#land of steady habits

[jomiddlemarch]

[tortoisesshells]

regrettably, sitting and listening to the falls DID calm me down.

[mysterioustrashadventures]

Ok well now I’m thinking about writing a fic for Anders Hill.

Something something age gap something something Charlie doesn’t die. Something boobs. Anders midlife crisis goes even more off the rails when he starts hooking up with Charlie’s older sister lmao.

[swordgrace]

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

synopsis: in aemond targaryen’s eyes, you have far exceeded anything that he could’ve imagined. during a moment of solace, you indulge in the prince’s growing affections.

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༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 7.1K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, biting, scratching, switch!aemond, fingering (f!receiving), groping, lots of kissing, hair pulling, vulnerable aemond, melancholy aftercare, slight power imbalance, possessive aemond, talk of insecurities, begging, etc.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: finally ,,, an aemond fic! I am currently looking for requests for this account, and hopefully this is a good showcase in terms of getting people interested! This was so fun to write and helped me get into the Aemond headspace, I so look forward to sharing more of my work with all of you!

𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 the skies over King’s Landing, bringing with it a sense of wariness and discomfort. Rumors and whispers grew of an approaching war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and King Aegon Targaryen — a war between kin that would surely plunge the realm into a great darkness.

Bloodshed and the mere thought of violence caused you to shiver, goosebumps prickling along the length of your spine. The evening was a touch colder, the air bitter and misty with the first inklings of a nighttime deluge. Raindrops smashed into the courtyard, against the castle walls in a steady sheet.

Sworn to serve Lady Alicent Hightower, the dowager Queen, she had dismissed you quite suddenly, citing that she preferred to be left alone this evening. You found it intriguing that Ser Criston Cole so vigilantly guarded the former Queen’s chambers with wandering eyes, but it was none of your business.

The halls of the Red Keep were warm with the glow of torchlight amongst the illumination of the moon, clouds bringing down rain and the low rumble of thunder. You were prepared to make the venture down to the Servant’s Quarters, until you were stopped by a guard somewhere down the corridor.

“My Lady,” One of the Kingsguard, Ser Cargyll, addressed you nobly, even if you were just a handmaiden. “The Prince Aemond is searching for you. He is requesting your presence.”

Prince Aemond — a name not unfamiliar to you.

You felt the subtle hitch within the depths of your throat at the mention of Aemond Targaryen. The Prince was rather acquainted with you, in ways that many would consider uncouth and sinful, but it was a budding relationship. If anything, you found him to be a being of mystique and repression, in your experience.

Under the guise of mere duty, you nodded, curtsying before Ser Cargyll. “Thank you, Ser. I will make my way to his chambers.” You kept your voice hushed, ensuring an air of respect for those who slumbered within the Keep’s walls.

Carrying bundles of fresh linens within your arms, you made your way to the Prince’s quarters, a path that you were somewhat familiar with. Your encounters with Aemond weren’t often, but whenever they did occur, it filled you with a certain thrill and exhilaration. You never imagined yourself to be desirable, the object of a Prince’s infatuations, yet here you were.

A sharp clap of thunder caused you to gasp, nearly losing your footing as you traversed through the darkened corridors, passing by the occasional fellow servant or patrolling knight. Something about this night felt unusual — as if there was an ominous presence lingering around the corner.

Thunderstorms had a horrible habit of making you incredibly paranoid — tonight was no different, it seemed. With a deliberate pace, you ascended the grand flight of steps toward Aemond’s chambers, noticing the lack of protection outside. The Prince wasn’t fond of being hovered over, a notion that you could understand.

The set of ornate, mahogany doors were equipped with iron knobs fashioned into the heads of dragons — quite fitting, considering his heritage. You knocked thrice, stepping back as you waited for the Prince himself, or his summons.

With bated breath, you wrung your digits into the silk and linens clutched within your arms, awaiting the Prince to allow you inside. The suspense was nearly unbearable — sometimes he called you inside, and other times, he greeted you himself with a sly curl of his mouth and that glittering, violet eye of his.

To your delight, the door creaked open, groaning in protest as Aemond stood within the gap, regal and svelte in his leather tunic and fine regalia. His hand perched along the edge of the door, lips tilting into that familiar countenance of his — cunning yet tinged with faint hints of amusement.

“My Lady,” Aemond’s voice was a lull, like the purr of a great cat as he beckoned you inside. He cared little for prying eyes, allowing you to step into the warmth of his open chambers before he latched the door behind him. “You came rather swiftly.” He stated — a mere observation, but it was most accurate.

“Is this not an urgent matter?” To keep appearances, you sometimes asked redundant questions — but Aemond enjoyed them nonetheless. He let out a brief hum, violet hue raking over you as it had several times before. There was something reverent there, a silent appreciation that happened to scream if someone looked close enough.

With a brief hum of amusement, Aemond ogled you, head canting slightly to one side. Blackfyre sat soundly atop his hip, bound in the finest sheath and belt that hung atop his narrow waist. “I suppose not,” He reached out, gently swiping his fingers across your jaw. “I merely wanted to see you.”

Warmth fluttered within your breast, spreading like ivy across the rest of your body. The bulk of the heat settled within your features as you struggled to maintain your composure. “And I you, my Prince.” It was enough to make Aemond’s stare sparkle. “Any word on what will come of the growing conflict?”

Aemond stepped toward the large table, scattered in maps and scrolls, the largest of it being a cartographic description of Westeros. Coins were scattered atop it, meant to resemble garrisons of their forces. “Not yet.�� He replied, circling the table before he looked at you. “It is hard to plan for a war that you’ve no counsel in.”

From what Aemond had told you during previous trysts, he was not on the small council — and his brother, the King, seemed more content on drinking and letting others run his kingdom for him. A piece of Aemond spited Aegon for this, for his lack of propriety and sense of duty.

The Prince’s woes weren’t unfamiliar to you. In fact, he had placed his head within your lap and recounted the multitude of misfortunes that had befallen him on many occasions before he had any desire to touch you. Perhaps it was this gesture that had given your budding relationship such a firm foundation.

War was on the horizon, and Aegon hadn’t the slightest clue of what to do — which left Aemond to stew and plot away, to strategize where there wasn’t any inkling of it. It would always fall upon him, the more responsible sibling.

You trailed after him, curious to see such a large map of the continent. If anything, you were more perplexed by the different kingdoms and sigils on coins than the war. “You mean to strategize without the King?” You inquired, noticing the scoff that emerged from Aemond.

“It is nothing new. I only wish to serve the King and my house.” He replied, expression becoming pensive before he sank down into the cushioned armchair, the one placed before his sea of maps and books. Candles danced atop the table, listless and bright.

Aemond was a learned individual, with a thirst for books and tomes, alongside the blade. You admired his desire for more, his desire for knowledge. There was a stark duality to Aemond that you had caught glimpses of during the course of your endeavors — from sharp and cold, like steel, to a hint of warmth.

The Prince’s chambers were spacious, surrounded by an ocean of quiet, with a high terrace and an open wall. You watched as the rain fell, providing a gentle ambiance to your surroundings. A flash of lightning split the sky, and the thunderous gloom of the night raged on.

With a soft exhale, you approached the terrace, lined in a thick bannister and a row of columns. If you extended your hand out far enough, you could catch the rain, feeling the chill of the droplets glide across your palm. It was soothing, enough to ease the heat that had made permanent residence within your skin.

In silent rapture, Aemond watched you carefully, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glow of moonlight framed your features in silver, accompanied by the twinge of orange — it made you look like a goddess, a beauty incarnate standing before him. His fingers tensed into the arm of his chair, desire beginning to fester inside of him.

Initially, he thought little of you — the lowborn girl that dutifully served his mother, yet the night you’d found him strewn about in his quarters, wounded and wistful, he’d changed his mind. Aemond fell swiftly, and he fell hard — many nights were spent with you in his bed, his head within your lap. It inevitably transformed into desire and the first blossoming of affection.

“Thunderstorms used to terrify me as a child,” You broke the silence, recoiling until your palm was pressed close to your chest. “Now, they seem to make everything ominous, as if there is a lingering dread.” You let out a chuckle, seemingly embarrassed. “It isn’t much different than being afraid.”

Aemond tucked a hand beneath his chin, leaning some of his weight against it as he listened to you. “What do you fear, my Lady?” He questioned, as if attempting to pick you apart, crawl beneath your flesh. You enticed him, evoked a sense of intrigue that he seldom felt in the presence of noble women.

A rather heavy question, but you decided to answer honestly, depositing the stack of linens onto the lounge in front of you. “Being locked away in a cage, perhaps the darkness.” You trailed off. “War.” You grimaced, gaze flickering toward the map on his table yet again.

You always feared war more than anything — it always brought worse things with it. Bloodshed, famine, death, the feeling of no sanctuary or peace.

With a soft huff, Aemond’s violet eye flickered away from you and to his map, surveying his growing plan for any imperfections. He remained quiet for a moment, and decided that he had little desire to talk to you on the topic of war — not when there were plenty of other things he could do.

“War is inevitable, like so many other things in life,” Aemond’s voice carried an indiscernible edge to it. After a brief pause, he continued. “I would keep you safe.” Sometimes, you had difficulty detecting sincerity with the Prince, but you could see it now, even if it was subtle.

If it was meant to be a flattering or sentimental statement, it happened to work, prompting you to dip your head. Sheepishness settled into your features, causing you to tether your hands together. “You honor me, my Prince. I did not know that the life of a handmaiden meant something to you.”

At last, his head angled toward you, lilac hue dancing with light as he leaned back within his chair, the wood groaning in protest. “Come here.” He waved you forward with a flick of his fingers, desiring to feel your warmth, be close to you. Aemond’s lust for you was subtle, but when it sparked to life, it burned like a dragon’s fire.

Your heartbeat fluttered like the wings of a bird, stirring beneath your breast as you obeyed the Prince’s command. Stepping closer, you felt Aemond’s hand trace the swell of your hip, coaxing you into his lap. Without a word, he rested his cheek against your sternum, feeling your fingers rake through his silken tresses.

“Your life is worth a great deal.” Aemond stated, breath fanning out across your collarbone. The Prince savored the sensation of your soft flesh beneath him, heart loud enough to ring within his ears as he pressed close to your chest. Wordlessly, he planted a kiss against the column of your throat.

A shiver rolled down your spine, a sensation that left you aching for more. You never imagined yourself becoming the object of the Prince’s affections, enough for him to state that your life had meaning beyond the station of a servant. “Then it is a mutual feeling.” You uttered, nails lightly scraping against the nape of his neck.

Aemond had often been deprived of affection — even in his dealings with whores, it was originally Aegon’s design, his will enforced. There was no shared connection with a woman seeking coin and a boy, barely thirteen. He preferred you above all else, warm and tender within his grasp, with no desire to use him to further your station.

He used to believe that the only solace he could find was in himself — until he began seeking you out.

What originally began as an arrangement of convenience, purely lust and instinct, had now spiraled into something more. He shared his past with you, treated you to the inner machinations of his splintered family, and in rare instances, became quite vulnerable. Sentiments be damned, Aemond was beginning to feel affectionate towards you.

The growing connection he shared with you, albeit unorthodox and unexpected, outweighed any previous experience he had. You were his — a precious creature that he intended on savoring forever, if he could. Not many would approve of his hunger for a lowborn girl, but Aemond cared little for it.

Above all, known or unknown, he wanted your love.

Aemond’s lilac eye drifted to your visage, drinking you in as he had many times before. The way you cradled his skull within your hand, your other palm planted firmly against his chest — it was intoxicating. He sank closer, finding comfort in your warmth.

He listened to your heart — the way it excitedly galloped for him, pounded within his ear like the deep lull of a drum. The Prince kissed your collarbone, shifting some of your robes away to reveal the soft expanse of your skin. Perhaps, he hadn’t made it known, but you belonged to him — it would stay that way.

A slight chill caused you to press closer, seeking the warmth of the Dragon Prince. Rain continued to pour outside, with thunder rattling the black, cloudy skies, as powerful as a dragon’s cry. Your hand found his shoulder, digits gently massaging into the broad, sinewy muscle of his clothed shoulder.

The sharp ridge of his nose brushed along your neck, lips following suit as he planted several deliberate kisses against your jugular; underneath your jaw. “Cold?” Aemond inquired, able to feel the icy bite of your flesh as it brushed against his. He felt you shudder — but he wondered if that was from something else.

“Slightly, my Prince.” You confessed, though your body’s physical responses were from his lips, in-tandem with the misty chill from the thunderstorm. The flicker of candlelight danced across his features — narrow and defined, beautiful beyond comparison.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed, dragging his lips around the curve of your jawline, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. His scent filled your nose — spiced herbs, smoke and leather, intermingled with that of a dragon. “Shall I remedy this misfortune?” He uttered, his voice crackling with desire.

He nearly smirked at the sound of your breath hitching within your throat — a delicious response to his shameless flirtation. Aemond’s hand crawled along the length of your leg, grabbing at the end of your robes before slipping underneath. His narrow digits danced along your calf, before finding the pliant meat of your thigh.

“Aemond,” You whispered, shifting within his lap as the Prince continued to kiss your neck. The garment you wore was shoddy and somewhat ill-fitting, and you longed to have it removed. You pressed a kiss against his brow, the one that had the beginnings of a scar. “Please.”

The sensation of your lips against his scar nearly drove him into a frenzy — it did the last time you coupled. Aemond let out a brief huff, detaching his mouth from your throat as he hungrily sought your lips. The kiss was overflowing with desire, his hand slithering against your inner thigh.

His slender digits found the apex between your thighs, swiping over the slick heat of your cunt. It was feather-light and tantalizing, meant to make you squirm, a promise of more to come throughout your night together. You whimpered, feeling his thumb ghost around your clit, splitting past your folds.

You reciprocated the kiss with a flurry of passion, tilting your hips forward toward Aemond’s hand. The playful curve of his mouth was tangible as you kissed him again, reaching to cup his face. The pad of your thumb traced along his cheekbone, feeling his teeth graze along your lower lip.

Aemond shivered beneath your palm, finding the sensation of it to be foreign, yet comforting all the same. He hadn’t removed his eyepatch before, during your previous trysts — the thought of you seeing it somewhat unnerved him. It was often used for intimidation, to terrify others into subservience, but it wasn’t like that with you.

As you pulled your head back just slightly, you pressed a tender kiss against Aemond’s jaw, and then against his cheek — another secured itself atop his eyepatch. You felt the Prince’s breath hitch, a subtle noise that left you wanting more.

His hand stilled between your legs, the other holding just underneath your breast. “It would be unwise to remove it.” Aemond uttered, voice as smooth as silk, and just as tantalizing. There was something forlorn about him, as if he were afraid of you glimpsing upon his face.

“I would never insist upon it, Aemond. Just know that I would never pass judgment,” You replied, tucking several strands of pale, silky hair aside. “You are still just as handsome, just as perfect.” Your soft-spoken reassurance made him flustered, yet he was unwilling to reveal that side of himself.

Admittedly, he considered taking it off then, but he decided against it, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. Your hand drifted to the front of his tunic, lined in an impressive array of metallic buttons, bearing the Targaryen sigil. Aemond found your sentiments to be sweet — just like the rest of you.

Wordlessly, the one-eyed Prince coaxed you to your feet, bringing you toward the roaring hearth, beside the light of a crackling fire. The ground beneath you was covered in the layered pelts of various game, from stags to the thick hide of a bear, cushioned enough to provide a safe landing for the both of you.

Aemond towered over you, svelte and broad-shouldered, hand coming to cup your chin as he kissed you. It was slow and unusually sweet, but much to your disappointment, it was short-lived. His hands moved to the front of your robes, tugging at the rugged laces to loosen the bodice.

He watched you hawkishly, enraptured as the both of you maneuvered the shoddy fabric aside. You pulled it over your head, tossing the garment somewhere behind you. It landed on the stone floor with an unceremonious thud, leaving you bare before the Prince.

It was an exchange, one that Aemond silently complied with as he peeled aside his own tunic, lips twitching into a smirk as you pushed away the leather and fine linen of his undershirt. He was all sinewy muscle and narrow limbs, with a pale musculature that seemed to glow whenever the light touched it.

The both of you gazed at one another, your breathing significantly more labored than his own. Your excitement was palpable, the anticipation stirring within your stomach as arousal pooled between your legs. Aemond hungrily consumed your mouth in a blistering kiss, hands grabbing at your hips and chest.

You reached for his shoulders, arms tossing themselves around the back of his neck, digits raking through his hair. Aemond’s tongue greedily slipped past your parted lips, allowing you to taste him. A low hum of approval rumbled within his throat as you submitted to him, chest blossoming with warmth.

It was all tongue and teeth and want — a dance that finally gave way to carnal desire and primitive instincts. You felt Aemond’s hand grope at your haunch, feeling your pliant flesh as he nipped at your lower lip. The flame of desire glistened within his lilac hue.

“Lie down,” Aemond uttered, his voice becoming a touch gravelly, saturated with lust. He watched as you obeyed, sinking down onto the furs with a flustered expression. He stood over you, reveling in the sight of your body, kissed by fire, legs pulled up at the knee. “You are perfect.”

Perfect — you shuddered, stomach churning with liquid heat as you propped yourself back upon your elbows, palms idly running across the soft furs. Aemond sank down, pressing a hot, needy kiss to your lips before he knelt between your thighs, mouth hungrily returning to your throat.

“Aemond,” You moaned, the noise soft and simpering as he assaulted your neck in passionate kisses. Teeth and tongue worked together, leaving behind a handful of marks, some glaringly obvious. He continued his descent, kissing your collarbone, and then your breast. “Please keep going.” A breathy whine left you, then.

His lips twitched into a smirk as he planted a series of hot kisses around your breast, the other palm preoccupied with groping and kneading into the soft flesh there. Aemond felt your body arch into him, knees squeezing at his narrow hips.

With a stroke of his tongue, the Prince began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. The heat from the flame crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot. Aemond’s actions did little to soothe it, igniting the fire within your belly.

Your hands flew toward his crown of pale tresses, digits digging in toward the nape of his neck. The furs brushed against your back as you reclined, stealing glimpses at Aemond, who methodically and reverently worked his way along your body.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke,” Aemond purred, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh below your breast, as if to ensure his point was made. That singular lilac hue caught your heady gaze, prompting him to continue his descent. He abandoned your breast with a lasting kiss, mouth traveling along your stomach and hips. “Ñuhon.”

Listening to Aemond’s enchanting High Valyrian made you shudder, allowing it to encompass you. His voice was nothing more than a lascivious purr, meant to entice and tempt you — you were beyond elated to oblige. You watched with doe-like eyes as Aemond kissed your waist, and then your thighs.

His incendiary stare never faltered, and as he pushed his shoulders between your legs, he held it throughout. Aemond listened to the delicious hitch within your throat, the way you preemptively curled your nails into his shoulders — it was intoxicating.

In an unexpected maneuver, Aemond gingerly abandoned the fine leather of his eyepatch, revealing the glistening, sapphire eye, marred-over with an age-old scar. You were dazzled, perplexed by his beauty and the vibrant gleam of the jewel that was permanently socketed into his eye.

As a display of reassurance, your fingers crept from his shoulder to his face, gingerly tracing around his countenance, from eyebrow to cheekbone. Aemond’s subtle exhale of delight signaled his approval, and without warning, he raked his tongue across your cunt.

Your lips fell apart, unable to smother the pleasured whine that escaped you. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

Those dextrous, spindly hands of his found the pliant flesh of your thighs, hooking underneath to provide a place of rest for your legs. He squeezed slightly, signaling his presence there as he pressed forward. His mouth greedily lapped at your cunt, gliding from the hood of your clit to your entrance.

“Aemond!” A wanton moan tore past your lips, back beginning to arch into his ministrations. The Prince slowed, sharp nose brushing against your mouth as he dipped forward, tongue briefly pushing inside of you. The subtle sensation made you whine, nails dragging themselves across his shoulder.

You were perfect — flesh velveteen beneath his palms, physique begging for more, your pleasure coming to fruition. You were at his mercy, but fortunately, Aemond was feeling most gracious this evening. The echo of the thunderstorm shook the walls a time or two, but it all became atmospheric, simply background noise.

With one hand fisted within his platinum tresses, the other scratched haplessly at his shoulder, nails leaving behind reddish crescents as he flicked his tongue across your clit. The sensation was fleeting, but he sought to drag it out, lips greedily pursing around the pearl of your cunt.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His throat echoed with a low growl, hands grabbing at your thighs. He traced his tongue around your clit, teasing you with feather-light jolts of bliss. You let out a whine, occasionally writhing atop the furs, head lolled back in a display of pure ecstasy.

Aemond’s subtle groan of delight reverberated throughout him whenever you tugged on his tresses, forcing him further into the warm embrace between your thighs. He pressed a string of kisses along your clit, as if he were worshiping you. He enjoyed your greed — if anything, he wanted to indulge you.

The warm lick of the hearth danced across your flesh, seeping into your very bones. Perspiration dotted your brow, jaw tight as Aemond ogled you from between your legs, like a svelte predator, poised for the kill. “You’re perfect, Aemond.” You exhaled, noticing the subtle twinkle in his lilac eye.

That familiar cheshire smirk of his returned; your sweetly-spoken compliments and shower of praise clearly satiated Aemond. He kissed your thigh, breath hot as it fanned across your aching core. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” His voice was cajoling, playful as he nipped at your hip.

You squirmed, becoming desperate for a release, one that your Prince seemed to dangle before your eyes like a carrot on a stick. “Please,” You moaned, digits tightening within his tresses, a subtle signal to continue. “Please, Aemond!” With such an urgent plea from a sweet mouth, Aemond couldn’t resist you.

It seemed that begging would get you places — Aemond thoroughly savored every second of it. Your lust mirrored his own, perhaps subdued, but it was a raging desire nonetheless. He placed another string of kisses against your inner thighs, gazing at you with an incendiary fondness.

Sluggishly, he descended to your cunt once more, dragging the flat of his tongue along your slit in one broad stroke. With a shiver, your hips rolled forward, eased into submission by Aemond’s hands, which happened to lock you into place as he swarmed forward.

He drank you in, tongue greedily flicking between your weeping core and clit, until he began to apply that same pressure as before. His thin lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on the clutch of sensitive nerves until it drove you mad, back arching from the furs.

By the Seven, the things Aemond did to you.

There was a fervor in his ministrations, a ravenous hunger that threatened to tear you asunder. His tongue lapped at your core, interchanging with those brief moments of his lips latched around your clit. You whimpered, thighs pressing on either side of his head.

“Aemond,” You sighed with passion, fisting his silky tresses until you tugged him closer, burying his face within the warmth of your cunt. Aemond didn’t seem to mind, treating you with another barrage of suckling and kisses until you were spent. “Fuck.”

Your unholy mouth made Aemond shudder, groping at your thighs as he brought you to climax. Your release was bittersweet upon his tongue, the most sinful taste imaginable — yet he never claimed to be a pious man. He worked tirelessly to clean you up, cock aching within the confines of his leather trousers.

As you rode the pleasurable high of your release, your body unfurled, the tension within your stomach coming to a halt. A molten bliss wept between your legs, soothed by the cool lick of Aemond’s tongue. Your tryst was far from finished — you had more left to give.

In a coiled, poised fashion, Aemond moved from between your legs, prepared to untie the strings of his trousers and sink himself into you, but you stopped him, placing your palms against the plane of his chest. His musculature was lean and narrow, almost spider-like.

Aemond did not make a sound, watching as you rocked up onto your knees, thighs quivering as you eased him down onto his back — the same position you had been trapped in moments prior. He was enraptured, lilac eye glued to you as if you were heaven sent, a goddess coming to claim him for yourself.

You tossed one leg over him, thighs straddling those spindly hips of his, palms dragging across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen — wherever you could reach. Aemond shivered beneath the intensity of your embrace, lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk, a look of perplexity to mask his desire to submit to you.

“Tell me you want this,” You whispered, nails lightly raking themselves toward his breeches, not daring to go any further until Aemond offered you his consent on the matter. He was often on top of you, domineering and incredibly energetic, but this was different — for him, and for you. “Say the word and you can have me elsewhere.”

The subtle bob of his throat wasn’t easy to spot, masked by shadow, one half of his countenance basked in the glow of the firelight. His sparkling sapphire gazed at you for an eternity, the other drifting across your supple physique, seated atop him as if you’d mounted a stallion.

His hands came to rest atop your thighs, splayed out, possessively groping your pliant flesh. “I want you,” Aemond uttered, his voice a delicious purr, an octave full of an unrestrained lust. “In whatever way that is.” He quite enjoyed this position — he liked seeing you in all of your beauty, bared before him.

With a gentle smile, your digits began to unravel the ties of his trousers, gracing across his hip bones. It was enough to make him shudder, even if the action was barely noticeable. Together, you and Aemond removed the rest of his clothing — and there he was.

He was a beautiful creature, all lanky musculature and pale flesh, stringy and angular. Everything about him was sharp, like the edge of a blade. Aemond was charming, enchanting to you whether he realized it or not. It was enough to prompt you to lean forward, pressing a string of kisses along his collarbone.

“My Prince,” You murmured into his skin, your nose nuzzling underneath the sharp slope of his jaw. You kissed him there, listening to the hitch in his throat. Aemond hummed, lips curling into something of a perplexed line as his hands wandered about your frame, ensuring to touch and caress every curve, every part of you. “My Prince.”

Aemond turned his head, the movement precise and not at all coincidental. His lips captured yours in a feverish kiss, his cock eagerly pressing against your slick cunt. You gasped, feeling the length of it tempt you as he had several times before, but this time, he grabbed your chin, ogling you with his lilac hue.

He wanted to watch your face as you sank yourself onto him, briefly grabbing his cock in order to guide it to your aching slit. The pleasure that blossomed across your countenance was a sight to behold, and you were met with the familiar tilt of his mouth, a fire smoldering within his gaze as he bucked upwards.

His cock speared you with a suddenness, causing you to moan as you adjusted yourself, rocking up onto your knees. Aemond’s palms held your thighs, and he was more than willing to do some of the work, unwilling to let you tire yourself.

It was mesmerizing to see you on top of him like this, breasts full and lovely, softly jostling with each movement. Your flesh was velveteen, pure perfection cast in the sienna glow of the hearth. The fire was dying, but the lust between you and Aemond was far from extinguished.

Your palms fell flat atop his abdomen, finding your purchase there as you began to ride him. It was sluggish and erratic, at first — you let out a soft moan whenever Aemond moved too, using his strength to meet you halfway. His hips lurched forward, cock thrusting into your cunt several times over.

A string of wanton whines and moans escaped you in droves, feeling his grasp on your thighs tighten. He was quite enamored with you, especially like this — there was no sweeter feeling. He continued to buck up into you whenever he could, sheathing himself inside of you, possessing you from below.

Aemond’s visage contorted into one of shared satisfaction, shifting from indiscernible to pleasurable. He sat up just enough to be within reach of you, hips pushing up to meet the downward fall of your body, his cock buried deep inside of you.

“Aemond,” You exhaled, tossing your arms around his shoulders, feeling one of his hands wander from your thigh to your waist, colliding into you with a passionate fervor. The pace you set was sporadic and needy, wanton with desire as you rode him, your movements attempting to temper themselves. “Kiss me.”

That breathy plea of yours was enough to make Aemond submit, lips claiming yours again in an achingly slow, heated kiss. The feeling of your tight cunt around him, slick and warm, made him groan. He was desperate to keep a rhythmic pace, if that were even possible.

Flesh collided against flesh, and you felt Aemond’s mouth pry itself away from yours, creeping toward the column of your throat. He kissed your jugular, face buried within the hollow between your neck and shoulder. You continued your conquest, rocking up and down along his length, nails digging into his shoulder.

Aemond coaxed you backward, wanting you on your back for the final moments of your coupling. You were swift, slumped back down within the furs as the Prince seized your haunch, spreading your legs by bullying himself between them as he had before.

His thrusts became a touch rougher, chasing after a release as he began to rut into you, cock reaching the threshold as he filled your cunt. Strands of pale hair fell around his face, brow glistening with a thin layer of perspiration.

You gasped, back arching as you hitched one leg around his hips, grabbing at his biceps. Aemond’s pace intensified, turning into something carnal and primal, need outweighing sensibility. Lewd noises filled his chamber — the clash of flesh, the sound of your entangled panting and groans of ecstasy.

Wordlessly, he sought your mouth, kissing you with a blistering force that made your head spin with delirium. You reciprocated with passion, feeling his tongue split past your lips, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Your teeth snagged across his lower lip, enough to make Aemond’s throat echo with a faint growl.

Between the tangle of teeth and tongue, bodies becoming one, you rolled your hips in-tandem with Aemond’s sharp, brutal thrusts. “Don’t stop.” You whispered, wanting him to chase after his release, feeling the pleasurable pulsations between your thighs.

Aemond let out a soft grunt, cock burying itself within you over and over again, precum slathering your insides. The sensation of your cunt around him was perfection — he wanted more of you, all of you. You felt his hand snake around your throat, cupping beneath your jaw as he squeezed just enough to make you whine.

He was relentless, pounding into you with an obvious desperation that only furthered your desire for him. You gripped his shoulders, bringing yourself as close as you could, any sliver of distance beginning to dissipate, eclipsed by conjoined bodies and shared bliss.

At last, his countenance contorted into one of complete and utter pleasure, pale brows furrowed in concentration, violet-colored eye closing for just a moment. His cock throbbed inside of you, brazenly spilling himself wherever he saw fit. He pulled out halfway through, painting your thighs in a sticky sheen of glistening seed.

With a huff of finality, Aemond kissed your jaw, removing himself from you long enough to retrieve one of the many blankets draped across the foot of his bed. You watched him in rapturous silence, the way his physique moved, sinewy muscle highlighted by the flicker of a fading fire.

You cleaned yourself up, feeling Aemond return as he draped the blanket within your lap. As the hearth began to die, the chill of his chambers became evident, thunder rattling overhead, accompanied by the onslaught of a cold deluge. He rekindled the flame, wordlessly slinking down to curl next to you.

Strewn beside the fire, Aemond’s head came to rest atop your sternum, arm draped across your midsection. You held him, kept him close — it provided a sense of vulnerability that made you truly believe that he was yours. You stroked his hair, surprised that he hadn’t asked for you to leave.

“Whenever you wish for me to depart, say the word, my Prince.” You uttered, feeling him tighten his hold upon you. Aemond gazed listlessly into the flames, lilac hue half-lidded as you continued to caress the crown of his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

“No,” Aemond’s command was sharp and punctuated, despite the softness of his tone, something that demanded you yield to him. “I want you here.” He uttered, shivering when your other hand traced along what expanse of his spine you could reach.

Prepared to make your vigil beside Aemond, you settled, leaning into him just as he careened into you. The silence was eerily comforting, lulled by the atmospheric backdrop of the thunderstorm. You always enjoyed the aftermath — you enjoyed holding Aemond, most of all. It made you feel cherished in a different way, one that others might not have understood.

You shifted forward, burying your lips atop the pale crown of Aemond’s skull, letting it linger beyond the boundaries of chastity. He exhaled, body fully curled against yours, half of him reclining against you, the other half left to soak in the crackling warmth of the fire.

As your digits tenderly traced the muscle of his forearm, Aemond finally broke the silence once more, happy to let you stroke his hair. “I have always been different, teased and ridiculed,” He lamented, a twinge of melancholy within his voice. “Underestimated, most of all.”

It was a rare glimpse into the window of Aemond’s being — the man that craved love and affection, longed to be thought of as important. After Storm’s End, his mother had cast her frustrations and scorn down upon him, condescending and detached.

A gentle exhale escaped him as you stroked along the angular slope of his jaw, turning his head away from the fire and toward you. You looked down upon him, this man capable of ruthlessness and cunning, and saw the threads of a shattered youth — of someone who longed to feel a tender touch.

“Those who’ve attempted to slight me have always fallen so short of the mark,” Aemond uttered, a vague reference to the Velaryon boy that he had wrongfully slaughtered. He had some regrets about that one, but he hoped that it would cement his strength — he was the rider of Vhagar, and even then, it never felt like enough. “Hm.”

He seemed incredibly comfortable like this, pressed into your warmth, his cheek nestling against your collarbone. You continued to trace along the smooth plane of his musculature, allowing your digits to finally brush underneath his scarred, sapphire eye.

“You feel cold,” You hummed, noticing the way in which he absentmindedly leaned into your palm, allowing you to fully cup his face. “You are strong, Aemond — resilient and cunning. It is not my place to speak of your family, but I’ve come to know you, and I know that you are stronger than all of them.”

Bristling underneath the sweetly-spoken purr of your praises, Aemond kept his arm draped around you, the other coming to rest underneath your breast. The pad of his thumb graced your silky flesh, and he wanted to stay like this forever, if he could.

Aemond regarded you with a forlorn intensity, one that still danced with a subtle frustration, intermingled with his growing sense of possessiveness towards you. He kissed your palm, and then placed a kiss against your chest, ear pressed to the beating swell of your heart.

“I do not feel different with you,” Aemond uttered, able to listen to the little flutter within your chest, the steady gallop of your heart. “I do not want that to change.” His tone became solemn, and you simply coaxed him closer, allowing him to use the crook of your elbow as a place to rest, fingers raking through his hair.

“It won’t change, my Prince.” Your reassurance was gentle, as saccharine as the finest honey. Aemond’s hum was one of contentment as he crawled forward, head resting against your shoulder instead, allowing him to better hold onto you just as you held him.

Silence passed between you, accompanied by the brief crackle of dried tinder atop the logs, the light of burning embers dancing before you both. He kissed your jaw again, the slope of his nose brushing around your neck as he peered towards the flames.

Again, you felt your breath hitch when Aemond held tightly to you, lifting his head just enough to gaze down upon you. Your countenance was captivating — beautiful beyond compare, awestruck of his appearance. His lilac hue flickered across your face, drinking in the doe-like look you had before he hummed.

The ghost of an indiscernible expression fluttered across his features — incredibly subtle, yet present nonetheless. “I certainly hope not.” He murmured, lips molding themselves to yours, and then to the corner of your mouth before he resumed his former position.

You kissed the top of his head once more, cradling him as you would something fragile. You knew that Aemond’s insecurities resurfaced often, but now, they seemed far more prevalent. Regardless, your affection for him wouldn’t waver — you worried that he wouldn’t feel the same for you, however.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond already possessed you, body and soul — and that was more dangerous than any blade or any dragon.

copyright @ swordgrace / please do not post or translate my works onto other platforms.

[tctmp]

Comedy  Drama

[slytherinslut0]

tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers. 

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.

[sturnioz]

fratboy!chris has no reason to hang out with girls if there's no fucking involved — but it's a little different with shy!reader.

the subway car is fairly quiet, the faint hum of the train along the tracks the only sound breaking the stillness. a few strangers occupy random seats, each absorbed in their own world — some listen to music through plugged-on earphones and bluetooth headphones, some are busy reading their books, turning their pages softly, and others have surrendered to their tiredness, their eyes closed, heads leaning against the cool metal poles or the windows.

you're sitting on one of the wall seats beside chris, your anxiety bubbling beneath the surface as your teeth gnaw on your bottom lip, a nervous habit. your leg bounces restlessly, tapping against the hard floor as you glance up at the digital clock on the train's schedule, the late hour staring back at you.

now, you don't have a curfew at all — but you've always been mindful of getting home at a reasonable hour to avoid worrying your parents, and with your phone dead and unable to call them about your whereabouts, a wave of unease washes over you at the thought of getting into some sort of trouble.

chris is calm and relaxed beside you, his legs comfortably spread, knee bumping against yours as the train ways. his head rests back on the wall, eyes closed, while he chews on a stick of a lollipop that he devoured minutes ago, the muscles in his jaw twitch with each chew.

spending the entire day together was a little odd. you were originally heading to the city alone (after mustering up the courage when your friends had told you they all had plans) and you had bumped into chris on the way into the station. he was straightforward with his questioning, wondering why someone as shy as you would go to the big city alone, before announcing that he was coming with you.

the two of you spent the day walking the busy streets of the city, going into your favourite little thrift stores — which you felt embarrassed with when chris followed you inside instead of heading to a different store, making small comments under his breath and snorting at the little trinkets he came across. when he had led you towards the large stores, the price tags that made you squirm, you trailed behind like a little puppy, feeling out of place.

and when you went to go eat, that's when time had seemed to go by so quickly. you were enjoying yourself in the markets, eating delicious foods at stalls that left your stomach full — although you definitely made some room when chris brought you to one of his favourite dessert stalls, sharing a chocolate fudge and cherry sundae.

"will you fuckin' stop, kid?" chris grumbles suddenly, interrupting you from your memories of today, and your eyes flit to him. his hand lands firmly on your knee to stop your restless bouncing. "you're pissin' me the fuck off with your thumpin'... like a fuckin' rabbit, jesus christ."

"sorry." you whisper an apology, warmth riding to your cheeks as you try to steady your nerves, but it only spikes when you realise chris' hand remains on your knee.

"you need to relax, a'ight? because you on edge right now is.. well, it's makin' me all fidgety 'n shit. just relax... breathe," he tells you as he shifts, his head rolling to the side to meet your gaze, his eyebrows scrunched. "seriously, kid, what's got you all jumpy? huh?"

"it's late," you murmur quietly, glancing at the digital clock once again.

"late?" chris echoes, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement. "what? don't tell me that you got a curfew or some shit?"

"no, no," you shake your head. "it's just that... i always make it home at a certain time so my parents don't have to worry about me, and not only did i go into the city today, but my phone is dead too. i'm really worried that they've been trying to call me and—"

"okay, okay, okay," chris interrupts your rambling, a huff escaping his lips as he shifts his hips, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. "you know your parents' number, yeah? jus' call from my phone, kid. tell 'em you got busy and your phone died — it's easy."

you nod slowly, taking a much more relaxed breath as you accept his phone to do just that. chris scoffs quietly, resuming his chewing on the lollipop stick while squeezing your knee, before slumping his head down nonchalantly on your shoulder, listening as you speak to your parents — completely unaware of you trying to keep your voice steady and ignoring the flurry of butterflies through your stomach at the close proximity.

© STURNIOZ

[kinascum]

CHARMED - A. BUTLER

SUMMARY: y/n, an interviewer at Variety, scores an interview with Austin Butler. As the cameras roll, Austin's subtle flirtation leaves her flustered and off-balance. Despite her best efforts to stay professional, his playful comments and lingering glances spark a chemistry neither expected.

WARNINGS: none

You sit in the quiet of the Variety office, surrounded by the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clack of a keyboard echoing through the open-plan space. Your heart beats a little faster than usual today as you prepare for the interview of a lifetime. The email with the subject line "Austin Butler Interview: Confirmed" still sits open on your screen, a stark reminder of the excitement and nerves you've been juggling since you read it. You've done this before, of course, but something about Austin feels different. Maybe it's the way his blue eyes seem to look right into your soul in every magazine cover, or the way his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine when you watch his interviews. You're a journalist with a knack for making even the most guarded celebrities open up, but you're not immune to the charm of Hollywood's golden boys.

The clock ticks closer to the scheduled time, and you stand, smoothing out the wrinkles in your blouse and taking a deep breath to steady your nerves. You've spent hours researching his career, from his early days on the small screen to his breakthrough performance as the king of rock 'n' roll. You've rehearsed your questions, honed them to perfection, and now all that's left is to wait for the moment when he walks through the door.

When he does, it's like the air in the room shifts. He's taller than you expected, with a presence that seems to fill the space around him. He's dressed casually, but it looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread, his jeans fitting just right, and a leather jacket thrown over a simple white tee. His eyes scan the room, and when they land on you, you feel a jolt of energy. He smiles, a genuine, warm smile that reaches his eyes, and you can't help but return it, feeling a little bit like you're melting.

You extend a hand, and he takes it, his grip firm but gentle. His skin is warm, and for a second, you're lost in the sensation of his touch. "Y/N," he says, as if he's known you for years, not minutes. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice is like a caress, and you blush, hoping it's not too obvious. You've always been a little shy around the people you admire, and the fact that he's looking at you with such kindness isn't helping your nerves.

As you lead him to the interview set, you notice the way his boots scuff the floor, the quiet confidence in his stride. He seems to be at ease in his own skin, a stark contrast to the flurry of activity around you. You offer him a seat and take yours opposite, placing your notebook and pen on the table. You've done this a hundred times before, but today, your hand trembles ever so slightly. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you thought you'd outgrown, and try to remember to breathe. The cameras start to roll, and you're aware of every little detail: the sound of the film crew moving around, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the background, the way the lights cast a gentle glow on Austin's face.

He leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours. "So," he begins, his voice like a purr. "What's the first question you've been dying to ask me?"

You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat. You clear it, hoping he doesn't notice, and glance down at your notes. But as you look back up, you realize that the question you've so carefully prepared isn't what you want to ask anymore. There's something about the way he's looking at you, something that makes you feel seen in a way you never have before. And in that moment, you know that this interview is going to be unlike any other.

You take a deep breath and dive in, asking him about his preparation for his latest role, one that's earned him critical acclaim and a slew of award nominations. His eyes light up, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he thinks back to those intense days and nights spent becoming someone else. He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, his voice deep and resonant as he recounts the hours of research, the months of practice, the moments of doubt and triumph. You're captivated by his dedication, his passion for his craft shining through every word.

As you listen, you find yourself leaning in, hanging on to every syllable. His words paint a vivid picture of his journey, and you're drawn into the story as if you were there with him. You ask follow-up questions, eager to learn more, and he responds with the same thoughtfulness, never rushing, always choosing his words with care. His honesty is refreshing, and you can't help but admire the way he's handled the pressures of stardom with such grace.

But then his gaze starts lingering on you a beat too long, and when he smiles, it's a smile that says he's not just talking about the movie anymore, and suddenly, the air in the room feels charged with electricity. You blush, your cheeks grow warm, and you feel your heart race in your chest. Your hand fidgets with the pen, and you realize you're playing with your hair again, a nervous habit you thought you'd left behind in high school. But with Austin, you're feeling anything but professional.

He leans closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and asks you a question about your own work, your favorite stories, your dreams. And you find yourself opening up to him, sharing things you never thought you'd say out loud, let alone on camera. His voice is a gentle coax, drawing you out of your shell, making you feel as if you're the most interesting person in the world. And maybe, just maybe, you start to believe it.

The conversation flows like a river, twisting and turning through topics of art, life, and love. His stories are peppered with laughter, and you find yourself smiling more than you ever have in an interview. His hand reaches out, resting on the arm of your chair, and you feel the warmth of his touch seep through the fabric as he pulls your chair closer to his. It's a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt through your body, making you aware of every inch of space between you as you catch a glimpse of how his muscles flex under the studio lights.

You notice the way his fingers tap against the chair, a subtle beat that matches the rhythm of your heart. His eyes, so blue and deep, seem to see right through you, and for a moment, you wonder if he can read your thoughts. You realize you're not just asking questions anymore; you're exchanging glances, sharing silent moments filled with understanding. The chemistry between you is palpable, and the crew seems to have melted into the background, leaving just the two of you in the spotlight.

The interview comes to a close, but the energy between you and Austin doesn't dissipate. As the crew starts to pack up, he lingers, his hand still resting on the arm of your chair. "Thank you," he says, his voice sincere. "That was one of the best interviews I've had in a long time." You blush, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "Thank you," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "It was an honor."

He stands, and you follow suit, the space between you closing as you exchange pleasantries about the weather and the traffic. His eyes never leave yours, and you can't help but feel like there's something unspoken hanging in the air. He's charismatic, down-to-earth, and thoughtful—everything you've read about him, but seeing it up close is like experiencing the gravity of a star for the first time. His words come out measured and deliberate, each one chosen with care, as if he's afraid of saying too much or too little.

As you walk him out, the quiet of the office seems to amplify the sound of your shoes on the floor. The lights seem to dim, and the world outside the glass walls fades away. You find yourself lost in the depth of his gaze, the way his eyes seem to dance when he smiles. He pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob, and looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees wobble. "Y/N," he says, and the way he says your name feels like a secret shared between the two of you. "Could I interest you in a drink? To celebrate a successful interview?" His words are followed by a cheeky grin as he addresses you in an overly formal manner.

You're surprised by the invitation, but something in his tone tells you that it's more than just a professional courtesy. You hesitate, your heart racing as you laugh nervously. You've never mixed business with pleasure before, but the way he's looking at you, the way his thumb brushes against the back of your hand as he holds the door open, makes you want to throw caution to the wind. You nod, trying to sound casual. "Sure, I'd love that."

The bar he chooses is dimly lit, the kind of place where whispers are the loudest sounds and secrets feel safe. He orders a whiskey neat, and you ask for a glass of wine. As you sit across from him, you can't help but notice the way the light plays with the shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He talks about his love for music, the way it's shaped him as a person and an actor, and you listen, enraptured. His passion is contagious, and you find yourself sharing stories from your own life, things you rarely speak of outside of your closest friends.

The conversation flows as easily as the alcohol, and you realize that you're not just talking about work anymore. You're laughing, sharing, connecting in a way you never have with an interview subject. His hand reaches across the table, and he takes yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. It's a simple touch, but it feels like a promise, a question, a door opening to something new.

A/N: kinda in a love-hate relationship with this one yall

tell me if yall want to be added to this masterlist's taglist !!🩶🩶🦫

[mondaymelon]

— 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ! ₊˚ෆ | albedo, xiao, childe x gn!reader

— cw: reader thinks theyre in a one sided love, accidental confessions + d r u g s, ig? do love potions count as that. these potions dont create fake feelings, they just amplify the affections he already has for you !! fluffy :)

[ The very man you've been longing for has finally fallen in love with you !? Ah, no... Instead, does it have to do with this mysterious pink elixir they've drunk? ]

"Oh? This shade..."

ALBEDO's eyes glitter with the glass' reflections, holding the test tube up against the light. The pink fluid within sloshes inside its confinements, shimmering in the sun's rays. "Strange." With his free hand, he whips out his pencil and pad, busy writing down notes in small handwriting, evenly spaced and well lined. "This formula should've been for a health recovery potion, which is red... How come the color is so light?"

"'Bedo, I'm here." Your voice rang into the previously quiet laboratory as you fling the door open, the invading wind carrying flakes of snow along with it. The blonde's eyes narrows at the sight of the inconvenience, dipping his head in silent greeting as he walks over and closes the door behind you. "What are you doing holed up here today too?"

"More work matters." He's about to close his mouth, already moved on from the brief conversation, but instead perks up, eyes rounding the slightest. "Ah, do you think you could offer some assistance?"

"Assistance?" You trail after him, eyeing the various ongoing experiments on the other tables, up until your eyes land on the practically glowing liquid that emanates a honey-like smell. "What, do you want me to drink that?"

Albedo immediately shakes his head. "No, there's no need to endanger your safety like that. I'll do the honors of consuming it, but I'd appreciate it if you could take some observations and write them down. Is that alright with you?"

A part of you was almost surprised at the relationship "progression", if one could even call it that. You had had your eye on Albedo ever since you had managed to get yourself lost in these mountains, only to stumble upon his lab at your wits end, helplessly shivering and lashes decorated with frost. He had nursed you back to health, and then provided directions back to Mondstadt... Since then, you had made it a habit to frequently visit the quiet male, whether providing just some company or bringing a snack or two, you just wanted a way to show your thanks! Somehow, somewhere along the line, you had developed feelings for him, feelings that you were rather sure he'd never be able to reciprocate.

"That... That seems doable enough?" You blink, hesitantly grabbing the pen that lay on the desk. "Just... ah- you should worry for your own health too, y'know?"

Albedo glances at you, taking the tub in his hands. "I'll be fine." And down it goes. Silence, at first, then his legs sway beneath him. You let out a noise of surprise, instantly moving to offer support, but the male manages to steady himself on the table, instead holding his hand out to keep you away. "Aha... oh, so it was that kind of concoction..."

Sensing the exasperation in his tone only alights more concern. "Is it dangerous? H-Hey, let's lie you down somewhere, and then we can-"

Your worries are effectively silenced as his... lips fall upon yours, jewel-like irises that shone with almost unnoticeable hearts, both his hands cupping your face in a touch so delicate you could've sworn it was never there, and the warmth from his pale, burning skin..

And just like that, you heard the usually level-headed and composed alchemist cursed under his breath for the first time. "No, it wasn't supposed to be like this-"

A shy flush left kisses on his features. He had always waited for the right time for his moves, albeit unnatural ones. It was far easy acting with equations and predicted outcomes, but you... you were something so natural, you made him thoughtless so effortlessly. It took him every effort to allow his usual expression to remain on his face, to not voice his feelings. Not now, he'd chide to himself. I'm not ready.

"...A-Albedo, what..." Stupid as you may be, it'd be impossible not to realize it, especially with the way his usually cool skin flamed with heat. "...A fucking love potion?" You touched a finger to your lips, still stunned.

"I'm sorry." He's ashamed, for being unable to control himself under the potion's influence. "The antidote, it's on the table." Dutifully, you hand it to him, your fingers brushing against his in the process.

"Ah-"

"I like you."

It hurts, to hear him say those words that you've been wishing to hear for far longer than you care to admit. "...What? 'Bedo, c'mon, drink the antidote, and then we can hold a proper conversation. You're not in your right mind right now."

"I've already drunken it." Was the moment now? The empty glass falls from his hand and onto the table, rolling to a still. "I like you."

"...What? No, is the cure not working or something, what is-" It couldn't be, but his turquoise-eyed gaze was clear.

"Must I state it once more? I love you." ₊˚ෆ

"Just what is it you have you brought me?"

XIAO's brows furrow with discontentment... or rather, disinterest. You were a peculiar mortal, it was an easy enough fact to gather from his encounters with you. And while he didn't find himself particularly delighted when you appeared, calling it annoyed would be a bit of a stretch. It's a flicker of a thousand emotions at once across the mask of his expression, all but one of them displayed for your viewing - indifference.

His golden, cat-like pupils stare down the small vial you've procured and gifted him, narrowing with suspicion in your growing silence. He prompts once more, "This is?"

"Hmm, think of it as a gift?" You chuckle sheepishly, recalling the rather shady conversation you had days prior, in a small store hidden away in the very edge of the city market.

"Dearest customer, perhaps you'd like this product? It's very popular amongst the young city goers these days, and I have a feeling you've been looking for something similar."

...A scam? "Sorry, I'm not interested-"

"It works. You're in love with someone, right?"

"How did you-"

"There's this distant look in your eyes. I see it all the time. Now, if you'll just purchase this..."

And just like that, you had been probably swindled into buying a likely useless product off of his hands. At the very least, you could use it to hold a brief conversation with the aloof adeptus who often decided to not turn up at all. "It's... a thank you gift for protecting Liyue all these years...?" In the corner of your vision that greatly encompasses a wonderful view of your shoes, you spot the unwavering features of Xiao's face give the slightest waver.

"There's no need to thank me." He says it all apathetically, yet accepts the gift. "You still have yet to answer my question, however. Of what nature is this object?"

"Ah... well, you see, I don't exactly know either? You could call it a local specialty, of sorts..." You weren't exactly lying, were you? You didn't know what it was, although by it's heart-shaped container and pinkish color you could likely wager a guess or two... but it was better to remain ignorant. At least that way, you wouldn't be to blame if anything unfortunate occurred.

Oh, but was such a term the correct word to describe such a happening? Had it all gone "wrong" the moment you bought the suspicious thing, or was it when you handed it to him, watching him drain the container of its fluid? Either way, something found its way inside your heart the moment the adeptus set the glass down with enough force to hear the sound of its surface fracturing into thousands of spiderwebbed lines.

"The glass... Xiao, are you alright?" You stepped forward worryingly upon seeing the adeptus clutch his forehead with his hand, eyes fluttered shut. Don't tell me... holy shit, was it the real deal? I'm so fucked.

"You..." His voice was deep, husky, almost with a raspy note as his eyes opened to reveal his sharp amber eyes. "What did you just give me? What are you doing to... me?" He grew silent as his slight stumbling paused, a hand gripping the balcony railing for tentative support.

When you met his gaze again, his eyes shone. Gold, no longer, but rosy pink, adorned with bright pupils cut in the shape of hearts. His breaths left small clouds of white that escaped his mouth with every quickened exhale against the cold air, yet despite the chill, his cheeks and ears were dusted with an almost feverish red.

You shake your head, wanting to step closer but growing afraid. Fuck, just how were you supposed to explain yourself? After pursuing your pathetic, so-called "advances" towards the man in hopes of one day achieving a level of intimacy, in longing of hearing those three, beautiful words part from his open lips... Ah, but you've screwed it all up now, haven't you? You might as well have fed him poison. "N-No, I didn't think it would actually-"

"I love you."

It's quiet.

Or perhaps its thunderous. That is, the sound of your heart in your ears, pounding without any heed of the absolute mess of emotions coursing through your veins at the moment. This wasn't right. He didn't love you, not in the way you loved him. An illusion, this was, a painful ploy that would do nothing to sway his heart.

"...No, no." You shake your head, taking a step back, too ashamed to meet his eye. "Xiao, you don't. It's... I'm sorry.""

"No, I do love you."

What? His eyes, his astonishingly gilded eyes, they've rid themselves of their hearts, yet the words still remain in his mouth.

You blink your eyes once, and then once more. "This…?"

"Adepti are naturally immune to such a thing. To fall for such petty tricks would be foolish to the highest degree. Despite this..." Xiao sidled closer, a hand covering the lower half of his face. "Does that mean... you wanted me to love you?"

Would he leave you if he knew?If such a thing could be possible. Unbeknownst to you, the male held some sentiments of the same regard, but how to address them lay far beyond his area of expertise. "And if I did, Xiao? What then?"

"I'm not well versed in the ways of mortals, but surely, I'd do this."

...His lips were soft. ₊˚ෆ

"Ahaha, so it's a gift for me?"

CHILDE grinned with delight, seizing the bottle from your hands into his. "Pink," was his only comment as his eyes swept over the vial. "Is this... valberry juice, or something?"

"Not quite~" You smiled mischievously, aware that no matter how many questions he asked, you'd be partaking in none of them. "Besides, it's more fun if it's a surprise, no?"

"Mmm, but the cute shape of it is making me pretty curious..." Childe's voice trailed off as he ran a single gloved finger across its glass expanse, clearly enjoying himself. "Well, I suppose there's nothing else to do but 'find out', yeah?"

Hmm, would it be a pleasant discovery? You toyed with the idea and he drunk the substance. The sleazy-looking merchant that had sold you such a product had claimed to be a "magician" of some sorts. A bold claim, since you had traveled to the waters of Fontaine in occasions prior and witnessed a true magician in the act - although that was irrelevant. Either way, you had let your curiosity get the better of you, and impulsively bought it just to own the thing. It didn't require a large chunk of your wallet, nor was it completely useless... that is, as long as it was potent. If it wasn't, then you could laugh it off, saying it was something you concocted for the fun of it and he was your test subject, but on the offchance it did...

A guilty expression flitted across your face. You had held feelings for the harbinger since he had been stationed at the harbor, at first only courageous enough to gaze at him from afar, admiring the way his lips curved upwards in a smile and the way the sun's rays reflected across his deep eyes that resembled troubled waters. Somehow, one lucky incident had led to another, and now the two of you were considered friends, yet you longed for something more...

Perhaps this "potion" would help you settle things. It was time you escaped from your daydreams and delusions, time to put your heart to rest. The two of you were friends, and you should be content with just that-

"Damn, this shit is strong." Childe let out a low whistle, and you almost felt inclined to applaud him. "Sweet, too. Not bad."

"...Ha?" You shook yourself out of your stupor. Fuck, who gave him the right to look so pretty doing menial things? "So... You like it?"

"You could say that, but I think I like you more~"

"I'm... sorry?" May the archons remind you to report that man to the Millelith later for witchcraft! "Are you drunk?"

"You're a sly thing, aren't you?" Since when had he gotten so close? "Acting all oblivious now that I've caught you in your act, did you really think I wouldn't notice?" He held the now empty, heart-shaped bottle between his pointer finger and thumb, chuckling. "These things are notorious among the underworld, you know, although I certainly didn't expect this dearest friend of mine to bring such a thing to me... what a riot!"

"Ah..." All the words that you could've said in the moment seemed to fly out of your head, and now you only gaped at him, mouth ajar. "Uhm..."

"You're lucky I've been trained to be immune from 'poisons', if you could call it that. That way, I can say that it wasn't a lie."

"...A lie?"

"I like you."

"Wait, but I- I just did that to you, and you're-"

"What, that? It's funny, if anything... besides, it just shows that you want me as much as I want you, no?" ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) sigh i got burnt out near the end so childe's part is about 300 words short im sorry ginger lovers... </3 happy new year eve (timezones are so weird lmao) !! ill be posting a fic tomorrow for that too most likely sooooo watch out for that ig? it would be ever so cool if you followed me . p le a. se. im like 10 away from a big silly number and id actually give you eternal kisses if you do

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader, @fiannee, @aether-darling 

reblogs appreciated !!

[luna0713hunter]

I'd die for you

Zoro Roronoa x reader

Summary : when Zoro is injured by Hawk Eyes,you cant help but to worry about him.

Warnings : none really, basically hurt/comfort,mentions of injuries and fear of losing the person you love aka Zoro, bickering couple

*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘

"Wow," Sanji breaths, "Just,wow..."

You let out a whine and hide your face in your hands.

"Sanjiiii," you take hold of the cook's sleeve and shake him as hard as you can (which isnt much), "what should i do?! there's no way Zoro would actually like this!!!"

"I dont know," the blonde takes a spoonful of the soup you've made,which was oddly....black, "that blockhead should be thrilled that you put so much effort in making this for him!!"

You sniff,watching as Sanji swallows and school his expression,but not before his face paling slightly, "it just...has a little too much salt. And pepper...and.." when his eyes land on your defeated expression,Sanji smiles brightly again but it seems a little forced "and its absolutely delicious!!!i cant see how he cant possibly love this!"

"you're just saying that to make me feel better. You dont have to pretend,Sanji."

The cook gives you a charming smile and starts cleaning the kitchen, "if a man can't appreciate his woman cooking for him,then he doesn't deserve to taste it. So,y/n," he turns around from washing the dishes and smiles warmly at you, "don't be nervous. And remember you can always learn from your mistakes."

You smile back,and take hold of the bowl and walk our of the kitchen;a small skip to your steps.

"I'm going!!"

"Good luck with him!"

You giggle as you try to rush to where Zoro is; resting in his bedroom after you specifically asked him to rest.

It hasn't been long since he got injured by Hawk Eyes, and as much as he didnt want to admit those scars needed time to fully heal. And with him running around and fighting everyone in sight,it wasnt easy to actually make him rest. So after a small argument with him and some help from Sanji,you managed to cook something for him. The cook had mentioned that the herbs in the soup would heal him faster,but judging from how dark the food looked like,you may or may have not overcooked it. Only a little.

As you reach his room, you take a steady breath to calm yourself before knocking gently on the door.

"If its about your damn cooking or personal space again,i couldn't care less Sanji."

"Zoro,its me."

When the other side goes silent,you cant help but to roll your eyes playfully and grin. Sanji and Zoro couldn't get along for the life them and it never ceases to amuse you.

"...come in."

You take another breath as you finally open the door.

Zoro is,to your delight, actually resting on his hammock. His arms are folded behind his head as he stares at you when you walk through the door. The room is mostly dark,since he has a habit of drawing the curtains whenever Sanji is not around to nag at him. Your eyes momentarily traces the shape of the bandages under his shirt,before clearing your throat and moving to his side.

"i hope you're hungry. Sanji helped me cook this for you."

Zoro eyes the bowl in your hands,but doesn't move from where he's laying

"its not poisoned,is it?"

"i was cooking,what do you think?"

Zoro purse his lips and doesn't reply. You visibly gape at him and stump your foot angrily

"I'm not that bad at cooking!!"

"i didnt even say anything."

"your face says all i need to know!!" You huff and turn around, "maybe i should just give this to Luffy! I'm sure he would appreciate it,unlike someone."

You dont even have time to take another step before there are arms around your waist,not hard that you spill the soup,but enough to stop you from leaving.

"...give it here."

You dont turn around,but your lips twitch; Zoro could never say no to you.

"And why would i?"

"...cause I'm hungry and it smells...really good."

And when you finally turn around,you lift an eyebrow unamused.

"was that pause really necessary?"

"just give me the damn bowl."

You try really hard to hide your teasing grin,but judging from the scowl Zoro's wearing, you're not very successful at it.

You wait impatiently as Zoro blows the soup (which is totally unnecessary since its already lukewarm) and swallows a spoonful. You fidget with your fingers, tilting your head to side and looking at the man in front of you nervously.

"so?how is it?"

Zoro takes a moment before looking up at you.

"it's the best soup I've ever had."

There's a moment of silence where you just stare at the man in front you. He looks serious;no sign of his teasing grin or eye rolls. And when he sees you not responding,he just goes back to eating your black, burned soup.

Your eyes water and you try to muffle your sob.

At the sound, Zoro's head immediately snaps up,his eyes widening when they land on your crumbled form. He jumps to his feet and takes hold of your shoulders,caresses your cheek and wipes the tears away so gently that it has you crying harder.

"hey,hey. why are you crying?"

You shake your head and hide your face in his chest.

"i almost lost you Zoro..."

"but I'm-"

"you're not fine!!" You sob,and raise your face so you can watch his own twist into a frown as he watches your tears increase, "you almost died!! If it weren't for Zeff's help,you would've bled to death!i cant get the image of that sword slashing your chest out of my head!heck,i cant sleep without thinking of you dying in front of me Zoro!"

When you finally finish your little rant,your face is flushed and your breathing is uneven. Your mind wonders off to that cursed moment again,when a hand on your cheek pulls you back to your senses.

"breath," Zoro murmurs, "breath,babe. Its alright. Im fine;more than fine."

He rests his forehead against yours and puts your hand on his chest. Where you could feel his heart beating.

Alive and safe

"see?" He presses his lips to your heated skin and his hold on you tightens, "and, I'm getting so much better already with your magical soup."

At that,you let out a wet giggle and look up at him, sniffing, "really?"

"really."

And when he slowly steps back until he's laying on his hammock again,with your ear pressed against his beating heart,and the empty bowl of the soup on the floor;you feel your eyes slowly flutter shut.

"Sleep,love. I'll be right here when you wake up."

[bits-and-babs]

✰ 𝐏𝐎𝐌𝐏 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “If we weren’t in public right now, I’d have my head between your legs.” - Simon gets bored during a very special medal ceremony. Chest Candy isn't exactly what he's after when there's something much sweeter between your legs.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. This is so self indulgent it’s ridiculous. Anti-Monarchy (sue me), cheeky Simon (my favourite kind), vague dirty talk, oral (f receiving) you see PART OF Simon’s face, vague allusion to p in v sex and cream pie. Inspired by this article I found.

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The Crimson red carpet stretches down the aisle to the medal platform, an uncomfortable reminder of the colour of the blood you had to spill to get here. A sea of uniformed SAS colleagues stands before you, making The King look distant from where he handed a medal to those worthy of the chest candy. The golden lighting is giving you a headache, and this ceremony feels as though it's taking forever. He's just a man-

"If we weren't in public right now, I'd have my head between your legs."

Simon's gruff voice so close to your ear has you jumping out of your skin, wide eyes gazing up at him through your lashes as you try to steady yourself from the shock. Was... Was he dirty talking you in the middle of the ceremonial halls of Buckingham Palace?

"Simon-"

"Never been one for pomp an' pageantry," he speaks over you, keeping his voice low as to avoid a very pointed look from Captain Price. Despite leaning down ever so slightly for his whispers to be heard, his eyes stare straight ahead, moving lips concealed by the worn fabric of his ski mask. 

"This isn't pomp, Simon. It's Buckingham Palace," you remind him pointedly, a little hiss of frustration bubbling in your throat. Ghost had the habit of choosing the worst times to pull this bullshit-

"Exactly my point, love." 

Admittedly, when you saw The Times article a few months ago, you threw up in your mouth. 'SAS get medals in secret palace ceremony'. While each of you had taken a vow to protect (what was then) Queen and Country, years on the field had twisted the priorities of each of the members of Team 141. You could ask any of them why they serve, and it certainly wasn't for this family. 

What you honestly hadn't expected, however, was the team's invitation. The invitation, written on a thick, grained card with an embossed royal seal, detailed the team's bravery in the Gulf of Mexico, redirecting the missile aimed towards inhabited land. Ghost had scoffed at the idea of going to Buckingham Palace, but Price had been adamant that all of 141 would be there. 

"You know, he's not even served a day in his life," Simon subtly nods towards the medals resting at The King's breast,"' Least Harry saw action."

Keeping your eyes aimed towards the ceremonial stage, you swallow back a grimace at Simon's truthful observation. Sure, he wasn't wrong, but it took everything in you not to dare Ghost to say it to the monarch's face. 

Because you're sure as shit that he would.

 "Whatd'ya say?" Simon whispers, his voice dropping a tad lower and dripping with eroticism, "There's an open door at your six, Delta. Make it worth your while." 

Before you even check over your shoulder to see if his observation is accurate, you're turning on your heel, whispering to the king's guard patrolling the open double doors that you need the toilet- that you are desperate. 

One of those admissions is true. 

                      ✰

"What took you so lo-ng?!" You gasp out as Ghost's tongue curls around your sensitive clit. 

"Recon, love," he muses, the rumble of his voice against your throbbing cunt making you throw your head back against the wall of the bathroom stall, "Couldn't just follow after you into the women's loos, could I?"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you whimper, pushing your fingers into Simon's buzzcut hair and shoving his face deeper into your cunt. His words had shot straight to your clit when he entered the bathroom, eyelids heavy and voice as rough as glass on gravel. 

"Eyes shut, panties down."

When his bare lips and nose pressed to your wet pussy lips, you could have cum right there, threats of a fierce orgasm roughly pushing up against the base of your spine. You wrap your thighs around his head now, wailing out his name as your eyes roll back. 

"Shhh," he mumbles against your soaked cunt, but it's so hard to take note of his warnings when they're drowned out by even louder sloppy, messy sucks of your sensitive flesh. He's swallowing your juices down, groans ricocheting off the bathroom walls. 

"Fuck, Princess," he's never used that name for you, and you know it's only because of the frankly ridiculous circumstances, but your cunt clenches around his tongue when he shoves it inside of you anyway, "Mhmm, so fuhgin' wet." 

He's slurring his words as he plunges his tongue deeper, but he won't shut up. A chorus of "good girl" s and "like that" s and "c'mon" s have you pushing your hips up into his face and grasping at the smooth walls of the bathroom stall. 

"Oh my God, Simon!" You sob weakly, tears welling in your eyes as he sinks his fingers into your throbbing cunt. He finds your G-spot instantly, far too acquainted with each curve and crevice of your body—too many reccy missions with his hands down your pants.

"Hah," he pulls back, breathless pants rumbling in his chest. The sound makes your back arch, chasing his lips again with your pelvis, "Gonna swear allegiance to me?"

His corny joke is almost lost on you; eyes rolling back into your skull as you grip at his short hair between your curled fingers. "L-Last I checked, yo-you were on your knees for m-me!"

It doesn't matter that you squeak out the last word of your ballsy sentence; it lands exactly as you intended it to. Simon stalls for a moment.

You don't mean to. You don't! But your eyes snap open at the sudden stalling of the blissful sensation. Simon's amber eyes gaze up at you from his position between your thighs. They frame his face, covering his ears. Your pubic bone smothers his lower visage, covering the bridge of his nose to his chin. 

Squeaking, you squeeze your eyes shut. Blonde. Simon's blonde, and a white scar runs down his left eyebrow and eyelid. 

"Naughty," you hear him smirk at your startled reaction, a breathy, exhaled chuckle fanning across your wet pussy lips, "Guess I'll have to fuck you so hard that you forget what you just saw." 

When you return to the ceremonial hall, the guards on the door keep their eyes uncomfortably fixed on the crimson carpet. You wish you could say that your shaking legs are from nerves when you step onto the ceremonial stage to receive your medal from The King. 

The smug gaze of the skull face in the crowd is a reminder of otherwise, his cum leaking into the fabric of your uniform as you bow for the monarch.

Authors Note: Congrats on your coronation, "King" Charles... Would be a shame if Diana made it rain on your big day. ;)

join the taglist here:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @Malici0uspuff1n

[tortoisesshells]

asmr go hiking with tortie, who was absolutely not contemplating a swim

[mysterioustrashadventures]

Ok finally watched the land of steady habits last night.

Goddamn. Ben plays assholes so well. His character is so pathetic. Loser. Love him.

[dancingtotuyo]

1. mirror in the sky

Landslide | Joel Miller x Female Reader

Series Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: An unexpected encounter with Joel Miller jump starts a series of events right out of your wildest dreams.

Chapter Tags/Warnings: age gap (approx 13 years), past baby sitter, TV show basis, grief & loss, trauma, anxiety attack, consumption of alcohol

Notes: AHHHHHHH I'm so excited for this! I've been sitting on top of a no outbreak version of these two since before I posted the first chapter of Woman! How appropraite that I bring you the first chapter of Landslide on the first anniversary of Woman. Thank you all for all of your love and support this past year!

What?! @guiltyasdave beta read this?! I never would have guessed that! (love you xoxo)

Words: 3844

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist

You don’t know how you make it to the Austin suburb unscathed. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a vehicle, muchless driving an extra 20 minutes, but you need to be home. Not your lonely, one bedroom apartment in the city- but home where mom is cooking dinner and dad is watching the football game, where dad keeps it a chilly 68 inside despite the heat. 

The tears come in silent waves on the drive over, but by the time you pull into the driveway, sobs pound at the dam, waiting for it to burst. As soon as the key pulls loose from the ignition, you stumble out of your car, almost tripping up the front stairs. You have to see your parents. It repeats on a loop in your fucking mind. Everything will be fine once you see them. You go for the door knob, but it's locked. Panic scratches at your throat. You try it again, expecting another result. The front door is never locked. 

Your palms collide with the hardwood door. “Mom! Dad!” You can’t seem to draw in satisfying breaths. Your face is drenched in tears and sweat as the panic and Texas heat work in tandem against you. 

It doesn’t cross your mind that they might not be home. Your parents are boring. They’re stuck in their habits. They’re always at home on Thursday evenings. It is Thursday, right? You lost track of time during your shift. It was never ending. 

Your palms sting. It feels like forever, but finally, the door opens. You fall forward. Hands shoot out to steady you. “Woah, there.”

That’s not your dad’s voice. It stuns you just enough to make everything in your body work for a minute. “Joel?” What’s he doing here? Where are your parents? You just want to hug your mom and snuggle on the couch with your dad like you’re 6 years old again. Did something happen to them? The panic comes back double, your body shaking this time. “Where are my parents?” The tears are blinding. “Where are they!”

“Holy shit, Sweetheart.” Joel pulls you inside the house.

You stumble over the threshold falling into him. He slams the door behind you, his arms tightening around your shoulders. “Why aren’t they home? They’re alway home.” You’re hyperventilating. You know it, but you can’t stop it. 

Before Joel can answer, your legs give out. He barely avoids tipping over and landing on top of you. Somehow, he manages to lower you both to the ground without any major damage. 

“They left for their anniversary trip today.”

Fuck, so it was Friday. You’d forgotten all about their 30th anniversary trip. You’d spent more time inside the ER than out of it the past few weeks, picking up as many shifts as possible. Trying to avoid the approaching Anniversary. The one that came just weeks after your parents’.

You try to repeat the words in your head. They’re okay. They’re halfway to Europe now. It does little to help soothe the ache in your chest. 

Joel runs his hand up and down your back. “Shhhhh, it’s okay. Everyone is okay.” He pushes back the hair that sticks to your face. Your sharp intakes of breath eventually die down to sporadic and shaky. “That’s it. Deep breaths.”

Eventually you settle, letting your head rest against the door. Your throat feels tight, your sinuses stuffy, and your chest aches. 

“Stay right here. I’ll bring you some water,” Joel says. 

He’s gone before you have the wherewithal to thank him. 

You wipe the mixture of fluids on your face away with the back of your hand: tears, sweat, snot, probably some drool. God, you must look a mess right. You eye the tissue box across the room but the thought of moving makes your brain hurt and your muscles sting. You wipe the back of your hand discreetly against the clean scrub pants you changed into before leaving work. 

Joel comes back into the room with a glass of ice water. Condensation drips down the sides teasing your drying throat. He grabs the tissue box without a second thought.  

“Here.” He sits back down on the floor with you, carefully handing you the glass of water.

You thank him, making sure the glass doesn’t slip through your fingers. The water is cool and soothing against your scratchy throat. You don’t think, tipping it back further until your worn out esophagus can’t keep up and you sputter, choking on the water. It spills from your mouth, following the lines of your throat until it dips under your neckline. 

“Woah there, slow down.” Joel takes the cup from you as you cough. “We don’t need you choking today too.” 

You can’t help the little uptick of your lips as you struggle to recover. His care and concern is sweet and- no, he’s 13 years your senior, you chide. You gave this stupid crush up last summer the morning after the Randolf’s pool party. You’d woken up and were flooded with the memories, the lines you swore you’d never cross. Thankfully, Joel was either an oblivious son of a bitch, or you were more subtle than you remember. Whichever it was, it doesn’t matter anymore. You are over Joel Miller. 

The dark green shirt that stretches around his biceps doesn’t phase you. Neither does the tool belt slung low around his hips, or the fact that you’re alone in your parents home. Your brain pulls you out of the thirsting that you are not doing, and focuses on that detail. “Joel, what are you doing in my parents’ house?”

“I’m renovatin upstairs.”

Something about that strikes a chord within you. “The 25th anniversary bathroom renovation?” You smile and Joel almost looks relieved to see you return to the version he’s used to. 

“Except it’s the bedroom now too. I think your mom called it interest.” He laughs. 

“Sounds about right.”

“Now,” he props his arms over his knees. “What are you doing here? I thought you got too good for us and moved into the city,” he teases as he nudges you softly. 

You roll your eyes, but the light squishes out when you close your eyes. The images play on repeat behind them. Your heart rate surges again, you feel your breath begin to quicken. 

Joel’s hand lands on your knee, the other cups your neck. “Hey.”

Your eyes snap open. His soft brown ones are closer than you’ve ever seen them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’tve asked.” 

You sign rubbing the tension from your neck. “I just worked 36 hours straight.”

“Holy fuck, isn’t that illegal or something?” 

You shake your head. “Discouraged, but the ER was a madhouse, just one thing after the other. We had a big trauma come in and none of us felt like we could leave. I got a few hours sleep at the hospital before my scheduled shift started.” You’re starting to feel the come down of the past few days and your panic attack. 

Joel looks concerned, like he’s looking you over for any physical injuries. Something that would explain your panic. 

You don’t let him ask anymore questions. “We had this car accident come in- yesterday? I can’t even tell you when.” You can’t get the knot out of your neck. You groan in frustration. 

“C’mere,” Joel motions you over. “I’ll get it.”

You listen, too tired to fight it or over analyze it. His thumbs dig into your tight muscles. You catch the moan before it falls out. “A couple UT students.” 

You contemplate spilling details, but they’re covered in blood, marrying with last year’s events. You can still feel the blood soaking through your scrubs. 

Joel pauses before catching a knot in your shoulder. You gasp in pain, but it feels good too. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“No, keep going.” You say, and he listens. “They got hit by a drunk driver.”

Joel sucks in a breath. You know he’s thinking back to last fall, the accident that turned your family’s life upside down. It’s the only thing you’ve been able to see since the call came in, so eerily similar to last year. The surrounding events. The injuries. You were working the ER when they brought Carter’s mangled and bloody body in. You watched, helpless to do anything as your friends and colleagues tried to bring him back. You listened as they declared time of death. Even now, you hear the ringing of the flatlining monitor in your ears. 

Joel pulls you into a tight hug, your arms hanging limply at your sides. The exhaustion is just too much, but you appreciate it. It helps, makes you feel less alone. “Thank you.”

“Course.” He gives you another squeeze. “Let me finish working out your back.” 

You oblige, tension melting away as his fingers work toward your spine and then downward. You’d been on your feet for the better part of 2 days, and that was the least of it. 

You let out a long, deep breath, body beginning to settle. “Where’d you learn to do this?” You lean into his hands to increase the pressure. 

“Got real good at ’em when Pam was pregnant with Sarah.” You’re not sure you’ve ever heard Joel mention his estranged ex-wife so casually. 

“God, can’t imagine what would possess a woman to leave hands like yours.” The words slip out before you even have a chance to think through the implications of everything you just said. 

His hands stop moving, palms flat against your lower back. Heat rises to your cheeks in mortification. “Shit, Joel. I’m sorry. Obviously that’s not even an actual reason to stay. Like you have Sarah and that’s an actual reason and I can’t-“ Laughter cuts off the words cascading from your lips. 

You turn around to find Joel leaned back, his chest shaking as laughter comes from his belly, filling your parents' quiet home. You swear you even see a tear or two come from his eyes. One thing is for certain, Joel Miller is not stressed right now and he certainly wasn’t bothered by your comment. Quite the opposite actually. 

It’s contagious as the smile passes over your face. Your chest begins to shake. Mostly, you’re enjoying this rare sight. His crows’ feet crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Your heart skips a beat but you rein it in. 

Joel wipes the side of his eyes. “Pretty sure I was supposed to make you feel better.”. 

“You did.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He groans as he rises to his feet. “I’m getting too old to sit on the floor like that.” 

He offers his hand. You take it and he pulls you to your feet. “Thank you, Joel.”

He nods. “I need to get back to work. I told Sarah I’d be home by 6 tonight.” 

“What time is it?” 

Joel looks down at his watch. You took Sarah into the city last fall to get it fixed for his birthday. “Just past four.” 

You stare up the steps, contemplating staying in your childhood bedroom tonight. You don’t have the energy to make the 20 minute drive home. Your energy is draining by the second. 

“You need sleep, and probably a shower.”

“Showered at work.” The stairs look like Mount Everest to your weary bones. “Think I'll crash on the couch.”

Joel sees it. “You’d still have clothes here?”

“There’s a set of pajamas I left at Christmas in my old room.”

“I’ll get them for you.”

“Room with-“

“The pink walls.” He chuckles, stomping up the stairs. Guess it was obvious seeing as you’re the only girl. 

You’re standing in the exact spot he left you in when Joel gets back. Your sleep shorts, and thin top in his hands. “Thanks.”

“No problem, and if you need anything while you’re here, just come over. Sarah and I will be home all weekend. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll stop by at some point. I’d love to see her too.”

You hadn’t seen Sarah since her soccer tournament this spring. You’d lived with your parents for almost a year after graduation before moving into the city to work at the only Level 1 trauma center in the area. 

Joel nods then stomps back up the steps. You change in the bathroom before folding into your parents' oversized sectional. It smells like comfort and all things nice. You can hear Joel working in your parents’ space upstairs, but it quickly fades as the darkness takes over. 

You wake up disoriented, not sure where you are. It’s completely dark around you, but you pull at little threads as they’re given. You’re definitely not in your bed. You can’t hear the city noises below your apartment. You sit up only to be greeted with a splitting headache. You’re in your parents' home. Everything comes filtering back through your brain. You shudder. You don’t want to think about it. 

You shove the blanket off your legs in a pursuit of water and advil. You don’t remember pulling a blanket over yourself, but quite frankly, you could’ve done anything in your sleep deprived state. The water dissolves the cotton in your mouth, but does little to dull the aching in your skull. You’ll have to wait for the drugs to kick in for that. The stove clock says it’s 2 am. 

You wander back to the couch, but the moment you lay down, the restlessness sets in. You toss and turn but your body says no. Finally, your headache has reduced to a dull ache, barely noticeable in the grand scheme of things. 

You know you need more sleep. You should probably sleep for 24 hours straight after the shift you just had, but you sit up again, brushing your hair out of your face. This is ridiculous. Your sleep schedule is already fucked up enough as is. Maybe you should start working the night shift. 

You pace through the dark house. You know the layout like the back of your hand. Your mother hasn’t so much as moved the furniture since you moved into this house when you were 6. 

You step out on the porch for air. It’s cooled down some. You contemplate driving home, but the peacefulness of the neighborhood is comforting. You can almost ignore the ache in your chest, pretend your brother is still alive. 

Across the street, you catch Joel’s TV playing some corny action movie through his big living room windows. You catch the outline of his head, the rehearsed movement of bringing a bottle to one’s lips. He’s not asleep.  

Your heart beats a little heavier in your chest. He had said to come over if you needed anything.  Right now, you need company. It might be the lack of sleep, but your bare feet hit the asphalt without a second thought as you cross the street. Your brain doesn’t even register what you’re doing until you knock on the door. 

You contemplate running away. Who doesn’t love a good game of ding dong ditch? You certainly did in your heyday. Why not relive the glory days when you ran this street?

The door opens pushing away all of the swirling thoughts in your mind. The cicadas play white noise in the background leaving your sole focus on Joel’s concerned brown eyes and your raging pulse. 

“You okay?” 

“I just- I saw your TV on. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.” 

He gives you a soft smile, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

You exhale almost in relief, stepping across the familiar threshold. Part of you eases, but another tightens up. You’ve spent so many hours in this house, many late nights here, but never with Joel, with him watching you with such concern. Heat flares up your neck. 

“Can I get you anything? A snack? A drink?”

“It’s two a.m.”

“You’re the one who knocked on my door.” Joel teases.

“You told me to come over if I needed anything.”

“So what do you need?” The hour of the night scratches at his voice, sending a charge through the air. 

Your eyes snap up to his, knowing he didn’t mean anything by it other than to be kind, but it doesn’t help the way your skin prickles. You swallow down the lump that forms in your throat. “Company.” Joel smiles at you. Your eyes dart down to his lips. “And some water, please.”

“Coming right up.” He turns for the kitchen before you can do anything foolish. 

You rub your eyes, hoping to clear your head. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, it runs through our mind. Your inhibitions are lowered after the high flying emotions of the day. You can’t fall into his arms. They’re not open for you, not like that. 

You settle into the corner of the couch, pulling your knees to you chest as the familiar smell envelops you. A cheesy action movie plays lowly on the tv. Joel isn’t too far behind, passing off a glass of water as he eases onto the middle of the couch, arms spread across the back of the sofa. He doesn’t say anything, returning his attention to the tv. You appreciate that he doesn’t ask too many questions. He’s just letting you be. 

You attempt to watch the movie, but it’s bad, almost endearingly bad, but Joel seems to enjoy it. He’s the thing holding your attention. Joel is a good distraction. You’ve never gotten the chance to admire his profile in this way, this close, this undisturbed. If Joel catches on to your staring, he doesn’t let on. He lets you study. 

At some point, your mind takes over again, reminding you of the brother you no longer have, of the deep cavern in your soul. It doesn’t pour out of you like it did earlier with the fury of a hurricane. This is more like a peaceful stream, tears silently gathering in your eyes, falling with little fanfare. 

Joel’s hand falls to your knee, squeezing it softly. It’s the only acknowledgement from him, but it’s what you need. Long after your tears are gone, Joel’s hand stays, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against the inside of your leg. 

Some line makes Joel chuckle as he shifts further into the couch. Your legs have fallen out in front of you, one brushing his thigh. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to him, unless you count last summer when you got drunk at the Randolf’s party. Embarassment floods your system, making you withdraw your legs slightly. 

Joel’s brow furrows, head turning to you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod, not sure you’re convincing. “I’m just shifting.”

He gives you a once over from top to bottom. Your stomach dips. You know he means nothing by it, but your body doesn’t get the memo. As if to make matters worse, Joel slings his arm back over both your legs, pulling them over his lap. It tugs you closer, pressing more of you against him. Nothing about it is inherently sexual, but your body is on fire. 

You can smell him. The mixture of fading old spice and the ever present smell of dirt that has seared itself to him. You can’t take your eyes off his profile now. You’re close enough to count his eye lashes if you wanted to. In all your life, you never though you would be this close to him, with his hands on you. 

It’s not like that. It’s not like that, you repeat in your head because it’s not. Joel would never look at you like that. He’s too good of a guy. He’s just showing you comfort, but you can’t stop looking at him. The temptation to make a move so close, it’s hard to ignore. It’s not like that.

It’s like your brain is running a million miles a second, taking Joel in, his proximity, while clinging tightly to the thread of self control that keeps you from closing the gap.

Then he’s looking at you and he’s so close. Lights from the tv flicker off his brown eyes, drawing you in further. It wouldn’t take much effort to press your lips to his. Before you can stop yourself, years of college party instincts take over and you kiss him. You kiss Joel Miller. 

It’s a soft, lingering kiss, and then your mind forces you to withdraw. Joel sits still as a statue. He didn’t really kiss you back, but he didn’t push you away, and then it all comes crashing down. This isn’t some fucking frat party. He’s not a peer. This is Joel Miller. You spring to your feet. 

“Shit- fuck, Joel. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Your hands tangle in your hair. “I should go.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Joel stands. His hand cups your elbow, head stooping to be at eye level with yours. Tears shine in your eyes again. 

“It’s not actually.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, desperate to stop them. You’re not sure you can handle more tears right now. 

“Sweetheart, I promise. It’s not a big deal. You’re goin through a lot.” 

Your shoulders drop with relief. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He smiles. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight if you don’t want to be alone. I’ll take the couch.” 

And you want to say yes so badly. It sits on the tip of your tongue. You imagine what it would be like to curl up under his sheets, be immersed in him, but you swallow the quick response down. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay at home.” 

Joel nods. You think you catch some relief in his eyes. He probably wasn’t looking forward to sleeping on the couch. He scratches the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know how long you’re planning to hang around, but you’re welcome to join us for breakfast tomorrow. Sarah usually makes pancakes on Saturdays. I’m not a huge pancake person, but she loves it.”

You decide at that moment Joel Miller is a saint. You just made a fool of yourself. He shouldn’t want to see you again, let you around his kid, but he invites you over for breakfast, offers up his bed. 

“I’ll think about it.” You walk to the door. “Thanks. For everything.” You mean it too. 

“Of course. It’s what neighbors are for.”

You laugh. “Pretty sure this goes past the moral obligations of being neighbors.”

Joel shrugs. “You’ve been the one steady female influence in Sarah’s life. Pretty sure it goes past the moral obligations of being a babysitter.”’

A smile ghosts over your lips. “Goodnight, Joel.”

You open the front door. The wood of the front porch is still warm against your bare feet. Joel leans against the door frame. “Night, Sweetheart.” 

You wave, dashing across the street. You know you’re imagining it when you feel Joel watching you until your parents front door is shut behind your back, but you never hear his front door close. 

Taglist: @pedrotonin @amyispxnk @joeldjarin @ilovepedro @justagalwhowrites

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @annieispunk @ashleyfilm @moel-jiller

@eloquentdreamer @lizzie-cakes @hiroikegawa

I carried over the taglist from Woman. If you were tagged and no longer want to be, please let me know! If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know!

[teddymoon06]

Through the Storm

"Are You Sure?" (Y/N x Jungkook)

Are You Sure?

Y/N could feel the tension in the air the moment she stepped into the room. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sight of Jimin, leaning casually against the wall, his expression amused as he watched Jungkook pace back and forth in front of him.

She knew what this was about—how could she not? Jungkook had been a bundle of nerves the past week, constantly second-guessing himself, and now, with Jimin pushing him, it was all coming to a head.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Jimin’s voice was calm but teasing, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

Jungkook stopped pacing and glared at his friend. "I told you, hyung, I know what I’m doing."

Y/N, who had stayed silent until now, crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Both Jungkook and Jimin turned to look at her. Jimin's smile widened, clearly enjoying the tension, while Jungkook’s eyes softened the moment they landed on her. He looked nervous, which was unlike him. Usually, he was the confident, carefree type, but around her, there was a vulnerability that Y/N both cherished and worried about.

"Of course, I do," Jungkook replied, his voice quieter now. He walked over to her, hesitating for a moment before taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a nervous habit she had come to recognize. "I just… I don’t want to mess things up."

Y/N sighed softly, squeezing his hand. "Kook, you're not going to mess things up. But if you're not ready, that's okay too."

Jimin, still lounging against the wall, raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I’m just the innocent bystander here."

Jungkook shot him a look. "Innocent, my ass."

Y/N let out a laugh despite herself. Jungkook’s tension seemed to ease at the sound of her laughter, his lips twitching into a small smile. He loved making her laugh, even when he was anxious.

Jimin, sensing the moment had passed, straightened up and pushed off the wall. "Alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. But Kook," he paused at the door, glancing back at his younger friend, "just don’t overthink it. You already have her. That’s all that matters."

As Jimin left the room, the silence settled between them. Jungkook turned back to Y/N, his dark eyes searching her face for reassurance. Y/N smiled softly and reached up to brush a strand of hair away from his face.

"Why are you so nervous?" she asked gently.

Jungkook let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "It’s just… everything with you is so important to me. I don’t want to make a mistake. I don’t want you to regret being with me."

Y/N’s heart ached at his words. She had never doubted her feelings for him, not once. From the moment they had gotten closer, there had been an undeniable connection between them. Sure, there were challenges—there always were when feelings were involved—but she knew Jungkook was worth every second.

"Jungkook," she said softly, stepping closer to him, "I don’t regret anything. Being with you is the best decision I’ve ever made."

He looked down at her, his expression conflicted. "But what if—"

Y/N cut him off by placing her hand gently on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. "No 'what ifs.' Just us. Right here, right now."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Jungkook’s hand came up to cover hers, holding it against his chest as if anchoring himself to her. His eyes softened, the vulnerability still there but tempered by the trust they had built together.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, echoing Jimin’s earlier teasing question but with a seriousness that tugged at Y/N’s heart.

Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes filled with affection. "I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

The tension in Jungkook’s shoulders finally eased, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. Y/N wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In that moment, everything else faded away. It was just the two of them, wrapped up in each other.

"I love you," he whispered into her hair, the words so soft she almost missed them.

But she heard, and her heart swelled in response. She tilted her head up to look at him, meeting his gaze with all the love she felt for him. "I love you too."

Jungkook leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened, filled with all the emotions they couldn’t put into words. It was tender, yet passionate, a promise of everything they had yet to experience together.

When they finally pulled apart, Jungkook rested his forehead against hers, his breath coming out in soft puffs. "I’m sorry for overthinking everything."

Y/N laughed softly, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "You don’t have to apologize for that. We’re both figuring this out together."

He smiled, that familiar bunny grin that melted her heart every time. "Together."

Y/N nodded, leaning up to press another kiss to his lips. "Always."

And in that moment, with her arms around Jungkook and his soft smile still lingering, Y/N knew they were going to be okay. Whatever challenges came their way, they would face them together, hand in hand, just as they always had.

Jungkook wasn’t perfect, but neither was she. And that was okay. Because, as Jimin had said, they already had each other—and that was all that mattered.

The next few days felt like a whirlwind, with Jungkook and Y/N caught between the excitement of being together and the uncertainty that came with it. Despite their intimate conversation, Y/N could tell something was still bothering him.

She found herself sitting at the dorm one evening, flipping through the latest webtoon on her phone, while Jungkook was in the studio, working on some new tracks. The quiet was comfortable but heavy, as if both of them were trying to avoid something unsaid.

The door creaked open, and Jimin peeked in, his mischievous smile immediately catching Y/N’s attention.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into the room like he owned the place. “You alone?”

“Jungkook’s working,” Y/N replied, setting her phone down.

Jimin nodded as if he expected that answer. “Busy as always, huh?”

Y/N smiled slightly. “Yeah. You know how he is. He won’t stop until it’s perfect.”

Jimin plopped down beside her, stretching his arms out across the back of the couch. “And how’s he been? Still overthinking?”

Y/N sighed. “A little. He’s been trying not to show it, but I can tell. I just don’t know how to make him see that there’s nothing to worry about.”

Jimin regarded her with a thoughtful expression, the playfulness fading slightly. “Kook’s been like that since forever. He overanalyzes everything, especially when it comes to people he cares about. He just doesn’t want to let you down.”

“I know,” Y/N murmured. “But he’s not letting me down. I wish he’d believe that.”

Jimin tilted his head, looking like he was weighing his words. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes it’s not about convincing him with words. You’ve got to show him that you’re in this for the long haul. Actions speak louder, right?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What are you suggesting, Jimin?”

His mischievous grin returned. “Maybe you need to challenge him. Push him out of his head a little. Make him realize that you’re here for all of it—the good and the bad.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And how do I do that?”

Jimin shrugged casually, but there was a glint in his eyes. “I don’t know… maybe something bold. Like, I don’t know, a dare.”

“A dare?” she repeated, not sure where this was going.

Jimin nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Jungkook thrives on competition, right? Daring him to do something he wouldn’t normally do might break that wall he’s been building in his head.”

Y/N considered it. “What kind of dare?”

Jimin leaned in conspiratorially. “Something that will make him stop overthinking and just act. You know, get him to be in the moment.”

Y/N bit her lip, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of pushing Jungkook out of his comfort zone. She knew Jimin was right—sometimes, the best way to get through to Jungkook was by shaking things up. A playful challenge might be exactly what they needed.

“All right,” she said, standing up with new determination. “Let’s do this.”

Later that night, Y/N found Jungkook still hunched over his desk in the studio, the soft glow of the monitor illuminating his focused expression. His headphones covered his ears, and he was bobbing his head slightly to the beat, completely engrossed in his work.

Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him with a fond smile. As much as she loved seeing him so passionate about his music, she knew he was using it as a way to avoid his feelings—his fears.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N walked up behind him and gently tapped his shoulder. Jungkook flinched slightly, pulling off his headphones and turning to face her.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice surprised but warm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Y/N smiled. “You’re pretty focused, huh?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry. I was just trying to get this right.”

“I know,” she said softly, sitting down beside him. “But I think you need a break.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by her tone. “A break? What did you have in mind?”

Y/N grinned mischievously, her heart pounding a little at what she was about to suggest. “How about… a dare?”

Jungkook blinked in surprise. “A dare?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning in slightly. “You, me, a dare. Let’s make a bet.”

His eyes sparkled with interest, though a hint of hesitation remained. “What kind of bet?”

Y/N smirked. “You always beat me at everything—video games, sports, even karaoke. So this time, let’s see if you can beat me at something new.”

Jungkook’s competitive side kicked in immediately, the tension in his body easing as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s the dare?”

Y/N’s heart raced. She hadn’t fully thought this through, but Jimin’s words echoed in her mind. She had to make him feel confident, make him act on his instincts rather than overthinking. Something bold.

“I dare you…” she began, looking him straight in the eye, “…to kiss me.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden challenge. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to her lips before quickly looking away.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, echoing the same question from before, his vulnerability showing again.

Y/N nodded, her voice steady even though her heart was racing. “I’m sure.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, clearly fighting with himself. But then, something shifted in his expression. The hesitation faded, replaced by the familiar fire of determination Y/N loved so much. Without another word, Jungkook leaned forward, cupping her face gently with one hand as his lips found hers.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like he was still making sure this was real. But as Y/N responded, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, the kiss deepened, and all the doubts seemed to melt away.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Jungkook rested his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed. He didn’t say anything, but the relief and emotion on his face spoke volumes.

“You’re not going to lose me, Kook,” Y/N whispered softly. “You never were.”

Jungkook opened his eyes, meeting hers with a new sense of confidence. He smiled, a genuine smile that made her heart skip a beat.

“Okay,” he said, his voice low and full of warmth. “I believe you.”

And in that moment, Y/N knew they had crossed a line. It wasn’t just a kiss or a dare. It was a promise—one that neither of them would ever break.

The days following their kiss felt different. It wasn’t the usual shift that came after a relationship milestone; it was something deeper, something that grounded both Y/N and Jungkook in a way neither of them had expected.

Jungkook had always been intense—whether it was about his music, his workouts, or even the smallest things, like deciding what to eat. He poured himself into everything. But when it came to their relationship, that intensity had a new layer. After their kiss, it was as if a weight had lifted off him, and now he wore his love for her as openly as he did his passion for music.

One night, a few days later, Y/N found herself in Jungkook’s room at the dorms. The others were out, leaving them in the rare quiet that the dorm never usually had. Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, his guitar in his hands, absently strumming a few soft chords while Y/N lay sprawled on the bed, her head resting on one of the pillows as she watched him with a soft smile.

The way he focused when he played, his brow furrowing in concentration, was one of her favorite things about him. Music was his safe place. It always had been. But what she loved even more was how much he’d started to share it with her. Little things, like humming a melody he was working on or asking her what she thought of a lyric idea. It made her feel closer to him, more woven into the fabric of his life.

"How’s the song coming along?" she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Jungkook paused, looking up at her with a small smile. "It’s getting there. I was thinking of making the bridge a bit more stripped back, maybe just the guitar."

Y/N propped herself up on her elbows, curious. "Can I hear it?"

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to her, a hint of nervousness crossing his face, but then he relaxed. He trusted her. He knew she wasn’t here to judge, only to listen. Without saying anything, he began to play.

The melody was gentle, almost intimate, and Y/N closed her eyes as the notes filled the room. His voice, when he started singing, was low and soft, like he was sharing a secret only meant for her. The lyrics were simple but filled with emotion—about holding on, about being afraid but finding strength in love.

As he reached the bridge, the one he’d mentioned, the music faded into just the soft strum of the guitar, his voice almost a whisper now. And as the last chord rang out, there was a moment of stillness. Y/N opened her eyes to find Jungkook watching her closely, like he was waiting for her reaction.

“That was beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with awe.

Jungkook blushed, a soft chuckle escaping him as he set the guitar down beside him. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it was too… soft.”

Y/N shook her head, sitting up fully now. “No, not at all. It’s perfect. It feels… real.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. There was no need for words. It was that same quiet understanding they’d shared since the beginning—the kind that didn’t need explanations.

“You inspire me, you know,” Jungkook said after a moment, his voice soft. “A lot of the time when I write, I’m thinking about us.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at his confession. She smiled, her fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “I’m happy I can be a part of it.”

Jungkook shifted closer to her on the bed, his hand reaching out to take hers. His fingers traced small circles on the back of her hand, a habit he’d developed whenever they were close. It was a simple gesture, but one that always made Y/N feel warm.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jungkook started, his voice quieter now, like he was unsure how to say what was on his mind.

“About what?” Y/N prompted, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking down to their joined hands before looking back up at her. “About the future. Us. I know I’ve been in my head a lot recently, and I don’t want you to think I’m doubting us, but… I just want to be sure that I’m doing right by you.”

Y/N’s heart squeezed at his words. She knew Jungkook’s biggest fear was not being enough, not living up to the expectations he set for himself. But she also knew that those fears were unfounded. He was everything she could ever want—kind, passionate, fiercely loyal. She didn’t need him to be perfect. She just needed him to be him.

“Kook,” she said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t expect you to have all the answers, and I don’t need you to be perfect. I just want you to be yourself. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his breath steadying. When he opened his eyes again, there was a determination there—a quiet but strong resolve that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I want to make a promise to you, Y/N.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion. “A promise?”

Jungkook nodded, sitting up straighter now, his gaze never leaving hers. “I promise that I’ll always try. No matter what happens, no matter how hard things get, I’m going to keep trying. For us. For you.”

His words hung in the air, filled with sincerity and emotion. Y/N could feel the weight of them, the way they settled into her heart like an anchor. It wasn’t a grand declaration or a sweeping gesture, but it was real. And that meant more to her than anything.

She smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, she whispered, “I promise the same.”

Jungkook smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made her heart flutter all over again. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest as they sat there, holding each other in the quiet of the room.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The promises they had made were enough. And as they sat there, wrapped up in each other, Y/N realized that she didn’t need anything more than this—this quiet, this connection, this love that they had built together.

Jungkook wasn’t perfect, but neither was she. And in the end, that was what made them perfect for each other.

The night after their quiet promises, everything between Y/N and Jungkook felt deeper, more solid, as if the quiet moments they shared had built an unbreakable foundation. They weren’t the type to rush things—they let their relationship evolve naturally, both of them learning to embrace the little things.

But despite the warmth of those moments, Y/N noticed something lingering in Jungkook’s eyes. There was a flicker of uncertainty, a shadow of fear that she knew all too well. It wasn’t loud, and he wasn’t vocal about it, but it was there, beneath the surface. And she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

One evening, as they were curled up on the couch watching a movie, Y/N’s attention was far from the screen. Her head rested on Jungkook’s shoulder, but her thoughts were on him—on the walls he was still holding up, even after their promises. He was trying, she knew that. But there was something he wasn’t saying.

She tilted her head to look up at him. His face was illuminated by the dim light of the TV, eyes focused but distant, his fingers gently tracing patterns on her arm as they sat together. He looked peaceful, but there was a tension in his posture that she couldn’t ignore.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Jungkook turned his head slightly, glancing down at her with a small smile. “Yeah?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to bring it up. But she couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when she knew he was still carrying something heavy. “You’ve been… quiet lately. Not just tonight, but in general. Is everything okay?”

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard by the question. He shifted a little, as if trying to brush off the concern, but Y/N wasn’t going to let him retreat into himself this time.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, though his tone lacked conviction. “Just been busy with work, you know?”

Y/N gave him a look, one that told him she wasn’t buying it. “Kook… you don’t have to pretend with me. I know when something’s bothering you.”

He looked away, his jaw clenching slightly. The silence stretched between them, and Y/N could feel him pulling back—not physically, but emotionally. It was a familiar dance, one that had happened before when he felt overwhelmed. But this time, she wasn’t going to let it slide.

“Talk to me,” she whispered, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. “Please.”

Jungkook’s grip on her hand tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes stayed fixed on the TV screen, but she knew he wasn’t really watching it. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Y/N’s heart clenched at the raw honesty in his words. She sat up a little, turning her body to face him fully. “Scared of what?”

Jungkook let out a long breath, his eyes still avoiding hers. “Of not being enough for you. Of screwing this up somehow. I know we’ve talked about it before, but… it’s still there. That fear. You mean so much to me, Y/N, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten as she listened to him. She had known he was struggling, but hearing the vulnerability in his voice—hearing how deeply his fears ran—hit her harder than she expected. She squeezed his hand, leaning in closer.

“You’re not going to lose me,” she said softly, her voice filled with as much conviction as she could muster. “You won’t.”

Jungkook finally turned to look at her, his eyes dark and filled with a depth of emotion that made her heart ache. “I just… I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And it scares me how much I care. I keep thinking… what if I mess up? What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” Y/N replied firmly, her gaze never wavering. “I know you, Jungkook. You’d never hurt me. And even if we have challenges, we’ll face them together. That’s what being in a relationship is about. We’ll have ups and downs, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Jungkook looked at her, his expression softening, but the doubt was still there, lingering in the back of his mind. “What if one day you wake up and realize I’m not enough for you? What if… what if you get tired of me?”

Y/N’s heart ached at his words. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands, her thumbs gently brushing against his skin. “That’s never going to happen. Jungkook, I love you. All of you. The way you care so deeply, the way you always put your whole heart into everything you do. I love you for who you are—not for some idea of perfection.”

Tears shimmered in Jungkook’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. He had always been so strong, so determined, but in moments like this, Y/N saw the vulnerability he tried to hide from the world.

“I’m not perfect,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly.

Y/N smiled softly, pressing her forehead against his. “You don’t have to be. I don’t want perfect. I just want you.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling as they held onto each other. Jungkook’s hand tightened around hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in that familiar, comforting way.

“I’m trying,” he whispered, his voice filled with raw emotion. “I’m really trying.”

“I know,” Y/N whispered back, her voice soft but steady. “And that’s enough for me.”

Jungkook’s eyes met hers again, and this time, there was something different in them—something stronger. The vulnerability was still there, but so was a quiet determination, a resolve to keep fighting for what they had.

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, and when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers once more. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that made Y/N’s heart swell.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on his cheek. “And we’re going to be okay. No matter what.”

As they sat there in the quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the TV in the background, Y/N felt a sense of peace settle over them. It wasn’t the kind of peace that came from having all the answers, but the kind that came from knowing they didn’t need to have them all right now.

They had each other. And for now, that was more than enough.

A few weeks passed, and while things between Y/N and Jungkook had become more open, more emotionally honest, there were still moments when Jungkook seemed distant. He was trying—Y/N could see it in the way he always made time for her, in the way his hands lingered on hers when they sat together, in the soft kisses he’d place on her forehead when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. But there was still a tension between them, a space that neither of them had quite figured out how to close.

One evening, after a particularly long day at the studio, Jungkook came home exhausted. Y/N was waiting for him in the kitchen, having made dinner for them both. She had hoped a quiet evening together would help them reconnect, but as soon as he walked in, she could tell something was off. His usual bright energy was dim, his shoulders tense, and the light that normally filled his eyes was clouded over with frustration.

“You okay?” Y/N asked, her voice soft as she approached him. She reached out, gently touching his arm.

Jungkook nodded, though the gesture was half-hearted. “Yeah… just tired,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “The song’s not coming together the way I want it to. Feels like I’m hitting a wall.”

Y/N frowned, sensing his frustration. “Do you want to talk about it? Maybe I can help.”

Jungkook shook his head, giving her a small, forced smile. “Nah, it’s fine. I just need to clear my head.”

Y/N bit her lip, watching him as he walked past her, heading for the bathroom to wash up. She knew he wasn’t just tired from work. It was something deeper, something that had been building for a while. The more they opened up to each other, the more it seemed like Jungkook was struggling with something inside himself—something he couldn’t quite name.

Later that night, they sat down for dinner, but the usual light banter between them was absent. The conversation was stilted, filled with small talk about work and schedules. Y/N could feel the growing distance, like an invisible wall had sprung up between them, and it was starting to weigh heavily on her heart.

After dinner, they sat on the couch, but instead of pulling her close like he usually did, Jungkook sat with a bit of space between them, his eyes glued to his phone as he scrolled through emails. Y/N tried to focus on the movie playing, but her attention kept drifting to him—to the way his jaw was clenched, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh in a nervous rhythm.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Kook,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “Can we talk?”

Jungkook looked up, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He set his phone down, his expression guarded. “Talk about what?”

Y/N sighed, her heart heavy. “About us. About… whatever’s going on.”

Jungkook frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean? I thought things were good between us.”

“They are,” Y/N said quickly, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. “But lately, it feels like you’ve been… pulling away. Like there’s something on your mind that you’re not telling me.”

Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Y/N’s heart sank at the sight of him retreating into himself again.

“I just don’t want to put my stress on you,” Jungkook finally said, his voice low. “You already have enough to deal with, and I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

Y/N shook her head, reaching for his hand. “Kook, we’re in this together. You’re not burdening me. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t let me in.”

Jungkook sighed, his thumb gently brushing against her hand. “I know. I’m just… I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like I’m stuck between wanting to be the best version of myself for you and constantly feeling like I’m not enough. Every time I try to shake it off, it just comes back. It’s like… no matter how hard I try, I keep doubting myself.”

Y/N’s heart ached at his words. She had known he was struggling, but hearing the depth of his insecurities made her realize just how hard he’d been trying to keep it all together for her. She squeezed his hand, pulling him closer to her.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” she said softly. “I’ve never asked you to be.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispered, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and vulnerability. “But it’s hard not to want to be. I see you and how patient you’ve been with me, how much you care… and I feel like I’m failing at giving you what you deserve.”

Y/N leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re not failing. You’re doing more than enough, Kook. I love you for who you are, not for who you think you should be.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping as if the weight he had been carrying finally became too heavy. “I’m just scared, Y/N. Scared that one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m not worth it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at his words. She could hear the pain in his voice, the fear that had been plaguing him for so long. But more than that, she could hear how much he loved her—how deeply he cared.

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I’m never going to wake up and feel that way. Do you hear me? You’re more than worth it, Jungkook. You’ve always been.”

Jungkook looked at her, his eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt. When he found none, his expression softened, and he leaned into her touch. “I don’t deserve you.”

Y/N shook her head, her fingers gently brushing against his skin. “That’s not true. You deserve to be loved, Kook. And I’m going to keep reminding you of that until you believe it.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Jungkook’s hand reached up to cover hers, holding it against his cheek as he closed his eyes, the tension in his body slowly melting away. Y/N could feel the shift in him, the way he was finally letting himself be vulnerable with her.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “For loving me.”

Y/N smiled softly, her heart swelling with emotion. “Always.”

They sat there for a while longer, their hands intertwined, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air like a quiet promise. The space between them that had felt so large just moments ago was gone, replaced by a newfound understanding, a deeper connection.

Jungkook still had his insecurities, and Y/N knew it would take time for him to fully believe in himself the way she did. But she was patient, and she was willing to fight for him—for them. Because no matter how hard things got, she knew one thing for sure: they were worth it.

And as Jungkook pulled her closer, resting his head against hers, Y/N felt a sense of peace wash over her. They had a long way to go, but for now, they had each other. And that was more than enough.

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Jungkook’s relationship settled into a more comfortable rhythm. They’d navigated the hardest parts, or so it seemed, and there was a new closeness between them. Jungkook’s insecurities hadn’t disappeared overnight, but he was trying. He was more open with Y/N, letting her in on his doubts when they arose instead of shutting her out.

But life wasn’t always as smooth as they wanted it to be. Between his schedule with BTS and her own busy life, they rarely had time to themselves. Jungkook’s stress, though manageable now, ebbed and flowed with the demands of their world.

One evening, after a long day of rehearsals, Jungkook was unusually quiet again. Y/N had gotten used to recognizing the signs—his hands fidgeting more than usual, his lips pressed together in a tight line, and his gaze distant, even when they were in the same room. He’d come home later than expected, exhaustion written across his face as he dropped his bag by the door and muttered a quick “hey.”

Y/N stood up from the couch, concern lacing her features. “Kook? You okay?”

Jungkook nodded, but it was the same kind of half-hearted response he gave when something was bothering him. “Yeah, just tired.”

She walked over to him, brushing her hand against his arm. “You sure? You seem a little off.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s just a lot, Y/N. I’ve got this comeback, we’re filming stuff for the tour… I feel like I’m drowning sometimes.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the weight he carried. Being in one of the world’s biggest groups came with intense pressure, and while he loved it, she knew it wasn’t easy. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jungkook shook his head. “I don’t know if talking will help. I just—” He broke off, his frustration evident. “I just feel like I’m not doing enough. Like no matter how hard I try, I’m always falling short.”

Y/N felt a familiar pang in her chest. They’d been here before—this cycle of self-doubt, of Jungkook feeling like he wasn’t living up to some impossible standard he’d set for himself. She stepped closer, gently placing her hands on his chest. “Kook, you’re doing everything you can. You’ve been working so hard.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked away, as if he didn’t quite believe her. “I know you say that, but… what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Y/N’s heart ached at his words. She knew how deeply he felt things, how much he put on his own shoulders, but it hurt to see him like this—to see the person she loved so fiercely doubting himself over and over again.

“You are enough,” she said firmly, her voice filled with conviction. “More than enough, Jungkook. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You’re allowed to be tired, to feel overwhelmed. But please don’t think for a second that you’re not enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened as he looked at her, but she could still see the turmoil swirling behind them. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin. “I’m trying,” he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. “I’m trying so hard.”

Y/N’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, her fingers gently threading through his hair. “I know you are. And I’m so proud of you for that. But you don’t have to carry all of this on your own. You have me. Let me help you.”

For a moment, Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes closed, and she could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and for a while, they just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the kitchen.

But the calm didn’t last long.

Later that night, after they’d settled into bed, Jungkook’s phone buzzed with a notification. It was from one of the producers he’d been working with, asking for a revision on a track they’d been finalizing. Y/N watched as his expression darkened, his earlier exhaustion settling back into his features.

“I thought we were done with this song,” Jungkook muttered under his breath as he typed a reply, his frustration building. “Why can’t they just let it be?”

Y/N sat up, her heart sinking. She hated seeing him like this, so on edge, so consumed by the pressure to be perfect. “Maybe you should take a break from it tonight,” she suggested gently. “You’ve been working on it non-stop.”

“I can’t,” Jungkook snapped, more harshly than he intended. He immediately regretted it, his eyes flickering to hers with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Y/N interrupted, her voice soft. “I get it. You’re stressed.”

Jungkook sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just… it’s never enough. No matter what I do, there’s always something else. And I’m scared, Y/N. Scared that I’m going to let everyone down—you, the members, ARMY—everyone.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the raw vulnerability in his voice. She reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “You’re not letting anyone down, Kook. You’re doing everything you can, and everyone knows that. But you can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this. It’s okay to take a step back.”

Jungkook looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Y/N’s heart broke at his words. She could see how much he was struggling, how hard he was fighting to keep everything together, but she knew he couldn’t keep going like this. He needed to rest, to breathe, to let himself be human.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” she said softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I’m here for you. Always.”

For a long moment, Jungkook didn’t say anything. He just stared at her, his eyes filled with emotion, before finally pulling her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, his breath shaky as he held her tightly.

“I’m scared of disappointing you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was barely audible. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at his confession, tears welling up in her eyes. She pulled back slightly, cupping his face in her hands. “You’re never going to lose me, Jungkook. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, his hands gently gripping her waist as he rested his forehead against hers. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Y/N whispered, her voice filled with unwavering certainty.

They stayed like that for a while, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air like a storm that had finally passed. The tension between them had eased, and though there were still challenges ahead, Y/N knew they would face them together.

As they lay back down, wrapped in each other’s arms, Jungkook’s breathing eventually evened out, the exhaustion of the day finally taking its toll. Y/N stayed awake for a little while longer, her fingers gently running through his hair as she watched him sleep.

She knew there were still struggles ahead, that Jungkook’s fears wouldn’t disappear overnight. But she also knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t going to let him face them alone.

And that thought, more than anything, gave her peace.

The following days felt like a delicate balance—like walking on a tightrope between Jungkook’s intense schedule and the fragile emotional state he’d been carrying for weeks. Y/N did everything she could to be his support, but it wasn’t always easy. Every day was a new challenge for him, and even with their quiet moments of connection, Y/N could feel the pressure building inside him again.

One evening, after a particularly draining day at the studio, Jungkook came home looking worse than ever. His usual spark was completely gone, replaced by an exhaustion that weighed heavily in his eyes and posture. He threw his jacket on the couch and immediately headed for the bedroom without saying a word.

Y/N frowned, watching him go. She knew he was trying, but lately, it felt like every step forward came with two steps back. The fear that had been creeping into her heart was now an undeniable presence—what if this was too much for them to handle?

Taking a deep breath, she followed him into the bedroom. Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. The silence between them felt suffocating, and for a moment, Y/N wasn’t sure what to say.

“Jungkook?” she called out softly, stepping closer.

He didn’t look up, his voice tired and strained. “I can’t do this anymore, Y/N.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping further. “This… all of it. The pressure, the constant feeling of not being enough, the expectations. I feel like I’m losing myself. And I’m scared that… I’m dragging you down with me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her pulse quickening. She could see the weight of his words—this wasn’t just about his career or the stress of being an idol. It was about them. The relationship they had fought so hard to build. And in that moment, Y/N realized just how deep his fear of failing had grown.

“Kook,” she said, sitting down beside him and placing a gentle hand on his back. “You’re not dragging me down. I’m here because I want to be with you, no matter how hard things get.”

Jungkook shook his head, his voice breaking slightly. “But I feel like I’m breaking, Y/N. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I can.”

Y/N’s heart ached as she watched him unravel before her. She had seen him struggle before, but this was different. This was deeper—like all the cracks he had been trying to hide were finally showing, and he didn’t know how to hold them together anymore.

“Then let me help you,” she whispered, her hand gently running up and down his back in a soothing motion. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Jungkook turned his head slightly, finally looking at her with eyes that were filled with so much pain, it made Y/N’s chest tighten. “What if I can’t? What if… I’m too far gone?”

Y/N swallowed hard, her mind racing. She didn’t want to believe that. She couldn’t believe that. Jungkook wasn’t too far gone—he was just lost in the chaos of everything he had been carrying for so long. But she could see how much it was hurting him, how much it was hurting them.

“You’re not too far gone,” she said firmly, taking his face in her hands. “You’re just… tired. You’re overwhelmed. And that’s okay. But you don’t have to keep punishing yourself for feeling that way.”

Jungkook’s lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. He looked like he wanted to believe her, but something held him back, something that ran deeper than just the stress of his job. It was the same fear he’d been carrying all along—the fear that no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough. Not for his career, not for his fans, and not for Y/N.

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you too much to drag you through this.”

Y/N shook her head, her fingers gently brushing against his cheek. “You’re not hurting me, Kook. I’m here because I love you. I choose to be here, through all of this. But I need you to trust me. Trust that we can get through this together.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, his forehead resting against hers. His breath was shaky, and Y/N could feel the tension in his body as he tried to hold it together.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I feel like I’m slipping away from myself.”

Y/N’s heart shattered at his words, and she pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly. “You’re not losing me,” she murmured against his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way to get through it.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the silence between them heavy but comforting. Y/N could feel Jungkook’s body relax slightly in her embrace, but she knew the battle he was fighting inside wasn’t over. He was still struggling, still carrying the weight of his own expectations and the fear of not being enough.

But Y/N wasn’t going to let him face it alone.

“I’m scared too, you know,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m scared of losing you, scared of not being enough for you. But I’m not giving up on us. No matter how hard it gets.”

Jungkook pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. “You shouldn’t have to carry my problems, Y/N. You deserve better than this.”

“I don’t want better,” Y/N replied, her voice filled with conviction. “I want you.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N saw a flicker of hope in them. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to hold onto.

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers once more, his hands gently cradling her face.

“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”

Y/N shook her head, her heart swelling with love for him. “You don’t have to thank me, Kook. Just let me love you. That’s all I want.”

Jungkook’s grip on her tightened, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. It was just them, holding onto each other in the quiet of their room, their hearts beating in sync despite the chaos that surrounded them.

And in that moment, Y/N knew that no matter how hard things got, they were going to make it. Because they had each other.

And that was all they needed.

In the days that followed, a subtle shift began to take place in their relationship. Jungkook, while still struggling with the pressure of his career, started to lean on Y/N more. He let her in—bit by bit—and it was a relief for both of them. But it didn’t mean that the weight he carried lessened. It only meant that now, they were carrying it together.

It was another late night when Y/N found herself sitting on the couch, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone while waiting for Jungkook to return from the studio. They had been having more of these quiet evenings lately, with him working late and her trying to keep herself busy in his absence.

When the front door finally clicked open, Y/N glanced up to see him step inside, looking every bit as drained as he had the night before. His hair was damp from the rain outside, droplets trickling down his neck, but what worried her more was the distant look in his eyes. It was the same haunted expression he’d had before, the one that told her he was spiraling inward again.

“Kook?” she asked softly, standing up and walking toward him.

He didn’t respond immediately, instead kicking off his shoes and running a hand through his wet hair. He dropped his bag by the door and stared at the floor, the silence between them heavy and suffocating.

“Jungkook, talk to me,” Y/N urged, her voice gentle but firm as she placed a hand on his arm.

Finally, he looked up at her, and the sadness in his eyes made her heart ache. “I’m trying, Y/N,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

Y/N took a deep breath, her hands instinctively reaching out to take his. “It’s enough, Kook. You’re enough.”

Jungkook shook his head, his jaw tightening. “How can you say that when I feel like I’m falling apart? When every day I’m pushing myself to the edge just to keep up? I can’t even remember the last time I felt… happy.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. Hearing him admit that hurt more than she’d anticipated. She had known he was struggling, but to hear that he couldn’t remember feeling truly happy? It was like a punch to the gut.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I hate that you’re carrying all of this alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Jungkook said, his gaze softening as he squeezed her hands. “I have you. And I’m so grateful for that. But it’s not fair to you. I feel like I’m dragging you down with me.”

Y/N shook her head, stepping closer to him. “You’re not dragging me down, Kook. I choose to be here, remember? I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard it gets. We’re in this together.”

Jungkook let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing as if he was trying to hold himself together. Y/N could see the exhaustion etched into every part of him—the physical and emotional toll it was taking. She gently cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his damp cheeks.

“You’re not alone,” she repeated softly, her voice filled with conviction. “And you don’t have to do this alone. We’ll figure it out, one day at a time.”

Jungkook opened his eyes, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his gaze nearly broke her. He looked like he was holding on by a thread, like he wanted so desperately to believe her but didn’t know how.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to fix it all at once,” Y/N replied, her heart aching for him. “You just need to take a breath, step back, and let yourself feel everything. You don’t always have to be the strongest person in the room, Kook.”

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I’m not strong, Y/N. Not like people think I am.”

Y/N frowned, her hands tightening around his. “You are strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. But strength doesn’t mean you have to carry everything alone. It’s okay to lean on the people who care about you.”

Jungkook stared at her for a long moment, his expression torn between wanting to believe her and the weight of everything he had been carrying for so long. His shoulders slumped, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered against her hair, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

Y/N’s arms wrapped around him, her hand gently rubbing his back in soothing circles. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” she murmured. “But we’ll get through this. One step at a time.”

Jungkook buried his face in her shoulder, and for a long moment, they stood there, holding onto each other as if the world outside didn’t exist. Y/N could feel the tension slowly leaving his body, and though she knew the road ahead wasn’t going to be easy, she also knew that they were stronger together.

Eventually, Jungkook pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. “Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

Y/N smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me, Kook. I’m here because I love you. And that’s never going to change.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

“You’ll never have to find out,” Y/N replied, her voice steady and full of love. “We’re in this together. Always.”

Jungkook nodded, his arms tightening around her once more as he pulled her into his chest. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other’s warmth as the storm inside Jungkook’s heart slowly began to calm.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt like they were going to be okay. They didn’t have all the answers, and the road ahead was still uncertain, but they had each other. And that, she realized, was all they needed.

In the days that followed, there was a noticeable shift between Y/N and Jungkook. It wasn’t as if all of their problems had disappeared, but there was a newfound understanding in the air, a quiet agreement to face things together, even if the way forward remained unclear. Jungkook wasn’t suddenly free of the burden he’d been carrying for so long, but the weight of it seemed just a bit lighter now.

Jungkook had started opening up more. He talked about his fears and doubts, his worries about the future, and the constant feeling that no matter what he did, it wouldn’t be enough. And Y/N listened—really listened—without judgment, offering comfort and reassurance whenever he needed it.

It was a fragile peace, but it was peace nonetheless.

One evening, Jungkook and Y/N were sitting together on the couch, a blanket draped over their laps as they watched the rain gently patter against the window. The TV was on, but neither of them was really paying attention. It was one of those quiet nights where the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in the cozy warmth of their apartment.

Jungkook was resting his head against Y/N’s shoulder, his hand absentmindedly playing with the hem of her sweater. His eyes were half-closed, and Y/N could feel the rise and fall of his chest, steady and calm. He looked peaceful, and for once, Y/N wasn’t worried about what thoughts were running through his mind.

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if things were different?” Jungkook asked suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful.

Y/N glanced down at him, surprised by the question. “Different how?”

Jungkook shrugged, his fingers still lightly tracing patterns on her sleeve. “I don’t know. Like, if I wasn’t… me. If I wasn’t Jungkook from BTS. Just… a normal guy.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, considering his words. She had never really thought about it, but she knew that the weight of his fame was something he struggled with more than he let on. Being Jungkook of BTS was all he had known for so long, and sometimes, she wondered if he even remembered who he was outside of that.

“Do you wish things were different?” she asked quietly.

Jungkook was silent for a moment, his eyes distant as he stared out at the rain. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Sometimes I think about what it would be like to just… live a quiet life. No cameras, no expectations. Just… us.”

Y/N’s heart softened at his words. She could see the appeal of it—the idea of a simpler life, away from the constant scrutiny and pressure that came with being in the spotlight. But at the same time, she knew how much Jungkook loved what he did, how much he cared about his music and his fans.

“I think… no matter what life you lived, you’d still be amazing,” Y/N said softly. “Because it’s not the fame that makes you special, Kook. It’s you.”

Jungkook looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You always know what to say,” he murmured.

Y/N smiled back, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I just know you.”

Jungkook’s hand found hers under the blanket, his fingers intertwining with hers as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion.

Y/N leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve love, Jungkook. You just have to let yourself be loved.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, leaning into her touch as if her presence alone could chase away the darkness that still lingered in the corners of his mind. He didn’t say anything for a while, and Y/N didn’t push him. She knew how difficult it was for him to open up about his fears, how deeply rooted his insecurities were. But little by little, he was letting her in, and that was enough for now.

After a while, Jungkook shifted slightly, sitting up straighter as he looked at her with a more serious expression. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, his tone cautious. “About… taking a break.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, her heart skipping a beat. “A break?”

Jungkook nodded, his gaze flickering to the floor. “From everything. Work, music, the schedule… I don’t know how long, but I think I need to step away for a while. Just to breathe. To figure things out.”

Y/N could hear the hesitation in his voice, the uncertainty that came with the idea of stepping back from something he had dedicated his entire life to. But at the same time, she could see how much he needed it—how desperately he was craving a moment of stillness in a world that never seemed to slow down.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Y/N said gently, reaching out to take his hand. “If that’s what you need, then you should do it.”

Jungkook looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and fear. “What if… what if I lose everything? What if I take this break, and when I come back, it’s all gone?”

Y/N squeezed his hand, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. “You won’t lose everything,” she assured him. “Your fans love you, Kook. They’ll wait for you. And the people who care about you—your friends, your family, me—we’ll always be here. You’re not going to lose us.”

Jungkook’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the worry didn’t completely leave his eyes. “I just don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You won’t,” Y/N said firmly. “Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you’re letting anyone down. It just means you’re putting yourself first for once. And you deserve that.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, as if he was trying to let her words sink in. He leaned back against the couch, his head resting against the cushions as he let out a long breath.

“I think I’m going to talk to the company about it,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know if they’ll go for it, but… I have to try.”

Y/N smiled softly, feeling a sense of pride swell in her chest. It wasn’t easy for Jungkook to admit when he needed help, let alone ask for a break from something as monumental as his career. But the fact that he was willing to take that step—to prioritize his mental health—meant more than anything.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

Jungkook turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers with a soft, grateful smile. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

“You don’t have to,” Y/N replied, her voice filled with love. “I’m with you, every step of the way.”

As the rain continued to fall outside, Y/N and Jungkook sat together in the warmth of their home, the weight of the world feeling just a little bit lighter in that moment. They didn’t know what the future held, but for now, they had each other. And that was enough.

Part 1

Part 2

[dropsnectar]

Fawning Rose: Vine Monster x GN!Reader

The Adventures of an Elven Herbalist Part One

NSFW or NSFT

This is my first time writing anything in 6 years so keep that in mind. Also my first smut fic. Or monster fic. I literally learned about the sexual parts of plants for this fic. Don't know how I got here but this was fun! btw if you don't like oviposition, I marked the parts with three !!! before and after that scene, so you can skip it if you want.

WORD COUNT: 3167, or 7 pages on Docs

It had been a long journey from your home country, having to cross an entire sea to get to the sleepy elven town of Hairevick. An Herbalist, you could craft pills to treat a human flu, create a poultice for a dwarves sore, work-tired limbs; even brew potions to help a beastmen ease out of a mating season-- but it was still lonely. Their were no elves about, except for the rogue eccentric nomad. 

Feeling as you had fully mastered your craft in that area, and curious about your kind, you set forth in hopes of bettering yourself. However, when introducing yourself to your neighbors, you found everyone to be polite, but detached. As far as elves went, you were quite young, and the people of Hairevick were elder and not so trusting of outsiders. But worse of all, everyone here seemed to have an excellent knowledge of the local flora and fauna, and their uses in maintaining health. There was no need for an herbalist, especially one so unfamiliar with their lands. 

You spent the entire week mourning your state over glasses and pints of botanical alcohol-- The local tavern drinks were amazing!-- until you finally met a sympathetic face. 

He had long silver hair and the wisp of a ginger beard around his sharp jaw; a peculiar trait. He greeted you friendly enough, asking how you were settling in. It turned out that he owned a store in town, selling odds and ends. He even had a little apothecary in the corner, where those who couldn’t be bothered to make a forest run would buy herbs and tinctures. 

Starved for companionship, you bombarded him with questions about clients, and local herbalism. He was jovial, and after quite a few dregs of honey yarrow grog, offered you a book on the local flora. After some midnight bonding over stories of patients, he gave you a proposition. 

He was having some issues procuring some materials from a special plant, a Fawning Rose. It had incredible healing properties, but a bad habit of uprooting itself and fleeing from anyone who wasn’t a youth. If you could lure it out and bring back anything, be it petals, roots, greens, he would pay you handsomely. Maybe even give you some lessons on how to work with local plant life.

It was for this reason that you found yourself two days into a trip to the heart of the Haire Wilds bordering town. It was not going well. 

***

The cool air caressed your skin as you entered the grove. You had caught a peculiar sweet smell, somehow floral and buttery at the same time, and had followed it with hope filling your heart. The scent had gotten so thick you could taste it, strong as a tea on your tongue. Blue wildflowers covered the ground, interrupted by the common tree route or vine. 

Your eyes followed the vines or small roots, colored a sage with a speckled gradient to midnight blue. They traveled up into the middle of the grove. Sunlight, so rare this far into the Wilds, fell down in large delicious specks from the trees. They refracted off a large flower, almost two yards in width. Its petals were raspberry pink, turning blood red in the middle. Vines from its base led upwards and rested on the low boughs of the nearest trees, framing the flower and its various young buds like some sort of ethereal art study. 

You grew excited, feet tripping over roots as you ran forward, losing a shoe. You lost balance again and landed face first into the crook of a particularly large vine and hit your head. Hard. 

Hot pain crashed through you, making you curse as you steadied yourself. You tried to get up but the heat struck your temple like lightning as you moved upwards. Alright. Best to stay down then. 

As you waited, you were able to see past the stars in your eyes and notice a slight powdery substance on the vines. It, too, was pink. 

Maybe it was the thrill of finally finding the damn thing, or the head injury, but you felt different. You could hear your heart pumping hard in your chest, pleasantly tight. Your breath was ragged, the air pushing a hard, chilling heat through you. 

Like a particularly good run, your mind registered. A high. 

Your limbs started to tingle at the tips.

The rose’s perfume felt more like a mist now. You were only a few feet away from the base flower, and the scent had turned heady. Your hunger from a missed meal seemed to be surfacing, goaded on by the delectable smell the plant was giving off. While the pain eased and the stars disappeared from your eyes, you noticed that the lightheaded fuzzy feeling stayed.

Uh oh. Not a concussion.

You had to work hard to bring the fear into your mind. There was very little anyone could do to help you out here. The best you could do was not move around too much, and hoped the Fawning Rose would cooperate.

Suddenly, you notice some movement from the roots under your palms. 

No no no not now! Please, I haven’t harvested you yet! You thought as you tried to scramble up. 

The roots moved upwards with you, shoving you onto your side. Sliding around your feet, one took your other shoe with it as it slithered about under you. Another seemed to upend itself and squeeze cooly between your toes. You jumped a bit, but your gaze and mind were slow.

Something thick gilded itself on your shoulder making you look up. Vines, three, four, five of them descended and started rubbing themselves against you like cats. The movement was kicking up clouds of the pink pollen, making you sneeze as you wiggled against the plants outer limbs.

A part of you was horrified, thinking that perhaps you had scared the thing off. After all, you had been warned that this type of rose was particularly skittish. But the plant did not seem to be gathering itself to run away, rather it was pulling you closer to itself, the dragging tearing at the underside of your clothes.

Try as you might, you couldn't seem to think. Foggy, fuzzy, your mind was like cotton. The tingling in your fingertips has spread through your body, and an embarrassed part of your brain noticed your lower body was starting to awaken too. A warmth was beginning to pool in your gut, slow and lazy. Tingly. Fuzzy, like your head.

The vines continue to rub against your body, tearing the rest of your clothes away until only skin remains. They were relentless, cool against your hot skin. Their outer layers were textured but still smooth; a foreign sensation but extremely exciting. It felt almost like something was licking you, the powder giving a wet feel as it spread itself all over. Liquid heat glazed the innermost parts of you, much to your embarrassment. 

Aphrodisiac. You finally registered. You started to curse out that damned store keeper. 

You’d been played. 

You were now at the base of the flower, with even more roots and vines cradling and moving over your body. You were… pushed? Pulled? A foot into the air, close enough so that some of the smaller buds were leaning over you, as if they were getting a good look at you. You felt a knowing, a presence from this plant now. It really was looking at you.

Some desperate part of your mind, far far back in your mind, tries to set off danger bells. That you needed to get up and run.

Ooze started to secrete from the smaller buds, and the already overpowering scent of floral butteriness seemed to multiply. It dripped out onto your belly, warm and tingling, then your chest, your inner thigh, even a bit on your cheek.

The syrup dribbled down into the planes of your mouth as you wriggled under the vines. A particularly mischievous one pushes through the plush cheeks of your ass and moves up, poking at your entrance, causing you to gasp. 

The liquid touches your tongue. It tastes just as it smells, deliriously delicious. Sweet. Hot. It was divine compared to the little rations you’ve been eating the last few days. Like youd been starving and had sudden.ly been given free reign of a pastry shoppe. But no pastry could top this silky butteriness

What little heat that had kindled inside you was now a roaring flame, putting your past arousal to shame. You groan, and pull your head up, sticking your tongue out for more. A part of you is screaming to stop and run, but it is a stupid part that is buried instantly under your sudden overwhelming need. You are desperately horny, and you deserve to feel good after all the trouble you've been through lately.  

Still sticking out your tongue, you start to moan even louder as the vine messages your entrance with its thick girth. At the same time, one of the buds above your face seems to notice your desperation, and leans down to your lips.You lick at its plush petals and sweet sweet nectar seeps into your mouth. It tastes much like a floral pastry and you suck greedily as it pushes itself deeper in. 

The petals are so soft, yet still firm in your mouth as a river of nectar floods your throat. You giggled around it as it started to take its full effect. You felt light as air, so good. 

The vines had moved over to allow a bud to circle itself around your most sensitive part. You gasped out as it started to suck you, making stars flood your already glistening eyes. Your wet lashes fluttered as it began to suck wave after wave of pleasure out of your body.You had never felt so good, you noted somewhere in your sex drunk mind.  The whole time, the bud leaked nectar, completely soaking all parts of your groin.

The nectar left your skin feeling sensitive,  and completely soaked. This seemed to please the vines, which continued to massage the oil about you, then finally push in. You cried out at the sensation. Drool started to pool out of your mouth, mixing with the nectar.

 The vines rubbed lazy curving lines around your walls, making your hips jerk and shake. They seemed to know what they were doing as they started out slow for a time, then sped up their pace, thrashing about inside you. You clench around them, overwhelmed by the unyielding sensation. The pooling heat in you was building high, and you could tell the walls were about to break.

A rogue, mischievous bud had decided to examine your hole, tracing around your entrance in lazy circles. The petals were so soft, softer than skin. The texture made you feel desperate. As if to read your mind, the bud stopped. It must have been blooming because you felt little feelers, probably stamans, tracing about your genitals, wet with its lovely, delicious pollen.

 You swore and whined and pleaded for more as the vines fucked you through it, voice garbled by nectar. Another, thicker vine veined in indigo added itself to its companions and you finally came. The rush was like being tossed in the ocean, a shock that completely enveloped your entire body in cold, pulsing ecstasy. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, your juices spilled down on the forest floor below. 

The echoes of the waves of pleasure were still rocking through you when the vines surrounded your body started to move you upwards again. The vines were slow and delicate as they handled you, as if you were precious cargo. You were brought upwards, almost as if they were about to set you on your feet. Your neck was out, as you were still suckling the addicting flower liquid. 

You noticed through your long damp hair that you were positioned just over the center of the Fawning Roses main flower. A drop of nectar slipped out from inside you and dribbled down and onto the flower's green pistil. The stigma was thick, with four fat lumps at the top. The stamen surrounding it swayed, almost as if there was a breeze. Their magenta anthers rained down more pollen, causing a beautiful gradient against the deep red at the middle of the large petals. It was a truly breathtaking sight. 

A single vine wiggled towards your face and pushed back your hair. You found the gesture almost sweet, leaning into its touch. You remained like that for a time, before the vines started to lower you on to the stigma. 

No no no, you tried to whisper, some understanding dawning; but the bud was being aggressive with its feeding, pushing further in your mouth. It had a job, and its job was to make you so desperately horny and stupid, you’d let this flower breed you. 

The stigma was a hard fit at first. Its lumpy texture felt so good rubbing against you, you couldn’t help but hump back into it. The vines around you squeezing your skin, tilting your hips this way in that, trying to make the fit. The surrounding stamen started to rub their anthers against you, two started focusing on your nipples. You continued to hump the stigma, smearing the nectars from your groin all over it. Then, finally, finally, You were able to squeeze it in. 

The vines had taken over the humping for you now, pushing you down harder and harder onto the pistil. The lumps dragged against your walls in such a beautiful way, that you screamed out babbling whines. Your skin was covered in nectar and bright pink pollen. Every part of you was being squeezed, rubbed, oozed upon with tingling liquid, that you weren’t even sure you had a body anymore, just pleasure. After you came for the fourth time, you started to feel a pulsing within the pistil.  It was like the thing seemed to grow within you.

! ! !

Ridges started to squeeze against your entrance, rubbing against your walls. They moved up, up, up, into the deepest parts of you. There was a sudden burst of warmth, then something small and squishy. You marveled at the texture, as the flower continued to lower you down on the pistil, now at a slower pace, in smaller movements. You ached so badly, but the new sensation of the objects and warmth inside you made you wanna keen louder. They felt sort of like eggs.

Seedpods. You registered lazily. You were being turned into a seedbed. 

This realization only seemed to turn you on even more. They felt so good, rolling about inside your walls. The warmth they brought rivaled the cool temperature of the pistil, a delightful duality. 

You moaned with every bulge, push, then pop of warmth and heaviness. It was getting to the point now where the vines were pulling you up off the pistil to make more room for the seeds. 

! ! !

You were cumming so much now you lost count. It was getting to the point that you were just continuously orgasming, as the seeds and the pistil dragged against your most sensitive parts. 

You may have been like that for hours, days even, the nectar kept you so dizzy you couldn’t tell time. But at some point you were so full that the pistil seemed satisfied. The wriggling stamen around you stilled, and the vines carefully lifted you off the pistil, giving one last drag within your walls.

The bloom inside your mouth slowly dragged itself out, making you whine in protest. The vines carefully laid you down at the foot of their roots, arranging your body in a comfortable position. The vines slowly retreated from your body. They lazily moved about, sometimes knocking into each other in a way that was almost comical. Their movements seemed lazy, almost like it too was spent. 

As the last vine left your skin, it caressed your cheek. Within you some affection of your own seemed to bloom. The haze that was in your mind was starting to dull, and replaced itself with the need to rest. Your heavy eyes closed and you gave into sleep.

***

You awoke without opening your eyes. You could feel that the curving mound of roots you’d been sleeping on had been replaced with fluffy grass and soil. The smell of freshly tilled earth flooded your nose, and you jolted upright, eyes wide.

The grove was quiet, and empty of the Fawning Rose. All that was left behind was you, the upturned soil it had left behind, and light dusting of pink pollen on the trees. Even the sweet pastry-like smell had left the grove.

You looked down at your naked, sore body and groaned. You could see a trail of bruises from where the vines had gripped you, along with dried out nectar and tons of pink pollen. Your stomach puffed out a bit more than normal, meaning all of this had NOT been a dream. Much to your surprise, nothing hurt though. Your body felt great, healthily spent like you had just run a marathon. Considering how hard you had been working there should have been some pain, but there wasn’t. Just the pleasant pressure of the seedpods against your insides.You recall the conversation with the shop owner at the tavern. Looks like this is the flower's healing abilities at work.

You continued to search around the grove. Your clothes were still in shreds on the forest floor, but your bag was safely tucked under one of the trees the flower had rested its vines in. With some effort, you managed to get yourself off the ground to pick it up, waddling the whole way. 

The pollen was still working its magic on you, but you guessed you had been exposed to it long enough to build a slight tolerance. Or maybe the growing rage within you was doing the trick. You pulled out one of the many glass bottles, and a silver knife. You went to work, scraping the dried nectar and pollen off your body, into the jars.

I’m gonna charge that asshole so much money, his kids will be poor. You seethed as you spent hours getting your money's worth off of every plane of your body. You’d have to birth those seed pods later too. Your insides grew warm at the thought. 

You tried not to think about how you were going to have to walk home naked, where you’d been and what you’d been doing laid bare upon your skin. It’d be free advertising tho, you tried to reason. 

You'd make a killing. Aphrodisiacs were rare, and extremely expensive, especially to a crowd of immortals. I think I'll sell these seed pods on my own though. You smiled. 

You’d make sure to be properly prepared the next time you went into the wilds.

Might do a part two, maybe with slimes next time? Also sorry about any switching of tenses, I have a hard time with that! Hope you guys enjoyed!