#How's everybody's days going so far? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thecoochiefairy · 1 month ago

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country slangin’. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.4K word count. original!blackfemreader, countryboycoded! onyankopon, farmer!onyankopon, southern!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, size kink, black woman, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, aggressive talk, creaming, oral [m], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, squirting, riding, condomless sex, kissing, spanking, multiple orgasms, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ after hearing that glorilla sample, it gave me—an idea. so here you go. muah.

visual. visual.

YOUR HUSBAND HAD AN ATTITUDE. It was entirely valid in this case—but you wished that he’d let up just a bit. A small pout formed at the ends of your lips, hand slowing to stir the sugar within your lemonade pitcher as you watched him. You could see it in the way his bicep flexed as he leaned into his Ford F—450, twisting his wrench as he removed and replaced different pieces within the truck's engine.

It wasn’t Onyankopon’s fault—the day before was completely fine. Your husband was a vision of the south—from the mixture of his New Orleans and Mississippi twang, the annoyance of how he was never afraid to get his hands dirty, the smooth umber of his skin from being under the sun at a constant—his dark pink lips—full, soft, the gold of his grills shining with each word falling from his mouth. He was a dream.

The morning started off well. You ran your face beneath the warm water of the shower, grinning the moment you felt his broad body step in with you, his low grunt suffocating the flush of your throat as he sucked at it.

Your affection for each other might’ve…distracted from his work on the farm. It was four acres far out from the city—cows, pigs, horses, chickens— a domesticated life that you enjoyed as a wife, coming to live within the countryside of Mississippi the moment you eloped.

Back to the point of how Onyankopon’s attitude came to fruition—it was still the day before, your French tips pouring soybeans into the bucket of your piglets Love and Bug’s tin for their lunch. The deep ginger of your curls drape along your shoulder as you bend forward, your hand raising over your freckled face to block the sun as you look across the field. Horse shoes gallop from across the field as he tugs at its reins—you were always watching him.

Riding bareback, the horse beneath him continued to gallop—the cowboy hat atop of his head blocked him from the sun, cornrows tight along his scalp, white tee he wore clinging to his tatted figure. The sun beamed against his shown skin, and you can nearly hear the whistles he makes as he guides the cows back into their barn.

The halter romper you wear compliments your caramel complexion, the picnic plaid of it hugging your body in ways it shouldn’t have—the mound of your hips, the fat of your ass—you dig your boots into the sediments of the ground, giving him a soft wave.

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice is deep, full of grit. It makes your body warm.

His boots fall onto the ground the moment his feet dismount the horse, sizing you up with each step that brings himself closer. Onyankopon’s eyes are on your form—drinking in every inch, your hips, your waist, the full of your ass against the tight fabric of your romper, your blush.

“You know I’m a lil’ dirty, babydoll. My fault.”

His hands go to grip your face regardless, pulling you into his body. His musk surrounds you, all man.

“That’s okay,” your voice is as soft as your wave, “You okay? MooMoo fightin’ you instead of going back to the barn?”

His lips drop onto yours the moment he holds your face, his kiss full of an aggression that makes your thighs clench.

“Mm,” he pulls away a bit, mouth still brushing against yours as his hand strokes your waist, “She mad ‘cause I ain’t give her ass an apple like everybody else. Should’ve been listenin’ when I said take yo’ ass to the barn.”

You giggle, rubbing your cheek into his palm, “She’s stubborn— Gets it from her Daddy.”

“‘Cept my ass still know how to listen,” his hand grips at your ass, “She get’ that sassy shit from you.”

Your eyes flick back to the field, seeing the cow standing within the same spot as all the others had crowded back into the shed. You peck at his chin, “Don’t be talkin’ ‘bout me ‘cause you can’t get your children in check, farmer.”

“I gets’ shit in check—I be havin’ yo’ ass listenin’ pretty good, don’t I?”

“Negative.”

He chuckles at that.

“Go start dinner,” He exhales along your mouth, “I’ll get done with MooMoo and we can finish watchin’ that show from last night. I’ll rub yo’ feet, give you a lil’ massage.”

“‘Kay’,” you pucker your lips, “You’ love me?“

“Yo’ ass cuttin’ up,” Onyankopon grunts, his hand smacking at your ass once more, pecking your lips in return, “You know a nigga love you. Gon’ back in the house.”

And you did—you’d showered, slipped into the soft silk of your nightgown, glasses tipping at your nose as your curls hung beneath your claw clip—you’d prepared brunch for dinner, shrimp ‘n grits with beignets for dessert, your giggles traveling all along the house as he kissed the sugar off your lips. Your fingers played with the coils of his beard, Princess cut diamond ring shining beneath the lights of your home as you watched TV with him—You were in love.

It wasn’t until the end of the night that things changed. He held you as you slept, tattooed fingers splayed along your stomach as he cuddled you to his chest. The fan peacefully strummed a comforting tune into the room—but it was being overshadowed at the moment—a distressed mooing was sounding through the windows, as the only cow that was out of the barn had still been MooMoo.

She enjoyed stargazing, so Onyankopon allowed her to stay outside for this one time, planning to put her up the next morning. She was more of the silent animal, and you knew that only meant two things—that she was actually in distress, or someone had put her in distress. To make matters worse, the motion detectors around your house were going off outside.

Your heart stuttered within your chest as you’d both woken up at the same time, your body turning towards him, clinging to his arm as your first response of fear. But you knew your husband—he was already slipping out of the bed, the darkness only allowing you to hear the click sound of him loading his shotgun.

Your hands cling onto his back as you whimper, “Ony, don’t leave me—“

“I’ll be back,” he presses his mouth against yours, “Lemme’ just go check on my girl, see if all this fuss is over a dog or sum’. Don’t get out of bed, aight? Forreal’.”

He kisses you firmly once more—safe, warm, making your heart slow just a bit.

“Imma’ be back, I promise.”

You could only nod in return.

It could’ve been five minutes, it might’ve even been thirty. But your body tensed the moment you heard the front door slam shut, heavy boots thumping up the stairs before the door opened. Your body relaxed the moment his silhouette came into frame—but just by his energy, you could feel his irritation.

“Baby?” you call, “You okay?”

You could hear the thump of his gun being dropped onto the ground, “I’m good. I just put MooMoo back up—she was layin’ on her side.”

The grunt in his voice makes you frown, “What?”

“Dumbass niggas was prolly’ passin’ through and seen the farm—thought it was funny to be tippin’ cows like some fuckin’ kids.”

You watched as his tattooed figure moved into the bathroom, his fingers lifting to turn on the light as he began to wash his hands.

“Muhfucka’s lucky I ain’t catch they ass—“

“You wouldn’t have shot them, Ony.”

You can feel his eyes narrow at that.

“They was’ on our property, girl. You thought I wasn’t gon’ shoot on sight if I seen’ them?”

You sigh, “Baby—“

“‘Baby,’ nothin’,” he rubs at his face, “Why you actin’ like you okay wit’ some niggas jumpin’ our property like somebody else out here? Where’ you think we at, girl? California?—ain’t no law out here unless it’s me.”

You could see the anger in his eyes, the way his jaw flexes as he stares down at you.

“I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“Aight, well I do.”

“Onyankopon.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to be wit’ me ‘on what I said, but I am askin’ you to understand. ‘Can’t be tellin’ me not to do what needa’ be done when it’s for us. For you.”

“Baby, it’s nearly four in the morning,” you reminded, “You’re making yourself upset—can you come lay down? Please?”

He stares at you for a moment, his lips tight before he inhales, jaw working as he nods.

“Aight,” he exhales, looking up to the ceiling, “Aight, baby. You’ right.”

He slowly eased himself into bed, his arms immediately holding your figure. You can feel the heat of his chest—the thump of his heart. He was worked up.

So here you were now the next morning—Onyankopon was still on ten, and he wasn’t the best at hiding it. You were back outside feeding the pigs, your eyes narrowing beneath the sun as the gallop of his horse rumbled the ground, his deep voice commanding the cows to move in the direction he needed them to.

“Move,” he shouts, clicking at his horse as he rounds them all up, “Y’all know where yo’ asses s’pose to be! Ain’t no apples today!”

Even hours later, he was no better. Agitation was the only word you could think of as you stood in the kitchen, eyes squinted as you watched him from the front door— his large body leaned into the hood of his truck, attempting to fix whatever was wrong with it. He’d just bought the vehicle a couple of months ago, and when a gas station worker made the stupid mistake of pumping it with diesel, it’d been acting strange ever since.

And while you know he’s upset, his irritation is something that he keeps in, something that he tries to hide from your eye with a silence, or a short conversation— but you two had been together five years now, and you knew him inside and out.

“I thought you were gonna’ take it to the shop?” you questioned from inside, raising your voice a bit for him to hear.

“Nah,” he grunts back, “Ain’t about to spend another eight hours at that place bein’ told the same thing I ‘been hearin’ for a week—Nigga said he fixed the leak in the lining and I’m still hearin’ it. Swear to god if I need a new muhfuckin’ truck imma’ kill that nigga.”

Okay—there was something you wanted to admit to yourself, although you shouldn’t have.

Seeing him like this made you kind of—warm?

Okay, fine. It made you hot. Something about the way his muscles flexed to fix the truck—eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his arms—it wasn’t the fact that he was angry—not even that, but instead the deep scowl on his face, grills shining at the flash of his teeth, hefty belt buckle and boots rumbling the ground as he shifted under the hood.

“Don’t overheat yourself out there, baby!”

His shirt comes off his body, and you can see it tossed aside on the ground by his truck, his pants hanging low along his waist from the heat of the day.

“Heard you.”

He doesn’t really bother with looking your way, but he does hear you.

It made you more soft at your core as his tone is gentle. There was no denying the attraction you held for the man—he was your husband after all, and he knew to never focus his energy onto you, especially if he was upset.

A couple of hours had gone by—you now stood within the doorframe, his deep voice calling from within the hood, “You need somethin’, girl?”

You slowly make your way closer, the soft click, clack of your brown boots tapping against the driveway until you finally stand next to him, “I just came out here to check on you.”

Your glasses perch at your nose, curls coiled around the flush of your cheeks as the air of outside brushes against your clothing—the white material only clasped shut by thin strings at the dip of your breasts, able to see the curve of your stomach, matching shorts clinging to the poke of your ass.

Your voice is soft, “Baby?”

“Wassup’, Mama?”

When he replies, his eyes briefly glance at you—then, he’s back into the car, “You lookin’ pretty.”

“Thank you, baby—um, you wanna come inside for a little?” You suggest, “I made lemonade for you.”

Onyankopon sighs—his palm runs along the back of his neck, muscles flexing, sweat cascading down his body.

“Lemme just—finish this first, aight? Imma’ keep fixatin’ on it if I don’t.”

“Hey. You can fixate on it later, yeah?”

Your voice is gentle, hands reaching out and pulling him out of the open hood—his chest is warm.

“You’re just as hot as the sun right now. Come with me, please? Just come sit by the fan in the living room for a couple minutes while I make you a glass?”

He’s silent—but he listens. When you pull him by his wrist, he follows with no fight. His footsteps are heavy, his frame tall— You knew that he wanted to keep going—but he also knew not to disagree when you asked something of him.

Onyankopon now sits in the living room, body leaned back into the sofa, eyes closed while air blows through his face and against his chest. The cartoons you had on play a comforting tune next to the box fan blowing from across the room, instantly beginning to cool his body.

“‘Think you should just take another try at takin’ it down to the shop in Tupelo,” you hum, standing on your toes as you reach for a tall glass, moving around the kitchen to grab your heart shaped ice cubes.

He grunts, arm crossing over his face as he exhales,“I might have to, or imma’ head back in Jackson—Just gotta wait it out, see what the rest of the week lookin’ like.”

You make his glass, the condensation sticking to your fingers—your eyes look towards him now and then as you do so, taking note of how his head leans back along the cushion, eyes closed and mind elsewhere. You can tell that he’s trying to relax, but it’s a hard feat to accomplish after the events of last night.

“You know,” you gently place the lemonade on the table besides the sofa—you then lightly plop down onto his lap, the scent of you instantly hitting his nose as you wrap your body into him, “We had a lil’ scare last night—but you did a good job of takin’ care of me, baby.”

His eyes open the moment he feels your body press into him, his arms instantly beginning to wrap around your figure.

“I had to do sum’,” he grunts, “I ain’t mean’ to make you scared—You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

His palm slides beneath your shorts, holding the flesh of your ass in his hands.

“I know.”

Your voice is even softer than before, body shifting upon his lap as the warmth of your skin pressed further into his. Your fingers slide along his beard, caressing his jaw before you finally leaned forward—your lips suck at his, a giggle masking your whimper as you feel yourself grind along his lap.

Onyankopon’s jaw works, his hand gently gripping at your cheek to hold your face to his—your whimper makes his lips drop open in another grunt—his tongue moving into your mouth, along your teeth, deeper.

“Been missin’ you, Ony. ‘Been so distant,” you tug at the weight of his belt, leaning forward as you suck at his lips again.

“I ‘been thinkin’ ‘bout you too, girl. Don’t get it twisted, aight?” His voice is a husky rasp, breath heavy.

“I know you were still frustrated from last night,” you remind, “But so was I—Could’ve kept you in bed with me, you know? You were so busy bein’ be tough—my tough man. My protector.”

His eyes follow your form as you lower down onto your knees, “Yeah?”

He’s gripping at your neck, his thumb rubbing circles on your jaw at your soft voice—you knew exactly what you were doing.

“This what you wanted?”

His nose practically brushes along yours as you nod—your eyes lower as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth again, dragging it against your teeth, all while your hands slide up the material of his jeans, reaching your hand under the band.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “Already on yo’ fuckin’ knees.”

His fingers are tight under the thick curls of your hair, and it’s as if each tug pulls at your senses. You’re parting your mouth onto his, lightly dragging it against his tongue, the feeling making your thighs clench. You breathily pant.

He’d never seen you like this—so needy, it couldn’t have been from watching him all day, could it?

It’s as if his cologne tickles your stomach, you’re breathless as you give a horny sigh, pulling your mouth back a bit as you whimper in a repeat of, “Missed you, Ony.”

“My baby just wanted this dick, huh?”

He’s nasty.

Onyankopon’s voice is full of grit as his palm slowly slides down your face, his thumb caressing at the soft of your bottom lip. He watches you—a brief flash passes through his eyes of love before they turn hungry, “Show a nigga how much you missed him. Need you throatin’ my shit.”

The sight of him—the gold of his grills melting within your eyes, attractive features and jaw clenching at you from below—you’re tugging his dick from his jeans, tip fat as you wrap your lips around him, flattening your tongue along the flesh as you moan.

“You’re so pretty, Papa.”

He tilts his chin a bit, eyes narrowing.

“You callin’ me Papa now? Huh?” His voice was thick, pulling your hair back even more, “That’s how bad you miss me?”

Your cat eyes taunt him, nodding as you beg, “Spit on it,” lolling your tongue out your mouth, waiting for him.

And he does—he tilts your head back more, dropping saliva into your mouth, groaning at the pure arousal along your face. You spit back onto his tip, wrapping your fingers along the base as you slide him to the back of your throat—when you pull back, a string of saliva connects your lips back to his dick, your tongue sticking out as you giggle at the sight.

Onyankopon glares, his fingers finding your curls as he snatches your head back—his palm slaps your face, “Why you so fuckin’ nasty, girl?”

He’s holding your cheeks with both palms, fucking your mouth, the schluck, schluck of your throat echoing into the ceiling—the whites of your eyes are shown as they rolled back with each movement, enjoying the groans he gave you in return.

You climb back onto his lap more impatiently this time, latching your lips onto the skin of his neck and jaw—your hand is guiding his palm to your shorts as you whimper, “Pull,” still kissing feveredly at his throat.

Onyankopon’s fingers slide along the back of your thigh as he finds a hold of your shorts, pulling, pulling the material to one side of your ass, your glistening folds exposed to the cool air—your body tenses the moment he’s slapping his dick against your pussy, allowing your arousal to coat his tip.

It’s hot—the weight of his tip is being engulfed by your folds all at once—you’re sinking down, back arching as you breathily moan against his face, “You’ need me?”

There’s a growl that leaves his throat, “Fuck. You know I do.”

Your curls drape in front of your face as your vision locks below, rotating your hips down, too distracted by your own actions—your moans are more soft and whiny this time, face slowly turning to a deep pout as your palms reach at the top of the sofa.

“Lift up,” he grunts hoarsely, “Lift up, babydoll.”

You lift up, dropping back down, the feeling making you gasp. Your thighs tremble as you slow down—you take one of Onyankopon’s hands, placing it along the side of your neck, swaying your hips, hair cascading all around your body in a circular flow of curls.

“Look at you,” He grunts, squeezing your throat, “Already goin’ crazy.”

Your face flushes as you can imagine how you look—feet planted along each side of him, dragging yourself up and down—You’re needy.

You move his palm along your breasts as you plead, “Touch me.”

He does as told, moving the other along your waist, along your hips. It was like he was worshipping you, hands wandering along your soft curves, squeezing your hips, back, stomach, ass, thighs, everywhere.

”Pretty ass lil’ bitch.”

It’s like your mouth won't shut. Your aroused haze has you swirling your hips above him, nearly hyperventilating in a high pitched whine, “You feel so good, Ony.”

“You’ so fuckin’ sloppy with this shit,” He grunts through gritted teeth, clutching your throat even tighter, making you look at him, “You’ gettin’ drunk off me, ain’t you?”

Maybe you were—and you loved every second of it. You wanted to blow your curls out your face, but you’re too gone, nearly hitting a sense of delirium. You’re bouncing on his dick, lightly squealing as the skin to skin resounds in claps.

Your eyes roll back as you groan, “Ughn, Yeah…”

It gets worse, your mouth trembling out a prolonged moan of, “Onyyy…”

His head knocks back as he digs his nails into your skin, each sloppy slap of your ass connecting with his abdomen making his jaw clench, feeling the secretion of your folds smearing his thighs.

“Look at them’ muhfuckin’ eyes,” he mutters, squeezing your waist, “You feel that good, huh?”

You’re frowning that it feels so good. You feel his hand slide back to the nape of your neck, leaning your body a bit closer to his, your forehead’s connected as you whimper, “Ohmygodbaby.”

“You gone,” he grunts, “Ain’t even hearin’ me.”

You hear him, but your brain is muffled.

His eyes roam the way sweat glistens along the soft mounds of your chest, how the vein along your throat pulsates a little bit quicker, and the way your walls clenched him for dear life. You looked like you craved him, and only him.

His hand tugs more at your neck, tilting you down to his face.

“You think you miss me?”

“Miss you now,” you whimper in reply, placing your arms behind your back as you beg, “Hold them.”

His fingers are rough, the tips of them digging into your skin as he holds your arms—the veins on his hand are a dark blue, a mixture of his blood pumping with the tattoo of your first initials along his pinkie, symbolizing how much you meant to him, even in these moments.

Onyankopon’s grunt is muffled by the way his hand smacks your ass, the leverage of your arms allowing him to hold you in place—your thighs are plop, plop, continuously plopping onto his abdomen.

Your mouth is directly leaned into his ear as you shake, “S’good, baby—“ but it’s until you can really hear your skin echoing against his, that your eyes roll as you groan.

“You think ion’ miss you too?” He snarls, “I’ll kill a muhfucka’ behind yo’ pussy.”

You don’t do a good job at all in responding—you’re loud. His hold on you is tight, moving you up and down in a rough motion, “Oh my goddd, Ony—fuck,” it’s as if you’re irritated with him, your voice had you practically singing.

Your scent is so feminine that he can almost taste it—brown sugar, amber—the way your pussy squelches, you were the personification of a drug, and he was your junkie.

His voice is deeper, lower, meaner, “C’mere,” he spanks your ass, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he grunts, “Goddamn, baby. She talkin’ right now.”

You were just lucky that all the land around the two of you was your own property—the cows, chicken, farm—and the door was wide open. He slapped your ass even rougher, your whimper muffling his own grunts of, “You got a nigga lost in this shit.”

“Ony—oohshittt, baby.”

You’re both a mess—your curls are a bit wild, your mouth swollen and wet, the softness of your skin against his hands, his neck, lips.

“You gon’ cum on it?”

He’s asking a question, but you can’t necessarily answer—cause you are—you’re painting his dick with coats of cream, the sop of it traveling back to his ears. Onyankopon chuckles arrogantly the moment you sniffle through your pouts, trembling whiny cries as you squirt so messily, so prettily.

“Fuck,” he moans, “That’s my muhfuckin’ baby. You gon’ gimme another one?”

Your little sob is enough to answer—you’re drenching his balls, body shaking atop of his as he’s continuously bouncing you onto his dick that’s still hard as before—it’s when you press your together that he groans, holding you close as a warmth fills your walls, his moan dragging a bit to meet the sounds of yours.

Your face buries into the crook of his neck, your lower body spasming a bit to ground yourself. But that’s when you stop—your eyes flicker to the side of the table, your palm coming along your flushed face as you whimper, “Your lemonade, Ony…”

He’s snorting.

“I was busy,” he jokes, kissing at the edge of your shoulder blade, “I’m sorry, aight? Imma’ go grab me another glass.”

When he goes to move, you don’t.

“You gon’ let me go, or you gon’ hold a nigga hostage?”

He chuckles this time, placing his hands along your sides as he pats you, “Lemme’ up, girl. Can’t even move.”

“No,” you huff, “I don’t wanna let go.”

“Aight— lemme’ hold you for a lil’, let you get yo’ mind right before you make dinner.”

Your eyes peek open, “Did I say I was makin’ dinner, or you tryna’ gaslight me into saying that’s what you want?”

“Chill,” He grins, “Lemme’ get another chance—Baby, you gon’ make dinner for me?”

“You knew the answer already,” you kissed his bicep, “You never had to ask.”

“‘Cause you love me?”

“I always love you.”

“How much?”

You giggle, “More than a country boy loves his farm.”

He’s grinning. His hand is at the soft of your stomach, pulling you against him as his lips find your ears, murmuring, “I can do you better than that,” His nose is now against your skin, “More than a fat kid loves cake.”

“You’re so lame.”

“Huh? You ain’t like that?”

“…Maybe.”

“That’s what I thought.”

#onyakapon #onyankopon x black y/n #ony x black reader #onyankopon fluff #onyankopon x black reader smut #onyankopon x you #ony smut #onyankapon #onyankopon x reader #aot onyankopon #onyankopon smut

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httpsvgin · 7 months ago

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ᯓ “SAID YOU’RE A WILD

MUSTANG.” ۶ৎ

“everybody said you’re a killer, but i couldnt stop the way i was feeling the day your record dropped.” (LANA DEL REY.)

BY @MZLLSIT!!! ᥫ᭡

ᯓ PAIRING. hwang in-ho & fem!reader

FANDOM. squid game (seasontwo) ꪆৎ

T!W. shameless smut. porn with plot. bathroom sex. slight angst? dom! in ho. oral sex (f!receiving.) praise kink. slight age difference. blood. violence.

GENRE. smut, fluff? (kinda), angst (kinda?.)

SUMMARY. ᝰ.ᐟ chaos erupted after the tight vote between x & o’s, resulting in a bloodbath within mens bathrooms which left five people dead and fondly, you couldnt handle the way the deaths of innocent people racked up just so willingly, leaving you in a helpless and terrified state as the night began to fall. until in-ho spotted by your side in the hell that broke out between the two sides, calmed your panic and took you to safety… a lustful safety.

(THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING THIS KINDA SHIT SO IF ITS AWFUL IM SO SORRY CHAT.. ALSO IGNORE ANY GRAMMAR OR SPELLING MISTAKES!!!! other than that, enjoy.)

────────────

hell. thats what siting in that room felt like for you, mentally praying for the gods above to come and swoop you of your feet and into warmth. and yet no matter how hard you could’ve prayed in that moment, nothing could cure the way your stomach churned and twisted in a million directions all at once as your eyes pinned to the left side of the room where the o’s glared right in your direction, if looks could kill, you would have died the second the boys left the restroom a few minutes ago. some of them covered in blood, eyes dead and predator like while the rest had the look of a frightened child, lost and alone.

everybody knew what was going to happen the second those lights switched off. death lingered and suffocated the air you breathed in, yet far worse was to come, like a storm waiting to crush upon a village.

your back rested upon the wall, watching from afar as your nails dug into the skin of your arms you clutched so tightly to your chest that your knuckles turned white. your mind raced, heart rattling against your chest and sweat began to bead at your forehead as you tried to swallow the dry lump that never seemed to leave your throat. you were going to die in this shit hole, and there was no gods above that could stop that from happening.

the lights flickered off, leaving only the red and blue lights to illuminate the hall of bunkbeds which some still chose to lay in even despite knowing what rampage was bound to happen in just a few seconds. in the darkness of the room you still spotted the sight of in-ho, who’s dark eyes met and softened at yours almost immediately and you refused to look away. he could practically smell the fear radiating of your body from across the small area your group had chosen to stay within, gi-hun sat at his side tightly along with the rest of the group who you found to be the only source of comfort in this hell.

and yet despite the comfort they provided you still sat isolated in the corner at the brink of a panic attack. breathing felt like diffusing a bomb, one hand clutched your chest, trying to relax yourself as your other rubbed your own leg comfortingly. knowing your death was a blink away sent you into a psychotic spiral at the thought that your last breath would be in this room. in this place. in this very moment.

a blood curdling scream erupted around the room, snapping your head up to see the group of o’s charging right into your boundary, screaming and yelling as they pounced onto anyone they could get their hands on.

the lights flickered as the room flipped into a war in the space of a few seconds, sounds of yelling and harsh slashing echoed around. clutching your ears, you rocked back and forward as a loud sob broke up through your throat. “fuck!” you cried into the thick material of your tracksuit, arms covering your head in attempt to blur out the haunting screams that seemed never ending.

“found you, mother fucker!” a voice bellowed toward you, lifting up your glossy ears to stare at player 124 charge at you, face bloodied and covered in a psychopathic grin while in his left palm clutched a shard of glass that dripped crimson blood from the tip. it was no surprise you’d be his circled on his target list due to the fact during the last game, mingle, you shoved his sorry ass out of the room him and his purple headed friend fought so hardly for, which almost costed their lives. now here he is, about to take yours with the same intent you had in that one second during the game.

“i swear im going to fucking slit you in half, bitch.” his words slurred as you stumbled to your feet, not daring to break eye contact while you bit down on your bottom lip that trembled violently.

“fuck you.” you spat, yet your words wobbled along with your legs despite how hard you tried to look ‘tough,’ your eyes still glistened under the flickering lights with tears. nam-gyu howled in laughter, twisting the sharp end of the glass in his hand before his face turned straight in a second. the two seconds he stared felt like an eternity before he charged at you.

yelling, you caught his arm that held the blade pointed at your heart and using your knee you jerked it up to hit in between his legs which forced him to fold over just in time for you to kick him over onto his back. the shard of glass rolled over to the side of his head and in and instant you charged to grab it with shaky legs, only for him to be quicker and yanked at your ankle, shoving you down to the floor.

a slight whimper left your lips tasting the irony taste along your gums due to the impact of you hitting the ground chin first, and before you knew it, nam-gyu had wrestled his way on top of you, using one hand to pin your wrist above your head while the other snatched the shard inches away from your finger tips.

“mm, you’re a good little fighter, huh?” his lips lingered close to your ear while he trailed the sharp end over your face, only grazing your skin slightly. you flinched against his touch, kicking your legs frantically and screaming for help, feeling the tears burn at your eyes. you were fucked, and there was no doubt about it.

feeling your heart thump against your tightened chest, your mind clouded with defeat and you became limp underneath his strength, tossing your head to the side to glance over at the chaos that spread and diseased everyone around you, blood splattered on nearly every wall you looked at while several bodies laid limp , choking on their own blood.

“fucking die, you bitch!” the dark haired man yelled, raising the shard of glass in the air with a smile that sent painful shivers down your spine. and just as you wrenched your eyes shut, the impact of the blade never came. instead, you felt something wet drip down onto your face, pulling one eye open to see a metal poll struck through nam-gyus’s heart before he fell limp ontop of you, his blood seeping and staining your shirt.

opening your mouth to scream, a hand came over to stop any noise from coming out while another shoved the lifeless body of your chest. in-ho stared down at you, blood splattered along his face while his eyes softened at the scene of your shaken face.

“ive got you, ive got you come on.” despite the desperation in his voice his words were none the less slightly comforting despite the chaos around you as he pulled you up from your back where his hand tightening on your wrist and yanked you forward without another word.

you had no time to comprehend what even just happened in that short space of time but you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered drastically at the way his fingers interlinked within yours as he charged around the bloodbath. his only priority in this devastating scene was to protect you. only you. he couldn’t give less of a shit about the stack of bodies that were growing at his hands as they ran but instead he looked back every second to see if you where still chasing behind.

his warm hand came onto your lower back and pulled you forward through the door that was questionably opened immediately the second the square masked guard caught a glance of in-ho and it made your stomach sink in confusion at how willingly they were to let him through with just a glance. yet your curiosity was died down as in-ho shoved the bathroom door open with his elbow while his other kept firmly on your waist.

your eyes hurt from the bright light on the bathroom, baby pink walls almost blinding you as you adjusted to the sudden change in atmosphere. quiet. silence. and still your heart never slowed down for a second.

“are you hurt? did that bastard hit you?” in-ho cupped either side of your head in his head, tilting your chin from side to side as his eyes glistened with a hint of panic. taking in the scene, you noticed the way his hair was messed up compared to his usual style, his eyebrows knotted into a frown while he examined the features along your face. softly, his finger lingered over a small cut under your eye from where nam-gyu nipped at your skin and you took in the way his jaw clenched just at the sight of blood from your pretty face.

a groan rumbled in his throat, yet he quickly swallowed down his anger to return his soft eyed gaze back onto you. for a split second his eyes glanced down at your lips before returning back to your face. “poor girl.” he coed, it was like his tone was glazed with honey, sweet and sickening as his hand rubbed against your hair.

you can’t deny the warmth that grew in your lower abandonment, and hell did it twist with guilt at the same time knowing lives were being took the very same second your here in the arms of the man who had caught your wondering eyes the second you saw him. still, it felt fucking euphoric to be beneath his finger tips.

perhaps he read your mind because instead of taking his hand away it came to the back of your neck and yanked you against his lips which you were caught staring at the whole time apparently and you tasted the desperation along his soft lips.

his mouth moved harshly against yours, his tongue arching his way into your mouth and finding the warmth of yours while his other hand came to squeeze at bare skin of your waist which made your heart flutter at feeling his cold fingers against the softness of your skin. the world felt like it was spinning beneath your feet, yanking at his dark hair while your tongues battled for dominance.

“you have no idea how badly ive wanted this.” he whispered against your lips and it sent shivers to the bottom of your spine along side the way slick began to form between your legs as he backed you up against the wall.

tilting your head back you let him gain access to your neck and he wasted no time to sink his teeth into the plush feeling of your skin, tasting and licking along the pulse point on your throat which quickened at the warmth of his tongue exploring you. leaving bruises, in-ho stepped back for a moment to admire his claiming all over your skin while you stood breathless under his predatory eyes.

“take off your clothes.” he growled, returning back to the warmth of your neck before you could even respond to which he squeezed the skin of your waist. “don’t make me ask again.”

gulping, you nodded almost a little to quickly and you stumbled to pull down and kick off the material of your trousers that bunched at your ankles to where in-ho’s fingers pressed to your clothed cunt almost immediately.

“all this for me?” he chuckled against your skin, running a long digit along the wet patch on your panties. “fuck, you’re so good for me..” his voice made you clench your thighs around his hand to where he tugged at the thin cloth and ripping it off your body.

gasping, you slump against the wall he backed you up against, making you shiver at the cold material against your bare thighs and ass. “m-maybe we should do this-“ you began to mumble against his grip yet a sharp moan left your lips when a cold finger came to rub against your aching clit.

slowly, the man sunk to his knees in front of you, not once breaking eye contact as he lowered down your body, leaving a trail of kisses behind. taking your hand into his hair, your chest heaved with anticipation while his dark eyes took in the way your mouth draped open at his slow kisses, tossing your head back against the cold tiles as he gently nipped at the silk skin of your upper thighs.

“please in-ho..” you whispered just loud enough for him to hear, your voice croaking with desperation to feel his mouth against you dripping cunt.

“what do you want me to do, baby? use your words for me.” he kept one hand on your hip, using his other to run along the wet slither of your clit that burned for his tongue.

“fuck me!” you cried out, pulling at his dark locks. “fuck me with your tongue!”

“yes ma’am.” you felt him smile against your cunt before he licked a long strip of your wetness from its surface, tasting the sweetness of your slick against his tongue. your body felt like it was on fire with the way his mouth worked its magic on your pussy.

feeling him hum in satisfaction against your cunt sent thousands off sparks up into the pit of your stomach while you moaned out, gripping onto his hair while still pushing his head down further into your pussy while your orgasm began bloom. for a moment he turned his head up to stare at you, lips glossy and puffy from your wetness while he looked at you with a stare that you swore could swallow you whole. and fuck, did it feel like everything around you was twirling on a carousel.

stars started to form in the corners of your eyes while one leg rested over his shoulder, giving him better access you suck you dry, tongue poking into your tight hole which you swear could cum at the way his tongue worked so beautifully up and down your pussy to the point it had its own heartbeat. your mind fogged to the point of realisation as it flashed back to the scene of the guards when they allowed you both to leave the death trap so quickly with just the nod of approval from in-ho. why would they do that? what validation of protection does this man have that nobody else does?

“h-hey.. in-ho?” you managed you gasp out over your wave of moans in which he hummed against your pussy, forcing your eyes to roll to the back of your head. “how did t-those guards just..” he thrusted his tongue so far up into your hole before you could even finish your sentence and you swore you felt you knees buck against his face at the movement, crying out a painful whimper.

his hand dug into the plush flesh of your ass as you grinded your pussy deeper into his face, pulling on his hair the same way his tongue pulled at the strings attached to your heart. riding out your orgasm, you felt your thighs clench around his pretty face that buried in between your legs as you sobbed so loud the entirety of the security guards could probably hear the joyful cries you let out.

with wobbly knees and a head filled with fairies you wrenched your eyes closed, feeling yourself let loose and finally reach the climax of your orgasm as you clenched around his tongue, your cum laced and coated his mouth.

“holy shit..” you panted harshly, chest dropping and rising at rapid speed while in-ho’s face pulled away slowly from your pussy, his glossy lips twisting into a grin before he brought his thumb to the corner of his mouth, licking away any residue you left on his face.

“you taste sweeter than i thought, baby.” his beautiful dark eyes took the view of you in awe, admiring the way your forehead beaded with sweat, eyebrows knotted in satisfaction as you ran your fingers through his hair.

slowly he rose to his feet, taking his finger he sucked out of his mouth with a small pop before tucking a loose strand of your messy hair behind your ear, smiling that sweet smile you remembered and adore all too well.

and just as quickly as he came to scroop you away, he left just as slick without a word, adjusting his shirt on the way out and leaving you alone in the bathroom, trousers bunched at your ankles.

“what the fuck just happened.”

#squid game #fanfic #hwang in ho #front man #squid game x reader #smut #front man x reader #in ho x reader

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sqgeism · 2 months ago

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𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 lovey dovey | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; your boyfriend is tooootally the type of guy to...

love mail — a girl gotta do what a girl gotta do. good NIGHT. (it's 8pm as of posting) another short one :p i'm starting to grow to like writing these...

anaxa's the typa guy to prefer slowburn over anything. he wants to earn you, really. doesn't like it when things are too easy because he appreciates the art of courting, though if you DO make it easy for him he still tries to be romantic. wanting to at least feel like he's doing something right to receive such love from you </3

mydei's is the typa guy to appreciate when you bring him in for a dance while he's in the kitchen. while waiting for a dish to cook or the oven to preheat, you begin to hum a familiar song and take his hand. he lets out that deep chuckle of his, indulging in your antics as you two slowdance to your humming. it's so domestic i threw up hi guys

phainon is ABSOLUTELY the type of guy to cross half a battlefield just to help you during a fight. doesn't care how much he's hurt, the distance he has to run, he's at your side immediately. absolutely tears the enemy apart too like.. he is NOT losing anyone else.

dan heng is soooo the type of guy to love taking pictures of you :) candids, proper photoshoots, during dates.. all of it! he adores having his formerly barren camera roll be full of his brightest part of his day. he also keeps some photographs in his wallet, phonecase, all of that! isn't a big words guy so uses this as his way of appreciation <3

dr ratio is the typa guy to use you as his muse. has used your beauty as inspiration for sculptures and doesn't hold back on his compliments for you. you will STRUGGLE to be insecure with how insistent and sharp he is about how perfectly you're 'carved' to be. will playfully debate w u about it

boothill's the typa guy to let you leave your mark on his mechanical body. stickers, kiss marks if you feel like it, little accessories.. do whatever you want, wears it proudly like a medal. personal favorite is his wedding ring <3

moze is the typa guy to like going invisible before hugging you from behind. it used to startle you, but you've grown to appreciate it. he was only like this in the beginning, since he was quietly embarrassed about affection and wasn't sure how to approach it the way you did. decided this was the best way. although you miss it cause it was cute, you like how he doesn't feel the need to anymore. he's grown comfortable with affection <3

jing yuan is the typa guy to know your little 'questions' and subtle hints to things. ask him if he's hungry? he has your cravings being ordered on the phone. does something look nice on you? he already has his wallet out to pay for it. he also makes sure not to walk too fast and matches your pace, all while of course holding your hand. nothing works anymore because he just knows you too well 💔 gives you kisses on your forehead for trying. if you're unhappy he knows to follow up to your cheek, and if it doesn't work he finishes with a kiss to your lips. that one always works :)

gallagher the typa guy to LOOOVE flirting when your tipsy. sometimes you forget he's your boyfriend and get all giggly like when you first met him, it's his favorite thing. doesn't push it too far ofc because he wants to be respectful when you're under the influence, but it takes a lot of years of practice to be able to hold his constraint when you lean in for a kiss.. all sweet with your hands pressed up against his chest

caelus is totally the typa guy who loves to let you wear his jacket. for one, everybody knows it is his, and you wearing it means he's yours <3 so that means nobody approaches you and he likes it that way. also it's comfortable and fashionable! you never get cold :D (and you see his arms so i suppose it's a bonus)

luka is ONE HUNDRED percent the type of guy to love playfighting but he always lets you win. it's always fun with you, you're always so giggly and play dirty, plus while he can totally counter it, he doesn't. let's you have your fun the whole time! unless you start teasing him and that's when he locks in (to tease you back)

blade is the typa guy to appreciate the fact you patch him up. while you're doing so he mumbles about how perfect you are, how he's undeserving of your kindness as he takes one of your hands and kisses your palm softly, making you cup his cheek as he continues his praise of your amazing care for him. sometimes goes overboard and is too focused on showing you how thankful he is and forgets to have his injuries properly treated :p

luocha is the typa guy to like sleeping shirtless. doesn't know why he started this habit, just knows that it started when you two started to sleep together in the same bed. he liked waking up and really feeling you being there. it meant everything to him, this kind of vulnerability. it was beyond lust, it was trust.

gepard is the type of guy to always be flustered easily. we all know it, we love it, but your favorite moments are when you surprise him while he's on duty. when he's stationed to more isolated parts of belobog, he always seems bored or you know.. maybe just doing his duty. whatever it is, he's clearly too focused to let any emotion slide. so when you show up, all smiley and sweet, your energy bounces off of him and he can't help but get all giggly too. only to realize he's still on watch, gets embarrassed, and you relish in the sweet red on his cheeks.

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iboozi · 29 days ago

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Songs of Us | Everybody Here Wants You | jjk

↺ pairing: jeongguk / reader (somewhat strangers to lovers)

↺ summary: Everybody wants you, but you only want him

↺ warnings: smut (in a bathroom sorry), unprotected sex (stay safe), oral (f. receiving),

↺ w/c: 8.5k

A/N: Hello... uh... welcome to the second instalment of the Songs of Us series!!! This took 3 weeks to write because I had to keep changing so much, but here it is! My poor wrists are cramped up writing this. And I finally figured out how to do the em dash on mac 😼 so it's over for everyone (jk). I do have other song ideas but I'm always welcome to more! Pls! Enjoy! And I listened to Everybody here wants you by Jeff Buckley on REPEAT whilst editing so this song is stuck in my head. Also I wanted to make this enemies to lovers but something about a lover boy just gets me everytime. I'm drawn to needy guys (not really irl) ! I'll try it again next time 😔

p.s thankyouthankyou to @tranquilreign for encouraging me to keep going!💗 you got this as well!!!

-Zoobi out 🪩

masterlist

Everybody here wants you

Jeon Jeongguk was seething.

Well — not exactly seething. More like… mildly agitated. The moment just before water reaches boiling point. The kind of emotional turmoil that wouldn’t result in a few holes punched into drywall but did warrant a deep sigh and a stare out the window that would have others questioning his behaviour.

It wasn’t common for him to feel such freakishly intense emotions – on a Friday night, no less – but alas, he was a growing boy (pushing 30) who was yet to have a hold on his emotions.

In all honesty, he was a well-regulated person. He was said to be a man of structure (Jimin’s words, not his) and often showed high levels of self-restraint. He did his morning exercise, ate balanced meals nine times out of ten, and even spared time to read self-help books every evening. But tonight? All of that had been thrown right out the window and stuffed down the garbage chute.

Why?

Because of a girl.

And no, he wasn’t rejected by her. Quite the opposite actually. She was too nice. Painfully, bewilderingly, disarmingly nice.

You see, upon meeting this girl, Jeongguk had been confoundingly starstruck. No, really — his mouth had literally fallen open.

He had tried to say something – anything – but all he could let out was a sound that was vaguely similar to the sputtering of a dying car engine. You, of course, had smiled. Not with pity and certainly no mockery either. You gave a smile that radiated warmth and signalled that Jeongguk hadn’t actually embarrassed himself.

But a nudge and a snicker from Jimin beside him snapped him back to the reality that they were being watched by a few friends, and that he, in fact, did lose some composure in that moment. He couldn’t do anything but flush a soft pink and scratch the back of his head as he muttered a quiet,

“Uh-hey… nice to meet you,” as if the universe were witnessing his struggle and had decided to put him in a far more awkward situation.

The universe, in that case, seemed to be Jimin who found Jeongguk tripping over his words much more comical than his mouth falling open. His laughter echoed throughout the bar, much louder than necessary, drawing the attention of a few nearby onlookers who most definitely didn’t need to see Jeongguk socially run himself into the ground. He could’ve sworn he heard someone whisper, “Is that Jeongguk? Didn’t he sing karaoke here the other day? With like a hundred people?”

Jimin — the absolute traitor — was no help whatsoever. He was too busy trying not to keel over onto the ground, an apparent sign that he loved to see Jeongguk suffer. If anything was better than getting under Jeongguk’s skin, it was seeing him fumble and trip over his words in front of a girl. At least Jimin was a true friend.

But that wasn’t all.

The worst part was that Jimin was holding onto your arm as he tried to keep his balance. His arm was curled gently around your forearm, and you, being the kind-hearted person you were, your free hand was gripping onto his bicep to keep him steady.

And even though Jimin was holding onto you for support, there was a level of intimacy behind his hold.

Jeongguk wasn’t sure whether he wanted to strangle his best friend or sprint out the door without looking back.

He couldn’t help it - his gaze kept drifting back to you. Your focus wasn’t on Jeongguk anymore – no it was now on Jimin. Jimin, whom you were looking at like he was some kind of circus act.

Your hand was still wrapped loosely around his arm, fingers brushing Jimin’s hidden tattoos, but Jeongguk swore that he could feel the heat from your touch like it was something tangible. It certainly didn’t help that you were laughing along with Jimin, making Jeongguk feel like an outsider in his own group of friends.

Even Namjoon at the back was stifling his laughter – a man notoriously known for fumbling things. The goddamn audacity of Jimin, ruining Jeongguk’s chance at normality, whilst simultaneously sweeping in and bonding with you like old pals – which, Jeongguk supposed, you were.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk had muttered beneath his breath, voice laced with frustration, “you’re making it worse.”

But of course, Jimin didn’t hear. He didn’t really acknowledge Jeongguk’s visible awkwardness, as he knew Jeongguk would eventually warm up with a few drinks — or at least thought Jeongguk was grown enough to do so.

As a matter of fact, Jeongguk hadn’t warmed up with a few drinks.

Instead, his beer sat untouched in front of him, condensation dripping slowly down the side, as if it were taunting him.

You were still talking to Jimin. Still laughing. And still pulling the attention of everyone in the room without meaning to. Jeongguk had caught at least four guys taking a double take as you waltzed past everyone to the restroom.

And Jeongguk? He was just there. Stuck in his own head. Watching the way you floated through the room with such grace that it felt illegal to look at you for too long.

And yeah, maybe it was a bit — no, it was very — stupid of him as he just sat in the corner of the booth, fidgeting with the bracelets on his wrist,a storm brewing behind his eyes.

But as if the universe were playing some big cruel joke on him, a song he knew too well started playing from the speakers behind him.

“Twenty-nine pearls in your kiss

A singing smile,

Coffee smell and lilac skin

Your flame in me…”

Jeongguk was frozen. He knew that song. Of course he did. His scratched-up vinyl was somewhere under his bed, tucked away with the rest of his albums he liked to pull out on nights when his emotions got the best of him. If anyone were to find his collection, Jeongguk would just laugh and offer to put one on. But this specific song was a bit more worn, corners a bit more frayed, because Jeongguk had simply used the vinyl so much that it was begging to be put back and given rest.

Now, like a memory brandished in front of him, it was playing in public, in real time. The words reverberated in his skull as you threw your head back to laugh at something Jimin said. The delicate curve of your neck matched the lift of your smile, pulling at something deep in Jeongguk’s chest. It hit Jeongguk – this wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t be classified as infatuation.

Because this was a full-body ache.

Years of hearing about you and your travels across the world, what jobs you had bounced between, the languages you spoke like they were your mother tongue. The little anecdotes Jimin would filter into every conversation added up over the years – like the time you roamed the streets of Prague lost in the city lights with nothing but a dying phone battery in one hand and heels in the other. Or when you somehow managed to charm a cranky police officer in Tokyo, speaking perfect Japanese without hesitation. All these stories, all these mentions of you over the years had turned you into a slowly building myth in Jeongguk’s mind. You were a legend in his group.

A soft, golden legend. Who was now sitting in front of him, laughing. Just existing in the same vicinity as him. So real and so devastatingly beautiful.

Jeongguk didn’t even know what to focus on, his gaze hyper- fixated on your figure. Your dress, delicate straps sloping down your shoulders. Your necklace, sitting perfectly in the hollow of your neck. Every detail was so meticulously curated, from your hair down to your nails, that all Jeongguk could do was stare. He smiled when you smiled. Laughed when you made jokes. Offered to refill your drink, which you kindly accepted. Even Namjoon had noticed Jeongguk’s attention solely directed to you, but a few nudges from him wouldn’t even deter Jeongguk from continuing to shine the spotlight on you.

“I’ll be waiting right here to show you

How our love will blow it all away…”

The lyrics hit too close to home. God had a sick sense of humour.

Frankly speaking, Jeongguk hadn’t expected to be put in this situation. Hadn’t expected to be looked at the way you did – not when Jimin showed your pictures and certainly not when he mentioned you were tagging along for the night.

You were Jimin’s friend. Jimin’s closest friend. The kind who whispered secrets under the covers. The kind who knew what each other was thinking before anything was verbalised. The kind that walked into the room and became the air that everyone breathed. And the kind that never lingered for too long, always hooking the attention of people, leading them in a trail of passports and postcards and “Goodbye don’t miss me!” notes.

And even though Jeongguk knew this when you looked at him – before the embarrassment, and before Jimin began his normal routine of making jokes at Jeongguk – it wasn’t dismissive. There was curiosity in your gaze. A sort of gentleness that Jeongguk hadn’t had the opportunity to really see. Ever.

And call it cliché, but he felt seen. Not in the normal performative way that others viewed him in — the golden boy title — but something more subdued. Like the world had halted and you had suddenly found yourself at the same frequency he was vibrating on.

That was the part that hurt.

He couldn’t even decide if there was more jealousy to be channelled towards Jimin – for grasping and attaining your attention so easily – or himself, for knowing how you could look at him.

And God, the way the song resounded through the bar.

“I know everybody here wants you,

I know everybody here thinks he needs you…”

Everyone did want you. Jeongguk could sense it in the way people's eyes lingered on you from across the room like you were some kind of celestial being. The way their eyes lit up as you voiced conversations. He was insane for thinking that he even had a sliver of a chance with you – he was too structured, too soft-spoken, and had a deep fear of too much.

So he sat there, quietly tracing the rim of his glass, unnoticed by the rest, while the music filled the void of what he wanted to say and what he inevitably never would.

And as your winding, overly animated exchange with Jimin came to an end, your eyes scanned the booth before landing on Jeongguk. You tentatively offered him a small smile, and Jeongguk’s heart flipped in his chest – a sharp, stabbing pain that he would gladly experience a hundred more times, just for you to give that tender smile of yours to him.

“Everything okay?” you asked calmly, cheeks flushed from the combination of the hot air and alcohol.

The question wasn’t for others to hear. Wasn’t dramatic and wasn’t loud.

And Jeongguk - poor, deteriorating Jeongguk - nodded frantically.

“Yeah. Just, uh… you know… thinking.”

You tilted your head to the side, bangs untucking from behind your ears and falling ever so carefully down your forehead.

“Dangerous pastime, I’ve heard. Don’t hurt yourself.”

He gave a breathy laugh.

“Are—“

Jimin stood up abruptly, thighs knocking into the table, causing Jeongguk’s drink to slosh over its rim.

“Jeonggukie. We gotta go, dude. She’s blowing up my phone again.”

Jimin was already halfway to the door, coat in hand, and evidently in his own world. Jeongguk didn’t move, fingers still absentmindedly circling the glass’ rim. Only when Jimin interrupted with a loud “Jeongguk!” did he jolt out of his daydream — nightdream? It was well past the hours he would be awake, and Jeongguk was feeling the effects of it.

“I swear to God, Jimin,” he muttered, running a hand down his face, his words drowned out by Jimin’s boisterous antics. The said person was already making his way back over to the booth to pull Jeongguk up, barely giving him a moment to recover.

Jimin looked at you, a sheepish grin plastered on his face, and laughed out,

“Sorry, Jeongguk’s just a little—” He gestured his hand vaguely to Jeongguk and the pure awkwardness radiating off him. “Well, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Jimin winked at him, who could only glare in return and yank his arm out of Jimin’s hold.

Jeongguk wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the way the entire bar seemed to blur around you, but as he reached down for his jacket, the weight of his emotions was heavier than ever. His body was stiff, the physical manifestation of every feeling he couldn’t quite place. But you?

You were just there — your warmth, your presence, the way your gaze lingered on him with that unspoken curiosity, and Jeongguk found himself paralysed.

The moment you were so close to sharing was gone, dissipated in the door Jimin had left open.

And the perpetrator was already at the door again, texting away like he had zero notion for the turmoil his best friend was experiencing. It was a good thing that Jeongguk had learned over many torturous years how to silently communicate his frustration to Jimin, because right now it was at an all-time high.

Jeongguk wanted to say something to you – anything - but, like always, his words failed him when he needed them the most.

So when he looked back at you to catch one last glance, he found you staring at him – not Namjoon, who was engaging in conversation with you – the smile from earlier lingering on your face. Jeongguk grinned back but couldn’t quite place what your smile meant. Pity? Or… something else? And that goddamn ridiculous song followed him out the door, mocking him for the predicament he was in.

He had barely taken two steps toward his bike, which Jimin was resting against when he heard the unmistakable whisper of your voice. It travelled through the air and struck a chord, freezing him, breath caught in his throat and the tension that was slowly leaving came back in full force.

He turned around, eyes scanning the street barely lit by the overhead lamps. His gaze found yours — heart skipping a beat as he saw you standing there, a few feet away, shuffling in the cold.

You were staring at him — so calmly, so composed — but there was something in the way you looked at him that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was your drawn-out gaze that lasted just a few seconds too long, or the soft tilt of your head. It was different… but a good different.

“Jeongguk,” you said again, softer this time, like you were testing the air between you. “You left your phone behind.”

His first instinct was to pat the pockets of his jeans, then his jacket. Then he looked up at you, eyes wide with surprise. He smiled that awkward smile of his, like he’d just been caught cheating in an exam and walked over to you. Your gaze, full of amusement, was locked onto Jeongguk’s figure as he made his way over to you, and he swore he felt you look him up and down — but he didn’t want to feed into the delusion.

He muttered a small thanks as you handed his phone back to him, but his eyes never left yours. The streetlights shining overhead seemed to illuminate you — a visage kissed by light, highlighting the gentle features of your face: your delicately sloping nose, the little freckles on your cheeks and the way your hair cascaded over your shoulder like a scarf, woven from midnight and dreams. In Jeongguk’s eyes, you were oneiric, someone spoken of only in myths and tales.

You took a few steps closer, feet directly opposite Jeongguk’s, a smile playing on your lips — mischief mingled with something else. Something caring.

“You looked like you were overwhelmed in there,” you teased, voice but tinged with a softness that made Jeongguk’s chest tighten.

He let out something between a laugh and a cough, surprised to be caught. Usually he was able to place an impressive façade, but maybe it just wasn’t as good as he thought it was. He fiddled with his jacket, pulling the sleeves over his hands, pretending his skin wasn’t warm to the touch — feverishly red.

“Yeah…I-I’m fine,” he said, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. He was anything but fine.

You watched him with a steady gaze and hummed softly, as if trying to figure him out.

“Are you sure?” you asked, stepping closer. “I don’t want to assume, but it… it didn’t seem like that.”

Jeongguk’s heart thudded against his ribcage — from panic, but something he was yet to identify. How could you have such an impact on him after only just meeting?

"I…" He paused, swallowing the build-up of spit in his throat "I don’t know. I’ve just—" He let out a small, frustrated sigh and ran his hand through his hair. "I guess I was just nervous.”

You blinked, eyes softening in understanding.

“Nervous about what?”

Jeongguk gestured vaguely toward the bar.

"Being around people. Making conversations. I get all... tangled up in my head and forget how to just relax." He laughed, but it wasn’t a funny laugh — more self-deprecating, if he was being honest. "I probably just needed another drink.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes boring holes into Jeongguk.

Y’know,” you started, voice closer to a whisper, “Jimin didn’t tell me that about you.”

Jeongguk balked, eyes widening in sudden surprise.

“He talked about me?”

You laughed, ripples of joy escaping your lips, getting lost in the night breeze, and looked up at Jeongguk with a big smile on your face.

“Of course he has.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He figured he should’ve expected it. If Jimin talked endlessly about you to everyone, then surely he’d talk about Jeongguk as well, right?

All the awful stories that had accumulated over the years on drunken nights, the occasional nights fuelled by pure adrenaline, and the nights he would rather not bring up rushed back into Jeongguk’s head. He fought the urge to groan. Goddamnit, Jimin.

You shrugged, the playful glint in your eye never fading. “I know a lot more about you than you think, Jeonggukie. Jimin just doesn’t keep his mouth shut.”

You paused, taking in his bewildered expression.

“And I know you know about me too.”

That was the last straw—the final piece of décor on the cake. Jeongguk hung his head in embarrassment. All that, and he still managed to fuck up his first impression.

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just letting the silence wrap around you both—and the awkwardness around Jeongguk. There was something serene in the air between you, a quiet understanding that perhaps you weren’t really strangers.

And then you moved—just barely, but enough to close the space between you two, causing your shoes to brush the tips of his.

Jeongguk froze.

Gone was the laughter in your eyes. But it wasn’t replaced with mockery. It was curiosity. Raw curiosity, almost like you were inviting him to say something he’d been festering on all night.

Then your voice, soft and harmonious:

“Maybe next time… try saying hi before your nervous system gives up.”

A laugh bubbled up from his chest, the first genuine one of the day—lifting some of the weight he had been unconsciously carrying.

You smiled at him like you meant it and ever so carefully inched your hand out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

Jeongguk stood still, phone still clutched in his hand, grip tighter than ever, and nodded slowly. Your hand slowly made its way down and rested on his jaw a few seconds too long—long enough for Jeongguk to get nervous, red tainting the tips of his ears. Thank God it was dark.

“Okay,” he breathed out shakily. “Next time.”

You took a step back, hands clasped behind your back, eyes still on his. “I’ll keep you to that, Jeongguk.”

Then you turned, hair catching the light like strands of spun gold, and made your way back to the bar—leaving behind the soft smell of jasmine and a boy who could finally breathe.

Art exhibitions were one of Jeongguk’s favourite places to be. At first, he only came because Namjoon would plead him to come — to which he would, begrudgingly — but overtime he had come to find peace in the simplicity of the experience and was constantly finding new ones to go to (with Jimin as well).

The gallery was picturesque, with soft, warm lighting — strangely reminding Jeongguk of the night with you outside the bar – with the shadows across the walls where canvases breathed tales in splashes of watercolour and acrylic. The air had the subtle after-scent of paint and polished wood, mingled with faint undertones of perfumes and freshly opened bottles of wines.

Jeongguk was lingering near a large painting – an explosive composition of blues and reds, very much paying a homage to the inner disarray he had been experiencing over the last few weeks.

First, hearing from Jimin that you were on a flight to god knows where less than twelve hours after your initial meeting quickly dampened his giddy mood. He was hoping to see you again — even just for a quick coffee— but was now stuck resorting to stalking to your Instagram.

He couldn’t even do that properly, considering your account was strictly private and Jeongguk felt that he wasn’t at that level of status with you. He couldn’t even stalk from Jimin’s phone because he knew that his best friend wouldn’t keep his gob shut and would relay the information back to you in less than two minutes. So he was stuck with his memories. Which was quite poor, considering how tired he was on that darned night, but your face and the lingering smell of you was enough —for now.

What made this indescribable feeling of yearning worse was the fact that Jimin didn’t even know when you’d be back. Seriously. What was he even useful for? Despite all the claims of knowing you the best, he never once thought to figure out your spontaneity — or at least tried to make rough estimations based on patterns. If Jeongguk ever tried to slip your name in a conversation (very discreetly—at least he thought so), Jimin would just laugh to himself and mutter some incoherent words before going back to typing furiously on his phone. Literally. That’s all he would do.

It was frustrating to Jeongguk to no end, but he learnt to keep his mouth shut and instead wallow in the idea of what could be (which really wasn’t looking like much)

So, he figured he would distract himself with what he knew best. And no, it wasn’t the gym—even though it came a close second—but it was the tranquillity of these small art galleries, the ones that were tucked away in the quietest streets, waiting for travellers to settle inside and welcome a new world

He always liked being the one to pursue things, not the one being sought for.

Thus, he stood in a quiet corner of the room, hands tucked into his pockets, body stiff and mind racing with thoughts. He told himself that this was a casual event, but he couldn’t help but put on his best dress shoes—and yes, he might’ve gelled his hair a bit and put on his best black shirt, but it made him feel good. He needed this boost of confidence considering how pathetic he had felt lately and dressing up to have somewhat done the trick.

But it still didn’t stop the unease running through him. It was unsettling – he wasn’t one to feel nervous in a place he found comfort, but there was something about the air that made tonight’s exhibition a bit more… lonely.

Perhaps it was the fact that Namjoon and Jimin had ditched him for their dates—he didn’t even know that it was allowed in friend group meetups, but… it wasn’t like he had one anyway.

And like someone had just replaced the tonearm on a continuous vinyl, the very song that Jeongguk had been trying to avoid filtered through the speakers once more and wandered over to his ears.

…it had to be a joke. Right? No way this song was following him around like it had a warrant on him. Seriously. He had no idea what he had done to deserve this torture, and frankly, he didn’t have the mental strength to think about it.

Jeongguk didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t take his hand out of his pockets. Just stared at the painting like he was trying to be absorbed by it, disappear amongst the weird, colourful swirls and blend in to hide from whatever divine intervention was going on around him, just preying on him in his most pitiful moments.

“I know everybody here wants you…”

He tightened his jaw, muscles fluttering in annoyance.

It was decided. The universe had a sick, personal vendetta against him. How the hell did this song play everytime his thoughts drifted to you? Sure he might’ve thought of you more often than he’d like to admit, but he was trying to distract himself, goddamnit!

He huffed. Not even the multitude of colours in front of him could tug his attention from you.

It wasn’t really about the song. Not really. It was more so to do with what it meant to him.

The night outside the bar.

The way you caressed his hair even though he wanted it to lay like that.

The way you whispered his name like it was a secret between the two of you

The way you saw him.

And then— the way you left as quickly as you came.

He barely got to say his goodbye. You were there one minute, and suddenly he had blinked, and you were gone. All that was left was the feeling of your fingertips grazing his skin and the filtered story that Jimin showed you with a geotag somewhere oceans away.

Jeongguk exhaled slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. He wasn’t in love or anything he was past the stage of teenage limerence.

…Right?

A soft clack of heels pulled him from the drifting seas of his mind.

He didn’t react at first. Footsteps were common in galleries, voices humming like bees in fields of sunflowers. But there was something different about the rhythm. It made the hairs on his neck stand straight up. There was delicacy behind the footfalls nearing him.

He turned.

And nearly forgot how to fucking breathe.

You.

Long black dress, tan coat slung over your shoulder, and your hair just effortlessly pooling down your back like ink in water.

“And our eyes are locked in downcast love…”

Your eyes met his, the twinkle in them almost blinding him before he could pretend to look away and be interested in anything else.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The song, of course, droned on in the background like a cruel soundtrack to his unbecoming.

You tilted your head, lips lifting into a knowing smile, like you were fully aware of the effect you had on Jeongguk, even by just standing there. Just by simultaneously coexisting in front of him.

“Jeongguk.”

He swore you said his name like it was yours.

“You’re here,” was all he managed. His words were barely spoken, drifting like mist and condensing on the painting next to him. Honestly, it felt a bit pathetic—what he said—but you smiled wider, nonetheless.

“Jimin slipped it into conversation,” you replied, stepping closer. He could see the glitter you lined your eyes with. “Told me you’ve been moping around in galleries like a sad little poet.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “No, he didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” you laughed a little. “Even told me that you wore your ‘special’ shoes tonight.”

Jeongguk looked down, half expecting his brogues to start sinking into the ground out of sheer humiliation.

You stopped beside him, nudging him softly. “I like them.”

His laugh was disbelieving—the kind that crinkled the skin around his eyes and displayed the little freckle under his lip.

“Didn’t think you were gonna be back anytime soon,” he said quietly, hoping in the way he phrased it.

You shrugged. “Only for a little while. Maybe longer.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He’d spent months thinking about all the things he might’ve said if you were ever in his presence again, but now that you really were—so achingly near, close enough to smell that jasmine scent again—his brain had fried itself and was devoid of any thoughts.

But you, as always, were the lighthouse in a storm.

“Hi,” you simply said. This wasn’t a greeting. It was a reset.

Jeongguk swallowed nervously.

“Hi.”

Joy bloomed in the creases by your eyes.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He smiled at you sheepishly.

You turned your attention to the painting he’d been staring at before—the chaotic mix of colours that had once mirrored his internal disarray. He glanced at it and noticed how the mess seemed to fade towards the edge into two distinct lines of tranquillity. Huh.

“It’s pretty intense,” you said, studying the canvas.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk replied. “S’pose that makes sense, though.”

You glanced at him. “Because you’re feeling like it?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “You kinda… do that to me.”

Your smile wavered for a millisecond—not in a bad way. In a breath-caught kind of way. A quiet pause before your expression softened.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because you��”

The ringing of your name being called across the gallery ceased the little conversation you were having.

You sighed, eyebrows furrowing, and looked over.

Jeongguk reluctantly tore his gaze from your face and followed yours over to see a man striding over. He was tall. Well-dressed. And very clearly knew you, the way he sauntered over, arms wide open in welcome. His coat flared slightly as he walked to your corner and had that laid-back, easy grin that made Jeongguk’s eye twitch in irritation.

Without hesitation, you stepped towards him, situating yourself into his arms that wrapped all the way around you. It was déjà vu—the way the hug looked so familiar to him. It was too close. And too long.

Jeongguk stood motionless.

His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, fingers alternating between being clenched into fists or flexing involuntarily with nerves… or something more. He tried to understand what the hell was happening in front of him—and what you were on the verge of saying—but he was all too distracted by the lack of space between you and that stranger.

When you finally pulled away, the guy leaned in to say something close to your ear. Jeongguk didn't miss the way your eyes flickered briefly back to him and away, like it never happened. You faltered.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you told him quickly, that ever-present softness in your voice still lingering, but dimmed. “I’ll catch you later, Jeonggukie, okay?”

He nodded. Tried to smile, but it came out more like a wince. Tried to let the sting not pierce his skin too deeply.

“Sure,” he replied. “Later.”

And with that, you walked off, arm in the stranger’s, and Jeongguk’s heart in your hand.

His posture sagged in small defeat, and he glanced towards Jimin, who was nearing him, sipping his wine and observing the turmoil Jeongguk was experiencing.

Jimin caught his eyes and raised a singular eyebrow with a smirk.

“Are you just gonna stand there?”

Jeongguk forced out a bitter laugh and brought his hands into his pockets.

“I’m fine.”

He knew he was lying. Jimin knew he was lying. The random women giving him a look as they walked past knew he was lying as well.

Every laugh that flowed from your lips felt like a knife digging into an old wound. When the stranger brushed a small strand of your hair behind your ear, Jeongguk scoffed, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looked away.

He found himself shuffling closer to Jimin, letting the small talk between him and his best friend become a barrier to hide behind.

Your eyes met his once across the room, and you offered him a small smile—but Jeongguk looked away before the moment could unfold into anything more. Instead, he watched you weave in and out of the crowd, integrating into fruitless conversation yet still capturing the attention of everyone in the room.

“Maybe I should’ve asked who he was,” Jeongguk muttered under his breath to Jimin, who just chuckled and patted his shoulder.

“Chill, man,” he teased. “You’ll see her again. I’m sure.”

Jeongguk wanted to believe it—really he did—but it was hard to when that ‘later’ never came.

You disappeared into the night with the man—that Jeongguk never figured out the name of—like mist beneath the stars. And Jeongguk had waited, eyes constantly scanning the gallery until closing. Even helped the staff clean up the bar and stack some chairs, just in case you popped back in.

You didn’t.

Jeongguk was seething.

Well—not exactly seething. More so… mildly agitated. The kind of agitation that was so close to spilling over the surface and onto everyone around him.

The house was too warm.

The people too loud.

The lights too dim.

He wasn't even sure why he was there– sure it was his house, but Namjoon had convinced him to host a small party with familiar faces, ‘friends-of-friends’ so he would finally loosen up.

He’d spent the last half of the hour sipping on the same drink and dodging the half-drunk people that attempted to make conversation with him.

That, and the god-awful playlist Jimin had put on. It was like Jimin was stuck being heartbroken or pumping his fist at a rave with the kind of music you just had to vibe with.

And currently Jeongguk did not vibe with it.

He kinda nodded his head to heartbreak songs though - he supposed he could relate just a tad.

He hadn’t heard from you since the night at the gallery.

Nothing.

And it’s not like you were obligated to - numbers weren’t even exchanged - but Jeongguk’s hope was a persistent little bastard that maybe, just maybe thought you would ask Jimin for his number and check up on him.

And it wasn’t like Jeongguk hadn’t tried the same. He gave up on the subtle hints to Jimin and had straight up asked for your number, even though he was turned down - rather quickly- with the words,

“If it was meant to be, she would come to give it to you herself.”

Jeongguk sighs at the memory, nursing his drink and glaring into the clear liquid as if it had caused him personal anguish. The laughter of those around him fades in and out of his hearing. Everything is duller, like the colour had been vacuumed out from the room. He’s partly tempted to pull an Irish goodbye at his own party and just leave. Maybe grab his walkman on the way out to play a song that didn’t emotionally scar him.

But then he sees you.

You, standing by the kitchen island, in conversation with Namjoon. You, lit like a spotlight found you despite the purposely dim lighting. And you, head tipped back slightly, laughing at something Namjoon is saying. Gone is the tan coat, replaced by an off- the- shoulder black top that clings to your figure. Gone are the effortless waves, swapped for your hair pinned back, emphasising the delicate nature of your neck.

Jeongguk freezes, glass halfway to his mouth, breath lodging in his throat. You looked dreamlike, standing out amongst the crowd, like an advert he’d seen on television one too many times. He wouldn’t dare to skip out on you— not after knowing the smile you could give him.

When did you get here?

He doesn’t even realise Jimin has slipped into the little corner of the couch that Jeongguk was practically sprawled on until a shoulder nudges his own.

“You’re doing it again,” Jimin teases, sounding far too happy considering his playlist.

“What thing?” Jeongguk hisses, eyes locking onto the way you seamlessly flit around the kitchen.

“The ‘I’ve-dreamed-about-her-every-day-and-can’t-believe-she’s-here’ thing.”

Jeongguk scowls and shoves Jimin lightly, but his eyes don't stray. You haven’t noticed him yet.

He can’t decide if that’s mercy or torment.

“She knows, doesn’t she?” he asks.

The smug silence of his friend is enough.

“She asked me if you’d ever want to see her face again. I said you were a sucker for pretty faces and that she should come and find out for herself.”

Jeongguk gapes.

“You’re such a menace.”

“Well it worked, didn’t it? She’s here. In the flesh.” Jimin grins, clapping a hand down on Jeongguk’s back. “Maybe she wanted free drinks. Or… see you.”

Jeongguk ignores Jimin’s banter, eyes still tracking your every movement. The way your fingers tap against your glass. Or the way your gaze occasionally drifts from whoever you were talking to, and sweeps across the room —but never quite meets his.

And still, Jeongguk doesn’t approach you. Can't get himself to move up from that sofa. The weight in his chest keeps him tethered down. The unspoken words claw at his throat like before.

So he sips his drink. And waits.

The party hums around him, low and warm like the static of one of his vinyls that was left on too long.

You pass by him once, ever so briefly.

And in that one incandescent moment, your hand brushes his — hanging over the back of the couch—as you slide past on the way to the hallway. He doesn’t look up, but he knows it’s you, he feels it’s you. The absence of your touch shouldn’t linger the way it does

He doesn’t see where you go. Doesn’t even register why he’s following the scent of your perfume until his feet lead him to the hallway. Past the kitchen, past the shoes by the door, and away from the loud thrum of the party.

The bathroom door near the back end of his apartment iss half-open, an amber glow spilling through.

He raps his knuckles against the door.

“Occupied?”

A soft voice calls out.

“Yeah - give me a sec!”

But that voice…he knows it. He knows it too well.

Jeongguk pushes the door slightly - just a little further.

And there you are. Standing at the mirror, fingers fixing the wing of your eyeliner, with the smallest concentration crease forming between your brows. You see him in the reflection and halt your actions.

“Sorry-” he starts, already turning around to go back.

But you spin around, swiping a finger across the corner of your eyes.

“Wait Jeongguk.”

He freezes. The air is heavy, electricity tingling in the way that makes the space feel so much smaller than it already is..

“I was gonna leave,” you say after a beat, eyes searching his. “I…I didn't think you wanted to talk to me.”

“I thought you didn’t.”

A momentary pause. The tension doesn’t dissipate, only grows thicker, encircling the two of you like entertainment in a cage.

“I was waiting,” you start, “I didn’t want to interrupt. I wasn’t sure if…”

You don’t finish your sentence.

Jeongguk steps in. Closes the door behind him with a muted click.

“You came,” he murmurs, voice barely a decibel above a breath.

You smile at him. “I was told by a certain someone that if I wanted your number, I should come get it myself.”

Jeongguk gives a quiet laugh and steps closer to you.

“Funny. I was also told something similar. What are the chances it was the same person?”

You move forward, and lean up to him.

“A hundred percent.”

Your laughter at his expression is more subdued this time, eyes fluttering down to the space between you both—or the lack of. It’s close. So close. He can smell the fragrance radiating off of you, the floral scent ingrained into his head. He’s not sure if it’s his pulse or yours echoing so loudly in the confined room.

“I was going to ask for it,” you say, voice softer now. “At the gallery.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” Jeongguk blurts.

It slips out. Honest. Raw. And unguarded.

Your eyes snap up to his, plush lips parting slightly, startled but… not afraid. Not uncomfortable.

“Why didn’t you?”

“You left with someone else.”

You nod. “That wasn’t what you think.”

Jeongguk doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment. He’ll face the repercussions later—as long as he’s allowed in your presence for more than twenty minutes.

Your hands move. Brush down your sides, like you’re trying to ground yourself. Or preparing for something. His hands twitch. He wants to touch you. He wants to remember how your fingers felt against his jaw. But he waits. Waits for you to make the first move.

He’s done seeking first.

Your hand lifts slowly to his chest, palm lying flat over his sternum, right where his heartbeat betrays him. You can feel it. He’s sure.

“You’re still nervous,” you whisper.

“I’ve never wanted something so bad in my life.”

The air cracks.

Your fingers slide up lazily. Up to the collar of his shirt Tugging him. Testing the waters.

“Hi,” you say.

That’s all he needs.

He’s moving before he can process his actions, lips pressing to yours in a kiss that doesn’t ask permission—but it doesn’t need to. It’s slow at first. Hesitant. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. That this isn’t another cruel memory that would fade before he even woke up.

But when you sigh against his mouth, tilting your head just enough and nudging your nose against his—

Something inside of him explodes.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, mouth pressing with more desperation, tongue sweeping past your lips when you part them with a soft whimper that nearly undoes him. Your hands tangle in his hair, anchoring yourself as he kisses you like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

The counter is cold against the back of your thighs as he lifts you onto it, barely stopping to catch his breath. His hand wedges around your hips, thumbs dragging across the sliver of skin where your shirt rides up.

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you closer, chest to chest, heat unfurling between you like a wildfire.

He pulls back when you tug lightly on his hair, lips red and kiss-swollen, eyes hazy but focused.

“Hi,” you breathe out.

Jeongguk grins against your mouth.

“Hi baby,”

He reaches behind him, turning the lock on the door before moving for you again. His hands move with a practiced ease - the nerves from before nowhere to be found - as his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, warm fingers tracing the soft curve of your waist. His lips never leave yours, kisses rougher now, and more urgent.

Your breath mingles with his, hands clenching the fabric of his shirt, drawing him in closer, a siren in disguise.

His body presses firmly against yours, hips aligning, heat between you flaring.

With a quiet grunt, Jeongguk shifts, lifting you higher on the counter. His hands roam lower, fingers teasing the edge of your skirt, fingers dipping below the waistband. You arch into his touch, breath hitching and fingers tightening.

His mouth finds your jaw and he trails down, nipping gently before moving again - neck, collarbone, the skin below your shirt - a trail of fire in his wake.

Your fingers tangle in his hair once more, tugging, urging him deeper and harder. Jeongguk’s hands drift beneath your skirt, skimming the smoothness of your skin— inching toward that sensitive spot that makes you shiver.

He looks up at you, knees resting on the ground. Neither of you speak. The world’s shrunk to the heat of skin on skin, and the desperation laced into your frantic breaths.

He lifts your skirt up tentatively, eyes meeting yours in a silent ask. You nod. Oh how badly you need this.

Jeongguk’s fingers rub against your hip bones as he inches forwards. He presses soft kisses up your thigh, pausing when he meets your sweet spot.

“Jeongguk,” you whisper, voice shaky with anticipation.

He nudges his nose against you, “I’m here.”

He glances up at you once more, long enough to meet your eyes - dark, smouldering, and utterly focused on you - before diving in again. His tongue brushes against your underwear, rubbing up against you in a slow, teasing dance, exploring the promise in every touch.

You cry out, hands tightening at the edge of the counter, legs fighting the urge to close around his head. Jeongguk clamps his hands around your outer thighs, stabilising and ruining you at the same time.

He smiles against the lace of your underwear as you grip his hair, tongue lapping up any hint of your approaching climax. He licks deeper and triumphs as you call his name out once more, thighs trembling by his ears.

Burrowing himself deeper under your skirt, he almost halts his actions.

What if you think that he only wanted you for sex? What if this is a fleeting moment that won’t be rediscovered?

But before the irrational thoughts can settle, your hands pull on his hair, begging for him to come back up. He complies, clambering up, shaking his knees out and looks at you.

Meeting your tear stricken eyes, guilt settles in his chest,

“Are you-”

“I need you in me. Now. Jeongguk…please.”

And there it is.

His chest tightens like a wave crashing against the shore, relentless and full of emotion. This isn’t just affection he feels for you, this is an all-consuming force that pushes past reason.

He nods and reaches for his jeans. Doesn’t bother with pulling his jeans all the way off, just slides them down past his butt. Reaches for his length, stiff with need and leaking with arousal.

One. Two. Three pumps and he grasps for the back of your thighs before pushing into you. He lets out a low moan into your ear, loudening as you squeeze around him. He falls forwards, hands falling beside you.

“B-baby, don’t do that, I’ll finish,” he murmurs along your neck, nibbling gently at the column of your throat.

Your arms clasp around his neck, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“Sorry… I’m just nervous,”

Jeongguk leans back. Smiles down at you and reaches for your hand. Fingers spanning the entirety of your wrist, he places your palm against his heart, mimicking your actions before.

“Me too,”

You melt at his words. Literally. Jeongguk feels you loosen up around him, nails no longer digging half crescents into his skin. He lets out a short breath and pulls back to the tip, before pressing into you again… and again.

You moan, head tilting back, one hand holding his, resting on your waist, the other, turning white with how tightly you were gripping the counter.

Jeongguk grabs the back of your neck, encouraging you to meet his eyes. He had your attention now —only his—and he wasn’t going to lose it.

There’s something so vulnerable about this position. Neither of you are fully unclothed, but you’re practically baring your hearts to each other.

Setting a steady pace, Jeongguk snaps his hips into you, grunting with every thrust, moving you further up the ledge next to the sink. He reaches around for your ass and pulls you closer. The movement shifts your positions slightly, where he’s deeper, and firmer inside of you..

“J-Jeongguk,” you rasp.

He thrusts harder, lewd noises of skin meeting skin filling the air. Reaches down and rubs a finger against you,

“Come on baby. You can do it,”

Your back arches, curving into Jeongguk’s hands as you release—hot, sticky cum coating him and the inside of your thighs. You pulse frantically around him, pushing him forwards, moaning as your orgasm rips through you.

Your arms give out, collapsing against the mirror above the sink with a broken whimper as you try and come down from your high.

“Oh fuck,” Jeongguk groans, pulling out, leaving you mourning the loss of him inside of you.

He jerks himself, hand fisted tightly around his cock, wrists moving with a rapid pace, hips stuttering and he chases his own climax.

You watch with bated breaths as his head tilts back, lip bitten raw in pleasure. A deep groan escapes him as his pace slows down, hips twitching forwards and he spills across your thighs in thick ropes. He fucks himself through his orgasm, one hand holding yours as he paints your skin milky.

He exhales as the last of his cum leaks out, and lets go of your hands to wipe the sweat lining his forehead.

He meets your eyes and lets out a little chuckle.

Leans forwards and pecks your nose. Your cheek. And then your forehead . You giggle at him and reach for a towel - to which he snatches it out of your hands, before running it under hot water. He swipes it across your thighs in gentle strokes, like he didn't just obliterate you and cleans himself up.

He pulls his jeans up, buckles his belt and pulls down your skirt. Reaching for your waist, he helps you hop off the counter.

You move towards the door, but he pulls you back.

You meet his eyes. He swallows.

“I don’t want this to end. Ever.”

You look at him through your lashes and tuck a strand of his hair back.

“I’m gonna need your number first baby.”

Jeongguk grins, a smile lighting up his face as he wrenches the door open, hurrying for his phone that he left around somewhere.

Sunlight spills softly through the blind, casting warm stripes across the room where Jeongguk lies, you tucked under his arm. The quiet buzz of the city is distant, an otherworldly place that you’ve both stepped away from for a while. His arm rests loosely over your waist, arms sliding the hem of his t-shirt up as he traces small circles on your thigh.

For once, the voracious thoughts that constantly plagued his mind seem to have quietened down, leaving the calm weight of you beside him and the thrilling, quiet certainty of what happened last night.

You meet his eyes, and he smiles, dimples burrowing in his cheeks. No words are exchanged. This moment - this morning - is enough.

Jeongguk nudges his nose against yours,

“Can you accept my instagram request?”

You look up at him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion,

“Wha-”

The door creaks open and Jimin steps inside with an infuriatingly wide grin.

He laughs, breaking the tranquility of the morning.

“By the way, Jeonggukie, I know what your favourite song is.”

Jeongguk stares at him, processing his words as Jimin’s teasing smile grows bigger.

“Okay?”

“And I’m also really good at making people play whatever songs I want.”

Jeongguk freezes. No way. He can’t be… that fucking little-

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hanasnx · 3 months ago

Note

being spencer’s secret lowkey girlfriend who also happens to work at the FBI, but in a different unit. and there’s always talk about how hot you are and spencer always hears how much people want to fuck you.

and he just has to laugh to himself because at the end of the day he’s the one who gets to fuck you into the mattress every single night 🙂‍↕️🩷

OH, SHE’S SO HOT — s.reid

“ be my addiction, material girl / wrapped ‘round my finger like diamonds and pearls ” 🪽

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | criminal minds. NOTES. thank god u said smthn anon ive been wanting to write about smthn like this. also im only on s1 so those are the characters i’ll be using. WARNINGS. fem reader ノ established relationship ノ everybody thirsting over you is currently single ノ suggestive material.

“she’s pretty.” jennifer relents with a shrug. her curiosity gets the better of her and she leans forward for a better glimpse of you. this isn’t your unit, but you’re paying a visit to hotch over at the far side of the room. “she’s really pretty.” she muses, her tone shifting to one of admission while she sizes you up. it’s not that you’re any kind of threat or unwelcome presence, but now the wheels in jj’s head are turning, “her and hotch aren’t… they couldn’t be…” SPENCER REID, who’s been sitting politely at his desk, perks his head up. he hadn’t seen you come in, but his pen raises and his lips part, all to claim you as someone he knows until he’s interrupted.

“girl like that? c’mon. at the very least he’s thinking about it.” derek chimes in, smoothly taking an open seat in one of the desk clumps to join the gossiping throng. spencer closes his mouth, pen dropping to his lap defeatedly. jj shifts in her position, having leaned her tailbone on the edge of the desk to cross her ankles smartly. now she needs a better angle to see you and aaron’s conversation. derek gestures to your back with his hand vaguely, addressing the group like he’s an expert in using his background in profiling for this specific strain of body language. spencer obediently follows the direction, furrowed brows landing on you as he cranes his neck to see you. “look at the way he’s standing. toes pointed towards her, making eye contact. he wants her.” derek scoffs, taking a long sip from his coffee as he studies you. it’s hard to tell from just the sliver of your face visible, but he’s seen enough of you to know you’re a catch. the genius starts to scratch his head.

“guys, hate to be the buzzkill, but can we get back on task?” elle interrupts just as jj was opening her mouth to continue scheming. “we don’t know anything about her. besides, hotch isn’t the kind of guy.”

“kind of guy to what?” jj clarifies with an impish tug to her lips, pivoting her head to cast elle a sly glance.

elle meets her gaze. “to get into a workplace relationship. he’s too professional for that.” she pinches her one shoulder in a shrug as she organizes a pile of files. spencer’s lips purse, mind racing at the prospect of being judged for unprofessionalism. it did occur to him there would be some scrutiny involved, which is why you and him have mostly been sneaking around thus far. still, it’s intimidating to have it laid out like this in front of him… and oddly thrilling. his fingers begin to fiddle with the pen in his lap. big, brown eyes glance from person to person as they lead the conversation, soaking in all the information like a sponge.

“he’s a guy.” derek once again imposes his theory, and says the statement like it’s definitive. even jj rolls her eyes. spencer clenches his jaw, tilting his head to himself as if it say, yes, that’s true. i fell for it, too.

“just because you haven’t been getting any doesn’t mean you get to go and make it everyone’s problem.” the blonde teases, straightening to her full height, heels clacking as she passes behind derek, giving him a healthy pat on his shoulder while he laughs sarcastically.

“ha. ha.” it’s a dry reply, one that leaves the group quiet for a second while penelope takes the recently departed’s place. “hey, garcia.”

“hey, what’re we talkin’ about?” she asks in that perky voice of hers, it’s only the throng’s hushed tones that bring her down to their level. she ducks her head symbolically. “sorry. didn’t know we were swapping secrets.”

elle may not act amused, yet she’s still participating. “they’re talking about hotch and the new girl.”

“tattletale.” derek taunts.

“grow up.”

“the new girl?” penelope confirms quizzically, twisting her face to match her dialogue as she scans her surroundings. it’s clear when she’s spotted you because her jaw drops, “oh, she’s hot.” once again she’s scolded by her colleagues shushing her, ducking down a second time with some exclamation about how weird they’re being. semi-hidden behind a desk’s partition, she goes for a second look. she doesn’t announce to everyone that you made hotch laugh. it’s a small kind of chuckle, a clear smile on his lips. it’s something spencer notices though, and he bows his head to avert his prying eyes. he doesn’t know hotch to joke around like that, and he doesn’t like the way it feels. instead, penelope points something else out, “she kind’a looks like spencer’s type, don’t you think?” her thumbs gestures to you lazily, and everyone looks at you through a new lens.

derek sets his sights on something to antagonize, “huh. awfully quiet there, reid.” he muses as he leans over, the flat of his hand batting spencer’s shoulder to get his attention. “what d’you think of her?” he asks coolly, sinking back into the chair while he sets his ankle up on his knee.

“hm?” spencer responds as if he hasn’t been listening, pulling the pen from between his lips. he meets derek’s gaze over the coffee cup, and all derek does is point and nod towards you discretely. spencer obliges now that he’s been asked directly. “oh, um…” he takes his time. “i dunno, she’s… i dunno.” brown eyes drool down like molasses, from your hair, to your smart outfit, to the seams from your pantyhose at the backs of your calves, to your black heels. you know he loves that. he’s broken through a couple pairs of those tights because he just couldn’t wait. “she’s… you know…”

the speechlessness causes a small eruption behind him, the group swapping expressions and silent conversations about his reaction. the spencer they know would start talking about the quality of fabric you’re wearing, the history of it and how—fun fact—it started some war in some country that doesn’t exist anymore. any useless knowledge he could spit out because his brain is a computer. they don’t get a chance to break the silence, you and hotch split. hotch begins his ascent to their desk clump and you pass by. everyone averts their eyes, everyone but spencer. you’re not shy either. you hold his eye contact, you even give him a small knowing smile, and a deliberate nod. derek’s jaw seems to unhinge witnessing such an obvious bid. spencer glances back at everyone, “now, guys—now, now—“ he stutters out, trying to fit words in with innocent gestures and a nervous grin. derek’s hand clamps on his shoulder and jostles him in some kind of show of manly camaraderie.

“dr. reid, you dog!”

“she was totally looking at you, spencer!”

“oh, my god.” derek, penelope, and elle respectively all give their input just as hotch approaches.

“what’s this about?” he asks, brows knit together at such an unusual display. spencer can’t seem to answer that either, shoulders stuck in a shrug and mouth open to make some case that never gets made.

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

#2k #indy: drabbles #ch: spencer r.#spencer reid drabble #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #reader insert

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fandomizedtrash · 3 months ago

Text

Unfinished Business

Remmick x reader

Ask and you shall receive! After almost 500(!) of you responded to my poll, I had to keep writing. Enjoy!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

word count: 3.2k

Summary: After your parent's were killed when you were just a child, a secluded life in the Mississippi Delta has been all you have know. But when you stumble upon a stranger whose presence draws you in against your better judgement, you end up with more than you bargained for.

Warning: violence, blood, death, dub con elements!

Growing up, the Mississippi Delta felt like the whole world. The endless blue skies, forests that went on forever, rolling fields as far the eye can see, it was all you knew. It was home. Home to you, your friends, your family, your laughter, and your tears.

As a child, hot summer days and home-cooked meals was all you could think about. But while your mind was preoccupied with the beauty of the Delta, you remain completely unaware of the darkness that lurked deep within the trees.

***

“Do it again”! You demanded your father, who as far as you were concered, a magician.

He chuckled to himself as he began the trick again.

“Look at my hands.” His fingers were spread out wide while he turned his wrist around to show that there was nothing there. Then he reached behind your ear and took out a small coin.

You clapped giddily at the site. Being just 7 it amused you to no end.

“Give your father a break y/n”. You are going to bore him.” Your mother said, poorly suppressing a smile at the site of your glee as she placed the steaming meal in the center of the table.

“How about you help your mother with dinner?” Your father suggested. You ran over to the kitchen and carefully grabbed the plates from your mother’s hands. As you placed them in their proper position, a knock was heard at the front door.

It was unusual. Your family’s home was at the edge of town and 50 yards deep into the forest from the main path. Most people wouldn’t find it unless they strayed.

“Stay put.” Your father warned you as he cautiously approached the door. You ran to your mothers side, nervous at the coming of this stranger.

When your father opened the door, a tall man with dark hair and an almost uncanny wide smile greeted him.

“Howdy sir, I hate to intrude on this lovely night but I need someone to help crank-start my automobile. Would you be so kind as to help?” Being in a small town, almost everyone knew everybody. And even if you didn’t, you would have at least seen their face at the store or walking down the street. Even at your young age, you could pick out everyone in town from a crowd of thousands. But this was a face you have never seen before, and it unnerved you to no end. While his smile remaind, you knew in your soul that it was not true.

“It’s just down the road, it won’t take but a few minutes of your time.” For just a split second, you could have sworn the man’s eyes flashed a dark red color. But in an instant, it returned to their original icy color.

You wanted your father to say no, to shut the door, and turn back to you and your mother so your perfect night could continue; but kindness was always something that was preached in your household.

“It’s no problem mister.” Your father turned his head back. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He shot you and your mother a smile before leaving with the strange man, closing the door behiind him.

“Don’t you worry baby.” Your mother said coddling you. “Your father will be right back. Now how about some dinner?” Your mother served you some chicken and beans onto your plate, but just when you were about to bite in, an ear-piercing scream came from outside followed by what sounded like when the town's stray dogs bit into a carcass.

You and your mother’s eyes shot up from the table to the front door as the screams continued.

“You stay right here!” Your mother demanded as she went outside.

“Mommy no!” You tried to stop her. Whatever evil was happening to your father was sure to happen to her too.

But it was no use, she ran out.

You ran to the wall of the door being a chair. Hugging your knees to your chest in a desperate attempt to protect yourself.

“NO!” you heard your mother scream. Right after, the awful tearing sound continued. followed by silence.

By this point, your cheeks are completely damp from the tears you didn’t even realize you have been flowing. Who was this man? What did he want? Why did he come to your home?

“Come out little one.” The man yelled from outside. “I saw you earlier in your mother’s arms. I know you want to join them” he said, taunting you. His voice changed, from what it was before. Some sort of accent you have never heard before.

“Come on y/n, we both know you can’t hide in there forever.”

Your breath got caught in your throat. He knew your name. How, you didn’t know.

“Your parents were sure kind people.” He began. “It’s a pity that it turned out to be their undoing.” Suddenly, a fight lit inside you. Your feelings of fear and sadness were firmly swept away as anger started to course through your veins.

You shot up from your huddled position behind the chair and ran to the front door. Whoever this man is, you were going to stop him with whatever you had in you.

After swinging the door open, you froze in your spot. The darkness made it difficult for you to make everything out, but you saw enough. The man’s eyes glowed red and his clothes were damp with what could only be blood.

“Hello sweetheart” The man started, standing several feet from your pourch. “You can call me Remmick.” You shut the door, unable to confront the monster that stood behind it.

“Don’t you worry sweet thing. I’ll be back for you.”

The next morning, you discovered that your parent’s bodies were gone. Not even a strand of hair remained, leaving you with nothing but memories.

***

The years have come and gone and now you live in the middle of town working at a local apothocary shop. You have done your besst to suppress the painful memories of that fateful night. The blood, the screams. While you couldn’t escape the Delta, you could at least forget.

After all these year’s of waiting for Remmick to come back, you started to believe that he may have forgotten about you, and that maybe a normal life is actually possible. The thought that you will never have to encounter this devil of a man again makes you feel relieved, but also angry. That the closure, the revenge you so desperately want will never happen.

“Hello y/n, got any cough syrups?” Thomas, one of your regular’s came in shooting you a soft smile.

“Sure thing.” You went to the back to collect the bottles.

“Mighty warm weather we are having aren’t we.” Thomas said as you were cashing him out at the register.

“It’s always this warm in the Delta.” You teased. “Lord knows we could use some rain. I’d do anything to cool off.”

“Well if you need some relief from this heat, I’m more than welcome to accompany you on a night’s walk. The sun finally sets and the night air is rather refreshing.” Thomas flashed his pearly whites at you as you handed him his change. Almost every time he comes to the shop he comes up with some new scheme to ask you on a date, and while he was certainly a charmer (and not bad looking either), you couldn’t find yourself taking him up on the offer.

“Thank you, but I think I can manage this heat just fine.”

“Whatever you say little lady. Have a nice day.” He tipped his hat and left the store, the belle ringing merrily on his way out.

As the day was coming to a close, you finished locking up the shop. After storing away the aliments, soaps, herbs, and medicine in all their proper place, you locked the shop door.

“Hello miss.” The voice of a stranger startled you as you dropped your keys.

Bending down to pick them up, the stranger beat you to it. Standing up, a man with dark hair and deep blue eyes, held the keys in his hands.

“I believe these are yours.” He said with a small grin.

The man placed his hand on top of your palm to return the keys for you to then place in your dress pocket.

“Thank you sir.” You responded kindly, blushing at the brief touch of contact. Being a yong lady in a small town meant that if a man had the chance to firt with you, he would. But none were certainly as good-looking as him.

“Locking up shop all by yourself? It ain’t safe for a little lady like you to wander around after dark.” While he spoke with an air of caution, it came off more like a threat.

You smiled at his sentiment, Living alone, you were no fool to the dangers the Delta held, but you’ve learned how to grow thick skin.

“I promise you sir, I can handle myself just fine.” You rolled your shoulders back and straightened your spine as a puny attempt to show you are stronger than you look.

“Oh I have no doubt about that.” The man said, taking a few steps forward.

You stood firm in your ground as he approached you. Maybe you would’ve backed down before, but there was something in the air that night that told you to stay against your better judgement. He soon stood close enought in front of you that if you reached your arm out you could touch his chest.

“Is there something I can help you with, mister?” You uttered carefully, daring yourself to take another step closer. He was attractive, no doubt about it, but it was often the things most gratifying to the eye that ended up being the most dangerous. Even so, your practical side wasn’t the one pulling the ropes.

“Help me?” He spoke, brows raised. “A tempting offer, but I think I’m here to help you.” His voice became low and daring. “A lady like you shouldn’t be out all by herself, you never know what you may run into in the Delta.”

“Believe me sir, no one knows that better than me.”

“Aren’t you a firey one.” He said while cocking his head to the side. “May I have the pleasure to escort you home?” You considered his offer. Any other young woman would have sprung at the chance for a nighttime stoll with a handsome mysterious stranger. However, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“I think I can handle myself just fine.” Spoken firmly and final.

“Then I hope you’ll grace me with your presence some other night.”

“Maybe.” You cast your eyes down playfully, unresisting a smirk. “Only if the Delta’s dangers don't get to me first”.

The man let out a short laugh at your cheeky response. “Believe me miss, I wouldn’t let them get to you even if they tried.” The reply was strange, nevertheless, you let it pass.

“And does this gentleman have a name?” You asked, wanting to leave with at least something to remember him by.

“Let’s not be hasty now. All good things come with time.” Even more odd.

Any girl growing up in these parts knew when something, or someone was trouble. Even so, like a moth to a flame, you didn’t turn away.

“Well you have a good night mister. You know where to find me if you need anything .” You turned on your heel and strod off.

“Don’t you worry miss, you already gave me everything I need.” You turned around to respond, but the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

Odd.

Your walk home faced no difficulties. Nonetheless, you kept turning your head every minute, unable to shake the feeling you were being followed.

***

The next day came and went with no signs of the mystery man from before. As did the next day, and the day after that. Eventually, it got to a point where you started to believe that your loneliness… and your desire, was starting to make you hallucinate.

Just when you thought that the stranger was nothing more than a figment of your imagination, you ran into him once more.

“Well if it isn't my pretty little lady.” You were on your way home from work, just reaching the town's edge.

The man’s steps were loose and unhurried, salvaging the encounter.

“Good evening sir.” You answered politely. “I take it everything is alright with you?”

“Oh everything just became perfect right about now.” The stranger has haunted your thoughts for long enough, you deemed. It’s about time for your mind to be brought to ease.

“You aren’t from the Delta are you?” you challenged.

“What gave it away?”

“You get used to seeing the same faces after a while down in these parts. So where are you from.”

“A place far more ancient than you can imagine.” You scoffed at the answer. Who did this man think he was? This was not your first time dealing with disagreeable folk, and certainly not you last.

Your interrogation continued, “And what brings you to this part of the country?” The question brought a smile to his face. You knew you were dancing with the devil, but at this point in this deadly waltz, you had no longing to stop.

“I guess you could call it unfinished business.” The answer didn’t sit right with you one bit.

“And what would that be?” You’ve seen his expression before when you encountered hunters in the forest, one who’s prey fell right in their trap.

“Many years ago I came across this wee little thing in the woods. Before, I wanted her for… well let’s just say other purposes. But now, after seeing her again, I’ve changed my mind. I want her for something completely different.” His answer sent a chill up your spine.

He started to approach you slowly. “Come on y/n, don’t you remember me at all?” Your heart rate spiked up and your breaths became frantic.

“No.” It came out barely about a whisper. The memories of that fateful night, the one you have tried so desperately to forget started to break its way back in.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you, at least permanently.” He laughed at his own joke. “All these years, and I couldn’t have imagined the pretty thing you would turn into.” And then, there it was, the flash of red. As he came closer, your survival instincts finally kicked in and you ran as fast as your legs could take you.

Your house wasn't too far, but you have never been much of a runner, and who knows what he, what Remmick, is capable of.

“There is no point in making this hard.” You heard him say behind you, speaking like a parent trying to make a stubborn child eat their veggies.

You didn’t dare to look back. All you could think of was getting home. And soon enough, there it was, your four walled sanctuary.

By some miracle, you made it past the pourch and into the home, placing you back against the wall of the door. You waited a moment to let your breathing die down. But your moment of relief only lasted just that.

“You can pretend all you want, but I could smell how badly you want it.” His southern facade has vanished into that foreign sound you heard before. “It is just in your luck that I can give it to you.”

You paid his words no mind. Shutting your eyes tight, you prayed to whatever God there was to make this devil disappear.

“I have to say, I feel a little dissapointed. Before you were a child, but I guess you were too weak then and too weak now.” And just like that, your eyes shot open. The fear inside you was replaced with pure rage. You knew enough folklore to know what he was, know his weakness. Grabing the silver kitchen knife, you ran outside screaming.

Remmick didn’t stand too far from the enterance of your house, and in an instant, you stabbed the knife to the upper left side of his chest. You stepped back after your attack, expecting this to be the end of it.

All it seemed to do was irritate him.

After he stumnled a few steps back, he pulled the knife slowly out of his torso and threw it aside.

“I knew you were going to take some convincing but you sure do know how to put up a good fight.” He sounded almost amused.

You stood paralyzed. Your only weapon now proving useless. In a flash, Remmick ran towards you, hand around your throat as the other pulled you close to him.

You let out a scream before he placed his hand over your mouth

“Shhh, we both know that won’t save you now.” Your eyes started to brim with tears. Whatever dark plan he has instored for you couldn’t be good.

“There is no need to be scared. I’m about to give you everything you could ever want.” Your fear turned into confusion, and soon enough, his lips were on yours. He kissed with longing, with need. Like it was something he was waiting to do for a very, very long time. For all you knew he was.

As the kiss deepened, he started to touch you in an area that in these parts was reserved for your husband, certainly not him. You couldn’t resist letting out a soft moan. It was hard to remeber the last time you have gotten such pleasure.

“There we go.” Remmick whisphered in your ear. Slowly, his mouth widened to reveal his fangs. Once your eyes opened, you remembered exactly what you were doing, and exactly who it was with.

You pushed yourself out of his grasp. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” You fell to the ground, picking up the discared kitchen knife and holding it in boith hands, pointing it towards him.

Remmick let out an exasperated sigh. "Just when I thought I had you, you had to act up.”

Your hands trembled while clutching the knife. He won’t get me. He won’t.

The devil in disguise took four long strides towards you before standing over you looking like he just caught your hand in the cookie jar.

He crouched down slowly, taking the knife from your grasp steadily as you sat powerless to fight.

He ran his finger up and down against your cheek. For a beginning as ancient as him, his touch was softer than expected.

“You’re perfect.” He stated.

Just like that, not wasting a moment of time, his fangs pierced their way into your neck.

You let out a scream, but soon, the initial pain started to fade, and in its place was something wonderful, something blisful.

After Remmick pulled away, you looked at him and felt everything he was feeling. His love, his hurt, his desire.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” You smiled foolishly at him. How could you have been so disagreeable before, when right here, right now, was the man who would give you everything.

@spikedfearn

#sinners #remmick #sinners remmick #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #sinners movie

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joelsgoldrush · 11 months ago

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“give me all of that ultraviolence” | 2k

logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: You give Logan head for the first time.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ implied age gap. dirty talk. kind of inexperienced reader. oral sex (m receiving). face fucking. dom!logan. a tiny bit of degradation. he guides you through the whole experience (shocking!!! i know)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HI PALS!!! yes i'm alive and kicking. yes university is killing me. so recently i’ve been OBSESSED with this man and i needed to write something for him. english is not my first language and i may have made some mistakes (if you encounter any you can tell me, i won't mind it). comments/likes/reblogs would be highly appreciated. i've got sooooo many ideas to write and i'm finally getting my hands on them. i missed you all so fucking much. hope you enjoy this!!!

It’s common knowledge that all humans have needs. Try as you may, there’s a primitive side that you can’t spare yourself from. You, as everybody else, have urges.

“Logan,” you basically mewl his name, five letters that roll off your tongue with little effort. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge you, his kisses growing harsher on the delicate skin of your neck. Threading your fingers through his hair, you decide to try again, speaking a bit louder this time. “Logan, please.”

“What is it, honey?” he says, bitten lips still pressed to your pulse point. As you remain silent, he looks up at you, those big, brown eyes that you love so dearly almost completely dark now. “Do you want to call it a day?”

His question catches you off-guard. You cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, suddenly afraid that he might pull away from you. “No! Not at all. That’s- that’s not what I want at all, actually.”

“What do you want, then? You can tell me,” he kisses you on the lips, softly at first. What starts as nothing more than a sweet kiss turns into a needier one, his hard on poking you through your shorts. “Come on. Tell me, baby. What does my sweet girl want?”

“I want to suck you off, Logan,” you whisper as you latch your mouth onto his, and you can feel how he visibly tenses beneath you. His breath hitches in his throat when you grind your hips. “I really need it.”

From the very beginning of your relationship, you had made things crystal clear: you didn’t have much experience on this territory. For a man his age, he was totally understanding. He knew you had your own times, that for him to take you to bed would take longer. Truth be told, Logan was willing to go to the ends of the world for you. There was no use in forcing anything.

At present, the bulge amid his legs becomes even more noticeable as you get off his lap, playing with his belt. “Can I?” you ask him, amazed at how straightforward you’re being.

Logan stares at you, so far panting, lust glowing in his eyes. “Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters as he helps you undress him. His worn out jeans end up pooling around his ankles, and you locate yourself in between his legs.

You’re on your knees, hands folded in front of you. Suddenly, it hits you, the shame of it all. How badly you want him, how desperate you are to feel the weight of his cock on your tongue. How many nights you’ve dreamt of this moment, unable to stop that unbearable need of touching yourself every time you thought about pleasuring him.

That’s what you truly want. For him to use you.

“What’s wrong, princess? We’ve talked about this a lot of times. You know what to do,” you can’t help but stare at his crotch as you listen to him, and then he raises your chin with his finger, your lips parting unconsciously. You blink slowly at him, eyelashes fluttering together. At last, he seems to understand what you’re trying to tell him, and he raises his eyebrows, that cocky grin of his taking place where it belongs. “You want me to guide you, don’t you? Want me to tell you what to do? Know you like it when I go a bit off the rails.”

You moan at his words, squeezing your eyes shut and nuzzling your cheek up against his palm. Slick gathers in your panties as you push your thighs together. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

“Take it out,” he instructs you, and you do as you’re told. Grabbing him by the base, you pull his cock out of his briefs. He twitches in your hand, and he’s so, so incredibly big.

You stroke him once, testing the feeling. This you know how to do. You’ve given him hand jobs millions of times, although this one feels particularly different from the others.

He takes hold of your fist, applying a bit of pressure. “I’m sorry, baby. I think you got it all wrong. I’m the one who makes the calls here, okay?” he grunts, his brows knitted, and you only nod, salivating at the sight of his cock already leaking precum at the tip. Logan licks his lips, curling his hand around yours. “You do as I say. Now, stroke me. Nice. And. Slow,” he punctuates each of his words by moving both your hand and his in unison around his length. “That’s it, darling. You just need someone to boss you around from time to time, ain’t I right?”

One thing to know about Logan: he’s so full of himself on a daily basis, but he just gets worse in bed.

“My mouth,” you hover your lips over the head of his cock, all shiny and soft. He has let you go, both of his arms now flexed behind his head, as if he were appreciating how pathetic you must look on your knees, begging for him to allow you to taste him. “Let me.”

“Not yet,” his hips follow your tormenting pace, seeking the warmth that your skin radiates. He grits his teeth, biting his lower lip. You’ve no idea how a man so strong can become putty in your hands like this. “Greedy girl. I’m beginning to think you’ve set me up. Only a slut would get so worked up about having a cock in her mouth. What happened to my innocent girl? Gone with the wind, huh?”

“Please, Lo. I need it so bad,” you are whining, peppering his thighs with kisses. You inhale his musky scent, getting dizzy. “Give it to me. I’ll be good.”

Out of nowhere, Logan grabs a handful of your hair, forcing you to arch your back. He scrutinizes your face, studying your blissed out demeanor. “I don’t doubt that. I’m sure you’ll be good. Otherwise, we’ll keep on trying. We have all night, and you have a good memory, just need to put it to use,” as he taps your lower lip with his tip, you catch him smirking. He repeats that same motion until he has you shivering from the excitement of being stuffed. ”Show me how much you need it. Go easy on it at first, okay? Don’t want you choking beforehand.”

You’re more than happy to comply.

Your tongue darts out to lick at his head, enveloping it between your lips. The salty taste of his precum invades your tastebuds, and you moan as you trace the veins of his cock with the pad of your thumb. “Tastes so good, Lo,” your voice sounds distant, almost unrecognizable to your own ears.

“I know, bub. Such a nice fucking mouth, can’t believe you’ve never done this before. I guess you’re a natural,” shaky fingers place a strand of hair behind your ears, patting your head as if you were a dog in heat. “Do you feel like bobbing your head a little?” he asks you, and you prepare yourself, attaching your mouth to his head once again. “Good. That’s good.”

With that being said, Logan fists your hair once again and shoves your face down, his hard cock tickling your throat. Your whines and his rapid breaths are the only sounds to be heard in your bedroom. He grins as he takes in the sight of you. “Oh, sweetheart. You look so beautiful with your mouth stretched around me,” his index finger taps your cheek and he feels the outline of his own cock. “You know I can smell you, right? You’re fucking soaked, baby. Think you’ll leave a stain on the carpet? You’d clean it off with your tongue, wouldn’t you?”

You have no idea how he’s coming up with these things, but you’re far from annoyed. In fact, you’ve never been this wet. Your underwear must be ruined at this point, and you wish Logan would tell you to touch yourself.

After some minutes of bobbing your head up and down, he pulls you off his cock and you breathe through your mouth for the first time in a while. As you gasp for air, Logan kisses you, tasting himself. He massages the back of your neck, his cock throbbing between the two of you. “You tired?”

Your glossy eyes widen. Shaking your head, you go for his balls this time, sucking one of them while toying with the other. Logan buries his hands in your hair for what must be the hundredth time in the night, unable to stop himself. “F-fuck, that’s it. A pretty girl like you just gets what she needs,” he praises you, and you return to his length, taking as many inches as you can without hurting yourself. Tears shimmer in your eyes, yet you can’t bring yourself to care about that detail. You’re far too focused on Logan’s grunts and growls. “Keep that up and I’ll come. You heard me? You’re gonna make me fucking come, bub.”

His words ignite a fire inside you. You use your hands, your mouth, everything that you have to pleasure him. He’s getting closer and closer, thighs shaking when you pay special attention to his tip. Logan responds to each of your movements, and as you feel every coherent thought fly out the window, you try to take him all the way down your throat, breathing through your nose and swallowing around him. He cants his hips up, brutally fucking your mouth. Like a dog without a leash, Logan seems to get lost in the warmth that envelopes his cock, chasing his own release. “You’re such a good girl. My good girl. Nobody will fuck this mouth ever again. I’ll ruin you for any pathetic guy that tries to get in your pants. You’re fucking mine, darling. Oh, f-fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck-”

You’re met with his happy trail once he spills his hot load inside your mouth. He keeps you trapped there, his cock twitching and spamming through the aftershocks of his orgasm. You don’t think twice and swallow what he’s giving you. Some of his cum slips from your lips, falling directly onto the carpet. Even Logan seems surprised when he doesn’t stop coming.

He helps you stand up after a moment, kissing you as soon as he gets the chance. He licks into your mouth, squeezing the flesh of your hips. Logan lifts his eyebrows, relishing how cock-drunk you must look. “I think you nearly killed me. And that’s a lot to say coming from someone who cannot fucking die.”

You plaster a smile on your face, hugging his wide frame. “So, was I okay?”

His jaw goes slack, and he lowers his head to capture your lips in another kiss. “You were fantastic. I could easily get hard again just from thinking about it,” his fingers trace the buttons of your shirt, tugging at the fabric of it. “What if you let me focus on yourself for a while? You’ve already done enough, baby. Let me take care of you,” he rubs his hands on your thighs, reaching for your drenched panties. “Perhaps we could try something else today. That pussy’s begging to be fucked.”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

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nezuscribe · 1 year ago

Text

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: part two is out now! comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

part two

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real.

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend.

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom.

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort.

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.”

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were.

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.”

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class.

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time.

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses.

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect.

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of.

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden.

At least for you, anyways.

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?”

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head.

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.”

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers.

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake.

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble.

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words.

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own.

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy.

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk.

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end.

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with,

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up.

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you.

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name.

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly.

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it.

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse.

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace.

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person.

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood.

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.”

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self.

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes.

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for.

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down.

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him.

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years.

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam.

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has.

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further.

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought.

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod.

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.”

Mudblood

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise.

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to.

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did.

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions.

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be.

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion.

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something.

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself.

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black.

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle.

There was a beat of silence.

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do.

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat.

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head.

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,”

You try to hide your surprise.

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage.

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong.

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be.

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration.

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points.

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over.

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave.

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish.

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off.

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.”

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer.

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?”

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering.

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were.

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion.

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now.

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being.

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly.

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else.

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night.

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as.

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear.

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see.

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors.

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly.

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month.

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then.

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated.

Stupid, you repeated in your head.

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed.

“You’re leaving?”

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing.

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots.

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.”

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you.

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it. You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library.

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic.

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch.

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker.

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru.

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion.

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you.

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you.

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide.

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.”

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now.

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him.

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork.

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had.

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him.

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails.

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him.

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up.

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal.

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?”

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command.

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him.

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay.

You couldn’t say the same for him, however.

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together.

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue.

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.”

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked.

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation.

He blinked, eyes narrowing.

“...and?”

Your head tilted to the side, confused.

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid.

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, “For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours.

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night.

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression.

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?”

You shake your head, playing with your fingers.

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.”

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you?

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth.

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to.

“What if the libraries closed?”

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you.

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.”

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie.

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag.

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine.

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together.

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless.

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face.

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh.

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading.

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect.

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.”

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more.

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be.

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face.

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”.

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh.

“…and?”

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack.

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you.

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.”

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand.

“Right…so I’ll be here.”

Now it was his turn to blink slowly.

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories.

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed.

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it.

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now.

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm.

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.”

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked.

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent.

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over.

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement.

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger.

He shakes his head.

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.”

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink.

Strange.

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.”

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again.

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently.

“Eight. Be there.”

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive.

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight.

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t.

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be.

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock.

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting.

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room.

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair.

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him.

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you.

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.”

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes.

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones.

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment.

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head.

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound,

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision.

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now.

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once.

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done.

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields.

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?”

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading.

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth.

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.”

You almost trip.

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins.

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation.

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything.

Which could only mean that…?

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing.

“We’re going…up?”

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move.

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.”

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail.

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do.

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts.

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently.

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk.

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.”

You nod, following along.

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing.

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.”

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru.

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod.

“All that’s left is the seeker-”

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point.

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow.

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk.

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further.

“You know him?”

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed.

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well.

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes.

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds.

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow.

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from.

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library.

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist.

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo.

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were.

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend.

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?”

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice.

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night.

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty.

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down.

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you.

Why does he care?

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground.

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-”

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are.

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from.

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is.

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his.

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest.

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth.

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth.

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint.

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips.

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,”

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him.

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.”

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you.

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so.

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further.

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?”

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern.

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his.

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use.

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses.

You push him away from you, and this time he moves.

You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened.

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air.

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief.

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

---

(part two)

taglist (CLOSED): @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

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midnghtprentiss · 3 months ago

Text

the favorite - jack abbot x f!attending!reader

pairing: jack abbot x f!attending!reader

a/n: this is my first jack story and i'm really excited. as a former healthcare worker (nurse!) the pitt changed a lot of things for me and it's my favorite show so far. hope you all like this idea of mine. sorry for any spelling mistakes. english is not my first language.

summary: all the times you were everyone's favorite person and one time you were jack’s person.

one.

you're a ray of sunshine.

that's your thing.

you’re nice, intelligent, competent, kind and still the best part of the day for some people. and you’re smart as hell. she loves it.

your calm energy it’s the reason why you work at the emergency department. people need your calmness around to work. which means you’re the favorite doctor beneath the staff, especially the nurses and med students - you’re their golden girl.

dana loved you for different reasons. your sense of humour, your energy, the way you pay attention to the details. and most because you stay out of trouble.

she never had a problem with you, actually, she was glad they put someone sane and kind to work in that shithole. every shift you showed up with something for the team.

maybe homemade cookies, a cake and even a bread if you feel inspired baking for your people to show how grateful you are for them and to keep the spirits up. thank god it worked every time. perla and princess waited for you in the parking lot a few times just to make sure you got something good.

what they admired the most about you was your strength to defend the nurses from the crazy patients. it doesn’t matter the shift, if someone is fighting with them, you’re the first one to show up and say some things. perla remembered how you got beaten up to defend princess from a perv that was touching her and how you ended up laughing about it with blood all over your nose (jack almost died when he saw you covered in blood - your blood).

“it’s nothing, dana. he was touching her and i don’t appreciate it when men do that. she asked him to stop and he didn’t.” you shrugged and smiled at her. “don’t worry, alright? i would've done it for any of you.”

“kiddo, one of these days you’re going to kill me.”

“no i won’t.” you bolwed her a kiss and she laughed. a relieved laugh. “it’s not my fault i would take a bullet for you guys.”

no one ever questioned your loyalty with the team, everybody knows exactly where’s the limit between respect and bullshit with you. from this day on, she put you under her wing and swore to herself anything that could ever happen to you during a shift was her full responsibility. some days the funniest part of her shift was explaining to abbot how you almost went home with a broken arm to defend them.

two.

robby was his own person and you knew that. he loved the space, the warmth of his own heart and the loneliness. of course you were worried a lot of times.

but for him you were like a breath of fresh air. the way you cracked jokes when you noticed he was this close to snap, when you distracted him for a few minutes with some picture of your cat, even taking him to the morgue just to swear bad words, or when you brought him coffee and chocolate. even when you covered for him for a few minutes so he could cry in peace.

and he loved you a lot for that (and a lot of other reasons, but let’s focus on the main ones).

you never said a word about any of the things he never asked you to do and you've done it either way. he could count on you any moment of the shift just for glancing different at your direction. sometimes you have conversations with your eyes, sometimes you just cursed him under your breath and that was it.

you even scared him a little.

“i don’t want to see you for at least twenty minutes, robinavich. don’t make me yell at you.” you don’t even gleaned at him from the computer. “i got this. go grab something to eat while you cry, i don’t know. call your boyfriend, go watch some babies at peds i want you gone. the kids are my responsibility now.”

“i need to be grown up now, i am literally their boss.” he tried to argue but one look from you was enough.

“if you don’t disappear in the next thirty seconds i’ll call jack and things will be worse.” you got up crossing your arms like a mother.

“jezz, fine. please don’t ground call papa” he rolled his eyes, laughing and walked away from you, disappearing from your sight.

“that’s how you teach grown men to be normal.” you winked at dana who was watching everything mesmerized cause she begged robby to take a break and he didn’t listen.

robby was gone for thirty minutes and no one noticed his absence. when he returned to the nursing station he saw you teaching the med students how to do a proper examination on a normal patient, listening and answering all of the questions they had like a pro.

you got everything covered and he felt good to have someone to help without needing to ask.

that’s why you were his favorite.

three.

the med students loved you. the absolutely worship the ground you walked on. they loved your patience, your mind and especially how you treated them like people. in your mind they were there to learn, which means they'll make some mistakes and that's partially fine as long as they don’t kill anybody.

“she has a masters and a doctorate, guys!” javadi once exclaimed like she found gold at the ED.

at some point you became their confident. you knew every little detail about their life. how withaker was living with santos, how javadi was crushing mateo really bad even how santos struggled with the loss of her friend. mel learned how to open up about her sister's situation and mohan was navigating through the loss of her father even after all this time. you even helped mckay with the legal proceedings for her to have her son back.

you knew everything.

during your shifts you did your best to rotate between them. each day you choose one to watch from close and teach what you know and everyday they fight to decide who stays with you but after dr santos and whitaker dared to start a fist fight robby and dana choose for them.

robby and jack were a little jealous of you, especially because you’re a smooth talker and you charmed everyone who listened.

“it’s unfair how they follow you around like some sort of queen bee.” robby almost cried with his words.

“i heard they have a groupchat with you, is it true?” jack nearly jumps from his seat.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you sipped your coffee.

“oh you know exactly what i’m saying.” he shots back and you laughed hard.

“are you jealous of them? from what i’ve known you don’t even like interns, abbot.”

“yeah, but i like to know what they say about my girl.”

“they call her mama bear, brother.” robby looked at his hands trying to hold a chuckle.

they’re definitely jealous.

you use your time to teach them some valuable lessons. you help them navigate in the transition of becoming a doctor. smoothly and nice, just like you learned.

“you know, santos, i’ll be honest, you need to review your way of talking with people.” you were beside her with crossing arms, watching her stitch a patient.

your voice was hard and soft at the same time.

“i’m only rude to the jerks.” you hold your laugh.

“at one moment you’ll start to see all of them as jerks and this can’t happen.” you warned her softly. “imagined if you’re the one in their position. would you like to be treated like that?”

she stared at you and nodded gently, sighing at your words.

“what if i can’t do that?”

“you will call me and we’ll try a different approach.” you touch her shoulder and squeeze. “i don’t want you to be cold and indifferent. the medicine needs to make you feel something. you’re doing a good thing for someone you like or not.”

they listen to you and they care. if you say something immediately they’ll do it and will make it like their life depends on it.

at your birthday, for example, they made you a cake from scratch and even decorated it with pink frost and a glitter candle. you burst out laughing just for them to do that for you. no one else got a cake, just you.

they even wrote you a small letter.

“thank you for being the best teacher for us. we loved you, mama bear. lots of love and hugs from your students.”

you were really grateful for those kids and they were grateful you’re their teacher.

four.

langdon was a problematic guy. it was no secret. he knew it, you knew it. but he was an exceptional doctor. no discussions about that. it was a fact.

when he first started struggling with his addiction he came to you. something was happening to him and you got it in your heart that in the right moment he would talk.

and he did.

he always talked about his problems with you. he came to talk about his marriage and how scared he was to broke things off with abby, how scared he was of being a shitty father. he viewed you more like an older sister, a protector of him. he liked how you never judged his fears, he liked the way you listened and tried to put some sense into his mind to do the right things.

but this time it was different. it was worse. eating him alive.

you were working a double shift when he found you in the stairs eating a burger in peace. you offered him some and he denied it. the air around him was thick, heavy and sad. he was a broken man and the sight almost broke your heart.

“talk to me, frank.”

“i fucked up.” you nodded, putting your food away to hold his hand.

“heard about it.” he sighed and you could see how embarrassed he was. “you need to get some help. i can’t see you struggling and acting like nothing's wrong. i like you too much to close my eyes and pretend.”

“i’m going to rehab. eleven months.” you smile. “robby is pretty pissed at me.” you both laughed.

“good for you, frank.” your hand find his shoulder “you’re gonna get better. i’ll be there to help you whenever you need someone to talk, to eat burgers or talk shit about our job.the world is pretty fucked and i’m pretty sure you need a chance to make things right from your mistakes, you hear me?”

he nodded feeling a little less lost knowing you’ll be there to help. he wasn’t alone anymore and when he understood he had you by his side, the journey was smoother.

five.

jack abbot was a man of darkness. he worked so much better at night. it was his comfort zone.

until you showed up years ago and messed up this whole dark theme he had planned for himself.

working doubles wasn’t strange to you. you have bills to pay and things to accomplish and no time to waste. you two get along pretty well. more than well, actually. you were unstoppable together and everybody knew that. even walsh recognize you were good. she liked you (a miracle in jack’s view) a lot.

you knew better than to date another doctor. you did this once and ended up in a pretty bad divorce. and with jack? you didn’t care anymore.

he also knew better than to date another doctor. to date anyone actually. but no one was you. no one had a contagious laughter like yours. no one had a brain like yours.

he was pretty sure god, or whatever divine figure, sent you just for him.

the whole ‘soulmate’ story was a lie to him, until it wasn’t. you definitely was his soulmate. his favorite person.

his person.

from the quiet drive home after a shift. from the warmth of your body curled around him. even your cold feet touching his feet in the middle of the night.

falling for you was so easy if you like to observe things from a closer perspective. he noticed how you always have something red when you work the night shift and how you have something green at the day shift. he noticed you liked your coffee sweet for normal shifts and how you drink your coffee black at night.

he observes how you treat everyone, how you greet them with a bright smile and the coziest hugs even on your worst day. he could spend hours watching you talk (he does that everytime you pick an online class to teach) or breathe (he watched your sleep like a crazy psycho).

you’re his person when you grab him coffee without him asking, when you sneak a sweet in the pocket of his scrubs. when you catch his gaze from across the room. when you start rambling about some gossip you heard through dana. when you talk to yourself trying to remember the article you just published.

to be loved is to be seen and he sees you.

you’re his person when he knows you’re his.

he knows you are his girl when you’re sitting in his bed with his shirt and his socks, messy bun, glasses, computer on your lap, cup of tea in the nightstand and his dog laying at your feet waiting for you to move. the comfortable silence. the white noise of the television playing something he lost track of what it was. it’s when he looks at you like you’re his salvation from the darkness. it’s the words that come through his mind when he writes you a letter or a note.

“i think i’m going crazy.” you whisper looking at him for a second.

“where is this coming from?” he chuckled.

‘just checking if you agree or not.” you winked and he laughed hard.

“pretty funny until you start accusing me of madness.”

“i could never! it was one time, c’mon.” he took your glasses and held your face.

“you’re the most gorgeous thing i’ve ever seen.” love. that was love from him.

he doesn’t feel bad showing you who he really is. you’ve seen him, really seen him. you love him for who he is, good baggage or bad. you love his mean remarks, his type of affection. you love how he is quiet. you love how he balances his life going to therapy, talking to someone. you find it funny how he tries to hide a smile when you compliment him. how he flustered when you kiss him in public. how he loves when you bake cookies for him.

“i loved your brownies. did you put some coffee this time? best one so far. love you. -j”

to be loved is to be seen and you see him.

it’s the hope of a future he know it’s worth fighting for because you’re his person. you’re his present.

the kind of love that doesn't need words to be there (but he has a ring in his drawer waiting for the right moment).

#the pitt #jack abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot

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