K wasn't kidding about having a new toy. He seemed to really love my ass.

He walked me back to the bed and I went back down on the mattress with a motion of his that was between guiding and pushing. He quickly lost his bathrobe and joined me, covering my body with his older, more experienced one, feeling me up and kissing along my neck, my ear, my upper chest. Mike was in full-on horny mode and bring me there right with him.

Finally he lifted off and rolled to the side. His erection was dripping and rock hard and looked amazing against all that body hair. "All right buddy, get on all fours."

I was primed for Mike Keenan in full on control mode. I scrambled to do as the man asked, facing the headboard and feeling the man settle in behind me. Already his hands were cupping my glutes and feeling the smooth muscle.

"You got a hot fucking ass, Luke," he growled. He pawed at me another few seconds then reached for some lube. The first wet finger felt great, and went in pretty easy.

"You're looser today, buddy," Mike hissed. A second finger popped in.

"Yeah, probably," I responded. "After yesterday."

"I wanna keep you this way," came his deep voice. "Ready for me."

"Oh fuck, Mr. K," I whined. There was an edge to his tone that drove me wild. And as his prick pushed in, I felt a welcome pleasure, even with my residual tightness.

"Fuck yeah," Mike grunted as he felt my insides and pushed to bottom out. "Right back in the saddle."

His grip clenched roughly on my waist. Just as quickly as that thick cock pulled out, it barreled back in. And again. One hard thrust right after the other as Mr. K grunted deeply. "Ung. Ungh. Ung."

The man was fucking for his pleasure, not mine. Still I felt an excited thrill. I wouldn't say I enjoyed this nearly as much as the missionary mating the night before but it felt new to me. Animalistic and raw. I was hard even with the discomfort of the shafting.

Wham. Wham. Wham. That thick piece of hard dad meat was drilling steadily. Then the cadence went off. Mr. Keenan's rhythm was getting more spasmodic and jerky as he pounded me. Then I felt those fingers dig into my hips.

"FUCK!"

From his cry and the sudden stop of his thrusts, I knew the man was seeding me.

I loved every part of the experience, but I now regretted that I hadn't gotten off. The fuck had been too hard and too quick.

Thankfully I felt the man shift behind me and, prick still buried inside me, he leaned forward to press against, my back.

I loved the feeling of his kiss on my neck, but even more I loved the slickness of his palm as he wrapped his hand around my hardon. Mike didn't even need to do much. Just give slow soft pumps in and out of my guts while his fingers ran along my dick. I fired off, heavy and hard. I felt lightheaded when I came.

We were quiet as we uncoupled. The shame was coming back to me as I showered off. Shame that I enjoyed what others might see as a dominant, selfish fuck. Shame that there were funds in my Venmo account. Shame that I was falling for Mr. Keenan so hard. I knew I couldn't stay over in this hotel room, not tonight. I needed some space to think.

Mike had his robe back on. To this day a white terry bathrobe is a fetish for me. His tone was more serious. "You mad at me Luke?" he asked as he sat in the hotel chair and watched me get dressed.

I grimaced but shook my head no. "I didn't think I'd like sex that rough," I said softly.

I could see a sly grin from on his lips. But he continued. "I wasn't talking about the fuck."

God, the man could be intense, behind the suave businessman outgoingness and the friendly paternal vibe. It was like I was seeing the real Mr. Keenan. Intimidating, sure, but I also wondered if he had a hard time with real relationships. His marriage hadn't worked out, he was clearly estranged from his son, and he basically hired dates instead of having real girlfriends.

I paused, just holding the T shirt I was going to put back on. "Can I be blunt, Mr. K? You say you don't want a hooker, and yet have a way of treating me like one."

He was prepared for that. "You're not that, Luke. But I'm not ready for anything serious. I figure I can help you out, and you can help me out." He looked at me and could tell I still didn't get it. "Listen, it's not just sex. I love spending time with you buddy. You're a hell of a lot more fun than those sugar babies, I'll tell ya." He cracked a smile, and I had to as well.

"I guess," I said. Remembering Kimberly, I could imagine she'd be more work than fun.

My conciliatory tone made him happy, and I was glad to see the friendly Mr. Keenan return. "Well, it's just I don't always have the time or interest for all the other boyfriend bullshit. Checking in, looking after emotional needs, dealing with jealousy."

I gulped. I was starting to get a better picture of Mike. The side Rich hated. The side I should hate more.

He watched my reaction but continued. "I know that wouldn't be fun for you to deal with, so I want to make it worth your while."

"Make what worth my while?" I asked. Again, as persuasive as he was, I felt he kept talking around the sex part.

He laughed, almost amused at how astute I was. "Luke, I'm not going to pay you per sex act. Or per night. But..." his voice got conspiratorial. I wondered if he knew what that supportive dad-figure tone did for me, and just weaponized it to get his way. Honestly I think it just came naturally to him. "Well, bud, I'd love an arrangement when you're able to keep me company when I'm in DC." His blue eyes got an impish cast to them, and I knew he was in seal-the-deal mode. "I'm pretty sure we could have a lot of fun together."

"You wanna be my sugar daddy?" I asked, point blank. It's not that I was dumb, but I actually didn't think Mr. Keenan was outright going there.

He nodded. But his face had a caution to it. "Would it better if we ditched the labels?" he asked, a smirk on his face reminding me of his own no-labels policy.

"It would," I answered. Then. "OK if I think on it, Mike?"

"Of course," he said.

He stood up as I finished putting on my shoes. Seeing how handsome he was I almost asked if I could stay over again. But the vibe wasn't right for that.

As I made my way to the room door, Mr. K patted my shoulder. "You're a fine young man, Luke," he said. His fingers gave my muscle a little squeeze before letting go. "I mean that."

"Thanks, Mr. Keenan," I said.

***

The Uber ride was quick at that time of night. I'd have to come up with an excuse to my roommate while I was out again. I'd probably have to come up with a lot more excuses if I hung out more with Mr. K. Or, if he got me my own apartment, things would be easier. Meeting up with him. Having sex with him.

I pulled out my phone. I thought I'd hesitate before sending but I knew I knew my answer.

"You'll have to let me know how it works Mr. K," I texted. "But I'm in."

No labels. But if Mike Keenan was going to call himself my sugar daddy that was probably OK too.

I got a quick reply. "That makes me happy Luke. Talk tomorrow sexy."

I felt warm inside. Mike Keenan was going to make this worth my while. But I was determined to make it worth his, too.

#drakestories

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bonniepop · 3 months

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character: miya atsumu words: 1,800+ tags: the comedy that comes with killing bugs. literally that’s it. notes: i wrote this two years ago and it's still fucking funny. re-wrote it to make it fractionally funnier.

“YO!” atsumu cries, flashing you a panicked glare from over his shoulder. “don’t push me!”

“then move faster!” you snap, pressing yourself close to your boyfriend’s back as he creeps around your apartment in search of the cursed cockroach that you’d spotted on the wall earlier that night. after locking yourself in your room, you made a panicked phone call to atsumu and he came over (after a few minutes of sighing and grumbling).

immediately, you'd pressed a slipper in his hand and nearly kicked him into your living room to deal with the problem. atsumu had grumbled about how much of a little bitch you were being, but when he saw something flash through the air, he nearly steamrolled you in his effort to run away.

you'd wanted to call him a little bitch, too, but you were too focused on the fact that the cockroach was still on the loose to quip.

“i think—AGH! ATSUMU!” you yell, jumping and shaking out your leg when you felt something brush your ankle. frantically, you look at the floor around you, and whimper when there was no bug to be found.

“WHAT?!” atsumu shrieks in a rather high pitch, nearly whacking you in the head with his slipper. "WHAT?!"

“no, sorry, i think it was the edge of the curtain,” you sniff, pushing his arm with the slipper away. "or i think it was just my hair. it was nothing." your relief fades to irritation. "also, if you so much as touch my face with this thing i will make you eat this goddamn slipper.”

atsumu's jaw goes slack. “what the fuck, you asked me to come over and help you—”

“do you know how expensive the skincare i have on my face is?!” you demand, glaring. “there’s no way in hell—”

“wh—you’re so ungrateful!” he cries, just like a little bitch would, throwing his hands up in the air. “i woke up at five a.m., had a terrible day at training, and when i finally relax at home, you ask me to come over to kill a cockroach—”

you gape. “you said you wouldn't take that against me!”

“yeah, before i found out that you're literally just being a little bitch about a bug!” atsumu declares, wildly gesticulating. in his haste, though, he lets go of the slipper and it lands near your armchair. something dark darts up from the ground and flies across the room.

you both shriek (one of you hit a higher pitch, you can't tell who), and run back out into the hallway.

“atsumu,” you shudder, wriggling around as if trying to shake off something invisible. “oh my god, oh my god—”

he panicks, rubbing his arms in nervousness. “fuck, that thing is huge!"

you jump around in anxiety. “oh my god. oh my god, atsumu, get back in there and kill it—”

“what?! like hell i will!” he grabs his other slipper from his foot—he’d been walking around in just one slipper the whole time—and frantically pushes it towards you. “you kill it!”

“wh—” your jaw drops, whacking his hand away. “you little bitch!”

his face looks absolutely offended. “you’re just as little of a bitch as me—”

“what are the point of your muscles if you can’t kill this one bug—”

he’s so mad he flexes his biceps in your face and points at them, slipper flopping around in his fist. “these are for winning v.league championships, not killing a god damn cockroach!”

something black crawls along the wall behind him, and you try not to panic as you grab his hand and turn him around to serve as a human shield. “atsumu, oh my god, atsumu, it’s behind you, kill it, killitkillit—”

he yells and hurls his slipper at the wall, running into the living room. he greatly misses, and the thing is now crawling to your ceiling. in a frantic hurry, you run to your room on the other end of the hallway.

you slam the door and try and hear your racing heart in your ears. there’s a cockroach on the loose in your apartment, and you are trapped in your bedroom.

your boyfriend is out there, but better him than you, really.

your bedside buzzes, and you find your phone screen brightening, device still plugged into the wall.

atsumu 💘: WHAT THE FUCK atsumu 💘: WHY DID U LEAV EME you: I PANICKED I DIND TKNOW WHAT TO DO atsumu 💘: WHERE IS IT you: I DONT KNOW you: HALLWAY??

silence, then a yell, followed by quick, heavy footsteps that get louder and louder. he nearly breaks down your door as he pounds it, so you run from your bedside to let him in. he pushes himself in and locks the door behind him with a swift slam!

“YOU LEFT ME!" he recaps, looking absolutely betrayed.

"i'm sorry, i panicked!" you reasoned. "is it still out there? were you able to get back your shoes?”

“yes, it's still fucking out there,” he snaps, clambering to your dresser. “pack a bag. you’re coming with me.”

“what?" you ask, watching him in confusion, "where?”

“you're moving out,” he says with finality, yanking a backpack from the back of your closet and yanking your sock drawer open. “you're moving out, you're gonna live with me from now on, we're gonna put this place back on the market—"

your jaw drops. “atsumu, it’s one cockroach!”

“if it’s just one cockroach, then you go kill it!” he cries, pointing at you, and that shuts you up.

this is pathetic. you’re thousands of times bigger than that bug and you’re practically let it take over the apartment you pay rent for.

“oh my god, baby, i just remembered,” you say, and he looks back at you. “i have bug spray in the cabinet under the bathroom.”

the blond freezes, your open bag in his hands, stuffed with a dozen pairs of socks. after a beat, he throws it to the floor. “are you serious?! you made me face that thing unarmed when you had bug spray this whole time?!”

“i don’t have time to argue with you,” you snap, opening the door and taking a tentative peek into the hallway. “come on, let’s go get rid of it.”

“i’m gonna—” he grunts. he takes a calming breath before bending over to pick up the bag, and re-stuffing your socks back into your drawer. “fine. fine. let’s go kill the damn thing.”

—

some time later, you finally, finally, manage to kill the cockroach, thanks to around half a can of bug spray haphazardly sprayed that it stunk up the whole room (you) and a lot of screaming (atsumu). the screaming probably didn’t help, but it happened.

atsumu puts on the mask you handed him before he steps into the living room. “i found my slipper. it was next to the door.”

“your other one’s here,” you say from behind your own mask, pointing to the armchair. you open your windows and curtains, airing out the room. “where’d you throw the roach?”

“your kitchen trash bin,” he answers, shaking out his damp hands. “also, i kinda used a lot of soap to wash up, so your sink is bubbly.”

“it’s fine,” you say with an exhausted sigh. that whole exchange tired you out. “i’ll wash it down.”

“okay.” he sniffs. “do you need anything else?”

“i’m good,” you answer, dusting your hands when you tie off the last curtain. you fan your hands in the air in wide, weeping motions. “god, bug spray stinks.”

“you sure you don't wanna spend the night at my place?" he says, fanning the air, too. “it’ll at least smell better.”

“are you sure you’re not inviting me over just so i can clean something up?” wouldn’t be the first time.

"first of all, okay? you made me come here. you owe me. second of all, i take offense to you suggesting that i could be that big of an asshole.” when he sees the blank look on your face, he backtracks. “no, i swear it’s clean. and it smells better than this. samu left for the weekend, too, so it’ll just be you and me.”

“where’d he go?”

“some restaurant owner seminar.”

time to ask the important questions. “did he leave any food?”

“it's samu, so yes. but we can pass by a drive through, in case there isn’t any.” he pads over and wraps a gentle hand around your wrist. “come on, please?”

you let him gently pull you into a loose embrace and say nothing.

“besides, this place’ll smell better when you come back in the morning,” he continues to barter.

you purse your lips.

“you didn’t even thank me for coming to your rescue,” he pouts.

you roll your eyes. "okay, now you're—” you stop mid-sentence when you see something crawl at the corner of your eye. “oh my god. oh my god, atsumu, don’t move.”

“what?” atsumu says, alarmed, his torso stiffening against yours. “what? what is it? what happened?”

you turn your head and find that another cockroach crawling into your living room through the gap in the window.

five minutes later finds you in the passenger seat of atsumu’s car, with nothing but your keys, your phone, and a can of bug spray, as he drives you to his apartment with one slipper on.

(he forgot the other one.)

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq x reader #hq fluff #atsumu x reader #atsumu fluff #atsumu x you #haikyuu x you #hq x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu fluff #atsumu x reader fluff #haikyuu x reader fluff #hq fic #haikyuu fic #haikyuu writing #hq writing #📝 — my writing

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teatreeoilll · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐑𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 (𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐗 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . •

w/c - 9k content - MDNI! 18 + , minors and ageless blogs do not interact! fem!reader, evil!reader, a lot of plot with porn, much hurt, much angst, cussing, mention of drinking and smoking, VERY shitty parenting, child abuse, character death but not one of the mains, manipulative themes, i invented suguru's parents names, did i say much hurt? everyone's in their early twenties, cellist!Geto, saxophonist!Gojo, violinist!reader, shitty!everyone, kinda dark really i guess so please read at your own discretion, I'm sorry, really

a/n - there will probs be a second part based on the ending, if my back will ever stop hurting from being hunched over my laptop for four days straight writing this insanity.

Dedicated to the dear @telvess who read every scene like five times while I wrote and re-wrote this.

• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° .•

Jealousy. As a result of your young age, you couldn't put it into words quite yet, but you felt it - choking up your dry throat as your father held your head steady with his fingers digging deep into your scalp to make sure your head wouldn't move an inch.

"Look, child," he said, "really look."

"M-My head, Dad," you sniffled, "It hurts."

You peered through the tiny crack in the large white doors into an empty rehearsal room. Bare walls, empty chairs - all but one, where a young boy sat in the middle, dragging his bow across the strings of a cello like it would be the last thing he does in his life. He did it fervently, desperately, repeatedly over the strings to rumble the sounds through the room. His brows furrowed. His raven black hair was a cluster of strands jolting up and falling on his face each time he moved. It made him look exactly like what you felt - electrified.

Your jaw slacked, and your heart raced within the confines of your chest.

"You see, child?" Your father's words lingered above your head, "Can you finally hear what beauty sounds like?"

You heard, and it haunted you.

When he's playing, anyone would agree that Geto Suguru is breathtaking. Below the cuffs of his white button-down are pale hands, guiding long, strained fingers to move feverishly across the fingerboard. Above them, his face, a marble carving with half-lidded eyes, pointed idly at his cello.

Weary music for weary people, he thinks, lifting his gaze just enough to meet the dull faces with greying hair filling the large hall. Their constipated expressions stare back at him. They're just waiting for the cue to clap, although he doesn't mind - not as long as each note of the concerto* he played was perfect.

And by god, do they clap. A standing ovation, long enough to escort him in his path to the stage exit, loud enough for the echoes to linger as he greets the tall, blue-eyed man waiting for him there and frenzied enough to make your knees buckle under the tight fabric of your tailored evening dress.

"It was a good one," the blue-eyed man says, "as far as alarm clock music goes, that is."

"Funny how you keep calling it that, Satoru," Geto chastises, his fingers undoing the clasps of his cello case, "but you're always on the verge of falling asleep when you hear it."

Oh, you think, fiddling with the violin in your hands, so that's Gojo Satoru. Everyone knew who he was; the Gojo family name was arrogantly plastered on the walls of every concert hall in the city, including the one you were about to play in now.

Your tremble. You can't help it - that standing ovation set the bar so high you fear the bow in your hands might snap from the intensity of your grip. But it doesn't, and someone briefly introduces your name on stage.

You glance at the two men, catching Geto's uninterested expression. Your stomach churns. The dignified way it graces his annoyingly good-looking features makes your muscles tense; it's as if he's exhausted from doing the crowd a favor by allowing them to worship his playing.

Arrogant fucker. You think, and he nods at you stiffly, acknowledging the misfortune of performing after him.

As you drag your feet across the polished floor, you can only hear the sound of your own erratic breathing. "Breathe in, breathe out," you mutter under your breath as your shaking knees give the last of their strength to get you to the center stage.

And then a twitch, a breath hitch, and a loud thud.

The room hums with gasps for an instant before going silent again, and every eye in the vicinity watches you lay splayed across the wooden floor.

The shame burns in your cheeks, rushing through your face down to warm your aching body. As a desperate escape you turn your head away from the crowd, only to catch in the corner of your eye the two men still standing at the stage exit.

Don't look at me. Don't look at me. Don't look at me.

"Oof," Gojo huffs, wincing at the sight as he turns to his friend, "Come on, we'll be late if we don't head out now."

Like looking at a trainwreck, Geto's unable to turn away. His lips purse; what a pity.

The silence grew, and you knew you must do something - anything to let this moment pass. You push yourself up, throwing a quick glance at your violin, a string snapped, fuck. "I hope -," you grunt, your voice hoarse from disuse, "I hope Rachmaninoff* gets the same gasps." A wave of suppressed chuckles and claps gushes around you. Oh, thank god.

Your cheeks are still hot, and the first stroke of your bow is hesitant, just a soft flick of the wrist to see if the three remaining strings are still in tune. Is this a good idea? But the crowd's anticipating gaze burns through you, rendering you unable to move. You focus on replacing the missing notes and play the piece - with jagged strokes coming from your still shaking hands, some notes cut it, but just barely.

Gojo nudges his friend's shoulder, "Hey, I said we'll be late."

Geto's pursed lips open lightly, his dark eyes fix intently on your bow, "Hmm?" He hums at his friend's words, dragging him back from his thoughts.

a/n - * - Bach's Cello Suite in C Minor, Sarabande. * - Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G minor, originally for piano, transcribed for violin.

"A Jazz club?" you furrow your brows at the music and the tang of smoke already reaching you from the narrow entrance hall.

You'd only met Shoko a few short weeks ago when college started, and she quickly became your only friend - as often happens to two people in a room who prefer to be alone.

"Yes, my friend's playing - you'll hate him," she says. Shoko has that thing where she doesn't change her tone when she says something sarcastic, so you're stuck nodding at her words with an uncomfortable grin on your face.

She tugs you by the sleeve of your shirt, guiding you down the stairs and through the prematurely drunken crowd that eagerly awaits what would be the third song of the evening.

"This would never pass in our concerts," you mutter under your breath, although you kind of wish it did as you look at the people laughing, reaching for another drink, huffing smoke from their mouths while making idle chatter as the players take a short break between songs.

A bright, warm note pierces the room, and like an obedient platoon to an officer's 'attention,' all the eyes fall back on stage. The white-haired man under the mellow spotlight makes a swift move to wipe the mouthpiece of his saxophone before returning it to his lips and blowing into it again - this time, a cue for the drummer, who starts a ruthless pace on his cymbals.

"If jazz is a god," Gojo's voice rings through the room, "then the saxophone is its altar."

How could he say that with a straight face? You think, unable to take your eyes off his clearly pretentious demeanor that would be borderline comical if it wasn't redeemed by his outstandingly handsome face, from the rolled-up sleeves and undone button of his blue dress shirt to the round sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks like pure sin.

"The Voice of Chunk*," he announces the piece and the room booms with shouts of excitement as the saxophone howls its first long and angelic Mi.

By the time the set ends, Gojo's a mess. A dusty red color flushes his pale cheeks as he pants, a mad gleam in his eyes when he looks at the crowd, which only shouts for another encore. He wipes the sweat off his brow and leaves the stage without a word.

Shoko drags you down to an empty table near the stage, a cigarette propped between her lips as she utters, "Ah," to the sound of a squeaking chair, which Gojo Satoru plops on, splaying his limbs on the wood.

He turns to Shoko, pointing a thumb at you, "Your friend?"

"Mhmm," Shoko confirms, "(Name)." She takes a sip of her cheap beer.

Perpetually assuming everyone already knew him, Satoru Gojo doesn't introduce himself. "What'd you think?" He asks.

"It was very good," you say, and mean it. He wasn't humble, but as far as performances go, he didn't need to be.

"Good?" He turns back to Shoko, looking at her like a wounded puppy, "Shoko.."

"She did say very, Satoru." Shoko sighs, "He hates the word good."

Your breath hitches as Gojo lays a large hand on your thigh, "Calling jazz good is terrible." He says, "It means it did nothing to you. Even calling it horrifying is a much better choice."

Another chair squeaks in your proximity, and Gojo removes the hand from your thigh to place it on the table, "Suguru!" He exclaims. "How was it?"

God, what's he doing here?

"Horrifying," Geto smirks at his friend.

His dark eyes turn to you as he says, "Geto Suguru," and extends a large, calloused palm, which you hesitantly shake. The skin contact makes you shudder. His eyes narrow, "Have we met before?"

The truth is - Geto knows rather well that you have met before. He spent two days after the concert thinking about your figure lying on the wooden floor, and it wasn't for the curve of your ass that pointed towards him, although that didn't escape his thoughts either. His mind raced with thoughts of how quickly you bounced back from your fall, made a joke, and started playing. Could it really be so easy?

"Oh - maybe it's - uh," you babble, your mind already trying to devise an excuse to leave.

"Ah, I know!" Gojo chimes in, "It's our tumbling violinist," he chuckles, "I never forget a girl after I've seen her on all fours."

Geto raises an eyebrow. "We both know that's hardly true."

You stare at Shoko with desperate eyes pleading for a change in topic. She puts down her drink, "Where were you Suguru? I didn't see you the entire gig." Thank god.

"Just there," Geto motions to the side of the bar, where a beautiful light-haired girl sips on a drink, "I've seen him play plenty of times."

I should be polite. "Oh, so you like jazz?" You ask.

Gojo chuckles, removing his sunglasses to reveal clear sky-blue eyes, "Entertain our guest, Suguru."

Geto leans back, arms crossed over his chest, and even his words sound carefully rehearsed - as if he's being interviewed, "It's not that I don't like it. There's just no merit to it." Against your wishes, you meet his gaze, restraining yourself from rolling your eyes at him. "It's mostly improvisation. Not one jazz piece stays the same over time - it blatantly disregards why we value music. Can you imagine someone changing even one note in Rachmaninoff's preludes?"

Is he talking about the ones I played?

Geto leans back, "And that's without mentioning the mistakes."

You furrow your brows, and your chest tightens at his words, "The mistakes?"

"Suguru's just jealous," Gojo smirks, and his arm snakes around your shoulders, "because I've got an ability he doesn't. I like to call it blue." His other hand traces lines across the wooden table, making an invisible note staff, "You see, in jazz, there's no such thing as a mistake. It's considered beautiful even if you play a note a bit too harsh or out of key. They're called blue notes."

"Well, a mistake is just a mistake, isn't it?" You lie, too proud to admit you were ashamed of the embarrassing performance they witnessed, "You shouldn't be proud or overcritical of it - it just is."

"It's a good philosophy," Geto says softly, and a faint smile appears on his lips, it makes sense now, "It works well if you just play for fun."

A decade of rigorous violin practice flashes before your eyes, the callouses on your fingers you were teased for as a child, and he dares to say it's for fun?

Your cheeks heat up, "Well, what do you play for? Suffering?"

"Perfection," he answers. Prick.

"Perfection?" You sneer, clenching your jaw, "Then what about improvisation?"

"Leave that vice for the jazz musicians." He says, and his expression suddenly changes, "I'm sorry, I know you improvised in your Rachmaninoff; you did the best you could - considering." He means it earnestly.

The veins throb in your forehead, Is he pitying me?

Gojo laughs, "If you keep bickering, I won't remain the star of the show tonight," and you notice the not-so-discreet looks of the people at the other tables ogling you.

"It's getting kind of late anyway," Shoko says, smothering her cigarette butt against the ashtray's bottom, "Why don't we go before we miss the train?"

"I'll give you a lift," Geto says, and you stare at Shoko, hoping that your wide, begging eyes will lead her to decline, "Come on," He adds, standing up, "It's raining outside, and our violinist can slip up even on dry flooring."

a/n - * - Voice of Chunk, The Lounge Lizards, 1988

"I'll see you in school," You say to Shoko, who exits the back seat of the silver Toyota, leaving nothing but a bitter smell of smoke and a long, strained silence lingering in the car.

"Which way?" Geto points to a fork in the road.

"Left, then straight for a while." And could you be so kind as to crash us into the nearest wall? You chuckle inside your head.

He turns his head as if he heard you, "So, a mistake is just a mistake, is it?"

And your fists clench momentarily, their tension softened only by the quiet, sweet sound of Samuel Barber* playing through the radio, weaving its melody with the heavy pounding of rain on the car roof, "Well, if you dwell on them too much, you're not going to have any time left to fix them." You wish you meant it.

He ponders silently before asking, "How'd you start playing?"

Is he only asking to make a snide remark? You decide to keep your answer curt. "My father gave me his violin when I was young."

The windscreen wipers work full force to make the dark road ahead visible, "My mother never let me touch her cello," he says, his unbothered tone now laced with somber notes, "I hated the thing."

The ache in your chest is almost unbearable, your fingers dig into the fabric of your trousers. He hated it, and he still plays like that?

"Then why play?" You inquire, watching the streetlights' reflections glint in his dark eyes.

Because it matters, it has to matter.

He laughs, and you can't help but notice how his face softens when he does, "It pays for college," a speck of red tint dusts his cheeks, and a strange pull flares in your chest at his defenseless look, "Don't I look like a scholarship boy?"

"Maybe if I squint," you say as he turns to look at you. You narrow your eyes, "Nope, can't see it," and he laughs again, making the remnants of alcohol turn in your stomach.

When you arrive, you step out of the car and he watches you disappear into the building's front, his fingers tapping restlessly on the wheel. A weak, burning sensation plagued the muscles around his jaw; were they really so unaccustomed to laughing?

a/n - * - Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, Op.11

15 years ago

The Geto residence was an ever-tastefully decorated one-story house in the rural areas outside Tokyo, always graced by the echoing sounds of an Italian-made cello. Geto Suguru himself was a wide-eyed child, six years old, and already praised for being prematurely intelligent by his parents' arrogant friends; "Your little Suguru is so clever," one of his mother's friends said, leaning over the dinner table to tug mercilessly on his cheek, "I bet he'd skip a grade as soon as he starts school, don't you think, Kieko?"

To which his mother only hummed in response, quickly diverting the subject, "The Bolshoi* is performing in the city next month. Will you come?"

Suguru didn't mind these things much. He wasn't the kind of child to look for praise; he didn't care for it from strangers' mouths and never knew the delight of hearing it come out of his mother's ever-pursed lips.

The next morning, Kieko Geto sat on a sturdy, padded stool and played with unwavering concentration until the midday sun sipped through the windows, blinding her eyes. Only then did she stop, turning back to notice her son's inquisitive gaze peering from the doorway.

"Come," she instructed, and Suguru took a few hesitant steps to the middle of the room. His mother positioned the cello upright, the wooden beast towering over him as she pressed a flat palm to the middle of the fingerboard, measuring his height against it. "One day," she said, "you'll be big enough to play it, Suguru."

A phone rang, and his mother stepped out. Suguru stood a long while staring at the instrument that leaned lazily against the wall. One day - he didn't want to wait for some vague, distant day, and his arm itched with impulse.

Suguru lifted the bow from the stool, ramming it violently across the strings. It made such a horrendous sound that he thought for a moment he hurt it, and now the thing was howling in pain.

"Suguru!" his mother shrieked as she shoved him out of the way, "What did you do?" Her pale fingers grazed the cello, searching for new marks on the wood.

The bow in her hand glinted like a Katana under the sunlight as she swung it at his head.

The next few minutes were a blur. Suguru guessed he screamed since his father stormed into the room, pushing him to stand behind his back. His eyes were fixed on the creases on the back of his father's shirt, changing their shape like sand dunes as the man's arms moved frantically through the air as if he were conducting his own shouts.

The boy placed a hand on his forehead. "Dad," he tugged hesitantly on the creases, leaving red stains on the pale blue shirt, "Dad."

a/n - * - The Bolshoi Ballet

A failed poet turned local journalist once described Geto Suguru's playing as having a gut-wrenching elegance, and as you stood at the large doors leading to the conservatory's hall, you couldn't help but hear what he meant. Angelic strokes on the rumbling strings, and each note is -

"Shit," he cusses, dragging the bow harshly along the strings as if it could saw the instrument in half if he tried hard enough. Even as he does so, he can't seem to make it sound bad. The bow drops on the floor with a hollow thud, and he runs a defeated hand through his hair, brushing back a long black strand to reveal a two-inch, pale scar on the side of his forehead.

He lifts his gaze up, noticing you standing by the door. How long has she stood there? "Violinst," he says. "Come to practice?"

Seeing him laugh a few days ago must have been a figment of your imagination. "Yes," you utter.

"It's occupied until six."

You make your way to the low stage through the aisle between the empty rows of seats, "It's ten past six," you remark, and Geto glances at the clock, frowning at it like it broke a long-standing promise.

You reach the stage, putting your violin case on the still-warm seat of the lone chair in the middle. You shudder at the warmth, watching Geto lift the massive cello case as his other hand reaches into his pocket, taking out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, "You want one?" he asks, holding it open.

You shake your head, "Thank you."

He puts one smoke between his lips, patting down his pockets, "Got a light?"

You shake your head again, "Sorry."

He shrugs, his eyes fixing on the violin in your hand, and you notice the slight puffiness under his eyes. "Not my day, I guess." And it's a long gaping silence while he puts the cigarette back in the pack, "Do you mind if I stay?"

"No," Yes. "But if you scrunch your nose at my mistakes, you leave."

"I don't scrunch my nose," he retorts.

"You do."

Geto runs a long finger along the bridge of his nose down to the tip, leaning forward slightly to meet your eyes, "Straight as an arrow," he says without a smile, and you turn red at the sudden proximity, fixing your gaze on the shiny white floor beneath your feet.

"Alright then," you mumble.

Geto sits in the front row, reclining on the backrest of the crimson-colored seat with his hands resting on his spread thighs while his cello case leans on the seat next to him like a second observer. You might as well put on a burlesque show from how naked you feel under his steady gaze.

You drag the bow across the strings, echoing a dissonant tone throughout the room.

"Are you testing me?" He says with a smug smile plastered on his lips, but you hoped for a heartfelt one instead.

"Mhmm," you hum, taking a few steps forward to the verge of the stage, where you take a seat with your legs dangling from the edge, "You passed." and he chuckles, soft and low.

As you begin to play, Geto gets up from his seat to pace back and forth along the aisle, his brows furrowed and his thumb pressed against his lips while he listens to the music.

Your muscles strain, bracing themselves for the suite's climax, now's the hard part, you think, letting out a frustrated huff as your eyes fix on Geto. You miss the first note.

He halts, and your bow leaves the strings as you await his reaction in the irksome silence of the hall.

For a moment, he's desperate. Desperate for you to do what he thought was an almost inhuman feat after such a mistake.

He takes a few steps closer, towering over you while his eyes stare intently into yours, "Keep playing," he demands.

Your breath hitches as you watch him slowly lower himself to his knees beneath you. He places large, calloused palms on your knees, eagerly spreading your legs while his eyes are still honed on your face, relishing in the red flush burning your cheeks. He runs a hand under your skirt, grazing your thigh with long, rough fingers, a hint of a smile on his lips when he hears your breathless gasps, "Keep playing," he repeats.

Smile, god, you hated that smile.

You play a few jagged notes before your arms give in, and you place the violin on the floor with a soft clunk. Your now free hands grasp his hair, freeing it from his neatly tied bun to fall down his shoulders.

"Eager girl," he mutters, tracing his finger along your wet panties, and you tug harder at his hair. I'm the eager one?

"Q-Quit teasing," you stammer as he yanks you closer to the edge of the stage, pulling off your panties with a swift move. You shudder as his warm breath fans over your exposed cunt, panting heavily as his fingers dig deep into your thighs.

"Hmm?" He murmurs, placing soft kisses against your inner thighs, letting his teeth graze the skin but stopping every time right before he reaches your soaked pussy. Just do it, for the love of god, just do it.

You're reduced to a quivering mess, fighting the urge to push his head into your wetness, "Please," you whimper breathlessly, frowning at the loss of your pride under his touch, "p-please stop teasing," and you finally feel his tongue lick a stripe up your clit as he grunts softly at your taste.

"Good girl," he groans out, letting his lips wrap around your bud, burying his face so deep in your cunt you feel his nose rub against your clit while he rasps out a soft "Fuck," that sends shivers up your spine.

He was messy, fervent, eager as his tongue worked on your clit, and you grew dizzy at the sight of the usually calm and collected man disheveled and red-faced between your legs, moaning out his name as you felt yourself clench against his lips, "S-Suguru, fuck -."

He'd never heard his name come out of your lips before, but this was a better first time than he could imagine. He grew unbearably hard in his jeans, rutting against thin air almost instinctively every time you rolled your hips into his face, "Say it again," he demands, and his deep voice sends a rush of heat to your face.

Can he do it? Can he make you even more of a mess on his fingers? Can he watch while you stutter his name, while your face is a beautiful flushed mixture of those blunders he loved seeing you make?

"Suguru," you look at him through glazed eyes, and he frees the hand that grabbed your thigh to slide two skilled fingers into your soaked cunt, "S-Suguru," you whimper out when they sink deeper, pumping into your sweet spot with a harsh pace.

A drunk smile grazes his lips when you clench against his fingers. It takes him all his strength to pull away from your cunt, "You want more, princess?" He teased, fingers pumping lazily into you.

You manage to whine a quiet, "Y-Yes."

"Then ask," he coos, his smile turning into a devilish grin, and you squirm at the loss of his tongue, clutching his hair tighter.

"Please, Suguru," you breathe. How many times will he put me through this? And your muscles contract when he flicks his tongue over your cunt again, "p-please, Suguru - I'm - " you babble as he resumes his harsh pace, your thighs closing on his head, hips rutting desperately for some more sweet friction against his tongue.

"Please, fuck - " you moan, arching your back. His fingers still push into you as he groans at the taste of your wetness gushing on his tongue, licking it hungrily while you pant almost inaudible whispers of his name, and he thinks he might come from the sweet sound of your voice alone.

His lips finally let go of your clit. He pushes himself up from his knees to face you, his mouth wet with your essence as he brushes his lips against yours. Barely a kiss, but you grow dizzy anyhow, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, running your other hand along his T-shirt-clad stomach down to the bulge in his jeans.

"No," he utters. No?

"Huh?" Your brows furrow, "Do you want me to take you out for a cup of coffee first?" It was supposed to be a thought, shit.

He laughs, and you watch the lines form in the corners of his eyes, "Could be nice," he says, "besides, it's your rehearsal hours; don't you want to practice?"

"Not really," you grumble, "You can use them if you like." You reach down to pick up your panties from the floor where he discarded them, only to see him grab them first.

"I could," he muses aloud, "I'm playing the Grand Hall opening in a few weeks," and he catches your gaze for a second, "but I'd rather watch you play." And you blush as he tucks your panties into the front pocket of his jeans, "You'll get them later," he says, "If you're good."

"If I'm good?" You furrow your brows, "If I don't make any mistakes, you mean."

"No," he asserts, his words a bit loud, catching you off-guard as you fumble for your violin, "If you're good."

After you refuse his ride home, it's a long walk of shame back to your apartment. You feel as though your pride was left in his pocket together with your underwear, but maybe, just maybe, you'll make something good come out of it.

"Dad put it - " Suguru's arm held his father's in a tight grip across the coffee shop's table, urging it to release the silver spoon in his hand, "Put it back, please."

"They've got plenty," his father barks, his eyes darting around to observe the busy staff of the cafe while he hides the spoon carefully in his bag.

Suguru lets out a weary sigh, focusing on the swirling cream in his coffee mug, "So do you," he says, the taste of stale regret mixing in with his drink when he lifts it to his mouth.

"Eh?" His father's eyebrows knit together, wrinkles forming under his five o'clock shadow when his lips purse, "You here to judge me, boy?"

Suguru takes a sip from his coffee but finds it stuck bitterly in his throat under his father's hostile stare.

"Thought so," the man says, his dirty fingernails tapping on the wooden table as he adds, "Now, will you finally quit fooling around with that thing?"

"I don't know, Dad," Suguru chokes out.

"She croaked this morning, the bitch. She won't come to see you play now, would she?"

Suguru's eyes widen, his hands quivering, pads of his fingers digging into the scortching coffee mug, threatening to tumble the liquid over the rim, "What?"

"Croaked, gone, dead. She left you that cursed cello of hers," his father eyes the sugar dispenser on the table, brushing his fingertips on it, "So you'll sell it. And give the money to your father," his shoulders draw back, he's proud, "for all the things he did for you, yes?"

"I don't know, Dad," Suguru mutters.

The man's agitated expression deepens the wrinkles on his forehead, "'I don't know Dad," his father mocked, "I'll tell you what you need to know. I took you away from that vicious whore when she'd done your face in with her bow, and you've never thanked me once, just begged me to buy you a damn cello when you knew that all our money was left in that house." A brute splatter of spit lands on the table as he sneers, "And I did, didn't I? Bought you the damn thing, drove you around with it like some chauffeur. Where's my thanks? Eh, brat? Where's my money?"

The man raises his arm, and a young, blonde waitress appears momentarily by their table, all smiles when she says, "The check, sir?"

"Yes," Suguru's father says, the chair under him screeching as he gets up, "My son will pay."

For hours now he'd been contemplating where to go. Who he wanted to see. but when Geto finally gets to your door, his face still flushes with the soft pink of an irredeemable shame while his urgent, stiff knuckles pound on the door. He knew you were home. He wasn't a brute - he texted to check, but he still couldn't calm the restless ache burning in his chest.

When you open the door, there's no hello, just the unyielding feeling of his body flat against yours as he presses sloppy kisses along your jaw, groaning when his teeth graze the tender skin of your neck, "Fuck," his breath fans over you neck as he pants out the words, "you smell sweet."

His face lingers in the crook of your neck, relishing in the warmth like a cold-blooded animal who'd die without the heat. His fingers dig into your thighs so harshly you fear they might bruise them as he lifts you up, "Smell so fucking sweet - " he keeps muttering under his breath as your legs wrap around his waist, your hands clinging to the muscles on his back to keep your balance.

"Suguru," you pant when he drops you on the bed, noticing the unfamiliar ruthless look in his eyes, hardly the same one you saw between your legs a few days ago, "Did something - "

"D'you want to stop and talk?" He chuckles, large, warm hands running across your body to discard your clothes, "Hmm?" He purrs, already confining you under his body, planting soft, teasing kisses on the valley between your breasts.

"N-No," you whimper at the feeling of his teeth against your hardened nipple, and you run a hand through his dark hair to yank him away, while the other hand tugs at his shirt to signal him to fuck, take it off.

He almost doesn't want to break away from your body, not even for the sake of finally feeling your skin rub against his. But he manages to regain his composure long enough to use swift movements to discard his clothes as you watch him, strong and veiny, a body that could be carved in marble if it ever stopped moving with devious intent.

"Suguru," you knew he loved it, the sound of his name coming from your mouth. "Please," you writhe under him, desperate for any kind of touch as he looms over you, holding himself up while deep pants escape his parted lips. He's too far for you to crash your lips against his, no matter how you try. You lift your head from the pillow, and he chuckles at your efforts, pumping his already hard and leaking cock, groaning when he lets the tip brush against your folds.

"So wet already, hmm?" His hand abandons his cock to push a finger inside your cunt, the squelching noises making the blood rush to your head. He's mad with need but can't let your squirming be over so soon, "All for me?"

"Fuck, Sugu - " you cut yourself off to grip his hair, making your lips crash, feeling his tongue swallow your moans as he takes his finger out only to push his cock into you with a deep thrust, "Ah - fuck - " you moaned into his mouth, feeling his tip rub against your sweet spot when he finally bottomed out.

He starts a mean pace, and a hint of pain jolts through you while you adjust to his size, loud moans escaping your lips, "Oh my, ah - God."

"Suguru," he corrects, reaching a hand to adjust your hips, and you moan at the friction against his abdomen, "moan it for me, princess," he groans out against your neck when you pant his name, "louder - fuck - " he pleas, his breath hitches when you clench against him.

He knows he can't hold it much longer, threatening to spill his load at every pant and moan and brush of his lips against your skin, "S- Suguru - " you whine, feeling his fingers draw circles against your clit, digging your nails into his back to leave shallow red scratches along his shoulder blades.

"You close, princess?" He lets out a shaky breath when he feels you clench again, gritting his teeth at the tightness around his cock.

The coil in your stomach tightens, and your eyes shut at the feeling of his messy, erratic thrusts, "Suguru - ," you moan, "Suguru - I - " you pull his head back by the hair.

"Mhmm," he coos, "you what?" he growls, his thrusts feeling almost impossibly deep when the heat pools in your stomach.

"I - I'm - close - " And it's all he needs to hear, locks of black hair falling to brush against your face as he smashes his lips onto yours, savoring the taste of your mouth as your back arches and walls contract around him.

"Good girl," he rasps into your mouth, pounding a few harsh thrusts before his hips stutter. You watch through glazed eyes how muscles tighten as he spills his seed into you with a low groan.

He collapses atop you, pressing his sweat-dampened face against your chest to relish in the sound of the fast, thumping beat of your heart. A few more seconds, and he can measure the tempo.

"Listen," Suguru says, smoking a cigarette out of the open window of your room while he watches you get dressed in the corner, "there's a few things I have to do early tomorrow," his eyes trail out to the street lamps out the window, their blinking lights reflecting on his car outside.

"Suguru," you stand over him, brushing the pads of your fingers against the scratches you left on his back, "did something - "

"Just a few things I have to do," he says, looking around the room for his shirt, "so I'll call you, yeah?"

"Uhm, so, did you hear from Su-" You cut yourself off, watching Shoko take a long drag from her smoke with her eyes waiting for you to finish your sentence. "I mean - " you clear your throat, "You know how a guy does something, and then he -" Your face grows red at the memory of Suguru's naked body, "And you think it was nice because you had fun, and then he -"

Shoko watches you babble for a while before saying a confused, "Yes?"

"Suguru didn't call me back," you finally utter. Wasn't it enough for him that I called first?

"Oh," Shoko takes a long drag from her cigarette, "and he needs to call you because..?"

Your face flushes crimson as you bury your face in your hands, "B-Because we fucked and I haven't heard from him since," you mutter through your palms.

Gojo Satoru has a habit of entering places like his presence was eagerly anticipated, swinging the door open with a dramatic expression, "Shoko!" He cuts through the conversation, his height exaggerated by the confines of Shoko's small dorm room as he puts his saxophone on the table, "The key is stuck. I'm going to need you to fix it again -"

"Later," Shoko sounds like a reprimanding mother as she motions toward your sulking face.

Gojo's eyebrows knit together, "Did something happen?"

"Suguru didn't call her after - " Shoko reconsiders her words for a moment, "after they had a nice time together."

"Hmm?" Gojo plops down on the bed in the corner, "Well, he won't call for a while."

You raise your gaze from your palms, tilting your head at the man, "What do you mean?" And your mind races, Oh god. He can't - hate me?

"You didn't hear?" Gojo's smirk fades from his lips, "His mother died last Saturday."

Wait, the same day he came and - ?

You widen your eyes at Shoko, who only shakes her head in response.

"His parents were divorced for quite a while," Gojo continues, "he hasn't seen his mother in over a decade - "

"But she's still his mother," Shoko remarks, huffing a cloud of smoke into the room that lingers stagnant above the table.

Gojo sulks, "I was about to say that. He's been stuck in his room for a week now. My father's pissed."

"Your father?" You puzzle, watching Gojo wipe his sunglasses on the edge of his shirt.

"He was supposed to play the Grand Hall this weekend." And you squint your eyes, waiting for him to continue, "My father pays his tuition for these shows, y'know."

"Your father pays Suguru's tuition?" You repeat.

Gojo chuckles, "Well, I'm not sure for how long, now that Suguru won't even answer his phone. Dad's been planning this grand opening for a year now."

Oh?

"Can't you talk to him?" Shoko was still holding onto the smoking cigarette butt in her hand.

"It's like talking to a - " Gojo cut himself off to knock twice at the white plaster wall beside the bed.

Your muscles tense, and the sound of your own racing pulse deafens your ears.

I should say something. "He's your friend," you croak out.

Gojo's expression changes to a stern one, a terrifying sight on his soft features, "What would have me do? Make him play while he's mourning for his mother? Fight with my father only to have him cut Suguru off anyway?"

You go silent, mulling over his words, but find nothing to say.

Shoko picks up the saxophone from the table, "Which key is broken?" she asks, and there's a hint of defeat in her voice as she waits for Satoru's answer so, at the very least, she can fix something.

Suguru had stared at the cello case for days now, hesitant to take the instrument out of its shell. He started staring at it when he took it from his mother's house after the funeral and kept staring at it on the two-hour bus ride and the three-hour train journey, and then, when he leaned it against the wall of his apartment, he still couldn't take his eyes off of it.

It called him. Not in the way you called him - the kind that made his heart flutter when he saw your name pop on his phone screen, which he ignored, simply having no clue as to what to say.

He still ran the imaginary conversations in his head every time you did, letting out sad chuckles into the stale air of his room. How have you been? Oh yes, my mother died, and I'm sitting here with her instrument, which she always loved more than me. Is it nice? Oh, it's more like a successful older brother - you want to hug him just as much as you want to chuck him out the window. Would you like to grab a coffee?

"It's been almost two weeks since you sat there," Geto stands in the little kitchen of his apartment, making a cup of tea he knew would join the others piled up on his bedside table. I'm talking to it now, he thinks, I've finally gone insane. "How about you pay rent?" He chastises the instrument.

For a moment, he thinks it really might pay his rent - for about four years - if he decides to sell it, and keep the money to himself. His hands find themselves opening the case.

He inspects it for a long while, his hands brushing reluctantly over the wood until they find the small scratch in the varnish, the one he'd left there over a decade ago, and he focuses on it. It's small, pale looking, almost too tiny to notice, like the scar on his forehead.

"Maybe it's fair," he mutters at it, "I hurt you, and she hurt me. Balance."

A knock on the door makes his hand falter.

"Suguru," you bang on the door, feeling your leg squash something under it. "Mochi?" you mutter as you pick up a bag from the floor, and the lock clicks.

He looks terrible, you think, with tired eyes and strands sticking out from his usually perfect hair. You hand him the crumpled bag, trying no to smile, "It was just here," you point to the doorway.

"Hmm?" He takes it from your hands, "Satoru's been leaving those here every day. I've got plenty. You can have it if you like."

The air in the room reeks of smoke and coffee grounds, and he steps away, losing your eyes as he moves clothes from a chair to his bed for you to sit on.

"How are you?" you ask.

"Fine," he responds instinctively. Silence. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure." Silence again. A good time to pick up smoking, you think.

Your gaze lands on the cello peaking from its case in the corner. "A new one?" You puzzle as he puts a cup of coffee in front of you.

"My mother's," Geto says, sitting on the chair across from you.

"It's beautiful," you say, and you watch a sullen look settle in his eyes. "Wrong thing to say?" you give him a half-hearted smile, attempting to lift his mood, "Because in that case, it looks terrible."

"I like it when you say the wrong things," He suddenly says, "They don't feel so wrong when you say them."

You take the cup of coffee in your hands, warming your palms against the glass, "You can say them too sometimes, y'know."

He takes a sip from his coffee, only to find he can't stand the taste anymore, wrinkling his nose, "I hate that thing. I've been contemplating whether to sell it or just throw it out the window."

"And what's the verdict?"

"Play it," he says.

"Then play it."

He gets up, pushing the chair back to the middle of the room as he walks to take the instrument out of its case. You're almost startled by how stiff he looks leaning it between his legs, a hold so tight on the bow his knuckles turn white.

He puts the bow to the strings with a feather-light stroke, and halts.

He looks scared of it.

Is that what stage fright feels like? He thinks as he watches you lean forward against the table, eyes honed on his hands.

"You just need to play it, y'know? Like children do, just wiggle the bow a few times." You say.

Like children do. "It'll be dissonant," Geto utters sternly, releasing his grip on the bow.

"That's how they laugh," your lips curl into a soft smile, "That's what my father used to tell me when he heard the horrible screeches I made on his violin when he first gave it to me, 'Don't worry, that's how they laugh.'"

His chest tightened at the words, and he forced the bow onto the strings, making a loud, off-key tone penetrate the room.

It's the first time you've heard him make a mistake, and it made every nerve in your system tingle. Your head went euphorically dizzy. This is much better.

He almost stopped at your wide-eyed look, but you just laughed, "Oh, please, you call that dissonant?" And you watch him push the bow onto the strings again, brows furrowed at the terrible sounds, but his movements unwavering.

It's fine to play it like this, he thinks, as long as it's accompanied by your laughter.

"Suguru," you utter, and he lifts his gaze from the instrument, "Will you play the Grand Hall tonight?"

He ponders for a moment, "I think I will."

"Then you better answer your phone," you motion towards the buzzing cell phone on the counter, "and take a shower," you laugh.

He looks down on his disheveled clothes, "That bad, huh?" He chuckles.

"Just a little."

You hear the shower water running as you fiddle with your phone, still dazed at what just happened. You press the contact and dial.

"Hey, Dad?" You chirp into the cell phone, "Are you still coming to the Grand Hall opening tonight?"

The new Grand Hall is a sea of white marble floors and golden framed artworks, crowded by black-suited CEOs and their overly lavish trophy wives.

Geto sits on the lone stool in the middle of the stage, watching them all take their seats, still busy exchanging pleasantries with each other while they wait for the show to start. His eyes drift constantly to the stage exit, where you stand with Gojo, smiling softly, mouthing, "Don't worry," at his stiff figure.

His mother's cello is still unfamiliar to the touch, a beast different than the one he owns which he had already spent years taming.

People fill the seats like ants, and the lights dim above his head. The pianist behind him is a weak-looking man, and he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his thin nose before giving Geto the cue to start.

The first stroke of the bow is a hesitant one across the strings that once earned him a blow to the head, but the second one has more vigor, and his eyes, half-lidded still, find your smiling face again to soothe his nerves. His bow falters; he didn't have time to change the rusty strings; what would Elgar* say?

And you can't help but smile at each terrible pitch echoing around you; each horribly dissonant tone is more beautiful than the next to your ears.

The sounds are low and deep, growling against the marble hall. He almost has it - the feeling - the one that'd let him stop quivering in his seat. His bow jitters. He never knew he could make so many mistakes in a piece that he played hundreds of times, but with your smile at the corner of his eyes, he feels it creep up his fingertips, rushing through his chest - joy.

"My son!" The doors to the concert hall bust open with a bang; it overpowers the soothing sounds of his cello and the melody of the piano, "He's my fucking son. Let me see him!" Suguru's father stumbles drunkenly into the hall, two dark-suited men at his heels.

The hall washes over with whispers, women pressing their carefully manicured hands to their painted mouths in awe while their husbands are already halfway out of their seats with a proud "I'll take care of the bastard, honey" stuck on their lips.

"Fuck off, pig." Suguru's father spews at the guard trying to drag him away, "He owes it all to me, the brat. Play for our guests, Suguru! " He turns to the crowd, "Enjoying the show, money-rolling cunts?"

Suguru stiffens, his eyes two dull, widened orbs staring at the scene as he stops his playing, ignoring the piano player's whispers to just play, kid.

Gojo rushes to the man screaming in the hall, "Mr. Geto, long time no see," he says, one hand gripping him by the edge of his booze-soaked shirt, the other wrapping around the man's neck in an almost affable way, "How about you see your son after the show?" A smile is frozen on his soft lips, his blue eyes staring daggers at the man, "Now be nice, or they'll tase you," he breathes down the man's ear, motioning to the guards whose fingers are already clutching the tasers.

"Fucking bastard," Geto's father mutters at the white-haired man, "Money-rolling cunts," he slurs all the way out of the doors. They close with a soft thud, leaving the hall in a dead silence.

a/n - * - Edward Elgar, Cello Concerto in E minor, Op.85

12 years ago

"You hear that?" Your father stood over you in the rehearsal room of the conservatory, his arms crossed over his chest as he paced back and forth, "That's how they laugh. Every time you make a mistake, they laugh at you, girl."

Your eyes were red as you stopped your playing, "L-Laugh?"

"Instruments make that sound so they can mock you," your father explained, correcting your grip on the bow, "and you have to do everything so they don't do that."

Every day, he'd drive you up to the conservatory and stand over you in that room for hours on end, brows knitted together at each whine the violin screeched out. And when it was finally over, he'd walk you down the long white corridor to the room at the end, where a small, dark-haired boy would play his cello.

"See that, girl?" He'd point through the crack in the door, "Perfection."

Perhaps that was when you started to despise Geto Suguru. Over the years, the feeling only grew, but it hadn't peaked before his smug smile sat next to you in a jazz club, finally uttering the first words he ever directed at you, "Geto Suguru, have we met before?"

And it felt strange because you had - or at least you thought you had, over a decade ago. Not that he'd know that you watched him play almost every day through that time, with the scrutinizing words your father whispered above your head, "Look. Really look," your father held your head steady with his fingers digging into your scalp, "It doesn't laugh at him, see?"

And you did see. And you wished that it laughed at him, too. Why were you the only one supposed to be laughed at?

You didn't mean to at first, really. Something about him just ticked it off, the urge for revenge. How dare he hate his instrument and play it so well, when you loved the violin and it betrayed you with every stroke?

You didn't mind the sex; he was still a handsome man. It made him trust you - and as long as you made him make a mistake - every laugh, every encouraging smile, every word, was worth it.

"Fucking bastard," Geto's father mutters at the white-haired man, "Money-rolling cunts," he slurs all the way out of the doors. They close with a soft thud, leaving the hall in a dead silence.

Suguru looks for them - your eyes, and that smile that seems to perpetually grace your lips - but when his eyes finally land on you, he finds it gone. You mouth something he doesn't quite catch before disappearing from the stage exit. He can't do it; he can't play anymore. His hand freezes against the strings.

You finally made a fool of yourself, Suguru.

You wait outside the Grand Hall doors, body shivering with anticipation when the crowd finally starts to leave the hall.

"Dad!" You shout when you see him, making your way through the people, heels clacking against the marble until you grab your father's arm, "Dad! It was horrible, wasn't it?"

"Hmm? Who'd you come with dear?" Your father inquires.

"Leave it, Dad. He was horrible, right?"

He looks at you a long time before saying, "It's a shame for that boy, the beginning was perfect."

10 years later

When he's conducting, anyone would agree that Suguru Geto is breathtaking. The moment he dropped playing the cello ten years prior, every one of his admirers had almost lost hope - that is, until he picked up the baton. A true genius, they'd say, forgetting his last horrible performance, which graced the headlines for a long time after he ditched it in the middle, and how he disappeared for the next two years after it. Lonley? Gods no, he's a busy man, or perhaps struggling with all his greatness to find a mind akin to his own.

But only the small orchestra that played under him knew that all these words were just flattery - he was cold and unforgiving of any and all mistakes, and he really, truly despised the violinists.

Or he did, until the new violinist ran late to the first rehearsal of the year.

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yunhohours · 1 year

Text

Just a Little

✗ Pairing: needy!bf!mingyu x fem!reader

✗ Word count: 2.3k

✗ Warnings: sub!mingyu in the sense that mingyu literally begs to make reader cum, reader is a lil mean maybe??, oral (f. receiving)

✗ A/N: i wrote this in one sitting without re-reading it for one of my anons so if it sucks then it sucks <3

You close the oven with one hand and shimmy the oven mitt off your other hand, relieved to finally be in the waiting process. It took everything in you to not just eat the brownie batter out of the bowl, but these brownies weren’t for you–they were for a fundraiser. You can’t remember exactly what the fundraiser is for, but you know that you volunteered to bake a little something to support it when your mom brought it up. You would’ve forgotten about it altogether had she not called you a few hours ago, reminding you to bring the brownies over first thing the next morning.

You had dragged Mingyu with you to the grocery store to grab a few necessary ingredients, but insisted that he keep himself occupied in the other room while you were baking. You knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the brownie batter the way you can. You have pretty good control of your urges, generally speaking. You can’t say the same for him. When he wants something, he can’t think about anything else until he gets it.

You set a timer on your phone and switch your volume on, making your way to the living room where Mingyu is sat watching tv. Your eyes drift to the television but your body is headed straight for Mingyu. “What’re you watching?” You ask, easily dropping your weight into his lap, eyes still glued to the tv. It’s obviously a cooking show of some sort so you really didn’t need to ask, but it’s probably more polite to show interest.

“Oh… nothing really. It’s just what was on when I turned on the tv.” His arms wrap around your waist, hugging your back to his chest. You hum, placing one of your hands over his arms and relax into him. The more you watch the screen, the more you can understand why Mingyu didn’t change the channel. It’s quite fascinating watching the creative process, even for things like food.

You let yourself get immersed in the show with the knowledge that you have a good bit of time until you have to head back to the kitchen. Mingyu, on the other hand, seems to have lost interest. You don’t notice at first. How could you when your attention is elsewhere?

You don’t notice when he starts pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck, just stretching your neck for him instinctively when he does so. You don’t notice when his arms unravel themselves from your waist, hands seeking purchase on the tops of your thighs instead.

You only notice when his hands are drifting upwards and inwards, giving themselves access up your skirt. You swat one of his hands with yours, your brows knit together in annoyance. “Mingyu, behave.”

He sighs heavily from behind you, restless fingernails scratching the tops of your thigh as he tries to listen. You can feel him fully hardened beneath you and you’re not sure when that happened, but fuck, you didn’t even have to do anything. He stills for a minute or two, then his hands are wandering again, albeit more stealthily this time.

“Mingyu, if you think I don’t realize what you’re doing, you’re an idiot.”

He groans, but it sounds like the kind you’d get from a child when you tell them they can’t buy the new toy they snuck into the shopping cart, no matter how many times they ask. It almost makes you laugh, but you don’t want to give him that. Then he’ll think you’re softening for him and try to push his luck.

“Babe,” he whines, “Can’t I just have a little?”

You turn your head to the side, eyes narrowed as you take in his pleading eyes. “A little what, Mingyu? Can’t even be in the room with me for five minutes without trying to stuff your cock in me?”

“No!” It was a lot louder and more defensive than he meant for it to sound, probably. “I mean–” He stumbles over his words, cheeks reddening and a nervous smile taking up residence on his face.

You arch a brow, urging him silently to continue whatever excuse he was going to give you.

“I just want to make you cum so bad, y/n. Please?” His hands are kneading your thighs, but is it an effort to persuade you or soothe himself?

You roll your eyes and stand up, fighting his grasping hands that try to keep you planted on his lap. “I’m going to wait the rest of the time in the kitchen. Maybe this horndog will suddenly turn back into Mingyu by the time I come back.”

You huff when you reach the kitchen again, frustrated that your plan of zoning out until the brownies were ready was nipped in the bud. You easily could’ve lost time to that show if Mingyu would’ve left you be. Now what?

You ponder your options, but there aren’t many, so you resign yourself to switching between apps on your phone. You can feel the frown on your face as you lean against one of the counters, opening tiktok. You don’t even like tiktok, but it’s certainly a time waster. You’re hopeful it will come through for you right now.

You’re only about four videos deep into your feed when you sense a presence in the room with you. You lift your eyes only enough to confirm that it is, indeed, Mingyu, hovering by the entryway like a kicked puppy. You feel yourself soften at the sight, but you don’t let it show. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“Y/n,” he pouts, that same child-like whine in his tone. You force your eyes back to your screen, every intention of ignoring him. He can get so fucking needy.

Admittedly, you love this about him. Who wouldn’t want an impossibly handsome mammoth of a man to want them as badly as Mingyu always seems to want you? It’s a big fucking boost to your ego, that’s for sure. Not to mention, he is the best boyfriend in the entire world. He does everything for you without even being asked and never complains. He keeps you on a pedestal and worships at your feet. Really, you should be counting your lucky stars.

Mingyu may as well have floated over to you with how light his heavy feet are. He’s being careful as he approaches you, not wanting to make any sudden movements. You force down another laugh, even though it makes you feel kinda bad. He rests his chin on the top of your phone so you have to see his soft eyes if you want to use it. He looks so small for such a big guy.

“Y/nnnnnn.” Fuck. He’s so cute.

“Yes, Mingyu?”

“I’m sorry.”

He is, you can tell. Now you feel like an asshole. You hadn’t meant to make him feel that bad about it. You were mostly just pushing his buttons for being so needy. You lean forward and peck his lips to reassure him that you’re not actually mad, even if you were being a little snippy. “S’okay, Gyu. Why were you so ravenous anyway?”

His cheeks are turning rosy again. “It’s just… That skirt.” His hand cautiously finds the hem of your skirt, fingering it gently. “Knowing that I can just slip under it and have the taste of you on my tongue drives me crazy, y/n.” There’s that whine again.

You can feel heat in your own cheeks now, wafting down your body in waves until it’s warming your core. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to figure out what move you want to make next. “Mhmm? Thought you wanted to fuck me. You were so hard when I was in your lap.”

Mingyu shakes his head adamantly, lashes batting with such innocence it makes your core throb. “Don’t even want to cum,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours–a sharp reminder that he is still, in fact, huge. Your breath catches in your throat. “Just want you to cum on my tongue. Need it so bad.”

This time, you groan. You angle your head towards the ceiling, closing your eyes as you try to find that self control you swear you have. It’s hard to find it when your body is buzzing, aching to feel Mingyu’s tongue lapping at your folds. It’s hard to find when Mingyu hums, dipping his head to press kisses just under your ear, his low voice seeking permission. “Promise I’ll make you feel good.” He kisses down your neck and across your shoulder, large hand pulling the collar of your shirt out of his way as necessary before making his way back to your ear. “Please, y/n?”

His last plea sounds so pathetic you simply can’t resist him anymore.

You tangle your hand in his hair with one hand, the other lifting your phone back to your line of sight so you can check the timer. You toss it onto the counter when you’re done, pulling at Mingyu’s hair to make him look at you. This small motion rips a beautiful moan from his pretty lips, only emphasizing the sheer desperation you already knew was there. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Better make me cum, Gyu.”

“I promise, I promise.” He is practically chanting, eyes wide and eager.

You release his hair and he immediately drops down, hiking your leg up over his shoulder as he nuzzles his head between your thighs. He normally takes his time–pressing kisses into every inch of skin he can reach, massaging your thighs, telling you how beautiful you are time and time again–but he’s on a time crunch and he’s been practically drooling for this moment. He bypasses all of that, fingers pulling your panties to the side at the same time as his tongue snakes out to lick a stripe up your slit. He moans when he does it and you can feel your arousal leaking out in response.

God, he’s obsessed with you. That’s so fucking hot.

Mingyu finds your hand with one of his, lacing his fingers through yours as his tongue hones in on your clit, his movements much swifter and more pressurized than they would normally be this soon. “Fuck, Mingyu,” you moan and he moans back. He has always gotten drunk off of the sound of your pleasure, specifically when it’s his name falling on his ears. You dig your heel into his upper back for more balance, head lolling back on your shoulders as his tongue drags through your folds and back up again. Rinse, repeat.

You reach your free hand down to flap your skirt up against your stomach so you can see Mingyu’s pretty face. His eyes are closed contentedly and the sight of him having a sloppy makeout session with your pussy makes your already labored breathing stagger even more. He looks like he’d live here between your legs if you let him. You push his hair back away from his forehead, letting your hand rest in his hair. “Doing so good for me, Gyu.” His eyelashes flutter open for just a moment to soak in your praise and then he’s back to business, eyes closed as he dips his tongue inside you.

You cry out much louder than you’d expected. You hadn’t realized you were that worked up, but Mingyu fucking his tongue as deep into your cunt as he can reach is too much. The lewd sounds of his mouth meeting your arousal are too much. He’s determined, persistent. You’re not sure if he’s fucking you for minutes or only seconds. You only know you don’t want him to stop. “M-Mingyu–”

Mingyu looks up at you, slowing his tongue and letting it just twist around inside you as he squeezes your hand. You know him. You know he’s checking in with you, giving you the opportunity to tell him to stop, to do something differently. You don’t.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you breathe out, grinding your hips up against his all-too-perfect face. Mingyu practically purrs into your pussy as he resumes tonguing it, his pace quickening as his head bobs from the thoroughness. The hand that’s not holding yours seeks out your clit, pressing into the swollen bud and making your legs quake. You’re at the top of the cliff and you’re seconds away from tumbling over the edge.

You decide to throw yourself over, squeezing and pulling at Mingyu’s hand and his hair as you fuck yourself on his tongue. He hums and moans his satisfaction as you use him, your own jaw slack from the incessant silent cries of pleasure. The second you cum is evident not only in the way you feel but in the way Mingyu groans, savoring the taste. He works you through it and then carefully retreats, not daring to push you into overstimulation when you’ve already been nice enough to let him give you an orgasm.

He beams up at you, adorable fangs sparkling before he licks his lips clean. “Taste so good.” His voice is as sweet as honey now, pressing the soft kisses into your thighs that he would normally give you before getting you off. He always takes care of you.

You hum and let your body go limp for a bit, spent and a little tired from grinding yourself so aggressively onto his face. You feel Mingyu start to kiss each part of you–your hips, your stomach, your–

And then the timer is going off and fuck, it’s so loud and you’re so exhausted. You blindly reach for your phone on the counter, not bothering to look as your hand bounces around in search of it, but there’s no need. The timer stops and you peek an eye open just in time to catch Mingyu placing the phone back down. He always takes care of you.

He gently lifts your hips, placing you fully on the counter with a kiss to your forehead. “You rest, mm? Let me do it for you.”

And so he does. He always does.

#th: mingyu #th: svt #mingyu smut #seventeen smut #svt smut #kpop smut

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seeingivy · 9 months

Text

the sound of the applause

actor!eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting series

content: pain pre cursor.

an: songs mentioned - london boy by taylor swift, golden hour by jvke, girlfriend by avril lavigne. anyways. this chapter tame af. we are starting our demonic era. and no, you are not getting an eren pov until I say so. and I have covid so I am feeling extra evil and already writing the next one.

previous part linked here

You��re twelve years old the first time that you feel it.

You have hippies to thank for the entire ordeal. In your small, small town in Canada, there’s very little tension or importance on the arts. Singing, dancing, acting - like many places around the world - fall short to the highs and lows that come with sports.

Your middle school is no exception. A school that can barely spare money to fund a dying arts department, that begrudgingly offers one generalized art class that covers the basics of painting. Except when the hippy dippy parents in town petition, file a complaint with the mayor, they’re sequestered to include arts in all sectors that sports are included in.

A law that opens doors insanely. And creates the opportunity that exposes you to it. The singer showcase at the football pep rally.

And if you have to, you guess you have to thank food poisoning as well. Because Paulina, the original girl who was supposed to sing, was missing from first period that morning and you were all too quick to offer to take her spot.

They give you that pitchy, old black microphone and let you sing your heart out to one of your favorite old songs, At Last by Etta James. And when you open your eyes, the recollection of the performance is wiped from your mind seconds after you finish, and there’s only one thing you remember. It rings so hard, the sound so loud in your eardrums that it’s all you feel. The rush of the blood, the eyes staring back at you, and your cheeks burning.

When you think back, long and hard, that’s the first time it happens. The first time you feel it. It sits with you, that resounding pressure, that digs on you to give in. The need, the want, the infatuation with the rush you’re feeling.

And the obsession with the sound of the applause.

“Y/N. Wake up.”

You aggressively push your forehead into the plush of your pillow, creating a nice symphony of groaning songs in response to Danny, who is interrupting your beauty sleep.

“How long has it been?” you murmur into the pillow, the stinging in your head and the fatigue sitting in your body telling you it couldn’t have even been an hour.

“An hour. But I just realized, the bridge didn’t come out right when I was mixing so you have to record it again.”

“Can you come back in like three years? When I have the energy?” you groan.

“Y/N. I’ll see you in five down there.” he definitively states, shuffling out of your room.

Against every fiber of your being, you pull yourself out of the bed and drag yourself down to the studio, making it a point to glare at him as you re-record the bridge of the song you wrote yesterday. You give it a few tries, messing with the octaves and inflections, until you get a shining thumbs up, and wrap yourself into the blanket left on the couch.

“You write anything new?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You hold out your green book to Danny, opening it to the page marked, at which your producer is already wrinkling his nose. He hasn’t even read the lyrics yet, but you’re sure the title - Cry - is already setting him off.

“You didn’t even read it yet.” you respond, frowning.

“I don’t have to read it to know it’s brilliant. But you were there in that meeting last week and you know this isn’t what we can push out.” he responds, turning back to his soundboard, half-pulling his headphones back onto his ear.

“Danny. I-I just haven’t been able to write songs like that lately. This is what’s coming out.”

After nearly a year of writing music and touring, Danny and Sareen have leaned heavily into your Lover Girl branding. An affectionate term used by your fans, but now the entirety of the breadth that you work with. You’re widely known for the lovey dovey, sweet songs you write so when anything that falls outside of that mold, it isn’t stuff Danny and Sareen appreciate.

But you haven’t been able to write any of that lately. Which only makes that resoundling, crackling, heavy pressure in your head worse. Like you’re defective.

He turns around in his swivel chair, taking the little bound book you’re holding out for him, as he starts flipping through the pages. The worn down book you were gifted on your birthday years ago is filled with every mess of lyrics you’ve written, though none of them are meeting the game plan that was set weeks ago.

That announcement sent everyone on your team into a frenzy, which was so far from your initial reaction.

First of all, it was a rumor. That you were one leg away from being a triple threat. Second, if it’s true, you’re ecstatic. Enthralled and honored and every feeling in between. That you were even in the consideration for being a triple threat, let alone a few feet away from it.

No one else on your team saw it that way. Your producer, Danny, saw this as a sign that you need to be making more music and faster. The songs you make take you weeks to write at this point, no thanks to the perfectionism that comes with writing the lyrics and working out the sound. He’s set a goal for you - to write one song everyday. It makes it - that impending doom in your head - ten pounds heavier.

Your manager, Sareen, is no better. She only took this as a sign that you need to start being more vigilant. A hard-assed woman in her forties, Sareen is all about work ethic. That staying determined is the only way that you will get through this. And she’s extremely blunt when she tells you so.

Stars don’t take breaks. If you want it that badly, you have to work harder. There’s six thousand things working against you, take it as a note that you need to be running faster. That you aren’t trying hard enough. Those are equivalent to dumbbells for that rock on your head, that you’re sure is responsible for pinching all your nerves.

And it’s a matter of proving yourself. To Sareen, Danny, Eren, and everyone who watches you.

You appreciate the push. It’s extremely draining, but worth it when your song releases are so anticipated that you’re selling millions of copies before the song comes out. Have sold out stadium tours, and are shortlisted for awards nearly every time you do something.

You wake up. Get ready for the show. Memorize lines in between shows, film when you don’t have shows. Write songs on flights, produce through voice memos since you’re hardly in one place at a time.

And when you think about it all, finally being a triple threat, finally getting to hear Eren say that he told you so like you said that first night on set together, it’ll all be worth it. It’ll be over.

You can stop running. You can stroll, swim, make the music you like. So you oblige. This is part of the process, you just have to push through. There’s an end goal in sight. And being near Eren is a part of it.

“Have you ever thought about writing a song about…Ricky James?” Danny asks, swinging around in his chair as he smiles at you.

You wrinkle your nose as you throw the closest thing, an empty CD case, at Danny as he laughs back.

“Ew, Danny. That’s so not a thing.”

Ricky James, an infinite, insurmountable amount of talent, was your co-star on your last movie, Little Women. A British singer-songwriter, who virtually blew up over night.

He was nice - definitely the charismatic, flirty type of co-star. You’re positive half of it is the accent. After the two of you started doing press for Little Women, everyone was swooning over the two of you together. At how you guys had a handshake, did your famous kiss scene in one take, and how in almost every interview, he made it a point to joke that he was in love with you.

You get it. It works well for the press, gets people talking about the movie. But you could never like a guy like Ricky James. Or anyone who wasn’t Eren, for that matter.

“I know it’s not a thing. You’re all goo goo ga ga over loverboy. But it’s the same thing that we did for Little Women. He used the fact that people like to speculate to his advantage. It wouldn’t hurt to do the same.” Danny responds, shrugging.

“I already do use that to my advantage. It’s no secret that I earned my whole Lover Girl branding from writing love songs about Eren.”

“Yeah, but you know how it’s been for Eren lately. Maybe it’s not the best thing that your name is attached to him anymore? For both of you?” Danny states.

Eren’s had a rough go of it lately. After Satellite Port failed and the joke they made at the awards show last year, he’s all but resigned into what you call hiding. He said that he’s just busy, focusing on landing new roles and getting more credits under his belt. You know that he recently signed a deal with Scott Clarkson to film five movies with his studio, which is promising.

But you know Eren too well. He’s retreating, hiding in all senses of the word. From you too. The texts he used to send you - good luck before every show, a good morning even though you were on different sides of the world - have ceased all together. And the few seconds you do catch him, he seems worlds away.

And it’s not just you who has caught onto it. The last time you saw Historia, when she came to watch your show, she mentioned that she was concerned about him, that she thinks he’s being a little bit self destructive by working with Stone Studios. That Scott Clarkson is not a good idea.

Granted, Scott Clarkson is buddy buddy with John. You know that’s a touchy subject for her and made it a point to bring it up to Eren. To see if he was okay. But you were flying out for a tour and forgot to. And then he started showing up in the press again, hanging out with the cast he’s been working with, so you figured it was fine. That he’s going out again, smiling in photos.

“That-that’s not true. He’s on the come up - he’s going to be the lead in the Gatsby remake that Stone Studios is doing. I’m sure he’ll get an award for it.”

“There’s no need to get defensive. I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to expand your horizons. Triple threats are awarded for being versatile, not sticking with what’s easy. Maybe you just need to push the boundary of what you think you can do.” he says, giving your forehead a tap.

“It kind of feels like cheating to write a song about someone that’s not him.” you murmur, looking down at the pages in your hand. Eren’s handwriting is scribbled onto the invisible string page. Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven.

“You know, Sareen’s not too keen about this relationship. And I know that Eren’s team isn’t either.” Danny states.

“Who are they to tell us who we can date?”

“It’s not about who you can date. It-it’s about the image. Tying your name to his doesn’t exactly always work in your favor, Y/N. There’s no loyalty in an industry like this. And for Eren’s case, you’ve never really helped him in that sense. When you stand together, with the success you’ve had, all they see is a failure in Eren, when he’s really not even that bad.”

“People’s comparisons aren’t my fault. And Eren’s doing fine, he-he’s okay.”

“Now, he is. But a few months ago, it was your name next to his that was dragging him down. If it comes down to triple threats and it’s between you and him, are you telling me that you would really pick him over you?”

Yes. One thousand times, yes. Though you know that’s not the answer Danny wants.

“You have to be more selfish, Y/N. And maybe that’s selfless for Eren's sake too. There isn’t room for the both of you, right now. I know you love him, but Sareen has a point. Is working this hard worth it if you don’t get what you want out of it? You and Eren have all the time in the world to be together, just focus on your career before him.”

You frown, staring at the wrinkles pressed up against his forehead.

“You can have what you want - have your cake and eat it too, write all these corny love songs about him after you make it. Stop running when you’re actually there, kid.”

You look down at the pages, the thoughts floating through your mind, as the lyrics start spilling out. For your first song that’s not about Eren.

London Boy.

You try to make a point to call Eren before releases. Key word, try.

But it doesn’t happen that way. Because Eren’s in Los Angeles and you’re in Tokyo and the time difference messes the two of you up so bad that when they surprise drop London Boy, you don’t get to warn Eren beforehand.

And when he texts you about it, you can feel the guilt creeping into your chest. Because you know he’s too nice to say what he actually thinks about it. If it were you, you’d wring Eren’s neck out for writing a song like this about his co-star he’s rumored to be dating. But Eren is Eren and he would never.

eren: “he likes my american smile?” babe, you’re canadian.

eren: i like the song. really.

you: i have dual citizenship.

you: eren. i’m so so sorry. i meant to tell you before but the time differences, we just kept missing each other. you know i don’t mean any of it, right?

you: it’s just a marketing thing danny and sareen planned. the song will be a hit if people are speculating who it’s about and stuff.

eren: i figured. you don’t have to explain yourself to me!!!!

eren: you’re a pop princess <3

eren: and currently number one on the billboard hot 100 for the fourth time in a row!!!

You nearly throw your phone across the room at the notifications, the frustration building so hard that it’s all pouring out of your head. You can see the stack of gifts at the front of the room - candies from Falco and Colt, as well as Marco, Historia, and Reiner - for the release.

And it’s moments like this, when you’ve been running so fast and pushing so hard, that you resort to one of your worst tendencies. Because the only thing that helps you when you feel like this is being a masochist. Feeling bad only makes you want to feel worse. Like you deserve it.

So you inflict it on yourself. By reading what people say about you online.

You reach back for your phone - ignoring the messages from Armin, Bertholdt, and Levi - as you scroll to Twitter, hiding the light of the phone under your sheets as you look through the app.

You look at the trending tab. Y/N L/N, London Boy, Ricky James, Eren Jaeger, and love is dead are trending.

You press your bolded name and swipe to the recents tab, scrolling through every tweet, each one categorizing, sticking in your mind as you scroll. A mix of the good, the bad, and the ugly.

That you’re pretty. That you’re ugly. That you have no personality, that you write mediocre songs, that you’re the best actress from Attack on Titan. That you’re lucky for bagging Ricky James and Eren, that you’re too good for Eren, that you’re horrible for writing the song.

You place the phone flat on the sheets, the absence of light making your eyes sting, as the tears string out of your eyes.

You want to make your cake and eat it too.

But is it even worth it if this is how you have to get there?

You stick your hand out, swinging it in the air with Ricky as you do your handshake, and plop onto the couch. Danny and Sareen called a meeting with Ricky’s team before you guys went to the wrap party for The Proposal, which is the only thing on your calendar that you were actually looking forward to this month.

Because Annie and Armin are the leads and because you know Levi and Hange are going to be there.

“This is Michael and Nancy. They’re my talent managers.” Ricky states, pointing out the two people across from you.

“Sareen and Danny. Sareen’s my manager and Danny’s my producer.”

“Is he behind the genius of London Boy?” Ricky asks, smirking at you.

“Shut up. London Boy isn’t about you, Ricky.”

“Oh, shut up. I know I’m your muse.”

The line sits in your stomach wrong, because all you can think about is Eren. Seventeen year old Eren, shimmering green eyes on that empty set when you wrote New Year’s Day. You shake your head as Danny turns to the two of you, a smile on his face.

“We have an idea.” Danny states, a smile on his face.

You and Ricky nod as Nancy and Sareen start laying out the plan, each consecutive word twisting horribly in your stomach.

Surely they can’t be serious.

“We think that the two of you should date, as a PR move.” Sareen states, handing over a folder to you.

There’s dates listed out, public places where they want you and Ricky to meet at, and songs they want you to release about each other. All down to the slated releases, ideas for album covers, and interviews they want you to do.

“This is part of Y/N’s triple threat campaign. I think putting in this whole ruse of a relationship and writing songs about it, especially if there’s some part of it that will be drama because of Eren and Lana, it’s even better.”

“Lana?” you ask.

“She’s Ricky’s old girlfriend. They aren’t dating anymore, which is something that we should capitalize on. For the both of you. This should get Ricky into the leagues for the Album of the Year award when he releases next year.” Nancy states, flipping through the pages.

You look over at Ricky, ready to fully shut down the idea. But when you turn your head to him, he’s flipping through the pages, writing down his own ideas in the folder.

“Ricky. You’re not actually considering this, are you?” you whisper.

“You aren’t?”

“I’m dating Eren. No, I’m not considering fake dating you for the press.”

“Eren, who was seen on a date with Myka yesterday? Right.” he states bluntly, flipping through the pages.

“That’s just tabloids, Ricky. Be serious.”

“And so is this. Myka and Eren are in a movie together. You and I are musicians. You can do the same thing as him and I bet you he wouldn’t even care. And he shouldn’t, because your career comes first.” Ricky states, leaning forward on his knees to discuss more with Danny and Sareen.

You flip through the folder again, each consecutive page filled with more and more details of how they want you and Ricky to pretend. And the last page has the words bolded, little stars around them.

Y/N gets triple threat status! Ricky gets Album of the Year!

“Y/N. Have your cake and eat it too.” Danny warns, a reminder of what you’re supposed to be prioritizing.

“This is the time to run, Y/N. You’re almost there.” Sareen affirms, the two of them nodding as they look at you.

And by the way five of them are staring at you, big eyes filled with anticipation as they wait for your response, you know you can’t say no. That insurmountable pressure - to please, to be successful, to be the best - wins out, every time.

Danny’s produced for three different hit pop stars. Sareen’s managed some of the biggest names in the industry. And you have no idea who Nancy and Michael even are, but if they’re working with Ricky, they’ve got to be in the big leagues.

You put the folder down, giving all of them a nod, as they all erupt into cheers. Ricky leans forward to give you a kiss on the cheek, which you tell him to save for the cameras, as you take the folder and walk out.

And figure out how you’re going to tell Eren.

You head to the wrap party three hours later and any excitement you had about the event is immediately drained when you know that Eren’s going to be there and you have to talk to him about it. Break up with him.

“Y/N!”

You turn around to find Armin and Annie, the two of them wrapping their arms around you as they press kisses to your cheeks. You try to stifle the literal tears that are making their way to your eyes at the sight of them, their blue eyes the same soft ones you’ve always known.

“Annie. Armin. I’m so excited for the movie, I’m sure it’s going to be great.” you say, squeezing both of their hands.

Two of your shyest friends still, they’re both blushing at the praise as Connie and Sasha walk up. You’re wrapping your arms around all of them, as everyone else - Reiner, Mikasa, and Jean - join you.

“So Y/N. London Boy, huh?” Connie asks, smirking.

“Did you guys know that Eren is from London?” Sasha says, sarcastically.

“Oh, quit it. It’s just one of those PR things. The triple threat thing made them all go crazy.” you respond.

“We respect the hustle, Y/N.” Connie states, mock saluting you with Jean.

“There is no press better than you and Eren releasing Medicine and Dress on the same day.” Mikasa states, earning a bunch of laughter from the group.

“Oh god. Don’t remind me. Whore move, from the both of you.” Reiner says, pinching your cheek. Connie mocks the ah ah ah, from Dress, which has you all laughing.

You smack his hand off as Marco slings his hand around your shoulders, squeezing hard and smiling at you so big, in earnest, that it makes your chest hurt.

“Can you believe it? You’re so close to it, Y/N - I can feel it.” Marco says, leaning forward to press a kiss onto your cheek.

You reach up to squish the plush of his cheek as Marco mimics your movements, the two of you smiling at each other. And then you feel two warm hands on your shoulder and turn around to see Eren, soft green eyes looking into yours.

And it makes you burst into tears. Soft green eyes, albeit a little tired looking, and Eren’s hair all grown out. When did Eren grow his hair out to his Season Three length? The last time you saw him, it was so short. He looks the same. He feels far away. And that pressure in your head is resounding.

“Yeesh.” Connie says at the sight of your spilling tears, earning quiet laughs from everyone.

Eren brings his hand up to your cheek, swiping the wetness away, as he glares at Connie.

“Connie.” Eren warns, the tone in his voice threatening.

“Sorry. Just missed him, that’s all.” you respond, wiping the last of the wetness off your face as they all smile at you.

“Man, every time I see one of you, you’re crying.” Hange says from behind you, the group of you turning your heads and immediately tackling them and Levi into hugs. Eren reaches for Hange first and you go for Levi, his stupid minty smell making your tears return.

You look up at Levi, who's glaring at you, and can’t help but smile.

“Levi. You could at least pretend you’re happy to see me.”

“I am happy to see you. But not when you’re crying in public. You two are going to give me an ulcer.” he states, frowning as he glares at Eren at your side.

You look over at Eren, the end of what Hange said catching up with you.

“You cried in front of them? About what, Eren?” you ask, voice soft.

“Ah. Nothing.” Eren responds, cheeks lightly pink as he runs his hand through his hair.

You both let go of Hange and Levi as Armin and Annie take to the makeshift stage, giving a little speech about their time on the film and how grateful they are for everyone in the room for supporting them. And as they do, Eren jabs his elbow into your side.

“Ow. What gives?” you whisper.

Eren places hand on his chest, feigning shock.

“Don’t tell me you forgot our secret hand signals already?” he whispers.

Jab in the side. Meaning, you need a second to talk, away from everyone.

“As if.” you respond, giving a nod to his sign.

He gives you a smile as you both turn your heads back to Annie and Armin, who are playing the trailer on the screen now. And when they finish, the resounding noise of the claps are the last thing you and Eren hear when you go out to the balcony, the cold air surrounding you both.

You wrap your hands around your arms, which Eren picks up on too fast and suddenly he’s taking his coat off and wrapping it around you. Making a point to pull your hair out of the collar, hands focused on fixing your hair around your face.

“Eren.”

“Yes?”

“I-”

The words die on your tongue. Because here he is, the perfect green eyes you fell in love with staring at you in the lamplight of the dark, and you can’t say it. You can’t shatter his heart into pieces or be the one to let him go.

When he’s one of the only things you’ve wanted.

“I know how you feel, Y/N. You don’t have to say it.” he whispers, hands tucking your hair behind your ears before letting go.

You can feel the tears spilling out of your eyes as you frown at him, the look on his face so pained that it hurts.

“I’m guessing they don’t want you to see me, at least not for right now?” Eren asks.

You nod, aggressively wiping away the wetness on your cheeks as you reach for his hands, squeezing three times. You hate that he knows. That Danny and Sareen think he isn’t good enough for you. When you’ve always been the one who was never in the same league as him.

That Eren was the one who defended you when you were there, but no one’s letting you do it for him.

“I still love you, Eren. You-you know that?”

“I know that.” he whispers, nodding. His eyes are focused on your hands, interlocked with his. He reaches in for your bicep, fingers tracing over the fish tattoo right above your elbow.

“Fishbowl, Y/N. We’ll come back to each other when it’s time. Just don’t be a stranger.” he says.

You nod, reaching forward and wrapping your arms around him as you nearly sob into his chest, his voice soothing your hiccuping, even though you’re the one who just smashed him into pieces. And when Eren wraps his hands around your cheeks, giving you one last lingering kiss, before walking away, you can’t help but sit there in the cold, his jacket wrapped around you and letting the tears bite on your skin.

You close your phone, giving Ricky a glowing smile, as you both settle into your seats at the Institute Music Awards. The two of you officially went public earlier today, though you’re both still denying any rumors that you’re dating.

“How does Ricky compare to Eren?”

You try to hide your scoff as you answer, trying your best to stay neutral in your response to avoid becoming a headline the next day.

“I’ll always have so much love for Eren. We grew up together and really came into this hand in hand and no one could ever really take that away. And there’s no bad blood between us, we’ll always be best friends.” you respond, giving them a polite smile as you walk away and swallow hard.

You can see Eren twenty feet down, in a specially designed suit that he looks wonderful in, smiling for the cameras. He’s standing in between Hyla and Myka, since their film is premiering in a few days.

“You look green, doll.”

You turn around to find Sukuna, who you fake punch in the shoulder and glare at, before pulling him in for a hug.

“You sure you’re not talking about yourself? That’s your girl down there.”

“Jesus, Y/N. Don’t ever associate me with her again.” Sukuna mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Oh? Was it not you saying she wasn’t that bad when we were kids?” you tease, poking into the soft of his cheek.

“Well, that was before I found everything out. I’d say a prayer for your boy over there, he’s about to get himself into a gnarly mess he won’t be able to get out of.” Sukuna responds, eyes focused on Eren and Hyla posing together a few feet down.

“What do you mean?” you ask, linking your arm with his as the two of you walk down, past him. You make it a point to attempt to make eye contact with Eren, but he’s too focused on Hyla that he misses you all together.

“I just mean…he’s about to get himself involved in things he shouldn’t. And you should stay far away.” Sukuna states, giving Ricky a polite smile as he joins you at your side. Sukuna gives you one last kiss on the cheek before Ricky links his arm with yours, dragging you to your seats.

You both settle into the seats, giving Marco a big smile as he sits next to you.

“Hey. Where’s Hisu? I saw her name card here earlier but it’s not here anymore.” you whisper, as the lights start dimming ahead.

Marco winces, giving you an awkward smile as he puts his hand over yours and squeezes.

“She doesn’t want to sit with Ricky. Or you.”

“Oh.”

“Just for today, Y/N. Because of the history and all that, you-you know that.”

You shake your head, ignoring the stinging, as you give Marco a half-hearted smile, nodding.

“No yeah. I get it. I’ll talk to her soon.”

“Okay.” Marco responds, giving you a smile.

You make it a point to do your best throughout the awards show, fake whispering in Ricky’s ears every time the camera is on you two, holding hands and comparing hand sizes, letting him tuck your hair behind your ear once and a while.

And it’s all going great and peachy, until Hyla gets called on stage to perform. You crane your neck back to find Sukuna, giving him a warning glance as he rolls his eyes, making the motion that he’s choking himself.

One of the most insane things about Hyla and Sukuna’s beef? The fact that they perform and write songs about each other, that are so insanely written, that they trend for weeks.

You’re sure Hyla and Sukuna are what Danny and Sareen dream about in their free time.

Hyla gets on stage, giving everyone a soft smile as a few of the girls join her on stage, adjusting their microphones. You can feel Ricky squeezing your hand hard, his jaw clenched.

“You good?”

“The lineup. Hyla, Myka, and Lana.” he responds, glaring at the three of them.

You focus your eyes on the third girl, Lana, who is Ricky’s ex-girlfriend. The only reason he wants to fake date you. Apparently, the two of them broke up after you and Ricky started trending, her insecurities about the people’s words overruling any reassurance that Ricky could give her.

“This is my new song, it’s called Girlfriend. I hope you all like it.” Hyla says, giving a smile as the upbeat music starts.

Hey, hey, you, you I don’t like your girlfriend No way, no way I think you need a new one Hey, hey, you, you I could be your girlfriend

You lean back as you observe the visuals and the line of backup dancers supporting the three of them singing, their performance extremely upbeat and punk pop star that you can’t help but tap your feet to the beat of the song.

That’s until they reach the bridge. When Hyla pulls one of the back-up dancers from the background to the front and Lana pulls Eren on stage, the two of them are seated on the makeshift chairs on the stage. Hyla’s singing around Eren, rolling her eyes at the back-up dancer.

Who's wearing the exact outfit that you wear on your tour, a sparkly, billowing pink dress. And when you take her in properly, you realize that she’s supposed to be you. The same hairstyle, eye color, skin tone. You can feel your throat dry as you watch Eren’s cheeks tinted pink on stage as Hyla sings around him, the entire audience erupting into cheers.

(Oh) In a second, you'll be wrapped around my finger 'Cause I can, 'cause I can do it better There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in? She's so stupid, what the hell were you thinkin'?

You feel Marco’s hand on yours, squeezing hard, as you focus in on the performance, trying to ignore the fact that the big, black camera is shining on your face and that everyone in the room is looking at you. And that millions of people must be talking about it at home. You turn back to give Levi a look and he shakes his head, mouthing don’t cry which you halfheartedly nod in response too.

Jean and Armin have switched seats with the two girls behind you, their hands on your shoulders, squeezing, as Eren and Hyla walk off stage, hand in hand past the back up dancer who’s supposed to be you - who's crying fake buckets of tears now.

And when it’s all done and over, you skip the afterparties and let Mikasa drive you home. She tucks you into your sheets, making it a point to help you wipe all your makeup off and leave a bottle of water by your bed, you sink into your sheets and do it again. Let that overwhelming, embarrassing, deep rooted hatred sink in.

And pull up Twitter. Read about how everyone hates you. Relive the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you yet. Stare at pictures of Eren and Hyla and ignore the resounding sound of the applause the two of them received.

next part linked here

taglist:

@k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @cutiejg @bokutosthings @bookwrmm @mblrrr @wheredidmycrowngo @somethinginyoureyes7 @chilichopsticks @okaystopwhore @you-always-made-me-blush @itzmeme @firelordazulaaaa @whoami-72 @g-ghostly @intimacywithceline @erensmoodygf @cocomellxn @princess-ackerman @jaegerfiles @cacapeepee @squirrelspoetry @rui-0836 @moonmalice @invisible-mori @sofiasberr @bbybeeb @timetobegone @tee4str @ttokki2 @leave-rae-alone @ec3lipsy @officialsimpp @gojojang @yookayyo

pls comment on this post or any of the chapters if you want to be added to the taglist <3

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nickeverdeen · 5 months

Note

heya! can i request a HC for umbrella academy?

where five has a crush on reader but shes an airhead and doesnt figure it out, BUT, allison and viktor know so one day they catch five staring at reader and they point it out which leads to five getting embarrassed and looking away hella fast- idk where im going with this.... pretty much loverboy five with a crush on airhead reader 😭

thank u, stay hydrated!!

Hope you’ll like it! Please tell me if I wrote something wrong as I’m not really sure how an airheads usually act. Anyways I tried my best and I hope you’ll like it, love you 🫶💚

Five = blue text

Allison = pink text

Viktor = purple text

————————————————————

Five Hargreeves crushing on an airhead fem!reader

When Five first started interacting with you he started warming up towards you pretty quickly

You became friends or well… that’s what you considered him as he prefered to keep it as allies

Obviously that didn’t work

You on the other hand were just really glad that you got a friend

Despite his logical thinking, Five can’t help but be intrigued by your carefree and whimsical nature

It’s like small a mystery even he can’t solve

Five, being used to dealing with complex problems, is often baffled by the your scattered thoughts and blindness towards people who were trying to flirt with you

That is also one of the things he kidna also likes about you

It is pretty amusing to him

Five, in his own peculiar way, becomes protective of you

Yet you brush it off thinking it’s just him being protective towards you like towards his family

Being an airhead means that you also have an insight of some things

So when Five notices he starts to appreciate the unique perspective you bring to the team/family

Five, used to precision sometimes gets frustrated by the your forgetfulness and blindness

However, he can’t stay mad for long when you flash an innocent smile or do something adorably clumsy

Slowly Five secretly goes out of his way to make your life a bit easier

Like leaving helpful notes or subtly manipulating time to prevent minor mishaps

Five’s siblings were truly confused by his newfound interest, especially considering yours and his differences

Especially Allison and Viktor

They couldn’t put a finger on what he sees in the airhead considering he’s usually cold towards people like that but they were secretly amused by it

Klaus of course started teasing him about it

Five made sure not to snap at someome whenever you were around which made it better for Klaus

Despite the differences, there was a silent understanding between Five and you

Sometimes he even takes you to travel in time even if it would be only a few minutes

Mostly so he could hold your hand

He is much nicer towards you than towards others

Which leads Allison to talk to Viktor about this

A small speculations between the two siblings start

Seeing Five’s behaivor towards you made them believe that he may like you more than a friend

Viktor being Viktor had some doubts

Five stole a few glances at you during breakfeast when he was sitting across from you who is talking to Klaus

Your smile and carefree behaivor even in the morning is adorable

Viktor’s doubts are washed away when he and Allison catch Five staring at you

They decide to confort him about it silently so you wouldn’t notice

“You know if you’ll take a picture of her you can stare at it longer”

Five, caught off guard, quickly looks away, attempting to hide his embarrassment

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about”

Five, ever the stoic and composed one, quickly denies having any interest in the airhead

He brushes off their teasing, insisting that he was merely lost in thought

Allison since that day is the one teasing him about it while Viktor is the supportive one

He has been there with Sissy-

They make lighthearted jokes, causing Five to squirm uncomfortably as he continues to deny any romantic interest towards you

At which he fails terribly

Five, feeling the pressure, resorts to awkward deflections and changing the topic

To for example mission-related matters or starts analyzing some concepts, attempting to get rid of the attention from his personal life

The more you hang out with him the harder it is for him to hide his feelings

I mean you’re amazing

Despite his hiding, Five continues to steal glances at you, unable to completely hide his feelings

Of course Allison and Viktor exchange amused glances, silently acknowledging the obvious

It was driving Five crazy

Allison and Viktor, still determined to get Five to admit his crush, offer playful advice on expressing his feelings

They suggest subtle gestures or dropping hints, causing Five to groan in exasperation

“Come on Five, I’ve been there you just have to come clean”

“I am not in love with her!”

Despite the denial and embarrassment, there are moments when Five can’t help but smile when thinking about the airhead

Your smile, adorable behaivor, those eyes, that carefree and funny personality…

Shit, he has to confess before any other guy will do it

Five has Viktor’s and Allison’s support, he knows he’ll have to do it

Inside he feels like the 13 year old boy he looks like

Ready to confess his feelings towards you he fixes his tie and goes into the kitchen where you are…

————————————————————

✨And the rest is up to your imagination✨

#request #headcanons #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreaves x you #five hargreeves tua #airheads #five hargreeves having crush

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jedipoodoo · 4 months

Note

Liz,,,, I have,,,, a mighty need. Firstly, I read and reread your fics ALL the time, you are solely responsible for introducing to and making me obsessed with the bad batch, congrats.

I’m on an Echo kick. And there’s,,,not,,,any,,,,pregnant reader fics with him😭😭

Pre-citadel with ba’vodu Fives, post citadel with clingy over concerned ptsd!papa echo,,, I need it😭

Do you want me to flood your inbox with headcanons because I can flood your inbox with headcanons

YOU HAVE INFECTED MYSELF WITH THE MIGHTY NEED NOW I WILL TAKE ANY AND ALL HEADCANONS OF PAPA ECHO

Back to You (Echo x Mom!Reader)

Notes: No warnings, sick child, discussion of death, female reader. The Pergil lullaby is from @marierg. Not beta read, I wrote half of this in a fitful haze as soon as I got this ask, promptly lost it all by hitting the wrong button and couldn't recover it, and then re-wrote it in an even sleepier, more fitful haze. Divider by @stars-n-spice

You shifted your hold on your toddler to keep him from slipping out of your arms, gently bouncing him as he cried, hoping it would help him go back to sleep. It had been two days without sleep, so you were willing to try anything

"Oh baby pergil, little baby pergil, flying through the sky..." You murmured beneath your breath. This was your fifth time singing through the song, but it seemed to be working,

And then your comm began to glow with an impending message.

It was one in the morning, but you were too tired to wonder who could be calling you at this hour. Plus, you could use the distraction.

"H'lo?" You asked.

"Are you sitting down?" It was Kix. Dr. "Medical comes before sleep", who would turn right around and scold you for not getting what sleep you could get with a baby.

Fives was starting to fuss, now that you weren't serenading him. "I can't, I just got Iv'ika to calm down, and if I sit down it'll make it worse."

"Look, I've got something important to tell you, and I really think that you should sit down before-"

"Is someone dead or dying?" You asked.

"For once, no," Kix laughed half-heartedly, "Are you sitting-"

"Are you gonna tell me whatever this is or not?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the comm.

"We found Echo."

Your stomach twisted, pushing everything out f your stomach and up your throat, threatening to make you vomit.

"Don't- don't- don't you dare joke about that," You snapped. The sudden sharpness in your tone made Fives cry out.

"I'm not joking, look-"

"Did Jesse put you up to this?" You demanded as your eyes began to sting with more than just the lack of sleep, "Tell him he's a mir'sheb-"

"Jesse doesn't even know yet! Rex told me to-"

"You're all a bunch of miserable old men, and I never want to speak to any of you ever again."

You hung up before Kix could hear you sob. Fives was already crying, and you had to be strong for him, like you had for his whole life.

You held your son tightly, caressing his sweaty hair while you focused on singing lullabies, not about the dead father of your child. In your hand, your comm kept buzzing as Kix and even Jesse tried to call you back. Until finally, you blocked them, and Rex too for good measure, not even bothering to read the messages they tried to send you.

Fives fell asleep about an hour later, and you pondered your reaction.

Rex and Kix weren't the type to play pranks in the middle of the night, and Jesse might have been a bit of an arse, but he wouldn't prank you like this, would he? Not even Fives would have gone that far, especially not when it came to the life of a beloved brother.

Could Echo really be alive?

You'd have to worry about that later. Fives was asleep, and you had work in a couple hours. You had to try and get some sleep while the opportunity was fresh.

Your woke to the smell of your mother making breakfast. She immediately came in and took Fives from your arms, cooing to her grandson while she changed his diaper. You took a quick shower and smeared on some makeup to cover the dark circles under your eyes. When you stepped out of the refresher to get dressed, your mother was singing one of the lullabies she always used to sing to you.

"I think his fever's broken," She smiled at you, and you felt a bit of the huge weight lifted off your shoulders.

"Be good for Nana, okay?" You told Fives. He was a bit fussy, but nowhere near how he was last night. You could breathe easy at the office, even though you were almost late, and let yourself focus on fielding calls from agitated customers and filling out the proper files for each complaint.

You were still exhausted, though, so as you made a fresh pot of caff your mind wandered back to Kix's comm last night. You should really just apologize to him, but you felt so embarrassed. Ever since Echo died, the boys of the 501st had been there for you. Holding your hair back while you threw up from morning sickness and learning how to cook so that you could nap and have a proper meal when you woke up. In the end, pride kept you from unblocking them then and there, but as you made your way back to your desk with a cup of caff, your mother commed you.

"Mom, is everything okay?"

"Honey, there's a group of clones here to see you. lots of them."

A shiver ran through you and you groaned. You were gonna get an earful from all of them, weren't you.

"Tell them I'm on my way. I'll be there in a minute."

"Do I have to let them in?"

You paused. Your mom could be blunt from time to time. She was a wonderful mother and an even better grandmother, but she still wasn't used to the idea that you'd had a child with a clone. Having been a single mother herself, she got protective real fast. It was probably best that they stayed outside.

You apologized profusely to your boss for leaving early, and ended up playing the desperate single mother card. The sloppy makeup job and the faint perfume of sick baby that was following you everywhere as of late certainly helped sell the act.

When you got to your apartment, Rex, Kix, and Jesse were waiting, along with six other troopers. Four of them wore dark gray armor, while two had armor that was more white like the standard trooper armor.

One of those troopers looked at you with wide eyes, and you couldn't blame him. You had to look as much like a ghost as he did. He had the same nose shape and facial structure as all the other clones, but he was incredibly emaciated and pale. His white armor looked to be the kind that they gave civilians in the field, and it was clearly padded out in some places to help him fill out the bodysuit.

"Did you have to bring everyone and scare my mom half to death?" You sighed to Rex.

"Hey, they insisted," Jesse waved to the squad of new troopers dismissively and held out his arms for a hug. Given everything that had happened in the last few days, you accepted the comforting embrace without question.

"We tried comming you to tell you we were coming, but for some reason our messages won't go through," Rex placed his hand on his hip, all business.

You folded your arms and glared at Kix. "That'll happen when you call someone at midnight to pull their leg."

"I wasn't pulling your leg!" Kix sighed in exasperation and grabbed the emaciated trooper's arm, pulling him to stand in front of you.

You took a step back, "Um, hi?"

"Hi," He said softly. He coughed to clear his throat and repeated the greeting in a firmer tone.

"Well, what do you want?" You asked, oblivious to the revelation that was right in front of you.

Rex sighed, "You'll remember Echo, right?"

You stopped. you looked the emaciated trooper up and down, but refused to look him in the eyes.

"Rex," You took a deep breath, "Please don't do this to me. Not today-"

"But it's him!" Jesse exclaimed, "We found him and rescued him on Anaxes!"

"We?" One of the dark-armored troopers demanded, flicking a toothpick at Jesse.

"Well it's easier than explaining ev- Is it really so hard to believe that after everything karked-up that's happened to us, something good might have actually happened?"

"Boys," Rex said sharply. He nodded down the hall, and most of your little group ambled off to give you some distance.

"Cyare..." The trooper who everyone said was Echo reached out his right hand towards you, then returned it to his side. It wasn't much of a hand anymore, there was a scomplink attachment in its place.

"Cyar'ika, you're trembling," He noticed, a hint of terror in his voice. You kept your eyes on the floor. He was one to speak, how could he even stand on those wobbling legs?

His helmet fell on the floor as his left hand--still a hand--came up to cradle your cheek, wiping away a single tear.

Don't cry, you told yourself, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

With that tender touch, you finally allowed yourself to look him in the eyes.

A million men had the same brown eyes as Echo, but none of them shone when they looked at you like Echo's did.

"Prove it. Tell me something I've never told anyone el-"

"You talk in your sleep. It's probably because you need a cup of tea before you go to bed."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"I wanted to name our son after Fives, but you said he'd get to big a head about it."

You managed a laugh, "He did get a big head about it."

Echo chuckled, and the scomp on his right arm rested against your arm as he pulled you closer.

"I told you I wanted to marry you as soon as the war was over, and you tried to convince me to move it up until after my last mission."

You gasped out a sob, wiping your runny nose on the sleeve of your blouse. Echo wrapped his arms around you, and you pulled him even closer.

"So you really named him after Fives?" Echo gasped, pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

You squeezed him as tightly as you dared. When you hugged him before he left for the citadel, Your arms almost couldn't make their way around him. Now you feared that if you held him the wrong way, he'd snap like a twig.

"It was what you wanted, what else was I supposed to name him?"

Echo took your chin in his hand, fiercely pressing a kiss to your lips. You could feel a year and a half's worth of loneliness and longing behind the passion in that kiss. All the fear, pain, and isolation the both of you had felt without each other. You almost couldn't bring yourself to stop kissing him. If you stopped kissing him you thought you might wake up in the middle of the night with your crying baby on your chest.

"I want to meet him," Echo said in between kisses.

Your heart fluttered. Echo was going to meet his son. Fives was finally going to meet his dad.

"Yes, yes," You gasped, and grasped his hand, pulling him into your apartment. It was almost exactly the same as the last time he'd been there, with the exception of all the baby toys strewn about and the holos of you and Fives hanging on the wall.

Your mother was in the kitchen, spatula in hand, making dinner and watching the door at the same time.

"Where's Fives?" You asked her.

"He's asleep, but-"

You ignored her protests and brought Echo into your room.

Fives was just waking up when you opened the door. He'd lost his pacifier while tossing and turning, but that allowed Echo's first view of his son to be the big, wide-toothed smile he gave you.

"Hello precious boy!" You swooped across the room and swept him into your arms. He had a bit of a cowlick from the way he'd slept, and you tried to smooth it back, but it didn't do much.

"Fiv'ika, there's someone you need to meet," You whispered calmly, "Can you be a good boy for mama?"

Fives didn't say anything, but he buried his face into your neck, cooing softly.

You brought him over to Echo, who stood in the bedroom doorway, spellbound at the sight of the two of you. You had never been able to see how Little Fives' eyes looked exactly like Echo's, but now that you had them next to each other, the likeness was unmistakable.

"I...I don't know if I can hold him," Echo held out his arms. You could see his heart, struggling not to break as he watched you cuddle your son. Your son. Yours and Echo's. A proper family now.

"Sit on the bed," you nodded. Echo did so, and you pushed him back against the pillows so that you could lay Fives on his chest.

Fives blinked his dark brown eyes at Echo, drinking in the not-so-stranger's face. Echo stayed as still as possible, like a sniper in wait. The baby wasn't as heavy as he expected, and he was scared to hurt him. His hands were made for combat and firing weapons, no for child rearing.

Fives' head dropped suddenly, his forehead smacking against Echo's collarbone.

"Yow!" Echo gasped in surprise, but Fives wasn't upset. He rubbed his face against Echo's neck, just like he had with you.

"He likes you," You said, lying next to Echo. You placed your hand on his upper arm and squeezed.

"He likes me?" Echo asked.

"He does," You whispered, tears brimming in your eyes, "And guess what?"

"What?" there was a hint of fear in Echo's voice. Today had already been a very long day for the both of you.

You rested your head on Echo's shoulder, close enough that you could press a kiss to Fives' dark curls.

"I like you too."

#clone babies #lizart writes #echo x reader #arc trooper echo x reader #clone wars echo x reader #tbb echo x reader #mom reader

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matan4il · 3 months

Text

Daily update post:

Another day, another independent Palestinian terrorist attack in Israel. This time, a 64 years old man was stabbed in Jerusalem, in the northern neighborhood of Neve Yaakov. The terrorist is a 14 years old Palestinian from East Jerusalem. I honestly wish we could arrest the people radicalizing these teenagers, using them like their lives and their futures mean nothing. Technically speaking, actively recruiting a teenager to a terrorist organization IS a war crime, but as we know from the way ISIS recruits people, it's not always done in a manner straightforward enough, for someone to be arrested. In this case, there is an estimate that someone has helped this teenager, and searches for this person are currently underway.

We're five months into the war, and the IDF has arrested 250 terrorists in Khan Yunis, among them are terrorists who had participated in the Oct 7 massacre. We're talking about thousands of people who were a part of those war crimes and crimes against humanity perpetrated on that day, and I hope Israel manages to bring them all to trial, if they choose to surrender.

Israel's National Security Council has issued an official travel warning for Israelis who happen to be abroad during the month of Ramadan this year, when there is an increase in Islamist calls for violence. I know this is for Israelis, but I personally think this is a good warning for all Jews, given that most Islamist organizations target us all, and make no distinction between Israeli and non-Israeli Jews. So please, wherever you are, whatever your political views, if you're Jewish, be extra cautious this upcoming Ramadan (starts Mar 10), and please pass it on to others as well.

In ocntinuation of what I wrote yesterday, that Israeli officials believe Hamas isn't interested in a hostage deal that would include a truce, and that American ones seem to think the same, now we have sources that say that yep, that's exactly US officials' impression.

Israeli minister (and Prime Minister hopeful) Benny Gantz is in the US, and has apparently tried to explain to American officials that de-militarizing Gaza of Hamas' terrorist forces, without touching the organization's last stronghold, Rafah, is like putting out 80% of a fire, and that in such a scenario, Hamas would be able to use a truce to re-arm, keep fighting, and will overall prolong the war.

Loay Al-Shareef, a Saudi man who speaks up for peace with Israel, has to be one of the bravest people I've heard about. Here is a short vid from an interview with him, talking about how he came to know Jews, and stopped hating them:

youtube

And here's a short intro for the full interview he did (I haven't had a chance to see the whole thing yet, but I want to, so this link is for me as well), which I found very interesting:

This is 71 years old Batia Holin.

She's an amateur photographer from kibbutz Kfar Azza, who has also believed deeply in coexistence, and even managed to put together a joint photography exhibition with a Gaza photographer. Here's a part of the Facebook post she used to find a Gazan partner for this:

Out of 5 photographers who contacted her, 4 ended up backing out, which is how she ended up with the one partner she did have for the exhibit. On Oct 7, as she and her husband (Nachum) ran into the bomb shelter, she saw strange men with headbands in their courtyard, realizing these must be terrorists. Batia and Nachum were scared for their family, which also lives in southern Israel, and went for 18 hours in the bomb shelter without food and water. When the soldiers arrived, she refused to be evacuated before she would know that her daughter and two grandchildren are, too. During that day, the Gazan photographer who became not just a partner, but also a close friend, called her. Claiming that Gaza was being bombed (this was a lie, the IDF was not yet operating in Gaza, it was still fighting terrorists in southern Israel), he asked her for info on the number and position of Israeli army forces. She realized he needs this info for Hamas, and hung up. Rotem, Batia's daughter, was shot and wounded, but they were all eventually rescued.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack #Youtube

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conkers-thecosy · 1 month

Text

Five Fic Feedback!

Tagged by: No one! Seen this floating about a few fandoms, and decided to bring it over to bagginshield!

Rules: Pick five fics you've written, then tell us about how you feel about it vs how readers have received it!

1 - Bad Blood

My Thoughts: This one is way bigger than I meant it to be! It was going to be about 5k words and the only scene I had in my head was Bilbo biting the elven guard, haha! Readers: People really seem to love this one! I feel like feral Bilbo is always a crowd-pleaser, and this fic got much more attention than I ever expected it to! - 2 - Soldier My Thoughts: I'm really proud of this one. It was my first bagginshield fic, and it was after a loooong break from writing. Even though it's a bit weak in places, I have such a soft spot for it. Readers: I ended up re-posting this one after some harassment kicked my confidence down the toilet, but since then the reception has been very positive! - 3 - Poet My Thoughts: I'm sorry to say it, but this is probably my least favourite fic I've written. If it wasn't so popular I'd have removed it and altered the end of Soldier so it was just one fic! Readers: This fic seems to be very popular, and was the first time someone made art of my work - and more than once! I remember posting the first chapter and not expecting very much, only to come onto tumblr and see random posts where folks were super excited to see it was updating! It was such a lovely feeling! - 4 - My Ego Dies My Thoughts: I genuinely love this one, I think it's probably my personal favourite. I really enjoy playing about with the idea of "forgiveness" between Bilbo and Thorin, and this fic really scratched a particular itch for me! Readers: Probably my least popular fic - statistically, at least! I've found most folk weren't into it for one reason or another, but the people who love it, really, really love it! -

5 - Stealing Moments, Moments Away My Thoughts: I wish I'd taken more time with this one in some ways, but in others it really is the reshirement fic I wanted to tell. Again, I got to tinker with that "forgiveness" trope, and have a good look at what survival might realistically have meant for Thorin. Readers: This one is a quick read, and it's soft and fluffy, so I think readers enjoy it for that reason, though I believe some found it a bit boring. It was being updated almost daily, and the folks who were invested came back to comment and read practically every time I updated, which was just amazing to me! - 6 - Backs To The Wall (Sorry, I've written six, so I wanted to do all of them!) My Thoughts: I wrote this because it was something I wanted to read, and couldn't find. It's been amazingly fun, and I told myself when I started (knowing it was going to be fairly long - even if I didn't realise quite how long at the time, haha) that I wasn't going to take it too seriously, and I was really only writing this for myself, as the most self-indulgent kind of nonsense, ever! Readers: I can't begin to tell you how utterly blown away by the response to this I've been. Like?? It's just crazy to me how much folks are enjoying this, how excited and supportive everyone has been! I've been so grateful for everyone reading, and genuinely shocked down to my bones, haha! 💛 - No pressure tags for: @fantasyinallforms @lucigoo @lordoftherazzles @domesticgoddesswriter @thatfancygirlinwhite @lauramkaye @sass-y-squatch @mintedwitcher (and honestly anyone else who sees this and wants to do it, *waves a wand* you are Tagged!)

#tag game #bagginshield #bagginshield fic #thilbo #thilbo fic #fic writer #fic game #fandom #fandom game #conkers corner #bad blood #soldier poet king series #my ego dies #stealing moments moments away #SMMA #backs to the wall #BTTW #conkers-thecosy

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dduane · 1 year

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I have only finished writing the first draft of my first novel so I'm nowhere near considering the legal side of writing yet but I'm curious, so if you don't mind me asking I got two questions:

1) Do laws forbidding writers from reading fanfic of their work go over to other mediums, like visual novels for example? Or let's say I wrote a script and was lucky enough to get it produced as an animated short, would these laws still pertain to it? Or do stories outside the written medium have a completely different set of laws pertaining to them?

2) If an author writes a standalone and reads fanfic of said standalone, then goes on to write a series completely separate from their previous work with a different world and cast can the fanfic author still sue if they detect similarities? Even if their fanfic is attached to a completely different story?

Sorry if these questions are weird and rambly, it's 1 AM over here.

Let me clarify this. These aren't laws that I've been following: they're self-designed rules, based on the current legal realities obtaining in the markets where my IP is known and on offer.

Re 1): Written or not written—drawn, sung, or performed as interpretive dance for all I care—work created with consent in one's own universe must have come about with underlying binding written agreements in place. Without such agreements existing, viewing work in any format that's based in one's own universe will inevitably expose one legally. If I write a graphic novel and people write fanfic based on it, I will not read their fanfic because it could expose me legally to claims that further work done in my IP was based on their fic. Ditto if I write a script and it gets produced, and people see it and write fanfic about it, I won't read that fanfic either. The medium doesn't matter.

Re 2): If I write what for the time being is a standalone novel and read fanfic based on it, and then write a completely different series per your description, can a fanfic author still sue me if they detect similarities? Even if their fanfic is attached to a completely different story?

Well, if they've got the money, and depending on where they're located (for national laws differ), sure they can. The suit may well be sourced in confusion, or malice, or both, but they can. And the suit may in due time be lost or thrown out of court for being frivolous, but no matter how the cards fall, it's going to wind up costing you, the writer, a fair bit of money to get shut of it. A year's worth of your earnings? Two years' worth? Five? And what will be left of your career at that point?

The whole situation is better avoided by not reading any fanfic based on your work. In any format. Any time, any place. Period.

What's workable, and legal, and safe, is the following approach to derivative works from the IP owner's point of view.

Let's say that (for example) a producer or playwright approaches me and wants to adapt So You Want To Be A Wizard as a stage play. If that happens I have them get in touch with my agent, my agent proposes a license fee for allowing them to do this, and draws up a contract with that person essentially stating that they have my permission to adapt my book. Once that contract's in force (meaning it's been signed and money's changed hands), it's perfectly safe for me to look at those people's material written in my universe, because we're both bound by a concrete agreement on how the creative process will go forward and how the results will be used.

Or alternately: Let's say that some writers I know think it would be fun to write Young Wizards stories, and when I hear about this, I say "Okay, let's do a YW anthology." And I talk it over with my agent and then we call in a crowd of writers whose talents I trust and whom I think would be interested in taking part. Those interested all sign contracts with me that say they've got my permission to create those works using my IP / in my universe, and to get paid for them. My side of those contracts stipulates (as seems fair) that, if they invent something particularly cool while working in my universe, I retain the right to use and expand on that concept or language at a later date if I like. (If they have a problem with that, that's their call: they don't have to sign the contract or be in the anthology.) And I can obviously now read all this work and have it, legally speaking, be perfectly safe for me.

But let's try looking at the situation from a different direction. I open my ask box one morning and find that someone's stuffed the idea for a Young Wizards short story into it, also saying, "And I'd like to publish this as fanfic, if it's okay with you." Without an agreement in place, without my permission, this person has forced me to look at material which potentially infringes my copyright. But that doesn't matter in terms of my immediate legal options, because fanfic is also conditionally protected by copyright. (This is a complex situation, but this article deals with some of it, and links to more discussion.)

My first urge is to simply delete the thing and pretend I never saw it. But unfortunately Tumblr's records of my web accesses will now contain proof that someone logging into my account, from my computer (or iPad, or phone...) has opened and viewed that ask. Should I ever wind up in court with this person, their lawyers will have demanded that data from Tumblr and will use it to prove that I had access to their client's idea.

So now—assuming they've actually gone ahead and done this writing and publishing—I have to get hold of my lawyer and have them contact Tumblr and get that person's identity and contact info from them, so that they can be sent a cease-and-desist letter. I hate having to do this, but evidence that you have not been defending your copyright can be used against you.

Now let me be blunt. Like most writers, I'm not wealthy. And the simple business described in the paragraph above could cost me a month's income or more in billings from the lawyer. What am I supposed to eat, next month, while I'm trying to write? ...It's a good thing I like ramen.

...Though if I was wealthy, things could get much worse.

Let's say that in an access of utter pre-caffeine idiocy, and a weary desire to be nice to a clueless innocent, I just tell that person in the ask box, "Okay, fine, knock yourself out... just don't make money from it and don't do it where I'll see it." And they say "Of course, I'd never want to cause you trouble, your fiction has meant so much to me..." And then some kind of gloriously indescribable series of events occurs that somehow or other raises the Young Wizards series' profile way higher than it is at the moment, and makes its originator even a little bit rich and famous.*

youtube

...And a year or two or five later, in these increasingly litigious times, that person from the ask box who was so nice and said they'd never want to cause me trouble... suddenly starts having second thoughts. ...After all, I've got all this money now, and without their contribution, maybe it would never have happened, right? Don't they have a right to some of that? It's only fair!

You can just hear the thought processes, because we've seen this play out elsewhere before now. "Come on, she'll never miss it. She's probably got a castle in Ireland with solid gold toilets by now. She's got a TV series in the works, and when that comes out she'll have lots more money. She'll never miss a few thousand [ / few tens of thousands / few hundred thousand...] out of that!" And shortly they're on the phone to some lawyers, and the tabloids, and Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, with claims that the Young Wizards series in the works is based on their idea. In fact, they can prove I not only read it, I gave them permission to write in my universe!

...And suddenly Hulu/HBO/RandoStartupStreamingNetwork has stopped taking my agent's calls.

(sigh) So, as I said above: just don't read fanfic based in your own universe, mmkay? You'll thank me later.

*Without the universe's originator then suffering some kind of toxic ethical shift after the fact. (shrug) Stranger things have happened.

#fanfic #profic #and their intersection

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escapism-writer · 1 year

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Talk to me - Gavi x Reader

A/n: Heres to me one day having a good upload schedule! I wrote this all in one go and do not have the motivation to re-read it sorry.

Summary: You felt to afraid to ask for help, but that didn’t matter when Gavi finds you crying alone.

Warnings: Angst, comfort, not proof read.

You lifted your legs towards your chest, protecting yourself from all the thoughts that raced through your head. Tears started to escape one by one, your ears started to ring. You couldn’t tell what you were feeling but whatever it was, you wanted it to stop. The more your thoughts clashed with each other the more forceful the tears fell, fighting against you holding them in. As the mixture of pain, sorrow and confusion became unbearable you stopped fighting. Then it hit you. Why were you crying here alone? You pushed away the thought of feeling sorry for yourself.

Anger hit you like a rubber band being pulled until it snapped. You felt your tears fall more violently, your thoughts became more blame full on everyone around you. You had done nothing but tried your best and it lit a flame inside, to know no one had noticed. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw everything nearby, to create a bubble spaced from anything that could cause you to break anymore. Anytime anyone asked for help you were there, hell, even if they looked sad for five minutes you dropped everything to help them out, making jokes to lift their spirits or giving them advice to try and console them.

Yet here you were, after months and months of build up. Even when people did notice, they didn’t help. They’d ask you, “Are you sure your okay?” Obviously you didn’t want to bother anyone, so you’d always answer with “Ah, its nothing to worry about!” You knew you couldn’t expect them to just know how you were really feeling, but you really wanted to. If you could know how others felt, then why couldn’t they? Asking for help personally was never going to happen. You were afraid to say something wrong, or make it sound worse then it really was. Your thoughts were cut short by the sound of your bedroom door opening.

“Hola, Mi Vida.”

The voice was undeniably coming from your boyfriend, you mustn’t have noticed him come though the front door. You moved your head in the opposite direction, begging that the footballer would not notice your tear-stained face. You used the sleeve of your, but really Gavi’s, hoodie to wipe your face dry.

“Was wrong Mi Vida?”

You felt the boy’s warmth, as his arms pulled you into a hug from behind. His cologne help your body relax a little in his arms, feeling as safe ad you could. The anger flowed out, replaced back with the original sadness.

“Its nothing to worry about, everything’s better now your here.”

You sighed out, you didn’t lie. Everything always felt better when he was with you. Although he didn’t know it, his touch was a comfort in itself to you. His warmth protected you more than you could have ever.

“I just walked into you crying in the dark. Do you really think thats nothing to worry about?”

You laughed slightly at the thought of what Gavi must’ve seen. How embarrassing! You turned around, giving up hiding your tear-stained cheeks. You looked into his eyes, I he ones that drew you to him from the very beginning. You shot the golden boy a smile, before letting out a light laugh again while shaking your head.

“Hmm, it doesn’t sound like anything to worry about.”

Gavi looked sympathetic, instead of laughing like you had wished he was. You weren’t sure you were ready to talk tonight about your feelings, despite all the mental arguments you had earlier on. His sympathetic face only deepened as he struggled to read you.

“Please talk to me, Y/N. I can’t stand seeing you like this. Te quiero mucho.”

You felt yourself break at his comment. You bit your lower lip, trying to prevent yourself from bursting into tears for the second time in one night. As you considered what to say, your mind was infected by pain that spread faster than you could cut it off. Your eyes met with Gavis once more. Seeing his brown doe eyes lingering with empathy you felt yourself collapse again.

“I don’t know if I can keep living like this Pablo.”

Tears returned, as if they had never left. You hated breaking down in front of others. Watching them unsure on how to comfort you, only made you worry more. Though Gavi was not like that. He instantly pulled you into a hug before whispering into your ear.

“I’ll always be here for you, I can help you if you just tell me what I can do-“

“Can you just lay here with me.”

Gavi pulled from the hug, adjusting his position. He moved himself under the blanket, patting a place next to him. You rested your head on top of his chest, falling deeper into sleep as you synchronised your breathing with his. You followed the beating of his heart, until your body completely relaxed, free from any emotion it held before.

“Te quiero, princesa.”

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scarlettsandmaroons · 1 year

Text

slow motion love potion | n. romanoff

about me | series masterlist | natasha romanoff masterlist

pairing: professor!natasha romanoff x collegestudent!reader

chapter six | chapter seven: full of cages

chapter summary: had she been intentionally haunting you, you wouldn't know. but for someone who doesn't think of you, she's been showing up more and more in your life. she's not just your professor who has it out for you, or the woman who's been haunting your dreams every night, she also live under the same roof as you now.

warnings: slight smut; masturbation, unedited; lots of typos, long.

a/n: oh my god, the last chapter was chaotic T T. i received so many feedbacks (which super super appreciated, thank you) BUT HAD NO ONE REALLY READ THE SERIES SUMMARY? the "plot twist" has been there forever! i've been trying to foreshadow it even though i explicitly wrote the whole gist of it on the summary, but i really thought it was obvious.

"you have to come back."

there were only ever two people who ever dared barge into natasha's office to demand her of something. she'll be damned if her students, knew that they were two freshmen who are barely five months into college. "mr. maximoff, you have to go," she says. removing her hands from the desk, and instead re-aligning the stack of papers she had on top of it as a subtle mark to end the conversation.

"mrs. romanoff," billy sighs.

"it's a little too early for this and you have class. so if you would just—"

billy's shoulders drop. "natasha...,"

"i'm quite busy, mr. maximoff," she insists.

but so did he. "mom..."

she was grabbing everything she could find on her desk, tucking them away, moving them across the table, fixing what hadn't needed fixing; from rearranging her stack of papers by putting a page from the back to the middle, or repetitively opening and closing her drawers for everytime she finds absolutely anything she can stash away.

billy only watched her. when natasha's desk had way more than enough space for her to rest her elbows on, and clasp her hands together against, she sighed almost defeated when she looked at billy.

billy had brown eyes; nothing like the ocean greens of her mother's. he'd gotten that from his father. in fact, billy looked so much like his father. he resembled vision so much that he became her constant reminder that while all of them favored scarlet over maroons, she had green eyes and they didn't. while they always win the argument over what to have for dinner, she was allergic to the tuna wanda puts in her famous maximoff casserole. while they made a hobby of providing food for the homeless, or volunteering in community outreach programs, she used to be a criminal.

while she'd always wanted a family, she also became the permanent line that would forever seperate one in half.

"billy," she says. she didn't know what she was going to say, but billy did.

"you need to come home."

what could she possibly tell a boy who's asking her to come home?

"my mom's crying," he said. "when i come home to pick something up for lunch, or when i'd acidentally left something at home, and i walk through the door, and i hear her, and i see her...," he paused. he swallowed on what almost made him choke. "and she's on her side of the bed, crying over you."

in people's minds, she was mean. sometimes, it amuses her knowing that when she walks inside a classroom, her students would each have a different version of what monster she'd look like if she took off her "disguise". and more times than not, she loves it. she loves that she's feared. she loves that they're so afraid of her, so much that they'd drawn such vivid images of what kind of horns she'd have in their minds.

she should be offended. disheartened. but knowing that she was nothing like the monster people think of her to be, knowing that once, she used to come home to her family; dance, and kiss, and spin, and dip her wife in the entryway; laugh and throw food around during movie nights with the two people who meant the absolute world to her; make sandwiches and play videogames or go to the gym with her son. knowing that she was a lot kinder; that she looks after her best friend's family because he continues to be in a dangerous line of work, that she still helps out her scientist friend with his experiment because only she can bring him out of a jam. it made it all the more special; knowing that she remained unseen. knowing that she was something she had complete control of giving to the very few people she trusted. it made it more intimate.

but in those rare moments when being depicted as such a terrible person didn't come so much with pleasure, she wondered if maybe it's because people misunderstood her. maybe if she smiled more? maybe if she talked slower. maybe if she was softer. maybe if she was gentler. maybe she wouldn't seem so bad.

"billy, this does not concern you," she said, regret immediately dawning on her the moment she saw billy's face contort in disbelief. she cleared her throat. for what has felt to be such a long time, she finally dropped her shoulders. she let herself slouch against the desk, she let her brows raise in comfort, she let a lump pass onto her throat for the sheer hospitality of the terrible feeling it came with. a feeling that she finally welcomed. she let her stoicsm break, and her pride falter. "billy, sweetheart," she says, almost in a pleading whisper. she reached out to him, inviting him to come closer which he did so by disallowing any space to be between him and her desk. then she holds his hands inside hers as he slowly sat down. "whatever happened between me and your mother, whatever will happen to us, you need to know that we love you very much, and that will never change," she says.

he shakes his head. "i'm not twelve anymore, natasha," he says, withrawing his hands from her hold almost abruptly. "i just need to know that my mother will be okay."

she didn't say anything though they both knew she should've. though they were both waiting for her to say something, she didn't.

"you promised me. you promised me that you'd be there. when you married her, you promised me you'd never hurt my mother the way that my father did. you promised you'd never be like him. you promised you were different...," he choked on the lump in his throat. he was spiralling. his sentences slur into a string of words that come out like a gush of waterfall. he was shaking his head, "you promised you'd love me...," he looks at her.

"and i do."

billy was nothing like his mother. maybe that's why they got along so well. the got along the same way natasha did with her; being complete opposites.

billy got most of his father's genes. not just his mannerisms, or his looks. billy was his exact replica. from the way he acts, to the way he brushes his fingers through his hair. billy is calm. he's collected.

billy spiraled the way he did. his anxiety works the same way his father did. how he acted through it, how he choked on his words, how he panics through his sentences,

"no, you don't understand. i need you to come home."

something in her cracked. and she was unaware of everything he said next, though she were sure it was something about his mother, about how she yearned for her. about how he wanted his family back. and the next thing she knew, she was writing a letter to her next door neighbor to look after the place she'd made for herself as she won't be coming back anytime soon. and then someone else was in the room.

she went home that night. because after a long day of answering students who deem it comfortable to barge in on her; billy's friend right after he left, grading papers, teaching, and erasing the life she'd created for herself so she can try to disregard the past few months to sit in their driveway, her new car behind her wife's, unable to fathom her return.

should she come in? if she did, it would be wanda, billy, and her again. it would be the maximoff's and a romanoff. it would be reminders of the family she felt like she broke and stole half of for herself, it would be their memories in what once was the home of vision, and tommy maximoff.

in the house with too many windows and green pannels; a brick porch and a gray roof, was the very home she used to stare at wanda a little too long in; it was the very house wanda would sneak longing touches in, disguised as accidents during friendly game nights.

it was the house she watched billy grow from a tween whose voice was much too high for his age, into a man who knows what he wants, and demands for it.

she spent a lot of her nights, sleeplessly caring for billy when he was sick. she already spent too much time on his projects, she already took him on too many motorcycle rides, she already suffered through too much of him complaining about you. she already spent so much of her time falling in love with billy. he's her son. what kind of mother would abandon her son?

"i missed you so much, mama," he tells her, his face nuzzled in her neck and his arms wrapped tightly around her arms.

her heart melted; its love and warmth swimming through her every vein. she hugged him back. it was like when he used to run out of the school bus to hug her, or when he'd kiss her cheek after she'd come home from work.

she felt at home.

that was until her eyes met with yours—a girl standing just right by the arch into the dining room. and suddenly, she felt like she was back in school.

she sighed, subtly. she can't seem to catch a break from you. and it doesn't do her any good. but she ignored you, still. she passed by you as if you weren't there at all. and the way she so closely ignored your very presence—not in class, not in a lecture hall full of people, but in the walls of her very home, the way her eyes passed through you as if you were some ghost, you shrunk. and you froze. if it weren't for billy who naturally put a hand on your waist to lead you inside following his mother, you would've stayed frozen.

you grabbed billy's arm the moment you snapped out, "billy!" you pulled him into the hallway. "god, oh lord, please explain this to me!"

he was a little agitated, too eager to enter the dining room to speak to the mother he never told you about. nonetheless, after stirring his head back and forth, for a bit, he stood straight and gave you his undivided attention. "what is it, dear?" something in your skin crawled.

"you never told me mrs. romanoff was your mother?!" you exclaimed, your whisper getting louder. "since when was this?!"

"a few years ago?" he said, his palm brushing against the back of his neck.

"a few years ago?!" you repeated, your voice now above a whisper. "how can you not tell me!"

"it never came up!" he returns your energy.

"for god's sake billy, she's the very professor i spend my every day complaining to you about!"

"and i tried telling you she was my mother but you never listened!" he exclaims. neither of you were whispering now. your voices were nothing but a little less than how you'd normally talk. "i thought you knew, it was pretty obvious!"

"boys, what's--" you hear wanda's voice from the dining room. "billy, y/n, what's the noise all about?"

neither of you answered. you were not but a wall apart, yet the silence from the other room made you think they can not hear you too.

"when?!"

"well, just last week you asked where my mother was, and when i asked which one you said, 'mrs. maximoff' so i just thought you knew...," it was the day after you got drunk. you remembered. never had you wanted to scream at yourself for not noticing, for not hearing it. maybe because you were too focused on yourself again to notice anything billy says.

god, if you'd only listened.

if you'd only put anyone above yourself.

"well, i was stressed. i didn't notice...," you defended, a little calmer now in slight defeat.

"any other time, you'd interrupt me."

"what?"

that was actually a slap on the face. a slap that left a, "if you would just take one second to look at anybody else other than yourself, maybe you'd realize" mark on your cheek.

you were certain that he might have told you, tried to at least, and every time you did interrupt him.

"i thought he was just your auntie nat...," you say quietly now, calmly, almost apologetically.

"yes," he says in a mere breath of air. "but i tried telling you she did become my mother after that."

"had you..."

yes. he did. you remembered because you assumed he'll only say that they'd gotten even closer eventually so you interrupted him. you remembered because for a moment you hoped you'd be as close to her as he was, and then you went on theorizing what made her so bad.

he was defending her so often, and you'd assumed it was because mrs. romanoff was wanda's friend. but who would scream like that to his mother's friend? what kind of child would barge into his mother's friend's office. how could you not have noticed?

"where did you two meet?" you ask.

you were looking at neither of them as your eyes were trained to the knife you were cutting through the steak. you didn't really want to look up. you didn't want to see mrs. romanoff and the way she couldn't see you; she didn't want to see you. but you'd grown tired of hearing billy's never-ending stories to catch his mother up. you didn't care how they met. you just couldn't stand the stolen glances, and the silent chewing between mrs. romanoff, and mrs. maximoff. the tension, you could cut through with a knife but billy couldn't tell. her never could.

"through a friend..." they say in synch, pausing upon the realization to look at each other for a little before looking back down.

you caught a glimpse of that simple interaction and thought it be best if you just let billy speak. you couldn't see something like that again. that simple strained interaction was enough to make your teeth hurt.

you made sure to keep your eyes on your plate too. the shrinking feeling of being unseen by mrs. romanoff when you're right in front of her, not because she chooses not to but because you hold zero value to her life that she can't actually see you, to see that is unheartly. she wasn't just your professor anymore, she's your boyfriend's mother who you're beginning to assume is moving back into the home you just moved into. even in her home, she couldn't look at you as if your of no worth.

you can't forget now, she's your professor, and your boyfriend's mother.

even when your skin burns from the imagery of her hands on you in your dreams, she's still your professor.

even when you pulse, and ache, in want and need at night, resist, she's your boyfriend's mother.

even when your hand travels down to your very core, and you vibrate in the irresistable desire the darkness of your room allows you. with every bit of her hands on your neck, and her body on you, engraved in your memory. forget about the dreams, she's mrs. maximoff's wife.

don't let her distract you, don't let your dreams decieve you, your body's just changing, your aching not for her but for the imminent desire to be touched, to be loved, to be wanted.

don't think about her. you don't want her.

don't think about her.

but how can you not when she so gracefully writhes on top of you? how can you not when she's holding a handful of your hair and pushing her front against your back?

it's an illusion from your brain, a signal from your body of your sexual deprivation. but the way she kisses you, the way her fingers play with you very being, she's wanda's wife. she's mrs. romanoff.

"oh, god, yes! please mrs. romanoff...," you covered your mouth the moment you heard your voice be slightly louder than it is safe to be. but the fear someone might have heard you did not make you fingers falter. "please, god, i'm cumming, i'm cumming, i'm cumming..." you were chanting mrs. romanoff's name a few more seconds before you'd made yourself see stars, and your body errupted in pure euphoria.

it took a while before the stars faded into your ceiling, and you were panting. your chest was heaving, and when you brought your fingers from the gap between your legs, it's almost like you coudn't believe what you'd done.

"i did it...," you smile, seeing your fingers dripping in juices.

it was the first time you had done this. and somehow, all the tension, and the bottled sexual frustration all ceased upon your release. and a part of you hated that you hadn't done it sooner.

and then a creak snaps you out. and there it was, shame. the reminder that you did not only dream about your professor and bestfriend's--boyfriend's mother, but you got off on the thought of her. you weren't new to the feeling, it welcomes you every morning when you wake up realizing you had been haunted by her again.

"i need water...," you sigh to yourself as you got up.

you didn't realize your door was slightly open, but you didn't really care. the entire house was asleep, so much so that you can even hear your own breaths.

you looked at the hallway where the rooms are. it was dark but you still saw the bathroom door open at the end of the hall. your room was right by the stairs. it was originally a guest room until you stayed here as a kid. you still have a very vivid memory of vision painting your walls pink, and wanda painting flowers on a part of the wall. the room hadn't changed one bit.

billy's door was right in front of yours, and wanda's near the end of the hall. you wonder if natasha and wanda are sleeping on the same bed now.

something inside you stirs.

"you're still awake," you hear a familiar voice say and something inside you shifts. wanda usually keeps the kitchen light on. you didn't see mrs. romanoff until you looked up almost in shock.

she just humiliated you in her office earlier. then she complete disregarded your presence in her home. and then you got off on her.

you could never look at her without all these feelings eating you up. she scares you, and infuriates you, but still you want her to look at you, you want her to be nice, you want her validation.

"so, you're billy's mom," you say casually, walking up to the fridge.

she hummed. she opened her bottle of beer before tilting her head up to take a brief glance at you. "hadn't you known?"

it wasn't as much of a question as it is a tonal accusation that you had known, you're just pretending not to.

but you didn't.

"no. actually, i didn't," you say, finally opening the fridge which handle of you've been holding the entire time.

"hadn't you," she chuckled, then she took a sip of her drink while leaning against the counter.

this was the most you'd seen of her. outside of school, outside her profession. she wasn't mrs. romanoff. she was a normal woman who drinks beer at 1 am in the morning with wet hair and a gray shirt.

"i always thought you had all that courage with me because billy was your friend," she says.

this was the longest she looked at you. the only time when you felt like she can see you other than when she's trying to humiliate you, or you're asking for her attention.

"i...," you were at lost for words. not because you didn't know what to say. but because she distracts you. because she's distracting you again.

she wasn't looking at you, she'd only take glances, or brief looks. she seems comfortable enough looking at the kitchen island rather than you. and her lips, they twitch. the end of her lips twitch and stretches out into a small smile, especially when she chuckles. or when she quips your responses.

you're down here, staring at her as if you hadn't just moaned her name while fucking yourself.

but she... she was unlike the mrs. romanoff who would stare at your very soul, unmoving, unbothered, uninterested.

maybe, billy was right. she was nicer at home. but who would've thought you'd see her stoicsm break inside her home, at 1 am, while getting water in your pajamas.

you break out of your thoughts when she looks at you, waiting for you to speak, "i don't...," you speak aimlessly, unaware of what you're trying to get across. but then you look away. you open the fridge, sticking your face in so the door covers her. and you could speak. "what courage?" you say dryly.

"well, i'd told you already," she straightened her back, going around the island where she'd sat on one of the stools. "you have the courage to demand i be nicer to you, or that i let you go from my class. if you'd taken the time to ask me the right questions, maybe you could've done better."

"let's not talk school," you groan. "you're at home. i'd like to have a break from professor you."

"well," she grins to herself. "i think you won't be getting that much break from me."

she was gentler; kinder. you wanted this at school.

you finally bring out a bottle of water from the fridge, meeting her by the island where you stand across from her, opening your drink.

"it wasn't courage," you say. "i was asking you all that because i was afraid of you."

"isn't it courage to stand in front of something you're afraid of?"

you didn't say anything for a while. the both of you were on pause, not even moving.

"why are you being nice?" you say abruptly. "you weren't even acknowledging my existence until three minutes ago."

"didn't you ask me to be nicer to you?"

"when i got drunk, yes," and you asked her to fuck you. "i still mean it. but still. why?"

you see her lips twitch into what you noticed was a manneristic grin. and then you hear a small chuckle. "i think, y/n, that you blur out the lines between being professional, and being personal. i am a college professor, and i am not expected to be nice to my student, and neither am i required to," she slipped into being mrs. romanoff so effortlessly, professional after being personal in a snap. you'd think, she was the one who had her professional personality far too intertwined that she's starting to confuse the two. "just because i'm strict and a disciplinarian at work, doesn't make me a bad person in real life."

she was right. when was she not?

and had always been easier to blame her being mean when really... really, she was just so distracting.

her lips are moving, and you could feel something inside of you from the way her tongue rolls off the roof of her mouth. and her eyes... they flutter, and they close, and they stare at you, and you're so instantly drawn, you could feel yourself actively trying to pin your entire body down from being sucked into whatever gravity pulling you into her that science could never explain.

she's distracting you. everything she is, her very being distracts you.

"try harder, miss y/l/n," she says, again, breaking you out of your thoughts.

"what?"

"i think you're really smart. so try harder," she says. "and stop being so distracted,"

you feel it again. aching.

you could never try harder, because everything she does, everything she does to you, and says to you, it pulls you further away from what you should be focused on.

"are you distracted again, miss y/l/n," she said your name differently this time. it wasn't sharp, or harsh. you couldn't point it out, all know was how it sent chills down your lower back.

you're going to lose this tomorrow. the moment when she finally sees you would dissipate into tomorrow when she'd humiliate you again, call you out, or worse, ignore you. you couldn't.

"teach me," you say, slapping your hands against the surface of the counter.

"what?"

"you told me if i just asked you. so i'm asking you," you stared at her, looking directly into her eyes. "teach me where i got it wrong. tell me what to do, help me. guide me."

"is that what you want?"

"i want to do better," for you. "you should be asking me if that's what i need, shouldn't you?"

"what do you need?"

"you," you whisper. "i need you to help me."

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