#I know it's going to be bad I know I will kind of hate it but god how I miss those fools together

[lulunothulu]

Loovveee your writing. 😍 Would you be able to write where reader and Tyler are married and he’s out running errands when he gets notified from her Apple Watch that she’s taken a hard fall because she was thrown from a horse and 911 was called so he drives as quick as he can home to her driving through their gate trying to get to her faster and she’s unconscious and bleeding from a cut on her head and just worried husband vibes until she wakes up and is fine 💙

Oooo I love this. I gotchu boo 🤠 and thank youuuu I’m so sorry this is late 💗

“Don’t worry”

Tyler Owens x Reader

“Let me check the list because if I miss something, my wife is gonna have a fit.” Tyler laughs, pulling the grocery list out of his pocket.

He’d been tasked by you with getting groceries and knew you were particular about what kind of apples you liked.

When he finally pulls the list out, he hands it to the worker before him who smiles and points him to the section where the honey crisp apples are.

“Thank you!” He calls out, steering the buggy toward the section and grabbing a plastic bag to collect the four apples you wanted.

He’s about to put the last apple in the bag when he gets a notification from your AppleWatch.

‘My Wife 💗’ has fallen and their breathing has slowed down significantly. 9-1-1 has been called and they are 10 minutes out.

Tyler’s heart stops.

Within seconds, his legs are moving, sprinting out of the store the buggy full of groceries left behind.

He’ll come back another time. Right now, he had to get to his wife. He had to get to you.

He knew he was only five minutes away, but he let his foot hit the accelerator. Anything to get to you quicker.

When he finally—painstakingly—arrives at y’all’s house, your horse, Sugar, is galloping around the front yard, neighing happily to herself. He reaches for her, gently pulling her close.

“Where is she?” He asks her. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he jogs to the training ring to the right of the house where he finds your lifeless body.

He sprints at the sight of you, fear taking over all of his thoughts and he brushes the random strands of hair covering your face.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Oh my god. Baby? Can you hear me?”

He checks your pulse.

Good, steady but kind of weak.

Your breathing is slow, almost too slow for his taste. Your face is relaxed in unconsciousness and there’s a pretty bad gash on your forehead and the back of your head.

Tyler knows not to move you so he holds your hand, waiting and praying that the ambulance hurries.

The next five minutes feel like hours but the paramedics finally arrive.

“I think she fell and hit her head on the ground or a rock,” Tyler tells them.

He watches from the side as they take your vitals and get you ready to transfer to the ER.

“Do you want to ride with her?” One of the paramedics asks.

“No, I’ll follow behind in my truck,” he tells them.

———

At the hospital, Tyler looks down at you from his standing position next to your bed.

How could this have happened? When is she gonna wake up?

He rubs his eyes, checking his watch again to see that it’s almost 10 PM. he’s been here for the past few hours, waiting for you to wake up.

Unfortunately, for him, the doctor said that it might take a bit for you to wake up, especially because of the fall you took.

“She’ll wake up when she’s ready,” they said.

“When?” He’d asked.

“Within a few hours. She has a concussion so she needs to rest as much as she can.”

The waiting was the hardest part for him. He hated just standing around. He needed to do something, anything to make sure you were okay, to help you wake up. Worry begins to eat at him the longer he stays in the hospital room with you so Tyler decided it would be best to go to the cafeteria.

Only when he’s about to walk out the door, he hears you groan.

“Tyler?”

“Baby,” he cries, running back to your side. He takes your hand in his, kissing each knuckles before smiling down at you with happy tears stuck in his eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Am I in the hospital?”

“Yeah,” he tells you, wiping his eyes. “What happened?”

“I was trying to give Sugar a little test run before the next race and she got spooked by a garden snake,” you recount. “I must’ve hit my head on a rock or something.”

“You did,” he tells you, voice quiet. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You look up into his green eyes and smile softly. Placing your hand on his cheek, you pull him down to kiss you.

The kiss is sweet and tender, something Tyler didn’t know he knew he needed until then.

“I love you, Ty,” you tell him.

“I love you too, Baby,” he hiccups, tears freely falling now. “You really did scare me. I didn’t know if you would be okay. If you’d d—”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence. Instead, he smiles down at you and kisses you again.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says instead.

“I am too,” you tell him. Then, smirking a bit, you add, “I would be pretty pissed if I died from falling off a horse.”

Tyler laughs at that. “I would be too.”

“When can I eat? And when can I leave?” You ask. “But most importantly, when can I eat?”

“Doctors said he wanted to keep you overnight,” he tells you. “I can get you something to eat if you want.”

“Okay, as long as it’s something filling. I have t eaten since… what time is it?”

“10:30 PM,” he tells you.

“Jesus Christ, since 8 AM this morning,” you marvel.

Tyler laughs, pecking your lips before standing. “I’ll get you a nice fat sandwich.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You watch as he walks away before saying, “And Tyler?”

He turns around. “Yes baby?”

“Walk slower, your ass looks really nice in those jeans.”

Tyler only laughs and obeys as he walks out the door.

[rosenclaws]

obsessed with your ex || Worst!Logan Howlett smut

summary: In his world you were his wife and he loved you and then you died. In this world you're his girlfriend and he loves you. At least you think he does. Still you can't help the voice in the back of your head telling you that you're nothing but a sad replacement.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI!! 18+ ONLY. insecure + jealous!reader, a very very toxic mindset, the reader's mind is very mean to her, reader is a mutant that can make objects disappear, angst, happy ending, rough sex, riding, french kissing, oral (f!receiving), a slight breakdown, soft sex, missionary, Logan is kinda a softie, cockwarming, fingering.

wc: 2.5k

a/n: Okay so it's here!! I need to make this clear that the readers mindset is NOT healthy and that relationships need good communication. That being said here's my fic idea that I've been thinking about for a bit. I love Olivia Rodrigo sm (I even saw her in concert!!) and this song was just begging to be written into a fic. Anyways I really hope you like it and that it's not too insane lmao. Also i made the graphic but i kinda hate it but i dont wanna change it so here we are I know it's ugly but its FINE

How long have you been here? Staring. Observing every little thing about you. Your nose, your eyes, your lips, your hair, your chin. The way your arms fall by your sides. Every. Little. Detail.

Did she have the same colored eyes? Did she talk like you? Was she smart? Was she powerful? Did he look at her the same way? Did he fuck her like he fucks you?

You clench your fists as you stare angrily at the mirror. He loves you. He says he loves you and yet it feels like you can never compare to her. She was the love of his life. She was an X-Men. She died. She was you. You're his dead fucking wife in his universe while you were nothing to the Logan in this one. 

He looked at you like a kicked puppy that first day you met. A lost little pet that had been searching for its owner. Dragged through hell and back just to get to you. It was easy to fall for him. Handsome, a little rough around the edges. You hadn’t even been dating for that long but it didn’t matter right? He worshiped you. He loved you. He promised he loved you.

But sometimes in the back of your head you wonder if when he's kissing you, does he imagine her? Does he close his eyes while he's pounding into you and imagine it's her? How could you ever compete? She was perfect, she was kind, she was everything to him. Spiraling deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of doubt and envy. There's a heavy pounding on the door but you choose to ignore it. Too wrapped up in your twisted mind to care. 

"Sweetheart, let me in." Logan's gruff voice was slightly muffled by the door. 

You clench your jaw as you finally tear your eyes away from the mirror. You slam open the door taking Logan by surprise. His eyes scan yours for injury, a worried look in his face as he steps into the bathroom. 

"I got worried, you were in here a long time." His arms wrap around your waist. 

He's looking at you with pity. At least that's what your brain tells you. Was he worried that you were hurt because he loves you or because he was thinking of her death again? You know he still dreams of her. He can hide it when he's awake but the nightmares don't lie. It hurts so bad. Love me. Love me. You're jealous you know. She's dead, she's gone. So why can't he love you. You push him off and storm out the bathroom. Nothing makes sense anymore in your head. 

"What the fuck?" Logan follows you and you feel yourself tensing up. 

It's a miracle your powers haven't started to go haywire yet. So many different emotions swirl around in your head until it mixes together to form one single feeling.

Need.

You grab Logan's shirt and pull him into you. Smashing your lips onto his with a hunger that you've never felt before. Logan hisses as you bite his bottom lip harshly but you don't give him time to say anything as you slip your tongue into his mouth. He groans as he starts to take some control back. Hands slipping up your shirt and ripping to shreds with ease.

You pull back from his lips, chest heaving for air as you paw at his shirt. Silently demanding he take it off which he happily does. Your lips are back onto his in an instant. He slowly walks you back until you fall onto the bed. You fall onto the bed and lick your lips. The bugle in his pants is evident as you flick your hand and the belt disappears. 

"I liked that belt." You pay no mind to his comment as you unbutton his jeans and pull them down, leaving him in his boxers. 

"Easy there sweetheart," Logan pushes you back gently and crawls on top of you. Logan kisses down your chest, teasing each nipple with his tongue. 

"Let me take my time." He purrs.

His hands touch and squeeze your breasts roughly making you whine. You watch his arms move, god he's so hot. He's close to making you forget. He kisses down, down, all the way down. He sneaks out the tip of his claws to pop open the button of your pants and he yanks them down until they're all the way off.

"There she is, my perfect girl." His girl. That's right your his girl. No one else's.

Logan pulls your panties to the side as he situates himself between your legs. He stuffs his face without shame, licking hungrily and practically moaning at the taste. You arch your back as Logan devours you. Watching his back muscles move are mesmerizing. He's yours. He loves you. He promises he does.

You can't stop the thoughts that begin to invade you. Overwhelmed by pleasure from Logan and pain from the horrible ideas that pop into your head. Did he do this with her too? Did he worship her? Do you taste like her? Is that why he can't get enough? 

"Fuck!" You hiss as you sit up and tell Logan to stop. He does immediately, wondering what the hell is going on. 

"Can't fucking wait." You scratch down his chest with your nails. He groans and tries to crawl on top of you but you shake your head. 

"I'm going to ride you until you can't come anymore." You growl.

You bite his shoulder harshly making him hiss. It heals right up much to your dismay. How badly you wish you could mark him. You make his boxers disappear but before he can make a smart comment you sink down on him all the way. You whimper as you start to bounce on his cock. Loving how much he fills you.

You need to be fucked stupid. You're desperate for Logan to fuck every bad thought out of your head. To promise that he loves you so that you can believe him. You want to believe him. Please, you have to believe him. 

"Sweetheart." Logan's breath is labored as you relentlessly fuck yourself on his cock. You feel so damn good but fuck he can tell something is on your mind. 

"What do you need, let me help you." He sits up on his hands, placing one on your back as he tries to get you to slow down. His words make you want to scream. What do you need? You look at him and the only thing your rotten brain can tell you is that he is thinking of her. 

"I need you to fucking love me!" You yell.

The dam of built up feelings breaks down as tears pour out of your eyes. Ugly, horrible sobs that make your body shake. Logan watches with horror in his eyes as he stills your hips, using his strength to lift you off of him as you continue to cry. 

"I do love you." He says softly but you shake your head. 

"No!" You shout. You pound your fist against Logan's chest over and over again but he barely moves. 

"You love her! I know you do." Logan's heart breaks at the sound of your sobs. 

"I'm not your dead fucking wife Logan!" You should regret the words coming out of your mouth but you can't stop them. 

"You look at me and you see her. Like I'm just some fucking placeholder!" You let out an anguished scream as Logan captures your wrists in his hands. You know the stories. She was a hero, she was perfect in every single way. 

"How can I compete with, with her?" You say completely defeated.

Your head falls against his chest. There's a sense of relief that washes over you. Thoughts that have plagued you for months are finally out in the open. Yet the fear of what comes next overtakes any other feeling.

"Look at me." Logan tilts your head up but you push his hand away. 

"Sweetheart." He sighs and lets go of your face.

Logan's never been good at this. Talking. Being vulnerable. Then he lost everything and he hardened even more and he just. This was a new chance at life and even though it's hard he can't lose it all again. 

"I know you're not her. Of course I do." Logan presses his forehead against yours, trying to get you to look at him. 

"You loved her..." You croak out. 

"I did love her. She was my wife. But I love you too. In a different way." He's a different man. Having gone through tremendous loss. It shaped him into who he is now. 

"You're different people. Your powers act differently, you talk differently, you feel different. You are not a replacement." He says firmly. 

When you finally look at him he feels this horrible pit in his stomach. He wipes away your tears but doesn't make any other move. It's not the right time.

"Would you have even given me a second thought? If I didn't look like her?" You ask, that question has haunted you for a while now but you never asked, too afraid of the answer. Logan is silent, unsure of how to answer. 

"When I first saw you it was like a punch in the face." He starts. "For a moment I was 20 years in the past. Then I snapped out of it. You look like her, yes but you’re not her.” He gently traces a small scar on your jaw that you got when you were a child. 

“I’m not the same as your Logan right? He was a leader, a hero and I was an angry drunk murderer.” 

“I’m not gonna start listing all your fucking differences sweetheart, but I swear on my life that I love you for you.” He pulls you into a tight hug as you start to cry again. You cling onto him as tight as you can. The bad thoughts don’t just stop, even if you want them to but Logans whispering sweet words in your ear. Pushing out every bad thought for now.

“Logan,” You take a deep breath, letting Logan invade all your senses. Tobacco and whiskey. 

“I need you.” He’s hesitant, not sure if it’s the right time.

“Please, I just need you.”

“Okay sweetheart, you have me.” He slowly rolls you over and lays you on your back.

He captures your lips into a kiss. His hips rolling slowly making you moan softly. His lips drift from your lips to the corner of your mouth to your cheek, trailing down. Each one so gentle, so full of love.

“You have this spot, righttt here.” Logan nibbles on your neck and you gasp when bites right at this spot that drives you wild. You melt into the mattress as he kisses over it.

“Always makes you relax.” He crawls lower, kissing down your body. He sits up on his knees and grabs a pillow to place under your back.

“I know you like to be slightly elevated because it means I can go just a little deeper.” He purrs as he takes his cock in his hands and gently rubs the tip of it along your folds. He slides two fingers into your cunt slowly.

“Know that my fingers drive you absolutely wild, that you need me to go slow to start.” You nod absentmindedly.

You never realized he picked up on all these things. His fingers start to slide in smoother, your cunt getting wetter for him. He leans down and takes a deep breath, groaning at the scent. He slips them out and licks them clean.

“Relax sweetheart,” He spreads your thighs and slips in all the way. Going slow but unrelenting, stretching you just how you like.

“So impatient, you never let me take it easy on you right? Just wanna be full all the time.” He leans down on his elbows as he rolls his hips nice and slow.

There will be no rough sex this time, this is about love. To show you that he truly does love you for you.

“Look at me,” He tilts your head so that your eyes meet. He smiles at the desperate look on your face.

“You can pretend it makes you all embarrassed, but I know you like eye contact.” He hums as he angles his hips so that he hits that perfect spot.

You jolt as pleasure rocks through your whole body but he keeps you under him. He’s slowly and methodically tearing you apart. Every touch, every word out of his mouth just makes it better. He knows. Of course he does.

“I love you Logan.” Your hands cup his face as you stare into his hazel eyes.

This time not filled with lust, but with a true deep love. He looks at you like you’re everything.

“I love you too.” He kisses you as he starts to pick up the pace of his thrusts. He smirks as he feels you start to squirm under him. You could never help it when you were close.

“Come on sweetheart, just let go.” He whispers in your ear.

His deep voice paired with the unrelenting feeling of his cock is all it takes. He holds you in his firm arms as a warm and wonderful tingling sensation runs through your whole body. A blissful smile on your face as you tilt your head back.

You feel your whole body relax as your mind calms. Logan tries to hide his growls as he fucks into you a little faster, until he’s coming hard and deep inside of you. He sighs in contentment as he stays inside of you. He taps your cheek lightly and you look up at him.

“I love you. No one else. Just you.” He moves to pull out but you whine. You need to be close to him right now. He chuckles as he slowly moves to your side. Spooning you tightly with his cock still deep inside of you.

“Can we talk?” You ask shyly.

“About what?” Logan grunts as he pulls you as close as he can get you.

“Anything?” He’s not much of a talker so he asks the questions instead.

How did you discover your powers? How did you meet wade? Just anything and everything and you tell him.

You talk for who knows how long. Staying wrapped in each other's arms. It helps, it really does. Logan listens, he really does listen. He wants to get to know you. He loves you. You rest your head on his chest, tracing shapes into his palm as you talk.

For the first time in a while your mind seems to settle. Ignoring any thought that may try and ruin your mood. It’s just you and him right now. There’s no looming figure of your alternate selves, not anymore.

Just you and Logan. Forever.

[dear-ao3]

what IS going down with daniel? ive seen a few things about it but nothing that actually explains (i am very much not an f1 person, apart from knowing some names from what you guys post lol)

ah yes. daniel ricciardo's fall from grace.

daniel ricciardo is a driver at vcarb. vcarb is the second team of red bull racing. red bull wins stuff, vcarb is meant to ready drivers to get into the red bull team.

daniel was previously a red bull driver and he was doing well there. he was the number one driver at the team for a few years (meaning he was prioritized over his teammate because he was the "better" or "more successful" driver) and red bull wasnt really winning anything at that time, but they weren't sucking. i think he joined red bull around 2014? was teammates with Sebastian vettel (who had won 4 consecutive championships with red bull fro 2010-2013) for a year until he went to ferrari, then was teammates with daniil kyvat for another year and then i think it was partway through 2016 max verstappen, who was at toro rosso (the old team name for vcarb) got swapped with daniil who was "under performing" (red bull do this a lot) and max became Daniels teammate

at first this was fine. max was really young, like 18 years old really young, and daniel had a few more seasons under his belt. daniel was still the number 1 driver. but max was kind of wild and insane and regarded as a future world champion and after a while he started getting better and better and becoming more of a threat to daniel

i need to stress here that the two of them were friends. like absolutely they were friends. they aparently shared hotel rooms and lived in the same building for awhile. they are very good friends. that was not the problem that they hated eachother.

the problem was that daniel wanted to win a world championship and he couldnt win a world championship if the team decided to prioritize max over him.

this all came to a head in 2018. daniels contract was up at the end of the year. the car was fast but not quite fast enough to win the championship, though they did manage to get a few good wins in that year (namely daniel won in monaco which is a big deal) but they also had some shit moments (max and daniel both crashed into eachother while max (?) was leading the race in baku) and the car had some technical problems, mainly with the engine. the engine was a renault engine (renault was another team on the grid, only so many comapnies or teams make f1 engines so multiple teams use the same engine) and it kept literally exploding. daniel was making it work (he won monaco unable to shift past like 3rd gear) but it was not ideal if you want to win a world championship

red bull was set to change their engine provider for 2019 and they were going to go with honda. but daniel was still unconvinced because honda hadn't done f1 engines before (or recently i dont remember which) and also there was the whole max thing.

everyone was still convinced he was going to resign with red bull. but he didnt. he signed with renault. the team with the bad engines.

renault were no closer a championship winning team than red bull were, they were actually slightly behind red bull in the championship at that point. and this shocked everyone. why did daniel choose this? well he wanted to be a teams number 1 driver and also he liked the project they were working towards and whatever whatever etc. anyway this doesnt pan out. daniel was at renault for 2 years and then signed with mclaren.

which was by all accounts a disaster. mclaren at this point were still a flaming hot disaster. (mclaren prior to mid season last year were a definitively mid field car). his teammate was lando and lando had only 2 years of experience in f1 and was still quite young (20 i think) but lando essentially had a better time driving the car than daniel did. which no one was expecting. daniel did manage to win a race with them though, in monza in 2022. mclarens first win in many many years.

despite that, he was not treated well. it was easy to see. he looked underweight a lot, looked generally miserable and clearly the team didnt really care too much about him. he and lando were friends though, which was good. media tried to pit the two of them against eachother, but they were and still are good friends.

anyway. daniel's contract was supposed to run through 2023. mclaren and daniel supposedly both elected to end it early at the end of 2022 (mclaren signed oscar as a replacement) leaving daniel without a seat and retired

which was not great. daniels a big personality in f1, hes a funny guy, he says out of pocket stuff, hes goofy and whatever else. people like him, hes fun. so this was upsetting to see the spark leave him and then also see him leave the sport.

adding salt to the wound here, max won the championship in 2021 and 2022

so he got a call from Christian horner, the red bull team principal. christian is not a great guy but he likes daniel. he invites daniel back to red bull as a third driver, which basically means he does pr.

now remember the junior red bull team. in 2023 it was called alpha tauri and yuki tsunoda was there along with nyck devries. nyck had had an awful season by mid point and scored no points. christian had daniel do some tests in one of the red bull cars, his numbers were good and promising and what do you know daniel was back on the grid as a driver at alpha tauri. it seemed the plan was to leave him there for the rest of the season then maybe swap him with checo peer, the second driver at red bull, for the following year.

Daniel ended up breaking his hand a few races back at zandvoort and was replaced briefly by liam lawson, who was the red bull and alpa tauri reserve driver. liam lawson did better than anyone expected and managed to get points and also knock max verstappen out of qualifying in his most dominant season ever.

daniel finished out the last 5 races of the year and had a contract with vcarb (name changed again) for 2024.

checo had a rough end to the 2023 season and it was rumored for awhile that they were going to swap daniel and checo at the start of 2024 but this never panned out. most cause it seemed like daniel was not performing as well as they thought he would. there were a few times where everyone thought he was going to get cut and get replaced by liam lawson again who is still on deck. checo also got resigned at red bull for 2025 and despite having a not so great run for awhile is still on the team.

daniel has not been re signed for 2025

the rumors bounce back and forth every week. some weeks people say hes leaving some weeks people say hes getting promoted to red bull. he generally ignores them. but its no secret he wants to go back to red bull to finish his career.

this all came to a head this weekend in singapore.

heading into the weekend there were some heavy rumors that daniel was going to be replaced by liam lawson for the last 6 races because daniel is underperforming. and this was a Strong rumor. so strong in fact that it started to get properly addressed by commentators and announcers.

why would red bull pick now to swap him? not sure. williams did a driver swap a few weeks ago and that has worked in their favor. it would also i guess let them see if liam still has what it takes for 2025. whos to say.

in any case. daniel had a bad qualifying and ended the race in 18/18. however. at the end, they pitted him to get soft tires. (the fastest ones) to potentially get him the fastest lap of the race.

fastest lap of the race gets you one extra championship point if youre in the top 10. and daniel was not in the top 10 but it would take the point away from lando norris, who was winning in his mclaren by almost 30 seconds. lando is behind max in the drivers championship standings by about 50 something points and slowly gaining.

so daniel ricciardo, in what might have been his last ever f1 race, goes balls to the walls in a slightly shit box mid field car, on the second to last lap, and pulls out what is not only the fastest lap, but the track record fastest lap, taking a point away from lando norris, who drives for the team that mistreated him so badly and kicked him out of the sport the first time, all to help max verstappen, his ex teammate and the very reason why he left red bull in the first place, win the championship.

yeah.

anyway, all of the commentators were treating it like it was daniels last race. they asked him what his emotions were getting out of the car and he almost cried in the interview, they showed him a montage of his career, the whole team was waiting for him outside of the hospitality when he got back, he got voted driver of the day by the fans despite being virtually in last place. it seems like hes done and he knows hes done but unfortunately no one can say anything about it yet.

which is unfortunate. as i said everyone likes him. and it was general consensus of everyone announcing this weekend that he deserved a better send off than this weird cut right before the end of the season. for someone who has in fact done so much for red bull, it feels like theyre shooting him in the foot.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König's Kids Headcanons

I think König, when he's there, would be a great dad. He's a bit of a gremlin, but this just makes him a better dad. He's also a bit of a menace at parent teacher meetings.

Anyways, have some silly headcanons

Art from This Post

König is a surprisingly good father (when he’s there). He’s strict, but also knows how to relax and let things slide. He will play-wrestle with his kids and make sure they have plenty of time to run around in nature and read books. He’s passionate about his kids’ hobbies and encourages them to learn and explore what they love.

He’s the type of dad to teach them how to fight but also play pretend games with them

He does not like having tea parties, but he will endure for his children. He will endure great hardship and pain for them, and if this includes sipping water from a plastic teacup while sitting on a tiny stool, so be it. He can endure. However, he draws the line at makeup. He can’t endure (nor can he sit still long enough)

When König is home from work, he drops his military titles at the door and focuses entirely on being an important part of their lives. The sad part is that you can see he’s actively trying to make up for time he’s lost. This is part of what leads to him retiring early to a local security job.

Without a steady father figure in their lives, his kids do grow up to struggle with certain things. However, all things considered, they turn out pretty well adjusted and healthy. Honestly, pretty solid people. They turn out to be the kind of people you feel like you can respect and appreciate.

But when they’re young his kids are little shits. They’re the type to break stuff for fun. They also will run and hide from you. At a certain point, you’ll have to resort to using child leashes because they will run away from you in public. So when they’re young, they’re terrors in your house. When they get older, they have their father’s streak of intelligence and are snarky assholes. They have brutal teenage years.

This is exacerbated by the fact that for the first ten years of his youngest kid’s life, he’s still in a PMC and going on military contracts, so the kids have large periods of time where they’re missing their father.

König realizes too late that he missed a lot of his kids’ development and chooses to retire to a more local security job to spend more time at home. It’s a big change in the household, but not an unwelcome one. His older kids struggle the most, but they do grow to form strong bonds with him because of his choice to stay home

König makes a good deal of money early on so he can go on to take a lower paying job later in life. His kids never have to worry about if they have money. They have to worry about whether or not their parents will say yes.

König is a pretty strict father. He’s a military man, a former colonel. He’s not going to be a horrible abusive father, but he will be a bit much sometimes. You might find yourself stepping in to defuse the tension sometimes.

Thankfully, König doesn’t yell at his kids (unless it’s something stupid and it’s pretty obviously a joke) or hit them. He’s actually pretty bad about disciplining his kids. You might have to take over in that department. Having been in the military for so long, König’s terrified of going overkill on his kids and doesn’t want to risk hurting them. He can dish it out, yes, but he’s extremely cautious when doing so.

He’s also quite fair. He does his best to treat his children equally. He’s surprisingly good. He focuses on encouraging their individual hobbies and finding their own personalities. They do grow up to be quite self-confident with their father’s teachings in their heads. They’re not arrogant, but they’re confident and assertive

They’re not popular in school, but not hated. They do pretty decently. Academics are a bit too easy for them, so König has to step in to teach them study habits and keep their passion for learning. Thankfully, his father was a professor, so he’s pretty good at this.

That said, König will sometimes be pretty silly when disciplining. Sometimes, you can hear his full colonel voice booming from outside about someone pulling some silly prank on him as he’s mowing the lawn. He’s not the type to pull pranks on his kids (but he’ll happily torment you) but he will play silly games with them. I think his kids learn that when he’s yelling, he’s not actually that angry, he’s just playing around. It still scares the shit out of your kids’ friends when he does it when they’re over

König has a tendency to scare children in public. He tries really hard to not make them nervous, but with the hood and the height and the tired look in his eyes? Nah he’s terrifying.

König’s kids grow up not being afraid of anyone because nobody’s as scary as their dad. This also means all the kids know that those kids have the scariest dad.

When your kids’ friends come over, they’re terrified of König. Unfortunately, he finds this slightly funny and takes advantage of this. You might have to step in and diffuse the tension to help those poor children realize that when König is yelling about things, he’s not actually mad. Maybe make cookies with him or something, it’ll help break the ice.

Your kids and their friends are all taken under König’s wings for protection. He’ll go up to bat for any of those kids. He genuinely cares so much about them. Having very select few friendships as a child himself, he’ll go out of his way to ensure his children have healthy social lives.

Sometimes the parents are unsettled by him. This is König’s unsettling form of social anxiety at play, so you’ll have to mediate between other parents and König to make sure they realize that no, he’s not an abusive monster, he just makes horrible jokes about his children. He has very dark humor but plays it straight, which is a horrible combination.

He has had a teacher call CPS on him before, but it was quickly resolved. However, most people are frightened by König when he steps into a room and it’s no different at parent-teacher interviews

He always blows teachers out of the water for how much he cares about his kids getting a quality education. He’s also quite receptive to their advice (if it’s good) and is willing to step in when needed. Teachers also typically find that he’s quite a fun parent volunteer to have on field trips (he is extremely popular)

Some of the more timid kids grow to like König because he tries to ensure all children are included when he’s around. He’s good at making sure everyone feels noticed.

Of course, as said, in the beginning everyone is terrified of the giant foreign soldier man. His kids have to teach their friends to not be afraid of their dad when he’s home.

Later on, this means in late high school his kids' friends consider him a DILF. He’s horrified. Flattered, but horrified. He has a serious talk with you about how to not be a DILF. He genuinely is so upset by the concept. His kids laugh at him all the time because he’s miserable about it.

Konig Dump

Konig Headcanons

[aliensubstance-011]

Fiddlestan AU!!

AU where Ford gets into West Coast Tech, but Stan manages to (somehow) get into Backupsmore and gets roomed with Fiddleford! 

Stan was kicked out after Ford left (because if his brother was ready to leave home, so was Stan). Stan lived in his car & the public libraries he found (all his fake IDs are just fake Library Cards lmao. nerd). Stan also discovered he was queer (did drag for the prize money, then went OH. All these queens are treating me like this because I'm a baby queer. That makes sense. Guess I’m doing guys now.).

I like to think that Stan spent a year or two studying up after Ford left so when he gets in Fiddleford is in his second or third year! This does result in a “I'm your new roommate. You first year?” and Fiddleford going “What in tarnation... I'm THIRD year? How did we end up in the same dorm????”

At first they HATE each other- Fiddleford thinks Stan is reckless, and doesn’t know what he’s doing there, and that he’s kind of stupid, while Stan thinks Fiddleford is some stuck-up hippie who formed an opinion on Stan too quickly (he did). Once they do start talking they have a very quick ‘oh you’re actually not that bad’ moment. Fiddleford leaves before Stan, obviously, but they keep in close contact even after Fiddleford moves in with Emma-Mae. 

Stan and Ford have a huge argument about Ford not needing Stan anymore. Cue: “Of course I need you, you're my brother” “WELL YOU DON'T ACT LIKE IT”, which is another reason that Stan and Fiddleford leave together. Not long after this, around Stan’s graduation,  Fiddleford has a 'I'm gay and don't love my wife' moment, and Stan casually suggests running away, just driving (maybe something a little nostalgic in it, maybe when Stan looks back at his car he feels like he can hear a distant New Jersey shore). The next day Fiddleford shows up with a duffle bag of things, and Stan realises Fiddleford took him seriously. That he’s willing to run away with him, even if it’s not on a boat, that Fiddleford wants to. Stan gets very, very close to realising he’s in love that day. 

They run away after Stan’s graduation and just drive until they get to Gravity Falls! They set up shop there, with Fiddleford doing auto repairs (and making inventions on the side). Fiddleford confesses to Stan when they’re staying in a motel- he thinks Stan is asleep, so he just says that he thinks he’s in love with him, while Stan is laying wide awake in the bed next to him. Stan spends the next few days Freaking The Fuck Out while Fiddleford doesn’t acknowledge what he said. Stan thinks Fiddleford knew he was awake, so when he confesses back he says something along the lines of “I think I’m in love with you, too” and Fiddleford bluescreens.

Just General HCs:

Stan falls first, but doesn't realise until Fiddleford confesses.

Ford is still self centred but doesn't hate Stan. Stan resents Ford for not doing anything when he was kicked out, and a little bit for leaving him. He understands, though, why stay with your good for nothing brother when you have dreams across the country to fulfil? 

Fiddleford is Repressed Gay until he confesses his Awful Secret to Stan who's just like....”okay?”. He does get to the point of marrying Emma-mae, before he confesses to Stan. 

I don't quite know what Stan will be doing, both in Backupsmore and once they move to Gravity Falls. I like a little bit about him either doing Art or Law, but I feel as though he’s not willing nor smart enough (respectively) for either one.

Stan IS smart, don’t get me wrong, he just needs it to be something ‘physical’ that he can interact with. Fiddleford helps a lot with this (having gotten a lot of hands-on work while he was on the farm). 

I think eventually Ford does end up in Gravity Falls too, but by this point he’s distanced himself from everyone not because of Bill, but because of his own hubris. 

Because of Stan and Fiddleford being queer, I don’t think Dipper and Mabel would be allowed to visit them until their parents have no other choice- though they do hear a lot about their Grunkles and see them from time to time. 

If I did include a Bill/main timeline ish plot it’d be Fiddleford who gets tricked- maybe after Ford gets to Gravity Falls, and Bill offers a way to keep Stan happy/repair his relationship with Ford (maybe Fiddleford thinks Stan is going to run away- just without him this time. He knows Stan would never, but he could.) 

I’d probably include a B-plot where Stan thinks Fiddleford will cheat on him with Ford- they click immediately and so much better, Ford is so much smarter, he’s the better twin, because insecure Stan is my favourite thing ever. Just a small detail, but I think that Fiddleford is a lot more confident and stable with Stan, mainly because Stan has encouraged him to step out of his comfort zone so often, and has proved time and time again that all Fiddleford has to do is ask and Stan is right there to catch him.

I'm still not sure what Stan should do, so if anyone has any suggestions, let me know! That and drawing requests god let me draw them PLEASE.

[liloinkoink]

hey guys, someone just sent me a weird ass ask claiming my incredibly close friend cherri @cherrifire secretly hate me and is talking abt me behind my back. i was not the only person to get one of these identical slanderous asks. i’ve already blocked the anon but like. open letter to them, and for the benefit of anyone else who gets an ask like this….

1) anon, you’re genuinely fucking stupid

2) hysterical to send this when i was actively chatting w her, while we were in the process of fleshing out yet another renchanting au, something we have done all day every day for… gosh, how long has it been now? nearly two years? i would say that it was really bad timing to send this ask to me while i was actively chatting aus w her but there really isn’t any moment you could have sent this that i wouldn’t have been.

3) if you thought i wasn’t gonna call bullshit and snitch immediately you don’t know shit about me or cherri, which, granted, is evident by the ask in general, but you really are stupid

4) if a gc like this existed—which it does not, bc cherri is not like this and would not do this—i would be in it. this idiot doesn’t even know im cherri’s emotional support writer. do you have any idea how many gcs and servers she’s dragged me into w her.

5) get your facts right cherri talks shit about me to my face. this is mutual. fake ass fan. if you were a real cherri friend you would know this smh

6) no, actually, you’re right, she definitely hates me. that’s why i met her irl literally like 3 months ago on her invitation, we hung out for a genuine week, spent basically the whole time arm in arm or hand in hand. this is also why we were planning a second meetup last night. you idiot. you fool. you complete and utter moron

anyway, if anyone gets this ask:

it’s complete bullshit. theyre sending this to cherri’s best friends for some godforsaken reason. it’s very weird and deeply cringe. also incredibly poorly planned. idk how many ppl you sent this to, but a few of us are in a gc and we have been making fun of this ask for like an hour (anon, im one of cherri’s friends and she’s been telling a small group of friends about you— lol. lmao even)

anyway like. to reiterate. cherri’s one of my best friends, she’s absolutely lovely and i’m lucky every day to know her. we hang out and chat constantly and we’ve met irl and it was an incredible experience i would love to repeat. i have told her things i have not fuckin told anyone else and you could not otherwise waterboard out of me. i love talking to her all the time and i miss her when she’s busy for even like, an hour. i love writing w her and creating things w her. she’s an incredibly bright spot in my life, often the first person i think of upon waking and the last i think of before i sleep. she is kind and funny and i love her a lot.

i’m a bitch tho so like @ this anon go fuck yourself. you better hope that when you die that the devil finds you before i do. sending this ask to a bunch of our friends, trying to turn the people she cares about against her, and for what? you clearly don’t know her well enough to be talking like this. trying to ruin my friend’s reputation and friendships w a vague as hell and entirely baseless copy paste is super fucking weird. why would you do this? and like, do you think we were born yesterday to fall for this? i’m insulted for her for whatever it was you were trying to pull and i’m insulted on behalf of myself and everyone else you sent this to that you think we’re as stupid as you are. what is your damage. get a hobby.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

get some on my love

QZ!Joel Miller x f!reader

my masterlist | joel fic recs

This is for @justagalwhowrites' Birthday Celebration for Joel. I picked the prompts for QZ!Joel and breeding kink. It, uh. It got away with me. Title from "Gasoline" by Seether because that's what made this get so feral. Please read the warnings.

dedicated to @covetyou bcus it's your tumblrversary bb! and also because of SWAT, the ultimate slutty qz joel fic that lives in my head and pays rent

words: 1.6k

summary: You visit Joel Miller to get what you need.

warnings: dub-con, dubcon due to sex in exchange for drugs, and he kind of springs the breeding kink on her (but there's not a risk), abuse of prescription medications, QZ!Joel Miller, dealer!Joel Miller, smuggler!Joel Miller, filthy!Joel Miller, breeding kink, creampie, menstrual sex, inappropriate uses of period blood, spitting, pussy pronouns (she/her), vulgar language, god i don't even know it's just nasty and they like it, kind of hate fucking, no y/n, no betas no proofreading no nothing lol

dividers by @saradika-graphics

also on ao3

“Well, well. Look who’s come crawlin’ back,” Joel drawls when he opens the door. 

You scowl. “You gonna let me in or not?”

He leans against the frame, a lazy smirk curling. “Gee, I don’t know. You had some mighty strong things to say ‘bout me last time.” He does step back, though, ushering you in. 

“Pretty sure you said you were never gonna look at my ugly mug again,” he adds as he shuts the door behind you. 

“Yeah, well,” you mutter. 

He tips your chin up with two fingers. “Yeah, well,” he mocks. “Well, what? No one else want that sloppy pussy as payment?”

“You like my pussy, jackass,” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Yeah, I do,” he says, cornering you against the door, your back hitting it with a thump. He leers, leaning in. “You know why it’s so sloppy? ‘Cause I fuckin’ ruined it, and you loved it.”

You scowl again, turning your head sharply to the side so you don’t have to look at his smug smirk. The worst part is how right he is. 

“Look,” you mutter, heat rising to your cheeks, “I-I can’t pay today. But I need them, bad. I’ll… I’ll make it up to you.”

It nearly kills you to say. The only thing worse than dealing with Joel Miller is owing Joel Miller. 

“Whaddya mean you can’t pay today? Cunt closed for construction or somethin’?”

You shove him away roughly, ducking out of his grasp to stalk into the living room. “No, dumbass, I’m… bleedin’, you know.”

His responding grin is feral and full of teeth. “I don’t give a shit. Go bend over the bathroom sink.”

“Are you fuckin' serious?”

“You want the fuckin’ pills or not?”

You could scream. Of course you do. There’s not a part of your body that doesn’t hurt. It’s settled into every joint and crevice, an ache you can’t stretch out or shake loose. 

You’d know. You’ve tried. But you’re losing sleep, and the pain makes you too nauseous to eat. His drugs will only take the edge off for so long, but god, you’d do nearly anything for a few hours’ respite. 

“Fine,” you whisper finally, and make your way to the apartment’s tiny three-piece. 

He follows, watching you with amusement. “Strip,” he says. 

You glare, and he shrugs. 

“Or don’t. But I ain’t responsible for what happens to your clothes.”

Oh, fuck him. Fuck him. But you strip—all the way, even though you could have left your top on, but because mother nature has you on her shit list, your usual pain is compounded when you’re menstruating. And when you’re ovulating. Really, so many women don’t even have a fucking cycle anymore from all the stress and malnutrition, but noooo, you were cursed with a fertile fucking uterus. 

The point was that your titties were sore and aching, and the thought of his warm hands groping and pawing at them sounded nice, so off goes your shirt.

He chuckles when he enters the bathroom. “Well, look at that. Eager?”

“Hurry up,” you snap. “It’s cold, and there’s gonna be a mess.”

“Gonna be a mess either way,” he taunts, his hands rough against your hips.

And ain’t that the kicker? There’s gonna be a mess. Your cunt is already sore, and he’s gonna leave a trail of destruction in his wake. 

“Don’t look so grossed out, sugar,” he says, cupping your breasts and looking at you in the mirror. “It’s all natural. Plus, I gotta say, it’s been a long time since I got to do this.”

You’re busy meeting his eyes in the mirror and pulling a face, not catching his last words. He rolls and pinches at your tender nipples, but it’s the kind of pain that sits on the right side of pleasure. As expected, his meaty hands grope unmercifully at your breasts, and you moan in relief at the free massage.

“That’s it. That’s what I like to hear. You ready for me, huh? That greedy pussy o’ yours ready?”

“Uh-huh,” you say distractedly. “Wait—”

“I didn’t forget,” he murmurs in your ear. “Open.”

You open your mouth obediently, sticking your tongue out. He sets a round, white pill on it and turns your head with a firm grip on your chin, his spit landing right on the pill.

You swallow and avert your eyes as he watches your reflection.

“Get on with it,” you rasp.

One hand wanders down between your thighs and strokes through the folds, working you open with two thick fingers scissoring side to side. He doesn’t spend long there, dragging them up to rub at your clit for a moment.

“Make some fuckin’ noise; I can’t tell if you’re wet or not with all this goin’ on,” he grumbles, withdrawing his hand and showing you the slick blood coating it.

You wince, and he laughs. “Y’ain’t scared of your own period, are ya?”

“Fuck off, ‘course I’m not. Doesn’t mean I wanna look at it.”

He grins. The expression is always unnatural on him and usually heralds something vulgar.

You’re not wrong. He brings his hand up to cup your breast, leaving a smear of blood on your tit. 

“Somethin’ kinda hot about it, don’tcha think?” he muses.

“If you say so,” you mutter, but you can’t look away. It’s striking, blood against your skin that isn’t borne of violence.

The thick tip of his cock interrupts your thoughts as he pushes down on your shoulder. You bend, gripping the sides of the vanity as he buries himself inside with one slow thrust.

He groans, gripping hard on your shoulder. “S’better than lube.”

“You’re so gross,” you say, shaking your head.

“Yeah? Then why’re you clenchin’ around me like a goddamn vice, huh?”

“You always talk this much when you fuck, or am I special?”

“Oh, sugar, don’t flatter yourself,” he says with a slap on your ass. “Y’ain’t special.”

“You—ahh—you hate-fuck all your customers?”

He snorts. “You ain’t even special enough to hate, honey. And you can hate me all you like, but we both know you’re gonna keep comin’ back.”

As you scowl up at him in the mirror, you almost wish looks could kill. But he’s right. He’d be no good to you dead because no other dealer in this godforsaken QZ will dose you in exchange for sex.

As it is, he only lets you once a week. You need more than that? Gotta pay like everyone else. Even when you can afford it, you find yourself back here or on your knees or however he wants you every fuckin’ Friday, because a free pill is a free pill. It’s 3-4 hours you can nap without nearly killin’ yourself to afford it.

Today’s pill hasn’t begun to set in yet, but that’s the other thing about Joel. He’s good at making you forget.

Real good.

His hands are on your body, roughly gentle. He’s not careful with his touch, but not careless, either. He wants you to come, wants you to shake and fall apart on his dick, so he can flash you that little self-satisfied smirk borne of bravado he’s rightly earned. 

And you do. You come for him, with his hands on your breasts and your clit. You tremble and moan and your pussy tries to stake a claim on his cock, clenching and hoping to never let go. But it will, and you will. In the end, you always let go.

He’s a different kind of beast tonight. Panting and grunting in your ear, teeth on your neck, sweat dripping and blending with yours. After he’s rung pleasure from you, he settles one hand on your hip and another on your shoulder and ruts into you like a jackhammer. Like he can’t get deep enough, can’t stop until he’s carved a spot for him within you.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters, pushing you down further. “Fuuuck, darlin’, you want this, huh? You want me to fill you up?”

“Wh-what?” you gasp, air knocked from you with each punch of his cock against your cervix.

“Gonna fill you up good, gonna—nnng— gonna make it stick.”

You reach back and smack him. “The fuck are you—” 

But he doesn’t let you finish. He holds on tight and grinds his dick deep. “That greedy pussy, sugar, she fuckin’ wants it. Oh fuck, I-I’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy ‘till she’s full o’ me. And you’re gonna take it, right?”

You whimper, holding tight to the sink while he loses his fucking mind or whatever is happening. You don’t know. It feels too good to question.

“Thas’ it,” he rambles. “Gonna look so good, stuffed up, and ev’ryone—everyone—will know you let me fuckin’ breed you.”

Oh god. It shouldn’t be hot. Those words should be stopping your heart, you should be pushing him away, but your dumb cunt has a mind of its own and holds tight to him, each thrust of his cock squelching as you come around him again. 

“Jesus, baby, it’s been too long, too long since I got to fill up a cunt like yours,” he groans, hips stuttering, “oh shit, take it—fuckin’ take it.”

His cock pulses inside you, and you think maybe you die and go to heaven for a little bit—just a little, because when you open your eyes, you’re still in Joel’s grimy bathroom—but there’s a sweet moment where you think he’s right. It’s been too long. Far too long since a man’s come undone inside you, let you feel that hot burst and twitching, it’s divine, it’s—well, it’s making you come again. 

When he pulls out, you stumble right to the toilet, glaring at him as you try to clean up the mess before it happens. “Gross,” you grumble.

When you look up, the way he’s looking at you makes somethin’ awful churn inside, and it’s not just the apparent buckets of cum he filled you with. 

The silence between you is thick. Finally, he jerks his head to the shower. “Get cleaned up ‘n get out,” is all he says, and the door clicks shut in his wake. 

[mattsturnioloz]

Then I lost you.

Summary: Matt's career as a youtuber takes a toll on his 4 year relationship with his girlfriend, putting it on hold. Will it ever be the same again?

Pairings: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Warnings: angst, mentions of anxiety, unresolved angst (maybe)

A/N: (guys this is my first fic so please bear with me😭 l would love some feedback or tips though!!)

I was sitting on the couch scrolling through my phone and channel surfing, waiting for my boyfriend, Matt, to get back from filming a car video with his brothers, Chris and Nick. But over the course of the last couple of months, Matt has been distant and there was a rather uncomfortable feeling sitting in my chest. He would make up excuses as to why he couldn't hang out with me like he was filming, editing or streaming. It made me overthink. Did I do something? Does he still love- No, of course he still loves me. Right?

It was all too much and it gave me anxiety. Sure, I understand his career as a Youtuber can be a handful but I can't help but feel a bit neglected and it makes me feel guilty.. I sit there thinking for a moment, taking in the cool autumn smell that roamed through the house, listening to the patter of the soft rain drops falling onto the windows, trying to think of a way that I could get Matt to spend time with me.

I decide to cook a nice dinner for matt and I or at least attempt to, so I stand up and I head to the kitchen and decide on some ravioli which takes me about an hour but I did it.

Flashback

"What are you gonna get to eat?" | asked Matt.

"I'm not sure.. you know for a fancy restaurant, you'd think they'd have a variety of options." He says before raising his eyebrow at me, showing me the menu and we both chuckle.

"Our first date and i'm already messing up huh?" He says with a nervous chuckle.

"What?? No! you're not messing up i'm having fun." I said with a smile, reaching over the table to hold his hand and he gave me a lighthearted smile.

"Ravioli is the only decent thing they got here, think i'll go with that." He says closing the menu. "See? It's not all that bad, I just so happen to love ravioli. I think I can go for some too.” I smile.

Present

I set up the table with bowls and utensils before making my way to the bathroom and realize that look a bummy mess so l spend the rest of the time I had left before he got back to make myself look at least a little presentable. I feel an overwhelming but nice sense of excitement to spend time with him again. I change into a casual but nice outfit and decide to do a simple and natural makeup look.

I soon hear the sound of the front door opening and chattering following behind it. I make my way out of the room to greet Matt who was laughing with chris and nick.

"Hey baby! How was filming??" | say almost too enthusiastically but I was too excited to keep my cool. "It was alright." He says nonchalantly, which makes me turn my happy demeanor down a notch.

Chris goes downstairs to get ready for something and Nick goes upstairs to do the same. Leaving matt and I alone which was perfect so I take the chance.

"I made-" before I could say anything Matt interrupted me. "Hey, me nick and chris are gonna go to top golf with madi, and nate so I might be home a little late." My heart sinks and i'm flushed with dread but I don't give up so easily.

"Well I actually made dinner for us.. I was hoping we could spend a little time together since we haven't in a while." | say fiddling with my necklace getting a bit anxious.

"I'm sure it's amazing baby but I should go get ready, Save me some yeah?" He says, placing a gentle kiss on my temple before he walks towards our shared bedroom to get ready.

I sit at the table where our food is now cold and I feel a lump in my throat followed by a cold sinking feeling in my chest.

658 words.

A/N: (This is sloppy and I kind of hate it, js wanted to try this out to see what yall think. if you guys like it, i'll keep writing, if not then im never writing again and since it's my first fic I kept it short but if you guys like it, i'll make the next parts longer 🫶🏼)

Taglist: @h3arts4harry @star-yawnznn @imwetforyourmom

[blackmoonoracle]

BLACKMOONORACLE PRESENTS ...

PICK A CARD • OCTOBER PREDICTIONS

P I L E O N E

Soooo, you’ve definitely got a pretty decent release coming in during the month of october. I specifically heard the releasing of a karmic contract, so, I truly love that for you. You could be making a decision about a connection, it definitely feels like a past energy though. Some sort of cycle you’ve experienced with a particular soul over and over again. You put a stop to this though, I feel like you called it like it was. I’m channeling Vultures by Earl Sweatshirt and the beginning of the song literally goes. “I’ve been on the run, that’s why I go harder than you go. Plus I call em how I see em, maybe that’s why I’m all alone.” Season of the Witch is currently playing and it’s the part that goes “you’ve got to pick up every stitch” it feels like an energy of uprooting. I do feel like this pile has a tendency to hold onto people that don’t serve them in any way shape or form. Channeling Serve the Servants by Nirvana, in specific this part stands out:

“I just want you to know that I don't hate you anymore There is nothing I could say that I haven't thought before”

There feels like a specific intention in this pile to remove themselves from relationships that are dragging them down.

Something may be occurring that is causing you to let go of this connection, like something is going to make you realize you’re wasting your time. It’s not like usual either, it’s like this undismissable feeling of disgust and realization.

The mask is being ripped off, and in a very ugly way LOL.

I feel like whatever information you’re going to learn from this situation is actually going to help you develop better self esteem and turn a new leaf. It feels like a sigh of relief, this person possibly made you feel like you weren’t good enough, or were a bad person. I heard “I’m always the problem” and you’re going to realize that you aren’t and never were the problem.

I literally heard “reactive abuse”.

If you’d like to book a personal reading you can always dm me on here or instagram.

P I L E T W O

You guys are making social waves the month of october by setting harsh boundaries and restrictions in place with others. I heard “Look but don’t touch” I feel like there may be some kind of drama going on in october. I did hear workplace, so for some of you this could be career/reputation/workplace related drama and bs bubbling over. I see you taking things into your own hands and very critically thinking about the situation so you can make a solid decision that is balanced and fair. I also heard “in your favor” I feel like whoever this person you have issues with is doesn’t have a very good reputation. It’s almost like this person speaking so negatively of you constantly is really aggravating other people. Especially because you don’t really talk about them at all. You’ve pretty much moved on from whatever this is.

I heard “bitter ex friend” and I also heard “bite the bullet” and I heard something about a poison apple? Someone could have tried to use an apple in some sort of hex or spellwork towards you. It could be also that someone has poisonous intentions of trying to gain access to you and that you are putting that shit to a stop.

I heard scorpio, so this person could be a scorpio. I see you essentially making a judgment on this person socially which is going to cause other people to really see them in a different light. You could also be bringing context or clarity to some kind of situation, you hold missing information or you are a missing link in some way. I also heard complexity, so this situation could be very complex.

This new judgment will teach you to be more selfish with your time and resources so that you can create a genuine balance in your life.

Too much gratitude I heard, which is lowkey crazy? I think that what that means is that essentially sometimes you put shit on a pedestal. There’s a self worth wound being worked out in this situation tbh.

If you’d like to book a personal reading you can always dm me on here or instagram.

P I L E T H R E E

I see a new financial opportunity becoming available in the month of october for you, something unexpected. It could be in something with creation of some kind, doing and creating content possibly even? I see you handling business matters and phone calls of some kind? I heard admin, so some sort of administrative position? I also heard dream job, so for some of you this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity or for others this could be a really solid offer. I also heard high caliber, but I’m also hearing don’t work yourself to death. This group feels very capricorn type of energy, addicted to working, you love making money. I see where you’ve fought long and hard to get into whatever position is being given to you. I see where you’ve lost so much, in search of stability and I feel like you will need to face your shadow of lack and insecurity while in this job position or offer. It almost feels like some of you may try to eject yourself out of the situation because you’re scared or because it feels too good to be true? I feel like this is a good opportunity, but don’t get wrapped up in social liaison I heard. I feel like you have to learn to be comfortable with not fitting in or being like neck deep in a community. You’re meant to be a bit of an outlier at this current point in time because you are learning something new. You’ve already developed the social skills, this is about developing a deeper personal skillset that you can really utilize to drive you to your success.

I see this group really coming to terms with the past, and releasing either the fear of being seen for who you are. I’m also hearing “of being heard” a fear of being perceived for who you really are. You are healing your relationship to yourself, i heard “grotesque” you might be really mean to yourself a lot of the time. Like highkey you are very impatient and cruel to yourself at times and it lowkey sucks for you. I also heard don’t lose sight of what you have, this new opportunity is here for you to milk it for what it has to offer and then dip when things begin to culminate on a deeper scale for you. Some of you could really go through a deep spiritual awakening and learn what happiness truly means to you as a result of this.

If you’d like to book a personal reading you can always dm me on here or instagram

[seafarersdream]

Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

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“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

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“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

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The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I’m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

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“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

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The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?”

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

[myslutwritings]

Hi, i was wondering how the uppermoons react to the reader aka the love of their life crying herself to sleep after a huge argument, like they walk into their shared bedroom to find the reader laying on the bed with tear stained cheeks flushed face mouth slightly open, i know i know it's way too angst-y but i love being comforted when i cry and i am a cry baby so... Pretty please🥺

wowie😂 y’all seem to dig the crybaby reader headcanons so here’s some angst my lovelies!!

➤ Uppermoons comforting reader after an argument.

pairing/featuring: crybaby!reader x the three uppermoons! content warning: lots of angst, douma has emotions, OOC!uppermoons, semi-nsfw, smaller reader, size difference, crybaby!reader.

— note: sorry if this comes off as cheesy! this is pure fluff headcanons for those who are sad and find comfort in our three lovely demons! so i wanted to go all out😅 so the uppermoons aren’t going to be THAT in character. [not proof read btw]

KOKUSHIBO <3

Kokushibo (the uppermoon one) and you got into one extremely heated and serious argument that day..

Is argument even the right word at this rate? more like a fight.

Like so bad you guys were screaming at each other the same way toxic parents who weren’t ever in love would fight. 🥲

The fight was so severe to the point where kokushibo just upped and left you alone for hours. He didn’t desire to fight that night and was exhausted from your constant screaming.

However..

Returns later that night to apologize since the fight was his fault only to find you crying in y’all’s shared bedroom..

Gods.. what has he done?!

Okay now he feels even worse. this is going to be troublesome considering he already has a hard time being intimate and expressing his feelings.

After all, koku here is very avoidant. but he’s not trying to be.

You immediately stop crying once you feel his presence. How long has he been standing there?

you want to tell to go away

you want to tell him you hate him (you don’t)

you want to say you love him

you want to say so many things

But nothing comes out.. you just can’t speak properly due to the utter anguish you’re in over the fight..

you’ve always been the biggest crybaby, a sensitive soul.

Kokushibo has always reassured you that he loved that about you. as if you’re the purest and most beautiful flower. an angel sent from the gods themselves.

Finally, you muster up the courage to speak

But right before you blurt out anything Kokushibo gathers you up on his arms and cradles you on his lap.

The gesture makes you eyes water more and you just end up sobbing into his shoulder muttering: “i’m sorry” over and over again.

some phrases you’ll hear from Kokushibo while crying are;

“i’m deeply sorry, my love. my intention was to never make you shed this many tears. That’s the last thing i want to do..”

“Please, no more tears, my dearest petal. I can’t stand witnessing you in such a state of misery. I’m so sorry for leaving you alone.. it’s my fault and i should’ve tried to communicate with you instead of leaving you alone like that.. you’re my one and only and i’ll never do something this foolish ever again.”

Koku isn’t the very best at communication nor is he the talking type but when it comes to you he’ll go out of his way to talk to you all night long until you feel better! <3

The both of you end up cuddling all night.

He plays with your soft hair and keeps an eye on you as you rest.

Even if you fall sleep he still won’t leave. He’s going to hold you in his protective embrace while you sleep me until you wake.

DOUMA <3

Oh my! his poor sweet lotus crying to themselves after an argument? now, this won’t stand..

Now let’s skip the part where he feels emotions for you.

Anyway-

Douma is not really an argumentative kind of guy..

i mean, sure, he’ll joke around with lord-akaza but that’s all for great fun! :D

And lets not forget the numerous times muzan has chastised him or when he had to listen to his long-rants about how worthless he and his superiors are for not being able to seek out the blue spider lily.

So, when you two break out into an argument.. he doesn’t yell back. he kinda disregards your feelings and accuses you of being silly and just teases you for it.

I mean, you are being over-dramatic, right?

Honestly, he’s not used to it when you yell and break down afterwards..

Douma’s never seen you so upset before! :(

Okay, he may know how to ‘comfort’ people but we all know that’s a façade.

Deadass doesn’t know what to do. it’s different because with you he actually cares (more than you know.)

Is torn between giving you space and just forcing you into his embrace and babying you until you stop crying like how he does with his disciples.

Douma is clingy. he’s always been very clingy and touchy. this rainbow-eyed man is glued to you 24/7. 🥹

As predicted, his clingyness gets the better of him and he follows you like a lost puppy once you runaway in tears.

He didn’t mean for this to happen nor to make you so upset.

You’re crying on your futon and he stands there for a good second witnessing you in distress. he’s still feeling hesitant.

He isn’t used to these emotions bubbling up into his gut right now.. and doesn’t like it one bit! he needs it to vanish as fast as possible.

Douma ignores your protests while he gathers you up into his strong arms and lays you across his lap bridal-style.

Kisses your tears away and gives you love bites since he has a habit of doing that. usually it makes you giggle when he does that but this time you only recoil from his touch.

“Aw, don’t pull away from me!”

**cue the pouting**

Douma will legitimately comfort you this time instead of putting on that act he does with his followers.

Some phrases you’ll hear from douma are:

“Hush now, my darling! it’ll be okay! i- i didn’t mean to upset you, honest! i can’t let you go.. i can’t leave you alone when you’re crying like this..”

“Hey, hey! shh.. it’s okay sweetie! i’m here for you! let’s wipe those tears off your pretty face, hm? oh, you’re beautiful no matter what even if you’re crying but i would much rather you smile for me! can you do that for me, dear?~”

“I love you so much, [name]! I promise i didn’t mean to make you upset.. it won’t happen again! please just try to communicate with me more so we won’t fight like this again!Of course i’ll do the same in return.. these emotions i felt today were something i never want to experience gain!”

Much like kokushibo. Douma isn’t the best communicator either.

Sure, the man may be a yapping machine but it takes him a hot minute to realize his wrong-doings and talk it out with you!

By the way he’ll probably tease you after this night so be prepared.

Probably would initiate sex to make you relax since you’re so damn tense but will understand if you decline. 

AKAZA <3

Good lord, he’s the MOST emotional and sympathetic out of everyone.

Akaza tends to yell a lot, he suffers from anger issues and can be passive aggressive so it’s quite easy to get him riled up.

This fight in particular was worse than usual.

Like wayyyy worse.

Akaza actually hates, hates, HATES, HATES, fighting with you.

So he’s on the verge of tears himself and angry with himself for being so weak to argue with you back instead of being the bigger and stronger person in this situation.

More importantly, he made you cry, he’s most disappointed in himself for that.

Akaza isn’t too clingy, on very rare occasions he is though.

Akaza has attachmemt issues but doesn’t show it that often (that’s my headcanon for him)

So bro’s attachment issues are literally SPIRALING in this moment.

Calls out for you when you runaway but you don’t turn back and that’s what he knows he’s fucked up.

Will do ANYTHING to make you forgive him and to stop crying.

Wants to respect you but he knows he’ll go apeshit if he leaves you alone so he takes a hot minute before running after you.

He’ll knock on your door. f you don’t answer he’ll just waltz right in like he owns the place.

Starts yapping as soon as the door swings open.

Poor thing, he’s flipping out. 😭

“Baby!! please don’t cry!! shit.. i’m sorry!”

You look at him

Is he.. tearing up?

You feel guilty for overwhelming him but you’re also still mad at him.. you can’t bring yourself to apply him with the reassurance and comfort he craves in that moment even though you want to..

Akaza will get more needy if you ignore him and crawl into bed with you to spoon you from behind. His hands swiftly snake around your waist and you feel your back flush against his bare chest as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

He’s mumbling “i’m sorry, pretty girl..” under his shuddering breath.

He is NOT letting you go until morning.

Akaza will pepper feather-like kisses upon your neck from behind and squeeze your waist while whispering comforting words into your ear.

He’s really not letting you go until you forgive him. 😞

Phrases you’ll hear from Akaza after an argument:

“Come here, honey.. i’m really sorry. believe me, i didn’t mean anything i said. i was a damn idiot!”

“Sweetheart, i love you so so much it hurts.. you mean the fucking world to me! i would kill for you, i would even die for you.. you bring out this special part of me in which i feel like myself.. only YOU have the power to do that. i would never leave you or let anything bad happen to you, honest!”

He embraces you and will probably end up turning you around so you can face him.

he appreciates it when you look into his eyes when he’s talking to you about something important.

You making eye-contact with him sends him onto cloud nine 😩

Akaza just wants to see your pretty face! 💗💗

Even if you take your time forgiving Akaza he will understand and never love you any less.

[literaila]

Does tsumiki ever bring her friends over for sleepovers?

“satoru,” you hiss, “what are you doing?”

the man in question is currently sneaking down the hallway, hand on the knob of tsumiki’s bedroom, lips immediately moving to a pout when he hears your voice.

and then he steps back. takes a second to collect himself. smiles. “i’m just checkin’ on the girls.”

you cross your arms, raising a brow at him. “oh, yeah? you’re not going in there to eavesdrop on tsumiki’s conversations and try to gossip with her friends?”

“i don’t gossip,” he says, but the way his hand is itching back towards the door is answer enough.

so you walk over to him, promptly flicking his forehead, and then grabbing his hand so you can drag him back down the hallway. “you cannot interrupt tsumiki’s girl night.”

“why not?” he asks, sounding oh so dejected. “you let me come to yours.”

you snort, forcing satoru down on the couch, standing in front of him as bodyguard. “there’s no letting involved. and it’s just me and shoko, anyway. this is a group of four girls.”

satoru leans back, crossing his arms. “i know that nanami goes, sometimes.”

you stare at him for a moment, thinking about how pretty he would look if he was just a statue and not a literal child. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him, simply, and then you sit on the couch too.

and if you move close enough to touch your thigh to his, no one needs to know. and if your head automatically rests on his shoulder, well, that’s no one’s business.

but you do hold his hand—just to comfort him a little bit. you have to take care of your husband and his very fragile heart.

satoru kisses the top of your head, then he says, “i just want to be a part of girls night. tsumiki’s friends are so cool.”

“did you die and get replaced with a twelve year old girl?”

he sighs dramatically, hanging his head against yours. then he does it again, just in case you didn’t notice.

when you don’t say anything, he does it again. the point is clear.

“okay,” you laugh, patting his knee. “i get it.”

“i’m all alone,” he whines, leaning forward so he can rub his nose in your lap. “my daughter hates me.”

you hum. “i don’t think tsumiki hates anything.”

“well then her friends hate me.”

“yeah, probably, since you had to inspect them when they walked through the door.”

satoru pinches your leg. “that was for protection,” he tells you, voice muffled. “i don’t want anything to get to her.”

you laugh again because, well, that’s just a ridiculous accusation.

satoru groans into your thigh and shakes his head, managing to tickle and annoy you at the same time.

after 27 seconds of this, you sigh.

“if you want girls night,” you say, so reluctantly, “i’ll do it with you.”

satoru immediately sits up, looking at you with wide, eager alien eyes. “really?”

you shrug. “sure.”

“with face masks?”

“um… yes.”

“and painting nails? and bad 2000s movies? and sharing our deep dark secrets at two in the morning?”

“what kind of girls nights are you having, satoru?”

“oh, we can get megumi, too,” he’s musing, “i could bribe him with another manga collection, or one of those jackets that’s easy to get blood out of—“

“i’ll ask him,” you interrupt, “but i’m not forcing him to do anything. he might be asleep.”

and then satoru giggles like a maniac. “sure sure,” he says, waving you off. “this is going to be awesome.”

forget curses—you’ve just created your own monster.

[all-pacas]

OKAY. 13 AND CHASE IN AFTER HOURS THO

The fact that when 13 needs help, she calls Chase. Why does she call him? Why doesn't she call someone else? She needs someone to deliver her a portable ultrasound, and okay, you could argue Foreman is a bad call because he's her ex and would pry. That House would just refuse. Taub would have been a good pick tbh, he would drop it off and just go home no questions asked. But no, she calls Chase

(And I love that call. "You doing anything?" "Oh, yeah, I'm just about to go out," Chase lies blatantly, asleep in bed with a book on the crusades on his chest. Like the loser he is. I don't know that it was done well but I love how S7 examines his Dumb Whore tendencies: it isn't really him, it's a rebound. He does it again when he gets stabbed.)

And of course the second he shows up he immediately sees through 13's excuses and pushes his way into the apartment. Because we love Chase's observation skills triumphing over his laziness.

13 tells Chase the prison backstory. Like! It's kind of glossed over. She hasn't told this to anyone else. She doesn't hide it. I killed my brother. It wasn't murder. Chase is just pacing, you just know he's twigged as hell, he's so anxious all at once as she tries to brush past it. The idea that 13 kind of had to tell him to explain Darrien's presence but she's also — House is the only other person who knows.

CHASE: Have you talked to anybody about it? I mean, are you okay?

Like we know this immediately triggered something in Chase, but 13 doesn't, and seeing him so anxious and pacing and ignoring the bleeding dying woman as 13 works, it's just. Incredible. It's good. He cares immediately, he's relating to this immediately.

But I love seeing them work together. Like they just immediately go in sync, Chase offering suggestions and 13 doing the work. They're just. It's nice.

SIDE NOTE: House says he called everyone before he called Cuddy. We see him call 13 and Taub. Chase is off picking up drugs, we don't see House call him, but like. He had to have called Chase first, right? Did Chase not pick up? Did he blow him off because he already was dealing with someone bleeding to death in someone's apartment??

The way they fight oh my god. The way 13 just is trying to fucking murder Chase. She punches him, she claws and shoves him, and then he just clocks her and stares horrified as she falls to the floor. Like it's an actual fight, it's brutal, it's so good. They hurt one another. I can't explain it but I love how brutal it is, that they both walk away with bruises, that it isn't pretty. Incredible. Amazing scene.

CHASE: You were defending your friend beyond all rationality, granting her the right to die in your bedroom. Was it really all because of a promise? 13: That word means something to some people. CHASE: Not that much. […] CHASE: You promised your brother you'd euthanize him and you think you won't feel bad about it as long as you can blame it on the promise. That's why you have this twisted obligation to keep all promises… or your carefully constructed defense mechanism could crumble down. 13: I saved my brother from a lot of pain.

!! Chase keeps bringing it up, he keeps bringing up her brother, not out of I can't believe you did a murder or I can't believe you went to prison but: you must hate yourself. He's calling her out on her coping mechanisms, he's calling her out on her guilt, and it's so fucking clear what he means is I get it but he's not saying that part. 13 killed her brother and now has to believe she did the right thing, no matter what, no matter how she feels. She's taking away her own agency: it was for a promise, it was his decision, she had nothing to do with it, it's fine, it doesn't feel bad. Chase killed Dibala and told himself it was for the greater good, it was morally just, it was the right thing to do, it doesn't feel bad. And it nearly destroyed him. And so he's pushing and pushing at it. He never goes 13 went to prison! he never goes it's so crazy you did that! Whenever he brings it up it's only in the context of how worried he is about her. Has she spoken to someone? Is she coping? Is this healthy? Is she okay? He's so worried. He cares so much.

I adore 13 and Chase running out of ideas with Darrien and calling dad. Most sibling coded of all time. Just. And the fact that House doesn't allude to also being in the hospital, actively bleeding and in pain, just, yes, we gotta help bail you two idiots out. Beautiful moment.

Chase getting 13 ice and coffee and still feeling guilty for punching her out, and 13 not blaming him at all. Like. You know. Don't beat people up. But in this one case I totally approve. Because I love it.

13: Darrien had to shoot that kid. It was the right thing. Completely justified. But it didn't matter. She destroyed her life trying to forget. I'm afraid that's what's gonna happen to me. CHASE: You really should talk to someone. 13: I've talked to a therapist. It didn't help. CHASE: Well, maybe you should talk to someone who isn't a therapist. 13: Do you really think you have any idea what it's like to live with something like this? CHASE: Let's grab a coffee.

Since the second Chase found out, this is what it's been leading towards. I love that he doesn't answer, he doesn't say a thing, but this is what he's been thinking all episode, why he's been pushing, why he's been so worried and caring: talk to me. Tell me you're not okay. Tell me everything isn't fine. And 13 holds it back until the end of the case, until it's over and she has no distractions. It's not at all clear Chase himself has talked to someone about Dibala, btw. He probably hasn't.

And how insane is that. He never told Foreman or House; they figured it out. He told Cameron: she left him. (Imagine being 13, hearing this. Realizing the timeline. She went to their wedding. What did she think happened when Cameron just … left? How quickly does she figure it out now?) House told Chase to talk to someone, Chase tried Confessing, but whenever he's tried to tell anyone it's gone terribly for him. I don't think he has talked to anyone. But he repeats House's advice to 13: talk to someone. (Talk to me.) He's offering her what he never got. And their situations are different, hers is much more sympathetic and easy to accept than his. Chase never goes I never got help or you have nothing to feel bad about or implies he doesn't think it's a big deal: his entire reaction is just empathy. He wants 13 to get what he didn't get, he wants to help.

The song that plays over the end of the episode is Bon Iver's Flume. And as much as you can apply it to House, and Cuddy, and Wilson, and all of that — it's a song about feeling isolated, feeling alone and being afraid of letting go. Of holding on to things that stain and hurt. The lyrics that play while 13 and Chase are having their coffee in the conference room, though:

i wear my garment/so it shows now you know

And I just! I love! Them! The ways 13 and Chase are so alike and so damaged, the way Chase reacts with empathy and care and wants her to have what he didn't, the way they know one another's secrets and worst moments and rely on one another so easily. 13's secrecy is a meme, in and out of universe, but Chase is absolutely no better: he won't even admit he's Catholic when talking to a nun. They're private to faults, they mask by sleeping around and taking risks and pretending not to care, they hide their hurts and then somehow, they punch one another in the face and know everything. I'm just. I'm so obsessed with them. I want them like this always.

[rispwr]

If i were you i'd do me - JK - MDNI - 3

pairings : fuckboy! jk x fem! reader, established relationship, mentions of smart! namjoon x oc, slow burn, enemies to lovers

contents/warnings : fluff, motorrides with jk

taglist : @crazyovayou @sinfullygay @minghaosimp (comment if you wanna be added to my taglists)

context : Jungkook, the notorious campus heartbreaker and player, unexpectedly becomes your groupmate alongside Namjoon, the guy you’ve secretly admired for ages. However, it seems your feelings have started shifting from Namjoon to someone else entirely unexpected…

Not proofread

The morning sun was relentless as it streamed through my curtains, casting harsh rays over my face and forcing me out of my peaceful slumber. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the last remnants of sleep, but something nagged at the back of my mind—something I couldn’t quite place. As I stretched out under the covers, a fleeting memory hit me, and the weight of last night came crashing down like a tidal wave.

Oh no.

I sat up abruptly, my heart pounding in my chest. Did I actually do that? I groaned, clutching my face in my hands as flashes of the night before flooded my mind. Jungkook. I did it with Jungkook. My body tensed at the realization, disgust and regret swirling in my stomach.

“What the hell did I do?” I whispered to myself, panic slowly creeping up my spine. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a bad dream, right?

Just then, a loud, high-pitched squeal escaped my mouth—something between a shriek and a cry for help. “AHHHHHHHH!”

Out of nowhere, Hoseok burst through my door like a man on a mission. “What happened?! What’s wrong?” His eyes were wide, scanning the room as if expecting an intruder.

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight of him. “Hobi?! What the—why are you here?” I stammered, pulling the covers up over my chest even though I was fully clothed. My face flushed red, partly from the shock of seeing him and partly because of the memory of last night.

Hoseok blinked at me, his face still full of worry. “What do you mean, why am I here? I heard you scream! I thought something happened to you!”

Something had happened, just not the kind of emergency he was expecting. I buried my face in my hands, trying to hide my embarrassment. How the hell was I supposed to explain this?

Hoseok edged closer, his voice laced with concern. “Y/N, seriously, what’s going on?”

I peeked at him through my fingers, my cheeks burning. “Oh my god, Hobi… I just… I just did it with Jungkook last night.”

Hoseok froze, staring at me in disbelief. Slowly, a knowing smirk spread across his face, and he gave me a side-eye. “You’re just now realizing your doings?”

I groaned again, wanting to crawl under my bed and never come out. “I mean, I knew last night, but it didn’t hit me until just now!” I threw my hands in the air, feeling completely overwhelmed by the situation.

Hoseok’s smirk only widened as he leaned back, crossing his arms. “You realize this is what I’ve been telling you all along, right? The more you hate him, the more you love him.” He gave me a pointed look, and like a bad movie flashback, his words from months ago echoed in my mind.

“The more you hate, the more you love.”

I groaned louder this time, letting my head fall back against the headboard. “No, no, no, this isn’t happening,” I mumbled. This was exactly what I had been trying to avoid—getting sucked back into Jungkook’s orbit, falling for his charm again. And yet, here I was.

Before I could spiral any further, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I froze, eyes widening in horror as I glanced at the screen. It was Jungkook.

“Oh no,” I muttered, staring at his name lighting up my phone like it was some kind of death sentence. My stomach did a somersault, and I could feel Hoseok’s eyes boring into me.

“What? What is it?” Hoseok asked, leaning over to peek at the phone.

“It’s Jungkook,” I whispered, feeling my pulse quicken.

“Well, girl, answer it!” Hoseok said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“No way!” I whisper-yelled, clutching the phone to my chest. “You answer it!”

Hoseok gave me a look like I’d lost my mind. “Ew, no! I’m not the one who slept with him!”

“I did not sleep with him!” I fired back, though the words felt weak even to my own ears.

“Yes, you did,” Hoseok replied matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

Before I could even think of a comeback, the phone slipped from my hands, and in the chaos of trying to catch it, I accidentally hit the answer button. My eyes widened in horror as Jungkook’s voice came through the speaker.

“Hey baby,” he said, his voice smooth and playful. “Wanna go to dinner tonight?”

I cringed, holding the phone to my ear. “Ew, don’t call me baby,” I shot back, trying to sound annoyed even though my heart was racing.

Hoseok snorted next to me, shaking his head. “Girl, shut up and just go with him.”

I glanced at him, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to throw the phone across the room and never speak to Jungkook again, but the other part—the part that had spent the night with him—was curious. What would happen if I agreed?

Sighing in defeat, I leaned back against the headboard and spoke into the phone. “Fine, fine. But you’re paying, and you have to pick me up.”

Hoseok’s eyes went wide, and before I knew it, he was squealing at the top of his lungs. “OH MY GOD!” He jumped off the bed, sprinting out of the room. “Eommoniiii!” I heard him yell down the hall. “Our precious Y/N has a date!”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands again as I heard my mom squealing in response from downstairs.

“OH MY GOD!” my mom’s voice echoed up to my room. “A date?! With Jungkook?!”

I could feel the heat creeping up my neck as I glanced at the phone, still on the line with Jungkook. “You’re going to pay for this,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure if I was talking to Hoseok or Jungkook.

Jungkook’s laughter rang through the phone. “I’m looking forward to it. See you tonight, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe,” I huffed, but there was a small smile tugging at my lips despite my best efforts.

After hanging up, I lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what just happened. I had just agreed to go on a date with Jungkook. How had my life spiraled into this?

Hoseok bounded back into the room, a huge grin plastered on his face. “So, you finally caved, huh?”

I groaned, rolling over to face the wall. “I didn’t cave. I was blackmailed into this.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Hoseok said, flopping down on the bed next to me. “But deep down, you know you want this.”

“No, I don’t,” I protested weakly, but even I didn’t believe it anymore. There was something about Jungkook that always pulled me back in, no matter how hard I tried to resist.

Hoseok nudged me with his elbow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You better make sure you look hot tonight. You know he’s going to be expecting it.”

I groaned again, pulling the covers over my head. “Can you just stop?”

fast forward

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden hue over the house as I sat in front of the mirror in my bedroom, staring blankly at my reflection. My mind kept drifting to the events of the past 24 hours, and no matter how much I tried to avoid it, Jungkook’s name lingered in my thoughts. I didn’t know what was going on with me. Why did I agree to go on this date? It wasn’t like I wanted to.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Suddenly, my bedroom door swung open with a loud creak, and in came Hoseok, his usual energetic self. Following close behind him was my mom, who had that familiar, excited glint in her eyes.

“Alright, Y/N, let’s go!” Hoseok chirped, clapping his hands together as he stood beside my mom, practically bouncing on his feet. “We’re taking you to the salon. You’ve got to look perfect for tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Hobi, it’s just dinner. Geez.”

My mom crossed her arms, giving me a knowing look. “Y/N, this is your first date. Come on, you never go on any dates,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm, the way only a mother’s voice could be.

Hoseok, ever the instigator, jumped in immediately. “Exactly. The last time you tried to have a date, the guy ghosted you, remember? This is your first real date!”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest. “Not with the person I actually want to be with.”

Hoseok rolled his eyes and gave me a playful nudge. “Trust me. He’ll be the one you want eventually.” His voice carried that mischievous tone he always used when he thought he knew something I didn’t.

I grunted in annoyance, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my lips. Hoseok had a way of getting under my skin, but sometimes, he was annoyingly right. Just as I was about to protest, my phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling me. I glanced at the screen. It was Jungkook.

My heart did a strange little flip, and before I could stop myself, I answered the call. “What do you want?”

On the other end of the line, Jungkook’s voice was smooth and playful. “Wear something cute or elegant tonight. I want to take you somewhere nice.”

“Oh—okay. Okay then,” I stammered, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. For some reason, hearing him talk like that made my stomach flutter. I wasn’t used to this side of him—at least, not anymore.

“Aight, see you later, pretty,” he said, his voice dropping in a way that made my skin tingle.

I hung up quickly, tossing my phone back onto the bed as if it were on fire. Hoseok was practically buzzing with excitement next to me, while my mom had that gleam in her eyes that told me she was about to go into full mom mode.

“What did he say?” Hoseok asked, leaning in closer.

I shook my head, trying to suppress the smile that threatened to creep onto my face. “He told me to wear something cute or elegant. That’s all.”

Hoseok gasped dramatically. “See? This is why we’re going to the salon! You need to look perfect!”

Before I could argue, my mom grabbed my hand and gently pulled me toward the hallway. “Come on, Y/N. This is important. It’s not just about looking good for him—it’s about feeling good about yourself too.”

I sighed, knowing there was no way I was getting out of this. “Fine, fine. Let’s go.”

We made our way to the salon, which was actually part of our house. My dad, before he passed, had built a special section dedicated to me and my mom—a small but luxurious space where we could indulge in all things beauty-related. He had been an architect, always working on something special for us, and this was one of his final masterpieces before he passed away.

The familiar scent of lavender and the soft hum of music filled the air as we stepped inside. It was always comforting being in this space, but today it felt different—almost bittersweet.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Hoseok declared, already directing the stylists like he owned the place. “We need her looking elegant and cute but with a twist of sass.”

“Don’t be too dramatic. It’s just a dinner,” I muttered as I sat down in the salon chair, but even I couldn’t hide the slight excitement bubbling under the surface.

My mom smiled warmly, standing behind me as she ran her fingers through my hair. “Y/N, this is your first real date. You never let yourself do these things. Just enjoy it.”

I glanced at her in the mirror, trying to argue, but something in her eyes softened my resolve. She was right. I never let myself enjoy moments like these. Maybe I should, just this once.

As the hairstylist began working on my hair, I glanced at Hoseok through the mirror. “I still don’t know about this. I mean, it’s Jungkook. Of all people.”

Hoseok grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, trust me, by the end of the night, you won’t be able to resist him. You’re gonna fall for him all over again.”

I rolled my eyes, but deep down, the thought sent a small shiver down my spine. Could he be right?

As the stylist continued, my hair began to take shape—a beautiful, light brown, almost blonde wavy perm that cascaded down my shoulders. It felt soft and voluminous, and as I ran my fingers through it, I had to admit—I looked good.

Hoseok and my mom were gushing over the final result, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh my god, Y/N, you look stunning,” my mom said, her voice thick with emotion.

Hoseok clapped his hands together. “Okay, hair’s done. Now it’s time for the dress!”

We moved to my closet, where an array of designer dresses awaited. I had always been a sucker for high-end fashion—Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada. You name it, I loved it. And today, it seemed like Hoseok and my mom had pulled out all the stops.

I tried on dress after dress, each one more luxurious than the last. Every time I walked out to show them, Hoseok and my mom would gasp and clap like I was a supermodel on a runway. But no matter how many I tried, none of them felt quite right.

Until I found the dress.

It was tucked away in the back of the closet, hidden among the others. The moment I slipped it on, I knew it was the one. The fabric was soft and luxurious, hugging my curves in all the right places, while still showing just the right amount of skin. It was elegant, yet playful, and when I stepped out to show Hoseok and my mom, their reactions said it all.

“Oh my god,” Hoseok gasped, his hands flying to his face. “Eommoniiii! This is the one!”

My mom’s eyes welled up with tears as she looked at me. “Y/N, you look absolutely perfect.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, but deep down, I felt amazing. This dress was something else. I spun around, watching the fabric swirl around me, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“That dress is perfect,” Hoseok said, standing back to admire me. “It’s elegant, sexy, and just… wow.”

I chuckled, feeling a little self-conscious under their intense gazes. “Alright, alright. Stop it. I’m not that amazing.”

But my mom wasn’t laughing. She was staring at me, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Mom? Why are you crying?” I asked, suddenly worried.

She wiped at her eyes, sniffling slightly. “That dress… it was something your dad designed. He made it specifically for you.”

I froze, staring at her in shock. “What?”

She nodded, smiling through her tears. “He designed it just for you, Y/N. He wanted you to have something special.”

A lump formed in my throat as I looked down at the dress, my fingers grazing the fabric. My dad had designed this for me. And now, I was wearing it on a night I never expected. A mixture of emotions swirled inside me—happiness, sadness, and a deep longing to see him again.

I walked over to my mom, wrapping my arms around her as the tears began to spill from my eyes. “I miss him,” I whispered.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said, hugging me tightly. “He loved you so much. He built everything in this house for you.”

Hoseok came over, wrapping his arms around both of us in a tight group hug. “Your dad would be so proud of you, Y/N.”

I smiled through my tears, feeling a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Thank you,” I whispered, holding them both close. This was what family was about—being there for each other, even in the moments when you least expected it.

Hoseok pulled out his phone, snapping a quick picture of the three of us. “Okay, we are so cute right now,” he declared, grinning.

My mom and I chuckled softly, wiping away our tears. “Alright, alright. You might ruin the look,” I teased, feeling lighter than I had in a long time.

A/N : these are all just the inspos of what she wore and her make up, but if you want something else then you can use your imaginations

Jungkook ringing the bell with his motorbike outside felt like something straight out of a movie. The low hum of the engine mixed with the fading light of the evening gave the moment an almost surreal quality. When I saw him standing there, holding out a spare helmet, something inside me fluttered.

“Hello? For Y/N please,” Jungkook called out in his playful tone as Hoseok and my mom guided me outside. The two of them were beaming, probably just as excited as I was.

Jungkook’s eyes met mine, and I could see him pause. His gaze softened, and it felt as though time slowed down between us. He looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time—no, more than that. His stare was filled with awe, admiration, and something so tender that it made my heart skip a beat.

"Wow," he whispered, completely taken aback. His eyes widened slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re pretty every day, but— you got even prettier.”

I chuckled at his words, feeling the warmth spread through me. “Alright, alright, we’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” Hoseok teased, glancing at my mom with a smirk.

Mom followed up with a playful wink, “Take care of my daughter, alright?”

Jungkook smiled, his eyes not leaving mine. “Of course, I will.”

As soon as we were left alone, he stepped closer, his hands gently placing the helmet over my head. Our eyes locked in the process, the intensity of the moment making my breath hitch. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, “You’re so fucking pretty.”

My heart raced as I smiled back, trying to keep my cool. “You look hot in that leather jacket,” I teased, hoping to balance out the tension. Jungkook chuckled softly, that familiar playful grin on his face, but then he did something that made my heart flutter even more.

He started to take off his leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “It’ll be windy and cold later. I don’t want you to be cold,” he said, his fingers lingering on the collar as his eyes traced my face, clearly unable to look away.

The warmth from his jacket and the tenderness in his gesture made me feel like I was floating. He guided me toward his big bike, making sure I was settled before he climbed on in front of me. As we took off, the city lights started to blur, the wind blowing through my hair, and the sound of Lana Del Rey’s “Happiness is a Butterfly” filled our helmets, setting the perfect soundtrack to the moment.

My hands instinctively wrapped around his waist as we zoomed down the streets. The feeling of being pressed against his back, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the way the world seemed to rush by—it all felt so cinematic. It was hard not to feel like I was in one of those romantic movies I used to watch late at night.

As we passed through a tunnel, the lights flickered over us, casting fleeting shadows. Something inside me stirred. The moment felt endless, like the world had paused just for us. And that’s when it hit me, harder than ever before.

I was in love with Jeon Jungkook.

We arrived at a beautiful, almost dreamlike place—an amusement park, but it was empty. Just for us. The Ferris wheel glowed in the distance, standing tall against the darkening sky.

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” I gasped, excitement bubbling inside me like a child. I loved Ferris wheels, always had. There was something magical about them, especially when paired with fireworks. I turned to him, the question already forming on my lips. “How—how did you know I love amusement parks and Ferris wheels?”

Jungkook’s gaze softened even more, and he smiled that warm smile that always made my heart race. “Hoseok told me,” he admitted.

Before I could respond, his lips crashed onto mine, catching me completely off guard. But I melted into him, my body responding naturally, my heart pounding in my chest. He pulled me closer, his lips soft yet commanding, and it felt like everything else disappeared around us.

“Come on, let’s ride it,” he whispered against my lips, his eyes still locked on mine.

I couldn’t contain my excitement as I practically skipped to the Ferris wheel, feeling like a kid again. We climbed into the cart, and as we ascended to the top, I looked out at the glowing city below us, completely entranced.

Then, suddenly, the sky lit up. Fireworks exploded overhead, painting the night in vivid colors. I squealed in pure joy, the sight overwhelming me. “Oh my god!! Jungkook—ahhhh, oh my god!” Tears of happiness welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t help but cry.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. He just watched me, his eyes filled with love and admiration. Seeing me happy like this was enough for him.

A flashback hit me then—memories of my dad taking me to the amusement park when I was little. We’d ride the Ferris wheel almost every day because he knew it was my favorite. The fireworks, the Ferris wheel, all of it brought me back to those innocent, happy days.

As we reached the top, the view below was breathtaking, but nothing compared to the way Jungkook was looking at me.

The fact that Hoseok had told him about this, that he had gone through all this effort just to see me smile, made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Loved. Seen.

We held hands as we descended, talking about the past. It was light and playful, the two of us teasing each other like we always did.

“Remember when you’d always ‘accidentally’ hit me or kick me?” Jungkook teased, nudging me playfully.

I rolled my eyes, smirking back at him. “It really was an accident… unless you wanted it not to be,” I fired back, narrowing my eyes mischievously.

His playful expression softened, and I could feel the air shift between us. Something heavier, more intense, settled in the space.

“Jungkook…” I whispered, my heart suddenly in my throat.

He turned to me, his voice low. “Hm?”

“Kiss me.”

[spacebagfullofstars]

Evolution X-Men meeting Deadpool for the first time

An idea for the first episode Deadpool would appear in the show. It'd take place during early season 2. I don't have enough ideas to write the whole thing but here's the introduction

After the Brotherhood fled and the old warehouse was empty once more, the X-Men could finally focus on their unexpected guest. Through the darkness where he stood, they could see him sheathing his katanas and stretching his arms.

"Phiii-ew! Nothing like a good workout after a mind-numbingly boring sail home!" He said, rolling his neck and shoulders. "Warms my cold, unfeeling heart to see the streets just as crime-infested as I left them!"

After a second, the man stepped towards them and into the light. The younger members of the X-Men couldn't help, but gasp when he revealed himself to them.

The person who joined their fight was wearing a red and black costume that covered his whole body, including his face. Outside of the twin katanas on his back, he had two gun pouches attached to the sides of a multi-pocketed belt. His white eyes stared at them with unclear intent.

"You?!" While Kitty, Rogue and Kurt were intimidated by his presence, Scott and Jean stood their ground. They appeared to be more disgusted than afraid. Surprisingly, the man seemed to recognise them as well.

"Jeanie! Scottie! Long time no see! Come here and give uncle Deadpool a hug!" He said, spreading his arms. Before he ran at them, Jean used her powers to throw him into the air. His enthusiasm faltered.

"Cold. I guess you don't want all the radical gifts I bough you abroad!" He said, starting to levitate upside down. "Do kids these days still say it? Do they say 'radical'? I hate that word. I hope it'll die out quickly."

"You know this weirdo?" Kitty whispered to them.

"He calls himself Deadpool." Jean stated. "He used to break into the Institute regularly."

"That's all you have to say about little ol' me?" Deadpool interrupted, then traced a line from his eye down his cheek. "You can't see it, but I just shed a sad tear. I thought we were friends."

"We're not-"

"As (I'm pretty sure) my pop used to say, if you want something done right, do it yourself!" The mercenary clapped his hands, interrupting her again. He kicked his legs and pushed himself back up so he could face them properly.

"I go by many names! Deadpool is one, but some prefer to call me the Merc with the Mouth!" He stated, pointing his thumbs at himself. "The world-famous mercenary willing to do any kind of job for a good pay, weapon expert, master of all known fighting styles and three times Champion of Hot Dog Eating in West Virginia! This city used to belong to me, but the merc job is unforgiving and I had to leave it for like twenty years!"

"We haven't seen you in two years." Scott corrected.

"It felt like twenty to me, so it must've been! Now I come back and see that you X-Dorks grew in numbers!" Deadpool continued, then crossed his arms and looked away. "Not that I'm bitter, or anything. I can do so much better than your little rich kid houseclub anyway."

"... Wait, he was an X-Man?!" Rouge asked, baffled.

"Professor tried giving him a chance once." Jean sighed. "He almost blew up the mansion."

"Like that old thing doesn't blow up every other week, am I right, guys?" Deadpool snorted and rose his hand. Outside of the distance between them, no one was willing to give him a high five. He waited a few more seconds and then high fived himself.

"Is it bad that he kinda reminds me of Kurt when he has too much sugar?" Kitty snickered.

"Don't even joke like that!" Kurt didn't like that.

"The only difference is that Kurt isn't..." Scott began, then whistled and swirled his finger around the side of his head.

"I believe the term you're looking for is 'able to think outside the box', three eyes." Deadpool overheard them and air quoted. Without any warning, he disappeared in a small flash of energy.

"What the-?!" Kurt cried out as they all stepped back in surprise. After a second, the mercenary reappeared behind them.

"And who those adorable new faces might be?" His voice startled them all. "No, no, don't tell me! You look like Jessica," He said, pointing at surprised Kitty. "Your super power is shrinking. You look like Bridget and you love being different!" He pointed at Rogue, making her scoff at him. "And you look like Elvis! You have an eternal bad hair day!" He said, pointing at Kurt.

"What?" The blue boy squinted.

"Deadpool, stay away from them!" Scott warned, flashing his visor in readiness. "Whatever you came here for, you're not getting it from us!"

"Look at you all grown up and shouting orders like a boss man! Relax, kid, I have no quarrel with you today. I just wanted to catch up and meet new people! Speaking of..." Deadpool said, then reloaded his gun that he suddenly grabbed. Something darkened in his eyes. "Where's Wolverine?"

The other X-Men could see Jean and Scott getting tense. It seemed that despite their distate, they were scared of the man after all.

Suddenly, Deadpool seemed to hear something and his head perked up a bit. They could almost see a smirk forming on his face.

"Right on the clock." He mused. He spun his gun in his hand, then without any warning, whipped back and fired a single shot.

Wolverine had entered the warehouse and managed to sneak behind them. He quickly released his claws and slashed the bullet mid-air. Before other X-Men could stop him, Deadpool switched, pulled out his katanas and teleported again. He reappeared right in front of Logan and took a swing at him. His weapons and the mutant's claws clashed.

"Kurt, get everyone outta here!" The X-Man shouted. The boy nodded. The kids came closer and he teleported them away, leaving the two alone.

"I had a feelin' I smelled a rottin' brain somewhere!" Wolverine growled.

"You're the one to talk, dog-breath!" Deadpool retorted, trying to slash him again. Wolverine blocked him. "Dog, or bear, or some other animal that smells bad! I don't want to say badger, because I feel like I'd be beating a dead horse at this point-"

"I miss the silence already!" Logan said. He roared and tried to throw a punch.

Meanwhile, the group reappeared outside.

"What does this Deadpool guy want with Logan?!" Rouge couldn't help, but grow concerned.

"They have... history." Scott explained. "I'm pretty sure they hate each other."

"Like he and Sabertooth?" Kitty asked.

"Honestly? We have no idea." Jean admitted. "It's best to just stay out of the way and let Logan handle it. He always does."

As soon as she said that, they heard an explosion that made them jump. Suddenly, Wolverine fell out of a window with a trail of smoke following him. Deadpool jumped after him and skilfully landed on the ground. When he stood up, the kids saw that he was holding a bomb with his face painted on it.

"He has explosives?!" Kurt shouted, tugging his hair. Logan returned on his feet, smoke from the explosion still dancing on his body.

"I thought you were done takin' bounties on me!" He shouted.

"I am, but it's an emergency!" Deadpool said, throwing the bomb from hand to hand. "I need this money more than I need food and water!"

"A sellout through and through!" Wolverine said, then charged back. Deadpool let him get close, teleported, and then tried to throw a bomb at him from the distance. Logan kicked it right into the ocean and it exploded in the water.

The mercenary quickly switched back to his katanas and charged with full force at his opponent. There was a lot of slashing, dodging and rolling involved. Neither of them managed to reach each other for a good while. Finally, Wolverine used an opportunity to pin Deadpool to the ground with one arm behind his back.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" He cried. "That's foul play! You're disqualified for being a bad sport!"

"Cry me a river, Wilson." Logan tsked. "Whoever hired you must've not known that you always lose to me."

"Yeah. That might be true." The mercenary said, another almost visible smirk appearing on his face. Little did Wolverine know, his free arm was trying to reach for a hidden pocket in his costume. "By the way, don't think that I forgot to bring a souvenir or two for my bestest friend. Why don't you let me go so I can show it to you?"

"I ain't lettin' you go that easily, bub. You're gonna tell me exactly who sent you and what kinda money made you break your promise."

"Oh, I love to talk! Especially with you!" He quietly unzipped the pocket and reached inside. "But you know I can't talk about my employers. Merc 101. Buuuut, I can tell you all about the crazy places I've been to for the past two years! I learned like three different languages! Do you want me to say something in Chinese?"

"If you're tryin' to make me angry, it ain't gonna work. We've been doin' this song and dance long enough for me to know when you're lookin' for a distraction."

"Awww, you care about me enough to know my strategy! You so deserve that little treat I bought you!"

"Logan, look out!" Rouge shouted, but she was too late. Logan felt a sharp sting in his leg. He gasped and quickly pushed himself off Deadpool. He looked down and saw a dart sticking from his thigh. The X-Men were ready to intervene.

"Do not get involved!" Logan snarled, sensing their intent. His head was already beginning to spin.

"Yeah, you better listen to Papa Wolvie! This is between us adults!" Deadpool shouted, looking at them as well. The mutant suddenly fell to his knees, trying to fight whatever Deadpool injected into him, but it seemed stronger than his healing factor. His eyes started feeling heavy, and finally, he fell lifelessly on the ground.

"Logan!" The kids yelled. Jean was already floating whatever she could to throw at Deadpool.

"Don't worry, X-Kids! I promise to give him back as soon as I get my money! Follow your dreams and stay in school!" Deadpool gave them a peace sign before he kneeled in front of Wolverine and teleported away with him.

[pedroshotwifey]

hi wifey , may i please have some old jackson joel fluff (his long hair drives me crazy and I need him so bad)

Okay babe omg I so got you!! Ty for sending me something to play with! ����

May not be the best, but it’s something :) I present to you:

Giving Jackson!Joel a Bath After a Long Day (G)

W/C: 604

(Complete reader insert other than mentioned hair)

Alright so imagine Joel coming home from a long day of patrol—longer than usual thanks to a small horde of clickers he and his group found that morning. Because it’s so abnormally late, he’s exhausted and expecting to just rinse off in the shower and join you in bed, hoping to God that you aren’t going to be upset with him for having to stay out longer….

What he doesn’t know is that you’re still up, waiting patiently for the bathtub to fill up to the perfect point with warm water because you know he’ll be returning soon.

He doesn’t know that, as he carefully kicks his work boots off by the door, you’re lighting a gallery of candles and spreading them carefully around the tub and on the bathroom counter. 

He has no idea that, as he slowly climbs the stairs, his muscles aching and straining with each painful step, you’re shutting the water off and turning out the light to let the candles cast a warm and comfortable glow. 

He’s confused for a moment when he walks into your bedroom to find your shared bed empty—scared that you really may be mad. But then he catches a soft whiff of your vanilla candles. He takes short steps into the bathroom and just about melts in the doorway when he takes in the sight of you sitting on a short stool by the tub, surrounded by rose petals and candles.

You have one of his flannels on, one of your favorites to wear when you’re missing him. The sleeves are rolled up, your hair is out of your face, a soft smile plays on your lips. You’ve been waiting for him. 

“Hey, baby,” you invite him in. “Let me help you relax?” 

If Joel was any more tired, he’d probably cry. Luckily, he’s awake enough to instead take the few steps to you, cup your cheeks, and lean down to kiss your forehead. His lips are gentle as his grip, like you’re a delicate flower all too easy to maim. 

You both bask in comfortable silence as you help Joel undress and lower himself into the tub. You’ve even put bubbles in, which he lets out a light chuckle about. His eyes fall shut as the water surrounds him, relieving his protesting muscles.

You’re gentle as you scrub him down with a washcloth and your favorite soap, worshiping each beautiful part of him with equal admiration. You know he likes the smell of it, as much as he hates to admit it. 

Kind and loving words are passed through eye contact, neither of you wanting to break the trance you’ve created quite yet. You know each other intimately enough to understand the meaning behind every glance and stare. 

Whereas he would usually try to brush you off, he lets you comb through the tangles in his long, graying curls. You, again, use your shampoo and conditioner, and he says nothing against it. He breathes in the scent deeply, relaxing further into your touch. 

When you’re done, you plant a soft kiss to his lips, and when you pull away, you find a vulnerability in Joel’s eyes that tells you more than words ever could. He doesn’t have to use his voice to make you understand that you’re the first to care for him like this—the first to want to care for him like this. 

He refuses to dress after drying off, instead carrying you to bed and cuddling up with you so that his body can hold yours. Your heartbeats dance together in the darkness, the gentle patter settling you both to sleep.