#amplifier setup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

irachki · 12 days ago

Text

cuetes

pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x latina!reader warnings: canon compliant violence. no beta so whatev a/n: i wrote this for @hahaifolded after we were talking about the lack of good latino representation in the fandom. hope you like it folded 🥺💕

There is something to be said about how easily Simon Riley can be bribed. Off the field, of course. He’d never put his team at risk on the field.

But with his third tamal in hand and the half drunk jarrito next to his elbow, Rudy can see how little it takes to sway him. He doesn’t get to sit with the realization too long before another body steps into the doorway.

“Who brought the ghost?” You lean your shoulder against the doorframe as you survey the stranger that’s sat in the midst of all your family members.

Rudy snorts, the unintentional pun missed on your part, while he shrugs. “You know me, always catching strays.”

Your gaze shoots over to Rudy and you raise an eyebrow, “Stray?” The incredulous tone of your voice is amplified by the once over you give Simon. “Aren’t strays supposed to be scrawny? Hanging on by a thread, pure skin and bone? He seems to be real well fed.”

Rudy shakes his head, laughter carries in his voice, “Well SAS does a pretty good job of keeping their boys working at full throttle.”

You shift, slightly, but enough for your uncle to see the way your body loses some of it’s ease.

“SAS? What are the brits doing on Mexican soil? They never venture this deep into latam.”

He grimaces, one of his hands sliding out of his pocket to rub across the face, “You know I can’t tell you that Mechas.”

You roll your eyes before turning from the party and trudging further into the orange colored kitchen, “And when the hell has that stopped you from telling me about what’s happening.”

“It’s different this time mija. We’re dealing with unprecedented circumstances.”

“Unprecedented?” Your hands grip the edge of the ceramic tile, white and blue cover the kitchen island that separate you and your uncle, “You had no problem telling me about the routes the mareros setup but you have a problem with this?”

“Mechas.”

Whatever Rudy is looking to say next is left unsaid as the pale stranger ducks into your grandmother’s kitchen. Despite the doorframe being a bit too small for him he has no problem standing at full height in the room. The home fitted with raised ceilings to allow for hotter air to rise and helping with the circulation of air during the heat waves.

He looks out of place in the room. In this whole ordeal, really. Family had travelled from all corners of the continent to gather at the matriarchal home, bringing with them the different flavors of Spanish. It made the English speakers scarce, and those who were there were easier to spot, especially with an accent that’s not heard around Las Almas often.

Your eyes narrow, eyebrows drawing together, “What are you doing here?”

Simon’s eyes meet Rudy’s before they’re on you again, “Eating.”

If it’s an attempt at a joke it falls flat, annoying you further.

“If this is what the SAS considers their best I worry for the state of that island.” You scoff and turn around towards the pot holding the warm atole.

You focus on pouring yourself a cup of the warm liquid, missing the look exchanged between the two men. The creases around Rudy’s eyes deepen as his worrisome gaze settles on you.

Simon can’t help the clench he feels in his gut at the sight. He’s thankful there’s no one to worry for him the way you worry for your uncle. He wonders for a split second if Rudy can feel the weight of your worries on the field. A constant weight and anchor pulling him back to this house. To his family.

“Does Yaya know?”

“She doesn’t need to know my every move Mechas.”

Your back is still turned to him but he can still see you shaking your head, “Foreigners mean trouble. Yaya knows that better than anyone. So either you told her outright or you let her connect the dots himself by bringing him here.”

You turn, not bothering to look at either of them as you cross the kitchen in search of a spoon. Simon follows your movements across the kitchen, keeping Rudy in his peripheral as he observes the tightness in your shoulders.

“Mechas,” Rudy starts but he doesn’t get far before your glare cuts him off.

“Stop.” You place your cup down on the island with force. The liquid sloshes around the cup, circling the edge of the cup as if deciding if it wishes to spill. In the end it doesn’t, settling into itself again as the energy disperses.

“Don’t give me some bullshit promise you’re not even sure you can keep. Don’t tell me you’re coming back if there’s even a possibility you won’t.”

Simon’s been in Las Almas for a short amount of time, but he knows Rudy. Trusts this man with his life, he’s saved it a few times already. So it’s easy to follow the minuscule reactions of hurt at your words. He knows empty promises are one of the only things that keeps a soldier going. The belief that they’ll be able to make good on those promises.

No matter how many times others aren’t able to.

“I’ll bring him back.” The words slip out before he understands what he’s telling you. An idiotic thing to promise someone who he just now met.

You’re thinking much of the same if the way you glare at him is anything to go by.

“And who are you to promise anything to me?” The softness of your face is deceptive to the bite of your tongue. Simon has heard worse from men bigger than him, meaner, and yet your words slice at him the way a blade slices at skin. Quick, deep.

There’s molasses dripping down his throat, choking him, his words stick to it.

You scoff, “Your words are no good to me.”

Rudy leaves him no room to respond, stepping in and attempting to mitigate your concern. None of the words Rudy says tamp the fury in your eyes or the strange tight sensation Simon feels between his ribs.

Bringing Rudy back to you seems like the only solution for both.

—

The stranger brings Rudy back. Bruised, battered, and bloodied but alive. And in the end that’s all that matters.

There’s no words spoken between the three of you, a heavy silence fills the kitchen as you get to work on cleaning up your uncle. You pull rags from cabinets and fill shallow pails with cool water to tend to wounds. It’s a silent endeavor, only the straining of the rags filling the room with sound. You don’t know how long you tend to your uncle for, but by the time you turn to face his strange companion his water is murky too.

Rudy must have told him the rules of Yaya’s home because there’s no trace of military gear on him. The only evidence of the violence he’s experienced is the dark stain on his shirt. Whatever liquid soaked into the shirt darkens the black cotton even more. His jeans are caked in the familiar light brown color of the soil around Las Almas.

You stop the analysis as soon as you feel the bile rise in the back of your throat.

Instead, you busy yourself with grabbing both batches of murky water to drain out in the pila outside. You don’t have the energy to talk to your uncle right now, much less deal with the look he reserves for you when he comes back from missions. You just lather up the rags with zote and scrub them against the ribbed cement.

The water runs red for sometime before it slowly morphs to pink and then a slight cloudy view, until finally it’s clear. The hens cluck around you, Chancho also waddles nearby to investigate your movements as you wash.

You’re too focused on washing and not trying to think that you miss the stranger stepping out into the backyard with you. The hens don’t scare off, instead they cluck at him, winding themselves between his legs as they inspect him. Chancho does the same, slowly approaching him and sniffing around before the spotted pig decides there’s nothing important for him there.

“Questioning is the family trait then, yeah?” His voice is low, raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in days. Hasn’t had a drop of water in weeks.

You spare him a glance, not wanting to look at him for long, when his face catches your attention.

No new wounds, plenty of old ones, but the area around his eyes is covered in black. Giving him the look of a child with face paint on him. Instinctually, you wring the rag before stepping to him and starting to blot away at the black.

Whatever he’d come out to do is put on the back burner as he freezes at your movements. He barely breathes, eyes focusing on the focused look on your face as you drag the multicolored towel across his cheekbones. You don’t ask for permission as you gingerly take his jaw into your hand, moving his head every which way to get the eyeblack off of him.

“Is being pushy a family trait too?”

You scowl at him, the grip on his jaw tightening, “Is that what this is to you Europeans? We call it hospitality out here.”

“Invading someone’s personal space?”

“Taking care of someone’s son.”

He knows you don’t know anything about him, let alone the tragedy that was Manchester, but the words still manage to dislodge something in him. The idea that kind hands and homes are offered to children, no matter who they are.

He tucks that away to sit with in the future. Not now.

Now he focuses on the feel of your hands against the scruff on his jaw.

–

You’re on the outskirts of the room watching the conversation that swirls around the big wooden table. The extended that was local had gathered at Yaya’s to discuss El Sin Nombre’s capture.

It was a pointless conversation that you had no interest participating in. Win or not, the work was pointless. One narco falls, a vacuum opens up, another takes their place. Tale as old as time, something the Mexican government surely wont fix with this singular capture.

Simon is next to you, sitting silently as the low conversation fills the rest of the room. He’s watching the table while you stare out the window at the stray dogs circling the street. It takes them a minute to find the food you’ve left for them but when they finally do you make a happy noise.

“Not interested in the familial debrief?”

You snort at his question, not even bothering to look at him directly, “This family has lived through the capture of dozens of narcos. I already know how this conversation goes.”

Simon doesn’t respond, just shifts his attention to you while you continue to pay him no mind.

“Honestly would be cheaper if you would stay longer to come and catch the next one. Saves you a flight.”

“This your way of asking me to stick around?”

You can’t help the noise you make at that, “If you stick around here longer than you need to I don’t think you’ll be of any good service to the force. I hear men incapacitated by the heat don’t do well.”

He huffs out a laugh, bringing the Modelo up to his lips for a swig. The cool malty liquid cuts through the heat that seems to have invaded his mouth, much like the rest of the city. He glances around the quaint family home, heat pressing into him in a way that never has before, and realizes just how deep Las Almas has sunk it’s claws into him.

He spares you a glance, still engrossed in the activities of the strays, and studies you for a second. Your body rests against the cushions, not at ease but not tense. Always alert, he thinks to himself. The same way he is back home. Never letting his guard down, assured in his own abilities, but never wanting to get caught off guard. It’s how he’s been living his whole life.

You let out a small sigh, cheek pressing into the cushion, the pressure of your cheek pushing out your lips just a bit.

He takes another drink.

Yeah. He can stick around for a little more

#ki writes #in the midst of everything that is going on it's more important for me to portray my latina readers as complex as possible #we are not stereotypes #we have incredibly diverse cultures that we carry with us everywhere #anyways i started writing this when i saw a piece where someone leaned so hard into the stereotypes i feel like we regressed thirty years #so i came to set this shit straight #ANYWAYS #okie dokie general tags teehee #ghost x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #latina!reader

151 notes · View notes

temis-de-leon · 2 months ago

Text

Obey Me and Streamer!MC

Characters: gn!MC

Main Masterlist

A/N: I wrote this in half an hour because I couldn't get it out of my head. It's not proofreaded (at all), so the grammar is weird.

While most people are ready to forget the quarantine due to Covid-19 and all related loses, it would be borderline disrespectful for you to ignore how much of a goldmine it turned out to be in your situation.

You already had a Twitch account in which you streamed religiously from three to four times a week, and that gave you a small, yet loyal number of followers. From Just Chatting to Gaming and even a couple of amateur events, people liked the way you played and how you interacted with the chat.

It wasn’t enough to make a living, but you saved enough to improve your setup and buy more games to amplify the variety in your channel.

By the time everyone was forced to stay inside and discovered you, you had managed to have your own aesthetic, some niche memes and harmless beef with your subs.

Everything went up from there, and in a couple of years you reached 3 million subs on Twitch, and almost the same amount on YouTube and Twitter.

It’s easy to say you were more than happy and content with your life. You had plans for the future and for your channel, and life couldn’t seem more perfect.

And then you disappeared.

Out of nowhere.

Your family, irl friends and online friends knew nothing of your whereabouts, and as much as they wanted to keep everything under the radar to not raise suspicions, it was impossible to fool the internet forever.

Only a month passed until Twitter went insane with theories and multiple YouTube channels uploaded videos describing “what really happened to you” and “the dark secrets that led to your disappearance”.

Of course, all you had to do was ask Diavolo to give you your human phone so you could give your loved ones an explanation and keep the police uninvolved.

Your first tweet after three whole months consisted of a selfie surrounded by a bunch of unknown, handsome men.

People went absolutely batshit crazy.

It was the ‘I lived bitch’ meme, but with even less context.

You needed to start a threat or post a couch video for your hardcore fans so they didn’t get unnecessarily worried. After all, they went from seeing you almost every day of the week to nothing at all for months.

You said that you took a very “in the spur of the moment” decision and that you were living abroad for the time being, for a year. The guys in the selfie were your roommates, and no, you weren’t dating any of them.

Fanmade edits were being made as you recorded that update video.

As months go by, you only stay present on Twitter, sharing memes and daily moments of your life and interacting with your fans and whatnot.

They learn that one of your roommates is a beauty content creator, but they can’t find his channel anywhere. Another one of them is a hardcore otaku, who, despite the surprising amount of fans amongst your subs, doesn’t like sharing his face on the internet.

The one dressed in a suit that watches you with bedroom eyes is a favourite, but so is the one that can’t admit how much he likes you. However, some people prefer the radically different twins or the book-lover blonde boy with a serious obsession with cats.

There are literal fights about the brothers in the comments and replies, and some of them are kind of worrying.

You guess that’s what parasocial relationships do to people.

One of the best days in your Twitter, which will probably be remembered forever, was when your dark-skinned friend posted a picture of his little brother and his roommate making a mess in the kitchen.

You apologized and said he didn’t know much about technology, that he did it on accident, but the tender moment will remain as iconic for as long as you allow it.

Another time to remember is when you posted a picture with the man that started it all.

The day your mysterious coordinator and his soft-spoken assistant appeared in your feed was the day you hired more moderators for your Discord.

All in all, it was a weird period for your channel.

You organized a comeback stream, not expecting much to happen, but lo and behold, your follower amount almost doubled.

Some conspiracy theorists accuse you of faking everything for views, but what are you going to do about it? Cry? You know the truth, and so do the most important people in your life. You left and now you’re back, let the haters cry about it.

It’s obvious in camera that you’re happier than ever, anyway, so your fans are content.

And then the donations start coming.

At first it’s your usual subs, ecstatic to see you back, but also newcomers who’re just discovering your channel thanks to the Twitter threads.

After a short while, the new donations grow. It goes from several 100 bits to some scattered 500, to a couple of 5,000 every now and then and to a steady 25,000 donation every stream.

People are wild, wondering who TheRealKingOfHell6D6 could be and why he’s giving you so much money so often.

It’s obvious that you changed after your absence, but you’re still healthy and very obviously thriving, so no one says anything of substance.

It all adds to your new mysticism.

The day you make a stream with your new friends, you break records.

Suffice to say, that stream is one of the longest and most chaotic of your channel, and not much time passes before you start seeing other streamers react to the best moments.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @mia4gotcookiez

213 notes · View notes

lune-moon-nuit · 5 months ago

Text

The influence of conformity & gender stereotypes on the characters of Stranger Things but also on US (the general audience)

The moment I stumbled upon the arguments of "anti-Byler," the most commonly cited one was their outright denial of heteronormative pressures and societal expectations that are instilled in us from a young age. These same dynamics influenced Mike and the other characters in Stranger Things. This realization brought to mind a personal childhood anecdote that illustrates this phenomenon perfectly.

I must have been around ten years old because I remember this happening on the bus ride home from a school trip to watch Ratatouille. At the time, I had recently befriended a boy in my class—we had been seated next to each other, which gave us more opportunities to talk than when I’d usually stick with my girlfriends during recess while he played soccer with the boys. (Just describing this setup already paints a clear picture of gender stereotypes and heteronormativity, even though this was in 2007—25 years after 1982, to put things into perspective.)

When I say we had grown closer, I mean that two kids had developed a friendship: we laughed together, enjoyed each other’s company, and simply got along well. But I vividly remember sitting face-to-face with Maximilien—yes, I suddenly recalled his name as I was writing this! Maximilien, with his freckles and ginger hair—and we were laughing and talking about the movie. At one point, I playfully held two strands of his hair between my fingers, pretending to guide him like Rémy from Ratatouille.

It was then that I noticed, just behind Maximilien's smiling face, my classmates observing us from the next row. They were whispering and giggling, their glances unmistakably filled with mischief. I immediately understood what they were thinking. Later that day, they confronted me, insisting, “You’re in love with Maximilien!”

I felt embarrassed and awkward. But the truth is, before their remarks, the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. To me, Maximilien was simply a friend, someone I enjoyed spending time with. It wasn’t until my friends planted that seed of doubt that I began to question my feelings. For the rest of the school year, I convinced myself I had a crush on him.

Looking back, this memory perfectly encapsulates how deeply societal conditioning affects us, even as children. At ten years old, we were already internalizing heteronormative narratives from our peers, advertisements, media, movies, and TV shows. Everything around us reinforced the notion that if a boy and a girl were close, they had to be more than friends.

This anecdote resurfaced in my mind recently, and it struck me how pervasive this conditioning was—even in 2007, when societal attitudes had already progressed somewhat compared to the 1980s. Now imagine how amplified this must have been in the '80s, which sheds light on the behaviors of Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy (and others by the way) in Stranger Things.

These three characters—Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy—each insinuated that Mike had romantic feelings for El based solely on his acts of kindness and care for her. It becomes much easier to understand their reactions when you realize they were operating under the same heteronormative assumptions that shaped our childhoods. After all, didn’t we all have our own versions of Lucas and Dustin who convinced us we were in love with our Maximilien or El?

Before Lucas’s heteronormative remark, Mike had done nothing more than show empathy for El—protecting her and taking care of her after she told him she was being hunted by “bad men” and that her life was in danger. Mike’s actions stemmed from compassion and the fact that she had information about Will’s disappearance, not romantic interest. Their interactions were simply those of two kind-hearted kids getting to know each other, with Mike admiring her powers (like any kid fascinated by superheroes) and El being drawn to Mike’s stable family life—a concept foreign to her.

But then Lucas planted that tiny seed: “If you’re this nice to her, you must be in love with her.” From that point on, Mike started behaving more timidly around El, his perception of their interactions skewed by Lucas’s words. Dustin reinforced this by accusing Mike of neglecting their friendship because of El, which was a childish and reductive observation considering the circumstances. Nancy, too, perpetuated this when she directly asked Mike, “You like El?” after he inquired about her feelings for Jonathan.

All these comments were rooted in internalized heteronormativity—small seeds planted in Mike by his friends, just as their families, communities, and society had once planted similar seeds in them.

The result? Mike simply conformed to what he thought he was supposed to feel. If everyone said he loved El, then he must love her, right? So he invited her to the Snow Ball and kissed her—because that’s what he believed he was “meant” to do. After all, she had superpowers like the heroes he admired, and as a bullied, insecure boy who often felt powerless, her attention gave him a sense of validation. She needed him, depended on him, and he felt useful and in control by taking care of her.

At the same time, he barely knew her—they’d only spent a week together, and beyond the immediate crisis and her love of Eggo waffles, there wasn’t much else he understood about her. Still, this fleeting connection gave him emotional and psychological comfort during Will’s disappearance and presumed death—a situation where he felt utterly helpless.

All of this resulted in Mike simply doing what he thought he was supposed to feel and do: "If everyone says I love her, then I must love her, right? So let's invite her to the dance and kiss her! Besides, she has powers like my favorite superheroes—that's pretty cool for a bullied boy who looks like a frog, isn't it? If she's interested in me, wouldn’t that prove I'm normal after all? Plus, she depends on me, she needs me, she's lost without me, and I have to take her under my wing. I feel useful taking care of her! It's only been seven days since I met her, so honestly, apart from the urgent situation we're in, I know almost nothing about her except that she likes waffles. But at least, during this week, we needed each other, and emotionally and psychologically, it helped me cope with the disappearance and presumed death of my best friend—a friend who vanished after leaving my house, where I feel 100% powerless to protect or save him. Having some sense of control by taking care of El, who clearly needs me, might just be my way of projecting? Also, she looks like a boy with her short hair, and she was mistaken for Will three times throughout the season—what a coincidence!"

I also noticed that in Season 4, the Duffer Brothers repeatedly wrote into the script how Robin and Steve are often mistaken for a couple by others. This happens because people don’t know Robin is a lesbian, but more importantly, because they can’t comprehend how Robin and Steve can be so close, so in sync, and have such incredible chemistry without being romantically involved. And yes, it’s absolutely possible—some people can be your soulmate without being in a romantic relationship with you. In fact, there are relationships that are healthier and more balanced as friendships rather than as romantic partnerships, and the people involved often realize this themselves. This doesn’t diminish the genuine love they have for each other. They love each other, they don’t want to lose one another, it’s just not romantic. It doesn’t take away from the strength or depth of the bond they share—it’s simply a different kind of love for a different kind of relationship.

This dynamic becomes even more compelling when you consider how heteronormativity shaped not only Mike’s understanding of his feelings but also everyone else’s perceptions of their relationship. Like Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy, we’ve all been influenced by these societal norms, projecting them onto others and perpetuating them, often without even realizing it.

280 notes · View notes

uneducated-author · 2 months ago

Text

It's so nice that MaoMao both never goes too far with her negative qualities or too far with her good ones. She's remarkably balanced in a way most narratives don't allow for.

One piece of writing advice that I always take with a pinch of salt is 'characters should not be people'. Characters tend to have consistent values and a growth arc. They often have some symbolism or metaphor and even though they can be contradictory or relapse on their development, they generally have some level of bedrock in terms of their personality. That's not a bad thing, it's why we have the 'leader-lancer-heart' template for trios, the 'sunshine-moonlight' pair dynamic, the 'cat and dog' rivalry setup. People don't naturally fall into that, at least not to the same level of consistency (this is sort of adjacent to 'you never see characters coughing unless it's a sign of sickness' sort of logic, every scene a character is in has to be necessary and building).

Mao Mao is mindful of her status and self preserving so doesn't want to stand out, until there's a case where human lives are at risk. She doesn't come off as a vigilante, hunting out any perceived injustice, but she isn't passive to the extent of letting bystanders be hurt when she can help.

Mao Mao is manipulative and exploitative, making a friend based on her ability to give her relevant or potentially useful gossip or access to medical supplies, but she also has genuine affection for both Xiaolan and the Doctor, aiding them in situations where they require it and making active efforts to solve their problems. She acknowledges that she's being self serving but doesn't put them in uncomfortable positions or use them unfairly.

Mao Mao is curious and revels in unravelling mysteries, but never pushes it to an irreverence or carelessness of her position, or the impacts. She doesn't tear apart mysteries that could have tumultuous impacts on others just for her own satisfaction, and prioritises the prevention of further harm over amplifying the punishment. She doesn't fully expose the clinic or the conspiracy around Ah-Duo's child, because she's aware of the potential harm that 'justice' can lead to.

She's caring but conservative. She doesn't fawn over the new baby, but grows affectionate over time after repeated interaction. In fact, same with most of the attendants. She doesn't allow herself to be careless, doesn't overextend herself for them or sacrifice herself needlessly, but does consider their best interests and act accordingly.

She's self serving and opportunistic, frequently considering how to monetise of profit from various materials, techniques or excursions, but also willingly trades or shares secrets or methods with the people she's fond of, or people who would need it more/utilise it more effectively.

Mao Mao's characterisation is a scale where she actually winds up pretty average, because she keeps a level of conscious autonomy in a plot that allows her to be nuanced. She's never fully driven by her emotions in acting impulsively, but she doesn't feels dragged along by a complex plot, but instead everything builds to a satisfying interaction that feels realistic. Mao Mao and the plot are a Venn Diagram, where she has a realistic affect on the events around her, without feeling too large within the narrative or too skilled to be realistically countered.

#the apothecary diaries #maomao #i know a lot of this is obvious #but even with being told she was well written I was impressed and wanted to chatter #lovely character and world building in this one

145 notes · View notes

reveryfics · 2 months ago

Note

not scott this time. waaa

bucky x reader with a prosthetic ?

any reason why reader would have it is fine (born without said limb, military service?, or reader is a type of supersoldier aswell).

just fluff,, bonding because of it. maybe angst ? insecurities would definitely play in it. aaa

🪲 anon

Connections

Bucky Barnes x Male Reader

Summary: You knew Sam from your military service, a connection that persisted even after your discharge due to the loss of your arm. Now, he'd somehow persuaded you to meet his friend, convinced the introduction would be beneficial.

A/N: Way more dialog then planned, but enjoy.

TW: Fluff - Soft angst

The late afternoon hum within the coffee shop was a low, comforting drone, a stark contrast to the usual lunchtime rush. Sunlight slanted through the large front windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, thick with the rich, grounding aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sweet, buttery scent of pastries just pulled from the oven. You had chosen a booth tucked away near the entrance, a strategic vantage point that allowed you to keep an eye on the door. The worn vinyl of the seat conformed to your posture as you cradled a lukewarm mug, the ceramic warming your hands. Your gaze, however, was fixed on the glowing screen of your phone, your thumb tracing and retracing the lines of Sam’s last text, a digital reassurance that his friend was indeed on his way.

A soft sigh escaped your lips, a quiet exhale of the anxiety that had been tightening its grip all afternoon. Almost unconsciously, your other hand tugged at the cuff of your jacket, smoothing the fabric down to completely conceal the cool, matte finish of the metal and composite of your prosthetic arm. A prickling sensation crawled across your skin, the unwelcome feeling of phantom eyes boring into you, of hushed whispers dissecting your difference. You shifted uncomfortably, the silence amplifying your self-consciousness, until the gentle chime of the bell above the door announced a new arrival.

Your head snapped up, a genuine, albeit small, smile blossoming on your face. There, framed in the doorway, was Bucky Barnes. He was instantly recognizable from Sam’s description – the broad shoulders, the intense gaze – though his hair was shorter than you’d pictured. A pleasant surprise, you thought, the neat cut suiting his strong features. You pushed yourself up from the booth, the lingering tension in your shoulders easing slightly as Bucky’s eyes scanned the room, finally locking onto yours. He offered a warm smile in return as he navigated the few steps towards your table.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble, extending a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” you echoed, your own hand reaching out to meet his. The moment your hands met, a subtle awareness shifted in his eyes. His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to the smooth, cool surface of your prosthetic where it met his palm. Understanding dawned in his expression, a quiet acknowledgment of something Sam had perhaps intentionally left unsaid. It clicked – the reason for this somewhat unconventional setup.

“Can I get you something to drink?” you offered, the words tumbling out a little faster than intended, a nervous energy propelling you. “My treat.”

“Oh, no, I can grab something,” Bucky replied, a polite refusal in his tone.

“It’s really no problem,” you insisted, needing the small task, the brief reprieve from the intensity of the initial meeting. He seemed to sense your underlying unease, the subtle tremor in your voice. Instead of arguing, a knowing look crossed his face.

“Alright,” he conceded gently. “I’ll take a coffee then. Black, if they have it.”

“Perfect,” you said, already turning towards the counter, the movement a welcome distraction. As you walked away, Bucky pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen in a quick text to Sam: You uh… forgot to mention the arm.

The line at the counter was mercifully short. You ordered Bucky’s black coffee and impulsively asked for a refill of your own, the need for something to occupy your hands and calm the persistent flutter in your stomach overriding any concern about caffeine intake. Balancing the two steaming cups, you made your way back to the booth. You placed Bucky’s coffee in front of him and carefully set your fresh mug beside the nearly empty one you’d been nursing.

Bucky’s gaze fell on the discarded cup. “Sorry if I took too long,” he said, a hint of apology in his voice.

You waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, not at all. I was actually… incredibly early. Needed the caffeine to try and talk myself out of bolting.” A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped you.

Bucky let out a soft breath, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That… that makes a lot more sense now. Sam can be… subtle. Look, I’m not going to force you to stay, or even talk about… anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed in response, leaning back against the worn upholstery of the booth. “I appreciate that,” you said, meeting his gaze briefly before looking down at your new cup. “Honestly? If you don’t mind, I wouldn’t mind just… sitting in silence for a bit. Enjoying the company, so to speak.”

Bucky didn’t reply verbally, but the faint, reassuring smile that touched his lips spoke volumes. The comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle clatter of mugs and the low murmur of conversations around you.

Eventually, Bucky’s voice, a low thrum that seemed to vibrate through the quiet hum of the coffee shop, cut through the stillness. “You were military?” he asked, his tone neutral, almost hesitant.

You looked up from the swirling dark liquid in your mug, surprised by the question. You hadn’t expected him to broach the topic, especially not so directly. “Yeah,” you replied, your voice a little rougher than you intended. “Yeah, I uh… I was.” It felt strange to say it aloud to a stranger, your military service a chapter you mostly kept closed, the focus having been on moving forward, on adapting to a life that was irrevocably changed. Only Sam knew the details, the stories you’d shared in the quiet intimacy of your friendship.

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Sorry,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to his own cup. “I… I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

You shook your head, your hands coming up to rest on the tabletop, the cool ceramic a grounding presence beneath your fingertips. “It’s okay,” you said, meeting his eyes again. “I’m sure you had it way worse anyhow.” The words were out before you could fully process them, a reflexive attempt to deflect, to minimize your own experience in the face of his unspoken history.

A thoughtful silence fell between you. Bucky’s gaze was steady now, a quiet curiosity mingled with something akin to understanding. “The forties were… different,” he began, his voice low, almost a whisper. “No comparison to… whenever you served.”

You nodded, a small smile touching your lips as you thought back to your own boot camp experience. “Yeah, I can imagine. Though, some things are universal, I think. Like the sheer exhaustion. I remember meeting Sam… he was throwing up next to my bunk after our first full day of running in the desert heat. Looked like he was about to swear off physical activity for life.”

A genuine laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest, a warm, unexpected sound that eased some of the remaining tension in the air. “Sounds about right,” he chuckled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. The shared moment of levity seemed to bridge a small gap between you.

The atmosphere shifted, becoming a little more comfortable, a little more open. Bucky’s expression turned slightly more serious. “Would you… would you be okay sharing what happened with your arm?” he asked, his voice gentle, respectful. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

You hesitated for a moment, the question hanging in the air. It was still a raw subject, a constant reminder of a life irrevocably altered. But something about Bucky’s quiet sincerity, the unspoken understanding you sensed in him, made you nod. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I can talk about it.”

You took a slow breath, the memory still vivid, still sharp despite the passage of time. “It was… deployment,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. The coffee shop noise seemed to fade into the background as the memory took hold. “We were on patrol, just outside the wire. Routine. That’s what they always said. Routine. And then… there was this deafening sound, a flash of light… and then… nothing. Just… pain. So much pain. When I woke up… it was gone.” Your voice cracked, the carefully constructed wall of composure momentarily crumbling. You could still feel the phantom ache, the ghost of a limb that was no longer there. The sterile white of the medical tent, the hollow, pitying stares of the medics, the crushing weight of the realization – it all flooded back. You swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in your throat, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Just… gone.”

Bucky’s gaze was unwavering, filled with a profound empathy that mirrored the pain in your own heart. He knew that hollowness, that sudden, brutal absence. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice low and thick with emotion. “I understand… more than you know.”

You managed a weak smile, a watery acknowledgment of his words. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I figured. I think… I think that’s why Sam set this up. We both… felt a little alone in it, you know?” A small, shaky laugh escaped you. “But… talking to you… it actually… it helps. It’s like… a weight has lifted, just a little.”

A genuine smile spread across Bucky’s face, softening the hard lines of his jaw. “I feel the same way,” he admitted, his eyes warm. He paused for a moment, a hopeful glint in his gaze. “Hey… would you maybe want to… go for a walk? Get some fresh air?”

A chuckle bubbled up from your chest, a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. “Yeah,” you said, pushing yourself up from the booth. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

The autumn air was crisp and cool against your skin as you stepped out onto the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows that stretched and danced with each step. Leaves, in hues of fiery red, burnt orange, and golden yellow, crunched softly under your shoes as you and Bucky walked, an unspoken understanding guiding your aimless path. The sounds of the small town – the distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing in a nearby park – faded into a comfortable background noise. As dusk began to settle, painting the sky in shades of lavender and deep blue, you continued walking, the silence no longer charged with nervousness but filled with a quiet camaraderie.

Finally, Bucky broke the comfortable stillness. “I really enjoyed talking with you,” he said, turning his head slightly to meet your gaze. “Would you… would you want to do this again sometime?”

A genuine smile bloomed on your face. You turned to fully face him, the faint glow from a nearby streetlamp illuminating the warmth in your eyes. “I would love to,” you replied, the words honest and heartfelt.

A mutual smile lingered in the twilight between you, a silent agreement hanging in the cool evening air. The streetlights flickered to life, casting a soft, yellow glow on the sidewalk ahead. You fell back into a comfortable silence, the earlier anxieties replaced by a sense of unexpected ease. The crunch of fallen leaves beneath your feet became the soundtrack to your shared walk, each step in sync without conscious effort.

As you rounded a corner, the scent of woodsmoke hung faintly in the air, a nostalgic aroma that spoke of cozy evenings and crackling fireplaces. A gentle breeze rustled the remaining leaves on the trees, creating a soft, whispering sound. Bucky tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his gaze drifting towards the darkened windows of the houses you passed.

"It's beautiful here," he commented quietly, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of the evening. "The colors of the leaves... it reminds me of a time I almost forgot."

You glanced at him, intrigued. "A good memory, I hope?"

A faint, melancholic smile touched his lips. "Complicated," he admitted. "But… yeah. There was a certain beauty to it, even then." He didn't elaborate, and you sensed it wasn't a story he was ready to share, and you respected that unspoken boundary. You knew what it was like to hold stories close, guarding them against the casual curiosity of the world.

You shifted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "Autumn has always been my favorite," you said, your gaze drawn to the vibrant hues that still clung to some of the branches. "It feels like… a letting go, but also a promise of something new. A quiet kind of strength."

Bucky nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. "I can see that," he murmured.

You walked on in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, the rhythm of your steps a soothing presence. You noticed a small park ahead, the swings swaying gently in the breeze, the slide gleaming faintly under the streetlight.

"Do you want to maybe… sit for a bit?" you suggested, gesturing towards a nearby bench.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Bucky agreed.

You settled onto the cool metal of the bench, the night air a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the coffee shop. The park was deserted, lending a sense of peaceful solitude to the moment. The only sounds were the gentle creaking of the swings and the distant hum of the city.

Bucky leaned back against the bench, his gaze fixed on the star-dusted sky that was beginning to deepen into a velvety black. "You know," he said after a while, his voice soft, "Sam… he's a good friend."

"He is," you agreed, a warmth spreading through you at the thought of your steadfast companion. "Sometimes… a little too… enthusiastically helpful." A small smile played on your lips. "But always with the best intentions."

Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, I've gathered that. He can be… persistent."

"That's one word for it," you laughed quietly. "But I wouldn't trade him."

Another comfortable silence settled between you, this one feeling even more natural, more connected than before. You both seemed content to simply exist in each other's presence, sharing the quiet beauty of the autumn night.

After a while, Bucky turned to you, his expression earnest. "So," he began, a hint of a smile in his eyes, "about doing this again… are you thinking… coffee again? Or maybe something… less caffeinated?"

You met his gaze, a genuine warmth blossoming in your chest. "I'm open to suggestions," you replied, your smile mirroring his. "Though, I have to admit, your company was far more stimulating than the coffee."

A soft laugh escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that made your heart do a little flutter. "Well then," he said, his eyes twinkling slightly in the dim light, "how about we skip the coffee altogether next time? Maybe… dinner? If you're up for it."

The suggestion hung in the air, a tangible possibility that felt both exciting and surprisingly natural. You didn't hesitate.

"I'd like that very much, Bucky," you said, your voice sincere.

He smiled, a genuine, open smile that reached his eyes. "Great," he said, a sense of anticipation in his tone. "How about… Friday?"

"Friday sounds perfect," you agreed, a feeling of lightness washing over you. The loneliness that had been a constant companion for so long seemed to have receded, replaced by a flicker of something hopeful, something new. As you stood up from the bench, the cool night air no longer felt isolating, but rather, a shared space under the vast, star-filled sky. You walked back towards the main street with Bucky, the crunch of leaves under your feet a gentle reminder of the unexpected beauty that could be found in the quiet moments of connection.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x male reader #bucky x male reader #marvel bucky barnes #marvel x male reader #marvel #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #requested

114 notes · View notes

comatosebunny09 · 2 years ago

Text

clumsy | astarion a.

genre(s): romance, erotica (kinda sorta) warnings: blood drinking, dry humping, steaminess, terms of endearment (petal, sweetling), language summary: you get hurt. astarion helps the best way he knows how. spoiler: it's with his mouth. now playing: shirt - sza notes: based off the results for this poll. hope you all enjoy! thank you so much for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

It’s an accident.

Happens when your attention is siphoned by Shadowheart bidding you a “goodnight” over the firelight as she moves to retire to her tent.

You look up from your sword, the whetstone warm and textured in your hand, grinding across your blade in your lap as you offer her a smile.

You’re usually so attentive. So careful. Yet, tonight, you grossly misjudged your ability to multitask.

Shclink!

The cut is inevitable. Tears a hiss from betwixt your lips, and the whetstone plops to the ground along with the weighted thump of your weapon. You’re on your feet, nursing the angry, red line marring your palm. It buds with crimson, a pretty contrast to your skin.

“Hells!” cries Shadowheart, scrambling to your aid. She gently peels your hand away from your chest. Winces at the blood lazily spurring from your cut. A clean slice. Her voice holds concern when she looks up at you. “You’ll live. Would you like me to take care of it?”

Your lips quirk despite the pained knit of your brows. You draw your hand back, cradling it in your other. “Nah. Wouldn’t want you to waste your magic on something so small.”

“You’re sure?”

The tearing of your shirt fills the stilled space between you. Shadowheart blinks as you haphazardly wrap the scrap around your wound, mustering a reassuring smile. “I got it. I’ve had worse. You get some rest.”

Shadowheart smiles something unconvinced. Squeezes your shoulder. “You’ll come find me if you can’t staunch the bleeding?”

You nod, wary of the exhaustion hanging below her eyes. She examines you a moment longer before stepping around you and away from the warmth of the fire.

You watch Shadowheart retreat behind the flap of her tent. Left with the idle crackle of the campfire. Your hand throbs, your blood coloring the fabric you dressed it with.

You suck your teeth. Bend to retrieve your sword, cautiously setting it on the log you once occupied. You feel the hot trickle of your blood coasting down your fingertips. Hear it drip against the soil, the sound amplified in the stillness swallowing you.

You’ll need more than a bit of cloth to manage this.

Your gaze flits to your pack. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, contemplating downing a potion to mend your hand. Then, you spot Gale’s tent. You could trouble him for some help. But, again, you see no need to waste your companion’s magic on something so contrite. You won't die, after all. It’s just blood.

Just…

Blood.

Your mind suddenly sparkles with an idea. A mischievous one, but an idea, nonetheless.

You wipe your hands on your breeches, starting towards a familiar setup. And somehow, devilry sets your face alight along with the coppery glow of the moon.

You find him silhouetted by the moonlight. Curls of white mulling over the deckled pages of a book, seated on a stool at the mouth of his tent.

You’re not trying to be discreet. Feet crunch soundly through the dry grass, alerting the vampire to your presence. Though, you’re sure he could hear you from eons away.

Astarion doesn’t look up as he acknowledges you, concentration nestled amongst his features whilst he turns a page. “Well, hello, sweetling. Fancy a cud—dle?”

The book, once cradled in his palm, clatters to the ground.

His expression is bemused as you slide onto his lap, your legs dangling on either side of his waist. Your arms sluggishly encircle his neck, and your chests brush together, coaxing an undignified sound from his throat.

Astarion intuitively wraps your hips in the circle of his arms to keep you both from toppling over. Angles his neck to stare up at you. His mouth hangs open with an unasked question.

Your voice is light. Twinged with something seductive. Manipulative. “Astarion,” you sing-song.

“Petal?”

“I need you,” you state plainly.

His brows quirk. Quads tense beneath you. “You—what?”

You bite back a laugh. It isn’t often you catch Astarion so off guard. Typically, he’s the one dismantling your resolve with his forwardness.

“As much as I enjoy beating around the bush with you,” Astarion’s nose twitches as he samples the air with it. Vermilion eyes land on you, shining with the slightest bit of apprehension. “You’re bleeding.”

“Keen observation.” You shift upon his lap, thrusting your bloody hand into his face until he goes cross-eyed. “Mind cleaning it up?” It’s more of a demand than it is a request. Damn your innocent face.

Astarion’s mouth twitches. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Hunger wades below the depths of his irises whilst he glances between you and the blood seeping so enticingly through your impromptu bandage.

“Not going to tell me what’s happened?”

You shake your head, that devilish smile still twisting up your lips. “No time. I’m dying, Astarion. Save me. Saaave meee.” You drape your hand over your forehead and lean back to turn up the drama.

He scoffs at your theatrics, feigning aloofness despite his muscles twitching beneath you. “Fine.” Mumbles about being the cleanup crew as he unravels the cloth from your palm. Attentive and meticulous.

You flinch at the sticky pull of the dressing. The sting is immediately replaced by curiosity surfing along the shoreline of desire as Astarion appraises your wound.

He holds your hand between his. Looks at you with parted lips, saliva puddling in his cheeks. He licks his canines. His gaze holds a question. Offers an out as it chases the viscous fluid dribbling down your wrist.

Is this truly alright?

You nod, your breath held in your sternum.

Astarion studies you a moment longer before he delicately shackles your wrist in his hand, and his mouth pans in. His lashes shutter, and he groans something hoarse and feral as he presses his lips to the veins of your wrist. You flinch as if scorched by burning coal. How something as simple as a kiss could feel so sinful is beyond you.

You haven’t much time to linger on it because his tongue is sweltering and moving. Languid and obscene as it laps at the trail of crimson marring your skin. Astarion exhales appreciatively, his gaze sifting through his hunger to capture yours. He peppers your wrist with kisses, lips glistening a pretty red amid the moonlight.

You throb. Through hooded eyes, you watch your lover, your mouth parting with shallow breaths. A shudder filters through your bones, his lustful stare purposeful and unyielding.

He licks a torrid stripe up to your palm with a flattened tongue. Your fingers twitch with the need to touch. Thighs quiver. His wet mouth closes around your laceration with a raspy sound. Fangs graze the worn lines of your hand, and he sucks, drawing a bitten-off groan from your throat.

He feasts like he kisses. Stripping down your barriers, leaving you lightheaded and wanton. Swaying, and Astarion snakes an arm around your waist to keep you tethered to him. And a devious hand finds the globe of your ass and squeezes.

Your unoccupied hand curls around the base of his skull. Fingers comb through soft curls, and you press yourself impossibly closer to the rigid pane of his body. Your stomach spumes with heat. Somehow, your lover gorging himself on you turns your innards to mush.

Astarion moans. He fucking moans amid his sticky suckling, and you feel the sound stir something between your legs. He feels it, too, and he springs to life beneath the thick layers of his clothing, twitching against you.

Mindlessly, you bear your pelvis down on his. Sluggish like the drag of a tide, and Astarion hums his praise. He feels good. So wonderful, and you can’t help how your body instinctively writhes against his.

A few more languid rolls of your hips, and Astarion breaks away from your hand all too soon, heaving a breath as if resurfacing from water, his lips crooked with a smirk.

His mouth shines with your blood. Your ichor. And he greedily licks it up, not leaving a single morsel behind. The notion siphons your breath, and you feel like the most exalted thing. Hardly notice your skin gradually mending itself thanks to your lover’s attentiveness.

Once the lustful haze somewhat abates, Astarion’s chest rumbles with a chuckle as he draws you ever closer, sealing your body to his. “Tell me, petal. Surely, you didn’t come all this way just to provide me a midnight snack.“

His mouth drags along the slope of your neck, sending little warning shocks throughout your lower extremities. His throat crackles with a groan at the quickening of your pulse, teeth pinpricking your flesh.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” you husk, craning your head back to allow him more access. Still playing innocent as if you didn’t charm him into this wicked dance of bodies and tongues. “But whatever it is, I like where it’s going.”

Astarion chuckles, lips sealing around your throat and sucking.

Your responding gasp is wet and wanton.

And you find yourself thanking the Gods for your carelessness.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion imagine #astarion smut #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion fanfic

1K notes · View notes

bartyism · 1 year ago

Text

anything for you. theodore nott.

in a universe where voldemort won, you and theo risk everything.

reposted from my old account.

warnings: graphic death

pairing: theodore nott x ron weasley's twin sister!reader

“You can’t possibly love him, y/n. He’s a bloody Death Eater!” your brother had jeered at you. Hot tears ran down your face but you refused to wipe them. You wanted everyone in the room to see how deeply this was hurting you.

“I have never been more sure of something in my life. While you were gone – while everyone was gone – he was the only constant. He isn’t who you think he is.” The room broke out into a chorus of repulsed sounds. The Order of the Phoenix wasn’t much these days, the predominant members being the Weasley family. Harry Potter’s death loomed over everyone. Numerous other deaths piled on: those who died at the beginning of the war, but those who have died recently like your older brothers, Percy and George, and your father, Arthur.

“He thinks we’re scum! He would kill Hermione on the spot. How can you stand there and say this shit?” another brother had chimed in. Voices were starting to overlap the more trapped you felt.

“You’ve never given him or myself the chance to prove that’s not true! If you remember, Theo was the one who told me about everything Draco was doing back in school. He has already given us so much information. He’s climbing the ranks, but he is doing it for us!” you fell to your knees, exhaustion and frustration getting the best of you. “Can’t you see that even if he’s not doing it for all of you, he’s putting his life on the line trying to help secure a world that I feel safe in? You know how my beliefs align!”

“Has he stopped killing innocent people? Does he still partake in Voldemort’s plans that don’t necessarily target us? If he’s climbing the ranks, I can’t begin to imagine what he’s doing to do so,” your mother inquired, shooting daggers at you. You couldn’t look her in the eyes.

“He’s doing what he can to survive, too. If he dies, we will lose so much.” Without missing a beat, you added, “If he dies, I am as good as dead.”

This conversation, over a year old, still rings in your head every time you meet Theo. Your current setup in an old warehouse allowed these thoughts to amplify. The only sounds keeping you from spiraling were the rhythmic tapping of Ron’s foot and Bill’s pacing. You never got to see Theo alone, but that wasn’t a horrible thing.

Though you wanted nothing more than to have one evening alone with him, as selfish as that sounds given the climate of the world right now, the positive came in the form of the people who joined you on these exchanges and started to see through the cracks in Theo’s character. This hardened soldier who bears the Dark Mark turns into someone else in your presence. He is more patient and gentle, as compared to the man that numerous members of the Order have seen slaughter people in cold-bold, just to laugh at their frozen-in-death facial expressions.

You had noticed changes in Theo throughout the last few times you’d seen him. He was much more focused on you than the information they were there to exchange. He’d almost become frantic – dark circles that got darker every time you saw him circled his eyes, and his face had become much more caved in. He was starting to look as though he were actively being tortured. He didn’t look better this time around.

You sprang up from your spot when you heard the metal door grind against the floor, opening quicker than anticipated. Ron and Bill quickly put their wands up and took aim at Theo, refusing to put them down even when you yelled, “It’s just him!” Theo didn’t respond much better, raising his wand and aiming at Bill, who you knew Theo saw as more of a threat than Ron.

“Are you being followed? What made you come in here like that?” Bill growled, eyes flickering between Theo and the entrance. Theo narrowed his eyes at the older man.

“You think I would lead them straight here if I was? If it was just you two, sure. But, I would never do that with her here. Consider yourself lucky,” Theo spit.

“That’s enough. Are you alright?” you stated, briskly walking to your lover. Up close, you noticed faint bruising around his neck, as if he’d been choked. Theo didn’t say anything and instead, kept his eyes locked on the two men standing behind you. “Theo,” you trailed off, putting one hand on his cheek. You searched his eyes for any type of response, but you couldn’t find one.

“You don’t have much time,” he said, only loud enough that Ron and Bill were barely able to hear. You took a slight step back, still close enough that you could hold his hand – the hand that he couldn’t even bring himself to grasp in return.

“What?”

“The Dark Lord knows there’s a mole in his closest circle. He knows you are not dead, despite me telling him you were,” Theo said, finally making eye contact with you. Your mouth fell open and you held his hand tighter.

Theo lost his will to fight at that exact moment, letting his hand holding his wand fall to his side. He pulled you into him and rested his forehead against yours. “He knows you’re the mole?” you whispered.

“Not yet, but I can’t imagine it taking much longer. His eyes are set on Berkshire – thinks he’s gotten scared now that his mother died. I was able to ward him off me for the time being. I told him that I wasn’t the one to kill you, I just saw you get hit with a nasty spell.”

“Come with us before it’s too late, Theo. How many times do I have to beg you? Turn your back on it all. We can keep you protected.” you pleaded, looking back at your brothers for reassurance. Bill shook his head before Ron chose to speak.

“He is not coming back with us. Do you know what kind of target that would place on us? It would be a death sentence,” he spit. “With that Dark Mark, I’m sure Voldemort could summon you back to him at any given second,” he added. You spun around to confront him but Theo was quicker – he grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into him.

“I wasn’t planning on it, Weasley,” Theo said with such spite behind his words that it made you want to cower away from him. He looked down at you, asking you a silent question. You bit your lip in thought, looking over at your brothers.

“Could you guys give us a minute to ourselves? Just stand guard at the door.” With a few grumbles, you were able to convince them to leave. As soon as the door shut, you wrapped your arms around Theo as tight as you could, reassuring yourself that he was here with you and still alive. For how much longer he would be alive, no one was certain.

“You can leave them. Even if you don’t take refuge with us, you can escape,” you pleaded. Theo softly shook his head and pressed his lips to your forehead.

“No, y/n, I can’t. I’m bound to him until one of us dies. I…” he trailed off. You frantically started shaking your head at him and he sighed. “We knew this was going to happen.”

“You might have known. I held out hope,” you cried. Theo grabbed your chin gently, using the other hand to wipe away the stray tears. “Promise me you won’t die.”

“Y/n…”

“Promise me, Theo.”

His response never came. Theo pulled you into him and kissed you so tenderly, that it was beyond out of character for him. You knew this was the end. He softly ran his hands down your sides, over your back, anywhere they could grasp. It felt as though he was trying to remember the exact shape of your body. He eventually tried to pull away, but in return, you softly bit his lip and pulled him back in.

Theo couldn’t bring himself to let go of you. You were intoxicating in a way that no drug or drink could replicate. Not breaking the kiss, Theo hoisted you onto a table that was just behind you. Laying you down on it, he kept kissing you. Along your jaw, down your neck – Theo kissed you anywhere with an exposed bit of skin. You couldn’t stop yourself from crying, to which Theo then kissed away your tears. When he was finished, he pulled you up into a sitting position.

“Love, you are the only thing in this short existence of mine that I’ve ever been sure of. When I die, I can die happily because I knew you. I got to love you.” Theo whispered, his voice cracking as he professed to you. You leaned your forehead against him, looking him straight in the eye.

“Try to survive, Theo, please. For me,” you pleaded. Theo nodded briefly but was interrupted by a banging on the door.

“Hurry up, it’s getting dark. We need to leave,” Bill’s voice called out. Bill and Ron both reappeared in the room, looking at the two of you expectantly.

“We need to leave, and you still haven’t given us what we came for,” Bill sighed. Theo tensed and pulled himself away from you, putting his facade back on as if it were a costume. Part of you wished he didn’t, just so they could see the real him.

“The Dark Lord plans to raid Hogsmeade, again. You need to make sure everyone is evacuated. He doesn’t plan on ever having to raid them again. In two days, if you don’t create a plan, everyone still living there will be dead.”

“And will you be one of the Death Eaters killing those people?” Ron inquired.

“If it means that it keeps me alive, and keeps a steady stream of information coming to you, yes. I have never been unclear with my intentions.” Theo said. He was significantly taller than Ron, forcing the redhead to look up at him as Theo walked closer to him, slowly.

“We don’t have time for this,” Bill said, getting visibly anxious. “We’re leaving,” Bill added, grabbing you and Ron both by the arm.

Everything happened so fast after that – you reached out for Theo, but he backed away from you and you could’ve sworn you saw a tear run down his face. Just like that, you were whisked away, Bill choosing that moment to apparate. You didn’t get to say goodbye; you didn’t get to tell him you loved him for the last time.

Three days later, after their failed attempt at raiding Hogsmeade, you and your family watched in horror as Voldemort was broadcasting yet another round of executions. This wasn’t the first time this had happened – the first time being with his son, Mattheo, a boy you had known in school. You can’t recall the exact reason for his death, but it set a standard. If Voldemort would kill his child in such ways, what would he do to others?

You held your breath as the camera view panned down the small row of people awaiting their death. You felt the wind get knocked out of you when you caught sight of him.

The boy you loved was there, his eyes already dead. His appearance was, somehow, much worse than when you had last seen him. The bruising around his neck that had almost been healed was now back in full display, accompanied by bruises all over his face. He had blood dried around his mouth and nose, and his left eye was so swollen that it looked completely closed. Something told you that death was merciful compared to what he had been put through.

Voldemort rambled on about the first three men, killing them quickly. His smile never failed, especially when he turned to the last victim: Theo.

“Theodore Nott, what would your father say?” He teased. He pulled a wand out of the box that a servant of his carried at his side. Raising it, you recognized it to be Theo’s. Voldemort snapped it in half, causing a slight flinch to radiate off Theo.

“Stupidly fell in love with a dirty blood traitor, one of those Weasleys. He’s acted as an agent for them this entire time, but of course, I knew from early on. We’ve played a brilliant game of cat and mouse, haven’t we, Nott?” Voldemort, again, laughed. Every muscle in Theo’s body was tensed up and he never lifted his face to look at the crowd that had gathered or the cameras broadcasting the event.

Noticing Theo's aversion to looking at the crowd, Voldemort ran his fingers through Theo's hair before yanking it back, forcing him to look up. Theo grimaced but finally looked straight at the camera. His good eye bore through you, sending your heart straight to the bottom of your stomach.

You started sobbing, sliding off the couch and crawling towards the hologram showing the entire scene. “Please,” you gasped. Hermione sat behind you, pulling you into her, but you fought her off.

“You were special to me,” Voldemort sighed and raised his wand. You grabbed whatever was closest to you – in this case, a plate someone had been eating off of earlier – and threw it through the hologram. The sound of your sobs and the plate exploding against the wall ricocheted around the hideout.

Another one of your older brothers, Charlie, moved Hermione aside and restrained you. Without doing so, you would’ve hurt yourself or someone else. “Get off me,” you repeatedly screamed, thrashing around on the ground.

Charlie was able to hold you in place on the ground, holding you facedown on the carpet with your arms pinned behind your back. To your horror, you turned your head to the side just in time to see a green light encase Theo in its grip.

The cry you let out was movie-worthy. Using all of your strength, you burst out of Charlie’s grip and jumped up, turning on your surviving family members. “He died for us. He died for us and our cause. You never gave him a chance and never wanted to offer help in return,” you sobbed. Hermione came back to your side and held you in her arms.

You didn’t fight back this time. You sat in her arms and sobbed. You couldn’t stop sobbing as you looked back at the hologram and it was panned to Theo’s dead body. It zoomed in on his face as if to hurt you even more. You watched as Voldemort whispered a simple charm, and flames consumed Theo’s body.

“I hope the Weasleys watching this enjoyed the show. While you watched this we have surrounded your hideout. Even Nott’s Occlumency he worked so hard on for you couldn’t keep me out. Perhaps it’s good that you never trusted him with your exact location, or else this would’ve happened long ago.” Voldemort smiled, and the hologram shut off. There was no noise in the room other than your silent sobs.

Then, the first window exploded.

629 notes · View notes

comfortingevanbuckley · 3 months ago

Note

#this is where i have been since that sunday once i read a cameo of his again#i have never been more sure it was a set up since and i stand by my feelings

Ooooh Elizabeth, I'd love your thoughts on this, as a journalist yourself. What do you mean by setup?

Now I will answer this with the caveat this is all my own opinion. I will admit I could be wrong but considering how things played out, my suspicions have only been amplified.

But having done interviews before, I know how important it is to get things correct and to make sure you and the subject are on the same page. There is a responsibility there to both readers and the subject to get things correct. I am sure that I at one point did send an article to a rep to make sure they were okay with it.

Calling it an exit interview was premature and it only served to rile up their base. Depending on how it was pitched to Lou, he may not have considered it an exit interview. And if it was done purely to spite fans, then you basically gave other journalists a bad name.

#elizabeth answers asks

72 notes · View notes

thewertsearch · 10 months ago

Text

You have been completely hornswoggled. This whole thing was a setup from the start. A trap deployed by a cunning mastermind. All of the clues are adding up. The blood. The note. The flagrant displays of tricksterism and japery. The identity of the puppetmaster behind all of this is now painfully obvious to you.

Glad you've caught on. Now let's-

Spidertroll.

The fuck?

I understand why you'd be tunnel-visioning on Vriska here - but come on, girl. Gamzee's literally waving a puppet in your face. You're actively deflecting the damn thing, so who do you think is holding it?

Why is the normally astute Terezi so blind to Gamzee's presence - and, more broadly, the telltale signs of his influence? She's clearly capable of perceiving the signs themselves - the blood, the note, the japes - but for some reason, she can't connect them to the obvious culprit.

This feels like an unnatural lapse in Terezi's judgement, which makes me wonder if Gamzee's using his as-yet-unrevealed Aspect power on her. Maybe he's amplifying Terezi's 'rage' against Vriska, to the point where she's psychologically incapable of focusing on anything else.

That said, I'm not sure if this interpretation of his powers is compatible with Karkat's description of the Black King fight. Gamzee clearly dealt an enormous amount of damage to the King, rather than inflicting some sort of Rage debuff...

...but at the same time, John's recently expressed his Breath powers in multiple different ways. If his Title ability can be this flexible, then who knows what the Bard of Rage is truly capable of.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #s151 #3723

177 notes · View notes

yunholic-jongholic · 4 months ago

Text

Bound to the Bosses [Part 3] | C.JH x Reader x J.YH

SUMMARY | At the age of 20, you surrendered your freedom to a former mafia gang in exchange for a secure life and all your needs met. You pledged your existence to two of the members, Choi Jongho and Jeong Yunho, who managed the leading underground strip club and took you under their wing. They both permit you to perform on weekend nights, but once the lights go out and the workday ends, you belong solely to both of them.

PAIRINGS | Jongho x Fem!Reader x Yunho

RATING | Mature, 18+, NSFW, MDNI!!!

CONTENT WARNINGS | Mean Dom!Jongho, Strip Club Setting, NSFW, SMUT, ANGST, Explicit Content, Cursing, Weapon Use, Bruises, Mentions of Blood, Death and Harming, Mentions of Injuries, Unprotected Sex (Don't Do That...), Marking, Creampie, || I might be missing some, my editor died on me because she got the flu right now. :') ||

WORD COUNT | 7.4k

AUTHOR NOTE | This one is more Jongho-focused. Like I said in the last chapter. Next chapter will go back to being 2HO focused... ;)

TAG LIST | @mingisleftnipple

•

Your gut told you this was a bad idea. That if Hongjoong found out you were following them, there would be hell to pay.

But you didn’t care.

Yunho was going into this alone—or at least, that’s what Hongjoong had ordered. But it was clear Yeosang and Wooyoung weren’t going to just let him walk into danger by himself. They were involved now, which meant you had even less reason to stay behind.

You had a car. You barely ever used it, considering Yunho and Jongho always made sure you had everything you needed. But tonight, it served a purpose.

Carefully, you trailed them at a distance, keeping your headlights dim as you followed their car through the darkened streets. The city was eerily quiet at this hour, amplifying the tension that sat heavily in your chest.

You didn’t know what you were expecting when they finally reached their destination, but the place they stopped at sent a chill down your spine.

An abandoned warehouse.

Classic.

You pulled over a short distance away, parking in the shadows where you wouldn't be seen. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as you watched Yunho and Yeosang jump out of their car, moving quickly and quietly toward the entrance.

They’re sneaking in.

That meant this wasn’t a simple exchange. It wasn’t a negotiation.

This was an ambush.

Your heart pounded as you watched them disappear inside, your mind racing with possibilities. If Jongho was inside, what condition would he be in? Were they expecting Yunho and the others? Was this a setup?

You had no answers. But you did know one thing—

You weren’t about to sit in the car and wait.

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath before quietly stepping out, making sure to stay in the shadows. If Yunho and the others were going in, you needed to find a way to stay close—without getting caught.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a dull glow over the abandoned warehouse, you let out a quiet sigh. The rising sun meant time was slipping away—if Yunho and Yeosang were inside, things were already happening.

You couldn’t afford to waste another second.

Your eyes scanned the building frantically until you noticed it—a slightly creaked-open window near the side of the structure. Perfect.

You whispered the word under your breath, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. The last thing you needed was for a stray guard or lookout to catch you snooping around.

The window wasn’t too high, but high enough that you needed something to help you climb. Your eyes flicked toward a rusted metal crate nearby, likely used for storage back when this place was still functional. Without hesitation, you ran toward it, gripping the edges tightly before dragging it beneath the window.

It groaned under your weight as you carefully stepped on top, testing if it would hold. Thankfully, it did.

Now came the tricky part.

Reaching up, you placed your hands against the edge of the window, pushing it open just enough to squeeze through. Your heart pounded as you hoisted yourself up, legs scrambling slightly before you managed to slip inside.

The inside of the warehouse was dark, the only source of light coming from the high, dirt-covered windows. Dust swirled in the air, and the distant echoes of footsteps sent a chill down your spine.

You had made it inside.

Now, you just had to find Yunho and Yeosang—before something went terribly wrong.

Your body tensed as you crouched behind a stack of old crates, desperately trying to steady your breathing. No weapons. No plan. And now, you’re trapped inside an enemy hideout.

You had known sneaking in was reckless, but hearing those words—

"The boss said he’ll have that stupid club owner killed by tonight. He just needs a few more answers out of him."

Your stomach twisted violently. Jongho.

They were planning to kill him.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, biting down on your lip to keep from making any noise. Your heartbeat pounded so hard you were sure they could hear it.

The two men continued walking, their heavy boots scraping against the concrete floor as they passed your hiding spot. You kept completely still, watching their silhouettes move deeper into the warehouse.

Think, think, think! You needed a weapon. Anything.

Your eyes flickered around the dimly lit space. There was nothing immediately useful near you—just empty crates, broken metal scraps, and dust-covered tools. But then, you spotted it—

A rusted crowbar leaning against the wall a few feet away.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Swallowing hard, you waited for the men’s footsteps to fade before carefully crawling toward it, fingers trembling as you reached out. The cold metal felt heavy in your hands, a crude but necessary defense.

You took a deep breath, gripping it tightly.

You had to find Yunho and Yeosang.

And more importantly—

You had to get Jongho out before it was too late.

The dim glow of dawn barely seeped into the warehouse, leaving you surrounded by nothing but darkness and the faint echo of distant footsteps. Your grip tightened around the crowbar as you stared at the sealed door in front of you.

This had to be it.

Jongho has to be in there.

Your breath was uneven, anxiety creeping into your chest as you positioned the crowbar against the rusted lock. There was no time to hesitate. With a deep breath, you swung—

CLANG.

The impact sent vibrations up your arms, but the lock held.

You gritted your teeth and swung again. And again. Your hands were shaking, sweat forming at your temples as you forced every ounce of strength into breaking the lock.

Finally—

CRACK.

The lock snapped, the broken metal falling to the ground with a dull clink. You barely gave yourself time to process before pushing the door open, its rusty hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The room was dark, but not enough to hide the figure slumped against the chair in the center.

Jongho.

Your stomach dropped at the sight of him. His arms were tied behind his back, his head hanging forward. Blood stained his once-clean shirt, cuts littering his skin.

For a terrifying moment, he didn’t move.

“Jongho?” you whispered, your voice shaky as you stepped forward.

Silence.

Panic flared in your chest as you rushed toward him, your hands reaching out to touch his face, his jawline bruised from the obvious beating he had taken.

Then—he stirred.

A low groan escaped his lips as his eyes fluttered open, sluggish and unfocused. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive.

“Y/N…?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Relief washed over you so fast you almost felt dizzy.

“I’m getting you out of here,” you whispered urgently, already fumbling with the ropes binding his wrists. Your hands were shaking, your adrenaline spiking as you worked quickly.

But then—

Heavy footsteps echoed from outside the door.

Your blood ran cold.

You weren’t alone anymore.

Jongho groaned, barely able to lift his head, but his words were firm. "Go... Get out of here."

You ignored him, gripping the crowbar tightly as you frantically tried to tear the knots apart. Your fingers burned from the effort, but you weren’t about to leave him here.

“I am not leaving you to die out here!” you hissed, desperation creeping into your voice. “Yunho and Yeosang are here too! We’re getting you out—”

Then, movement.

A dark shadow cast itself against the dim lighting in the hallway. Someone was coming.

Your body stiffened, and instinct took over. You ran, pressing yourself against the wall behind a stack of crates just as the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside; his boots heavy against the concrete.

"I heard someone in here," he muttered.

You clenched your jaw, biting your lip to keep your breathing silent. Your hands trembled, fingers tightening around the crowbar. If he found you, you were dead, but you were going to fight back.

The man’s attention turned to Jongho. You watched in horror as he pulled a dagger from his pocket, its sharp blade gleaming under the dim light.

"Where are they?" he demanded, pressing the cold metal against Jongho’s throat.

Your breath caught in your throat. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Jongho, despite his battered state, didn’t flinch. He simply glared at the man, his jaw tightening as he leaned away from the blade rather than giving in.

He wasn’t going to sell you out.

But if you didn’t act fast, you were about to watch him die.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, every instinct screaming at you to move. You had seconds—maybe less—to make a decision.

Stay hidden and hope for a chance to escape? Or take the risk and fight?

Your heart pounded in your chest as the man’s gaze swept across the room, searching for you. Think fast, move faster.

You stayed low, silently maneuvering behind Jongho’s chair, using the dim lighting to your advantage. With careful steps, you crept toward the other side of the room, positioning yourself directly behind the man.

He was still searching—still unaware.

This was your chance.

Gripping the crowbar so tightly that your knuckles turned white, you swung with every ounce of strength in your body.

CRACK!

The metal struck the side of his head with a sickening thud. The impact sent him crashing to the ground, his body limp as he groaned in pain, barely conscious.

Adrenaline surged through you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you rushed forward, slamming the door shut and locking it from the inside.

Your chest heaved as you turned back toward Jongho, rushing to his side, your hands working quickly to free him from the restraints.

“I told you to leave!” Jongho snapped, his voice raw with anger.

You glared at him, your hands still fumbling with the knots. “And I told you I’m not leaving you to die!” you shot back, your voice just as fierce.

Jongho’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t argue this time. He just exhaled sharply, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re insane,” he muttered under his breath.

You scoffed, yanking the last knot loose. “And you’re welcome.”

As soon as the restraints fell away, Jongho groaned, rolling his stiff shoulders before slowly standing. He was still weak, still bruised and had deep cuts on his arms, but his presence was just as commanding as ever.

But before either of you could say another word—

A loud banging echoed against the door.

More were coming.

You looked at Jongho, hissing at him. “We have to go—now.”

You grabbed Jongho’s arm, ignoring his grunts of protest, and ran. The sound of frantic footsteps and muffled curses echoed behind you, but you didn’t stop. Your only focus was getting out alive.

Ducking back into the darkened part of the warehouse, you dragged Jongho toward the same hiding spot you had used earlier. You both pressed yourselves against the crates, your breath shallow, adrenaline still pumping through your veins.

Then, movement from the other side of the hallway caught your eye.

Yunho and Yeosang.

Your stomach flipped as you saw them armed guns drawn, daggers glinting under the dim lighting. They were ready to kill.

“Y/N?!”

Yunho’s furious voice rang out the second he spotted you. His eyes were wide, filled with a mix of disbelief and rage.

Shit.

You barely had time to react before Yeosang shoved him against the wall, slamming a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up,” Yeosang hissed under his breath, his sharp eyes scanning the area. “They’ll hear us.”

Yunho’s glare could’ve burned a hole through the wall, but he listened, jaw clenched as he yanked Yeosang’s hand away.

Your heart pounded as you peered over the crates. More men were storming the hallway, searching, their weapons drawn. They knew someone was here.

Jongho exhaled shakily beside you, his body still weak, but his mind sharp. “We need to move now,” he murmured under his breath. “If they find us, we’re dead.”

You nodded, glancing back at Yunho and Yeosang. Yeosang gave a quick, silent signal—on my count.

One… two…

Three.

Your heart pounded as you ran, every muscle in your body screaming for you to move faster. The dimly lit warehouse echoed with distant shouts—they knew you were here.

Yeosang and Yunho were right behind you, covering your backs as you and Jongho pushed forward. Every second counted.

Then—a door.

Your eyes locked onto the heavy metal exit leading outside. Wasting no time, you jammed the crowbar against the handle, trying to pry it open. The rusted metal groaned under the pressure, but it wasn’t budging fast enough.

"Move," Yunho grunted, stepping beside you. Together, you slammed the crowbar into the door, forcing it open with sheer strength.

The second the door gave way, the cold morning air hit your face like a shock to the system.

"Go!" Yeosang ordered.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed Jongho’s arm again, dragging him forward as you all sprinted out of the building.

Gunfire erupted behind you, bullets ricocheting off the metal doors.

"Shit—GET IN THE CARS!" Yunho barked.

Jongho, still weak, stumbled slightly as you guided him toward your vehicle. Yunho and Yeosang split off, covering the retreat, their weapons raised.

Your hands trembled as you yanked the car door open, practically shoving Jongho into the passenger seat. His breathing was heavy, but he was alive.

You jumped into the driver’s seat, your fingers fumbling as you started the engine. Yunho and Yeosang weren’t far behind, diving into their own car as more men spilled out of the warehouse, weapons drawn.

Tires screeched against the pavement as you floored the gas, speeding off into the rising morning sun.

Your pulse was still racing, adrenaline making your hands unsteady on the wheel. You risked a glance at Jongho. He was slumped against the seat, eyes half-lidded, exhausted but watching you.

"You really don’t listen, do you?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

You let out a shaky breath, gripping the wheel tighter. "And you should know by now, Jongho," you said, your voice steady, "I don’t leave people behind."

"You’re badly injured," you murmured, keeping your focus on the road as you drove back toward the club. The rising sun barely lit the empty streets, but the tension in the car was suffocating enough to make you forget the time of day.

Jongho let out a dry chuckle, rolling his eyes despite the pain written all over his face. "Shit, really? Hadn’t noticed." His voice was hoarse, laced with sarcasm, but even that couldn’t hide how weak he sounded.

You sighed, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Seriously, Jongho. You’re in bad shape. I think we should take you to a hospital—"

“No.” His voice came sharp, snapping through the air like a whip.

You turned to look at him, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark with something unreadable.

"I’m fine," he said again, more controlled this time, but just as firm. "No hospitals."

You swallowed hard, watching as he exhaled through his nose, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Jongho had always been stubborn—too strong-willed for his own good. But this wasn’t just stubbornness. It was fear.

You wanted to push him, to argue, but before you could say anything, you pulled up to the club.

Yunho and Yeosang were already outside, waiting. The moment you parked, Yunho yanked open the door, his eyes scanning Jongho’s condition.

"Fucking hell," Yunho muttered, looking between you and Jongho. "Took you long enough." Yeosang exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "He needs medical attention."

Jongho groaned, already tired of the conversation. "I said I’m fine." Yunho shot you a look, then back at Jongho. "Yeah? And what happens when you aren’t fine?" His tone was laced with frustration, but underneath that, there was something softer. Concern.

Jongho sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. "Just get me inside."

You bit down on your lip, glancing at Yunho and Yeosang before nodding. Whether he liked it or not, you were going to make sure Jongho got help. Even if it wasn’t a hospital, he wasn’t walking away from this without being taken care of.

"Well, at least let’s get inside and clean you up," you sighed, finally accepting that Jongho wasn’t going to a hospital—for now.

Jongho didn’t argue, which was rare. He was exhausted, his body weakened from whatever hell he had been through. His usual stubbornness wasn’t as sharp as before, and you took that as a silent sign that he was barely holding himself together.

You moved to his side, looping an arm around him to help him out of the car. He grumbled under his breath but didn’t push you away, leaning on you just enough to stay steady.

Yunho and Yeosang followed closely behind as you made your way into the club, making sure no one was watching as you led Jongho upstairs.

It was morning now, but thankfully, the club was empty. No customers, no distractions. And more importantly—you didn’t have to work tonight.

Small mercies.

When you finally reached Jongho’s room, you helped him ease down onto the bed, his body slumping against the mattress with a heavy sigh. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles bruised, his lip split. The fresh cuts and dried blood on his skin made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You turned to Yunho and Yeosang, who stood in the doorway, tension still thick in the air. "I’ll clean him up," you said quietly, not wanting to fight any more about it.

Yunho held your gaze for a second, his jaw tightening before he exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I’ll go check in with Hongjoong before he burns the damn place down."

Yeosang nodded, already heading toward the door. "Let us know if he gets worse," he murmured before following Yunho out.

The door shut, leaving just you and Jongho in the dimly lit room.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves. "Alright," you muttered, grabbing a first-aid kit from the nearby cabinet. "Let’s clean you up before you actually pass out on me."

Jongho smirked faintly, though it barely reached his tired eyes. "You really don’t know how to leave things alone, do you?"

You scoffed, wetting a cloth with warm water before sitting beside him. "And you don’t know how to stop getting yourself into trouble."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, wincing as you gently dabbed the cloth against a fresh cut on his temple. His smirk faded slightly, and for the first time since getting him out, his guard lowered just a little.

"…Thanks for coming for me," he muttered under his breath.

Your hands stilled for a brief moment before you resumed your careful movements.

"Always," you whispered, not needing to say anything more. After finishing up with Jongho’s bandages, you quietly left his room to grab more gauze and supplies from your own. The exhaustion was finally settling in, your body aching from everything that had happened.

But as you stepped back into the hallway, voices caught your attention. You stilled, pressing yourself against the wall just out of sight, listening closely.

"We need to block this place up, and I need you and Mingi to keep anyone from coming in these next few days." Seonghwa’s voice was firm, calculated, the way it always was when things were serious.

"Alrighty," San responded casually, but there was an edge to his tone. Even he knew this wasn’t just another order—it was lockdown mode.

You peeked around the corner just enough to see San nod before walking off to find Mingi. They were going to be stationed downstairs, guarding the entrance. Your stomach twisted.

What exactly were they preparing for?

You sighed, shaking your head before heading back into Jongho’s room. He was still lying in bed, his breathing slow and heavy. His body was completely still now, his exhaustion finally taking over.

You walked up beside him, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm, checking to make sure his wounds were wrapped properly. He stirred slightly at the touch but didn’t wake up.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. Despite all the chaos, despite everything that had happened—he was safe. Leaning in slightly, you whispered, “Good night, Jongho.”

He didn’t respond, already slipping into unconsciousness, but that was okay. He needed the rest. You turned, stepping out of the room as quietly as possible before making your way back to your own. The second you laid down; sleep took you instantly.

Whatever was coming next, you would deal with it tomorrow.

The dim lighting in the room cast a soft glow over Jongho’s sleeping form as you quietly stepped inside. The weight of exhaustion still lingered in your body, but checking up on him felt more important than resting.

You approached his bedside, your gaze falling to his bandaged arms and bruised face. He looked better than before, but the sight of him still made your heart clench.

Carefully, you reached out and placed your hand over his, your fingers barely brushing against his skin. His warmth was reassuring, a silent confirmation that he was still here—still breathing. Then, a quiet sigh.

You froze as Jongho stirred, his chest rising and falling with a deep inhale before his eyes slowly blinked open.

For a moment, he looked dazed, his mind still caught between sleep and reality. Then, his gaze locked onto you, dark eyes staring directly into yours. You weren’t sure what to say. You had no reason to be here, not really. But instead of pulling away, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze. "You're awake..." you murmured softly.

Jongho exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. His fingers twitched slightly beneath yours, but he didn’t move away. He just kept looking at you, his tired gaze filled with something unspoken.

"Yeah," he finally muttered, his voice raspy from sleep. "I guess I am." Silence stretched between you both, heavy but not uncomfortable.

There was something about this moment—the quiet, the stillness—that felt different. A rare vulnerability that neither of you acknowledged but both understood.

And for once, Jongho didn’t fight it.

Neither did you.

Jongho’s tired eyes flickered to you as you sat beside him on the bed. “Would you like anything? Water? Food?” you asked, your voice soft with concern.

He blinked slowly, looking around the room as if debating his answer before shaking his head. “No. I’m fine.”

You sighed, crossing your arms. Typical Jongho. Stubborn as ever.

“Well, I’m hungry, so I’m getting food,” you huffed, standing up. He didn’t argue, simply watching you as you left the room.

Making your way downstairs, you expected the club to be buzzing with energy, but instead, it was eerily quiet. No music, no loud conversations. Just the distant hum of the city outside.

You stepped into the kitchen and immediately spotted Yunho sitting alone at the table, a cold stare fixated on something unseen. His fingers tapped idly against the surface, lost in thought.

You hesitated for a moment before grabbing some leftovers from the fridge. Maybe he needed company.

“I’ll join you, if you don’t mind…” you said casually, sitting next to him as you placed your food down.

Yunho’s eyes slowly shifted to you, observing for a second before he nodded slightly. He didn’t say anything at first, simply watching as you took a bite of your food.

After a beat of silence, he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Checking up on Jongho?” he asked, his tone unreadable. You nodded. “Yeah. He woke up. Stubborn as always, but at least he’s awake.”

Yunho scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “That bastard would rather bleed out than admit he needs help.” You smirked. “Sounds familiar.”

Yunho shot you a look but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His expression was more serious now, as if debating something.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “This whole situation with Jongho… something’s off.” You paused mid-bite, setting your fork down. “What do you mean?”

Yunho’s jaw tensed. “The way they took him. It wasn’t just about revenge. They needed something from him. And now that we got him back… I don’t think we’re in the clear yet.”

A chill ran down your spine. You hadn’t thought about that. You had been so focused on getting Jongho back that you hadn’t questioned why they took him in the first place. Yunho’s eyes met yours, dark and serious. “I think they got what they wanted.”

Yunho’s words hung heavy in the air, but before you could respond, you took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts.

"I overheard something when I was spying on them," you admitted, your fingers idly pushing the food around on your plate. "They wanted to exchange the guy you killed that night… for Jongho’s life in return."

Yunho’s posture stiffened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

You swallowed hard. "I assume they think Jongho was the one who killed the guy since he was last seen with him. Before… before you must have found him and killed him yourself."

The weight of it all settled onto your shoulders, making your stomach churn. The pieces were coming together, but the truth was worse than you imagined.

Jongho had been taken as a scapegoat.

Because of Yunho.

A heavy silence filled the kitchen. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, your hands tightening into fists in your lap.

Then, after a long pause, you heard it—

"I’m sorry."

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as you flickered your gaze up to him.

Yunho sighed, running a hand down his face before leaning back in his chair, looking exhausted. "I mean it," he muttered. "Jongho got caught up in my mess. And you… you almost got killed trying to fix it."

You stared at him, still processing the fact that Yunho—Yunho—was actually apologizing to you. The man who never admitted fault, who always brushed things off like they didn’t matter.

For the first time, he looked like he regretted something.

A part of you wanted to be mad at him. A part of you wanted to tell him that he was reckless, that Jongho didn’t deserve this, that you didn’t deserve to be dragged into it.

But instead, you just exhaled softly, shaking your head.

"I just… I don’t want anyone else getting hurt," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Yunho nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. But there was something different in his eyes. Something softer.

"We’ll make sure of that," he said firmly. "No matter what. But I want you to stay out of it. Me and Jongho can afford to lose you." He coughs trying to go back to his tough mean old self.

You hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice softer now, laced with curiosity and something deeper concern.

“What… what made you choose this lifestyle?” you asked, your eyes drifting down to his hands. They were scarred, roughened by years of fighting, of survival. You had never seen Yunho like this before—his usual cold and cocky demeanor stripped away, leaving something much softer underneath. Something real.

Yunho tensed slightly, his fingers twitching against the table as he leaned back in his chair.

"What do you mean…?" he muttered, attempting to play dumb, but you saw right through it.

You sighed, shaking your head. "You seem like someone who was forced into this. Like… this wasn’t always who you were." Your voice was quieter now, careful. "What were you like in the past? Were you always like this?"

Yunho didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his jaw tightened, and for the first time, he looked almost… uncomfortable.

You studied his face, searching for a reaction, and there it was—the flicker of something in his eyes. Something he was trying to hide. You leaned in slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t think you were."

Yunho’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, exhaling through his nose as he looked away. His fingers drummed against the table, a rare moment of hesitation from him.

"You ask too many damn questions," he muttered, but his tone lacked its usual sharpness. It wasn’t an insult. It was deflection. You stayed silent, waiting.

Yunho’s silence lingered as you pushed back your chair with a little too much force.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll leave you alone,” you huffed, your voice clipped with frustration.

You grabbed your plate, barely finishing your food, and tossed it in the garbage with a dull thud. Without another glance at Yunho, you turned and walked away, leaving him at the table, lost in his own thoughts. You didn’t have the energy to press him further. Not now. Instead, you found yourself gravitating back toward Jongho’s room.

When you entered, Jongho was already awake, now sitting up against the headboard. His sharp gaze immediately landed on you as you walked in, scanning your face like he could sense the tension you carried.

You exhaled, pushing aside your emotions as you lifted a glass of water toward him. “I got you water, just in case…”

Jongho’s eyes flickered from you to the glass before you walked closer and set it down on the nightstand beside him. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his stare. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was still hoarse, but steadier than before.

“You’re upset.” You blinked, looking up at him. “What?”

Jongho tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Something happened.” You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

Jongho didn’t look convinced. “It’s not nothing.” You sighed, rubbing your temple. The last thing you wanted was to get into another conversation about Yunho, but Jongho was perceptive. He always had been.

“I just… I don’t get him,” you muttered. “I don’t get why he refuses to talk about his past. Why he pushes everyone away.”

Jongho studied you carefully before exhaling. “Because sometimes, talking about the past doesn’t change anything.” His words were blunt but held a weight that made you pause. You swallowed, glancing down at your hands. “I just… I want to understand him.”

Jongho was silent for a moment, then leaned back against the headboard with a small, tired smirk.

“Then you’ve already made a mistake,” he muttered. You furrowed your brows. “What?” Jongho’s gaze darkened slightly. “You’re trying to understand someone who doesn’t want to be understood.”

The room fell silent again. You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the fact that Jongho was right, or the fact that he had said it, as if he knew exactly what it felt like to be Yunho.

You tilted your head slightly, studying Jongho’s reaction. “What about you?” you asked, your voice quieter now, laced with curiosity. Jongho visibly tensed, his usual confidence faltering for just a second before he looked down, as if debating his answer. He let out a slow breath, avoiding your gaze.

“Maybe another time…” he muttered, his voice softer than usual. “One day, maybe.” You caught the way his fingers twitched slightly, the subtle hint of guilt in his tone.

You sighed, knowing you weren’t going to get anything more out of him tonight. “Fine…” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though there was no real frustration behind it. Jongho exhaled, almost as if relieved, but then—he did something unexpected.

His hand, rough yet warm, rested gently on top of yours. The weight of it, the gesture itself, caught you off guard. You slowly looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were darker now, but softer at the same time. There was something else there—something unspoken.

Before you could think too much about it, you felt his grip tighten, and in one swift motion, you were pulled onto his lap.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as your hands instinctively found his shoulders, steadying yourself. His hands rested at your waist, firm but gentle, as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes. Neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick, charged with something you had ignored for far too long.

Slowly, your gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips, your body moving before your mind could catch up.

Jongho didn’t stop you. He didn’t hesitate.

As you leaned in, his fingers curled slightly against your waist, pulling you closer. Your lips met his in a slow, careful kiss—one that started hesitant but deepened almost instantly.

He exhaled against your mouth, his grip on you tightening as if grounding himself in the moment. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was something else entirely.

The warmth of Jongho’s body against yours sent a shiver down your spine, a heat pooling deep within you that you couldn’t quite explain. The moment felt intense—too intense. That’s why you pulled away, needing a second to process what had just happened.

Jongho’s dark eyes locked onto yours, his breath still warm against your lips. His gaze was unreadable, but there was something in it—curiosity, amusement… something dangerous.

“Why did you pull back?” he teased, the corner of his lips tilting up slightly. You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous. You weren’t sure why that kiss felt different. It wasn’t just physical—it had weight to it.

“Uhmm… Well…” You tried to form an excuse, but the words caught in your throat. You had nothing.

Jongho hummed, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly before he leaned in again. “Don’t think so hard,” he muttered. And before you could say another word, he pulled you back into the kiss. This time, there was no hesitation.

His lips pressed against yours with more intent, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him. You let out a soft hum, melting into him as your fingers instinctively tangled in his hair.

Jongho deepened the kiss, his control firm but not overwhelming, as if testing how far you were willing to go. It was slower this time—intentional, as if he wanted you to feel every second of it.

You did.

You felt everything. The way his hands held you, the heat of his skin, the way his lips molded perfectly against yours. And for the first time, you didn’t stop.

The sudden knock on the door sent a shock through both of you.

You and Jongho scrambled apart—Jongho adjusting himself back in bed while you practically leaped into the chair across the room, trying desperately to look like nothing had just happened.

“Come in!” Jongho called out, clearing his throat to hide the slight breathlessness in his voice.

Your face was burning, and you mentally cursed yourself, trying to erase the thoughts lingering in your mind. The way he held you, the heat of his lips, the way his hands—No! Focus!

The door creaked open, and the moment you saw who it was, your stomach dropped.

Hongjoong.

His sharp eyes immediately scanned the room, and it didn’t take him long to notice—the slightly disheveled look on Jongho’s face, your obvious redness, the air still thick with unspoken tension.

Hongjoong knew.

You stiffened in your chair, avoiding direct eye contact, but Hongjoong wasn’t stupid. His gaze lingered for just a second too long before he cleared his throat, stepping further inside.

“I’m just coming to check on you,” Hongjoong said casually, though the hint of amusement in his voice wasn’t lost on you. Jongho, always one to keep his cool, nodded. “I’m fine,” he muttered, shifting under Hongjoong’s sharp gaze.

Hongjoong glanced between the two of you again, his lips twitching slightly like he knew he had just walked in on something.

“You sure?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Because it looks like I might’ve interrupted something.”

Your soul nearly left your body.

Jongho scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “You think too much,” he muttered, brushing off the insinuation. You, on the other hand, were trying your absolute hardest not to combust on the spot.

Hongjoong hummed, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and exhaled. “Well, just wanted to see if you’re alive. You need anything?” Jongho shook his head. “No. I’m good.” Hongjoong nodded, lingering for just a second more before he turned to leave.

Just before stepping out, he threw a glance over his shoulder—this time, at you.

“Don’t stay too long,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. Then, with a final smirk, he walked out, shutting the door behind him. The moment he was gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Jongho sighed, leaning his head back against the bed. “That was too close.”

You buried your face in your hands, still burning from embarrassment. “He knows,” you groaned. Jongho chuckled under his breath, glancing at you with that familiar, teasing glint in his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered, smirking slightly. “But I don’t think he cares.”

You swallowed hard, your heart still pounding.

Maybe Hongjoong didn’t care—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t watch.

You hesitated, still flustered from Hongjoong’s unexpected interruption. The heat on your face hadn’t faded, and the air still felt charged from what had just happened between you and Jongho.

"I should probably go..." you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, your embarrassment creeping in as you avoided his gaze.

You turned, ready to make your escape, but before you could even take a step, Jongho grabbed you by the wrist. In one swift motion, he pulled you right back onto his lap, his grip firm, his body warm against yours. Your breath hitched as you found yourself straddling him again, your hands instinctively landing on his shoulders for balance.

"You can't just make out with me and then leave," Jongho murmured, his voice rough, teasing, yet undeniably serious. His dark eyes locked onto yours, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. "You gotta fix this mess you made." You swallowed hard, the tension thick, his words making your heart pound.

"Fine…" you exhaled, knowing damn well you didn’t actually want to leave. Without another word, you leaned in, crashing your lips against his. Jongho groaned softly against your mouth, his hands immediately sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

The kiss was desperate, heated, as if making up for the lost time that neither of you would admit to wanting back. You could feel the urgency in the way he kissed you—like he had been waiting for this.

You pulled away just enough to catch your breath, panting slightly as you smirked. "I thought I was the desperate one," you teased, your lips brushing against his.

Jongho chuckled lowly, shaking his head before tilting your chin back up, his gaze dark and unrelenting. "Shut up," he muttered, before pulling you right back into another intense, heated kiss.

And this time, neither of you were holding back.

He pulled your shirt over your head throwing it on the floor. You immediately took your bra off. Jongho started undressing himself and he immediately started caressing your body. Your body shivered against his touch as you hummed out softly enjoying yourself.

Jongho hovered above you, his presence overwhelming, his body caging you against the bed. His usual cold and unreadable expression had faded, replaced by something more intense—something that made your breath hitch.

But despite the heat in the moment, concern flickered through you. He was still injured.

“Aren’t you hurt?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Do you want me to do the work?” Jongho’s smirk deepened, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “I think I can handle it,” he murmured, his voice low and confident.

You exhaled softly, your fingers instinctively moving to his shoulders, your touch gentle against his tense muscles. “Alright,” you hummed, deciding to trust him.

The air between you was thick, charged with unspoken emotions neither of you had fully processed. This wasn’t just about the tension that had been building for weeks—this was something more.

Jongho’s gaze softened slightly as he studied your face. His hands, despite their strength, moved carefully, tracing your arm before settling against your waist.

For a brief moment, he paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His breathing was heavy, yet controlled, as if he was grounding himself in the moment.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured. It was the first time you had heard him ask something so sincerely. You swallowed, meeting his gaze, and for once, there was no teasing, no playful banter—just the raw honesty of the moment. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jongho exhaled, closing his eyes for a second before leaning in again, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against your lips. This time, it wasn’t just about urgency—it was about something deeper.

Jongho slid himself in between your folds, pushing himself deep as he could. You let out a loud shaky moan digging your nails into his shoulders already. He groaned at the feeling.

You felt your insides pulse as you tried adjusting to him finally letting him go ahead to start thrusting in and out.

"Jongho..." You moan immediately covering your mouth with one hand. Your other hand gripped onto his shoulders trying to hold onto him. You felt his hands grabbing you by the waist as he continued to move.

You moaned out arching your back as he thrusted in deeper and got rougher.

"I thought u were in pain..." You tried to speak but were out of breath. Jongho smirked at you leaned down towards you.

"Not really, you are really good at distraction." He smiles kissing your lips. You moan into the kiss wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Fuck..." He cursed pulling his lips away. You felt his grip get tighter around you. Throwing your head to the side, you moaned heavily, already feeling the exhaustion settling into your body.

The night had been long, emotions running high, and yet—you couldn’t stop yourself.

Your hands instinctively moved, fingers trailing up Jongho’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your touch. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart—it grounded you.

Your fingertips traced the line of his collarbone before sliding up to his neck, your touch softer now, more deliberate. When your palms cupped his face, Jongho’s breath hitched slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

Jongho kept thrusting in and out of you, instead of being sloppy like usual he was slow and doing this out of pure love and passion. Or so you thought.

You felt his shaft graze your sensitive spot causing your moans to get higher. He took the advantage he was given and kept thrusting into that one spot causing your eyes to roll back and you tried to keep them close as you dug your nails deep into his skin.

"Jongho!" You moaned in pure bliss almost screaming his name. You watched him as he thrusted in last few times before releasing inside you. You started breathing heavily as your both released together.

Your body felt completely drained, exhaustion creeping into your limbs as you let out a soft whimper.

Before you could even process it, Jongho shifted underneath you, gripping your waist and flipping you so that you landed against his chest.

A low groan of pain escaped him, his body still sore from his injuries. Your eyes widened in panic. "Oh my god! I’m so sorry!" You immediately sat up, hands hovering over him, worried you had hurt him even more.

Jongho exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "No, it’s fine… Just—" he let out another small groan, shifting his legs beneath you, adjusting himself. "I just want to sleep with you tonight."

His words made your breath hitch, but not in the way they usually did. This wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t flirtation. It was genuine.

You swallowed hard, nodding softly before allowing yourself to settle back down against him. His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer, securing you against his warmth. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe.

Jongho’s heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, his warmth spreading through you like a protective barrier against everything that had happened.

You let your eyes flutter shut, feeling his fingers trace slow circles against your back. The tension from the night melted away as the comfort of his embrace consumed you. And before you knew it, wrapped in each other’s arms, you finally slept.

•

I didn't mean for it to be that long and by the time I was ready to write smut, it got too long. LMAO. The smut was very rushed I am extremely sorry.

#ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #jongho fanfic #jongho smut #jongho x reader #choi jongho x reader #ateez jongho x reader #jongho x y/n

65 notes · View notes