#everything about this scene is absolutely perfect!!!

[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.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“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.”

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“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.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

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.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“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.”

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

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.

[radiation]

My Thoughts On MORPHEUS

Rewatched The Matrix yesterday. Everyone knows that Morpheus is fucking dope, but few realize he is one of the most moe characters of all time. Here is why:

Ok so at the beginning of the movie, Morpheus really appears to be this mythical figure, and that's how a lot of ppl view him. But something often overlooked is that, as the movie progresses, the more you see Morpheus acting mundanely, dressing normally, making mistakes, and getting the absolute shit beaten out of him & needing to be saved. Seriously, the gap between how he comes off when he first contacts Neo (larger-than-life, near-omnipotent) and when he gets kidnapped (totally fallible & vulnerable) is huge. You also see other characters doubt his absolute faith in Neo and it’s like wow yeah. This is really just some dude who is incredibly driven and passionate, and dedicated to his own ideals to a fault. He acts the way he does because he has a very clear image of the role he needs to play and has structured his life around it, choosing to embody this whole badass character in order to fulfill it. And from the way his appearance of perfection is shattered later in the movie in moments of monotony or when things spiral out of his control, I really believe how he acts when he meets Neo is suuuuper scripted. Like he has spent so much fucking time planning the perfect way to present himself and rehearsing exactly what he will say and do and how he will dress. And its funny to watch The Matrix knowing how totally badass & collected he is seen as in pop culture because he truly is incredibly incredibly dorky

This goes without saying but I also believe he is gay as fuck for Neo, but I need you to understand that the way he goes about it is sooo cute. I mean ok everything surrounding "You are The One and I've been searching for you for years" kind of speaks for itself. But also think about when Neo talks to the Oracle, she says this thing about like "knowing you're The One is like knowing you're in love". We can naturally really easily extend this metaphor to Trinity's explicit prophecy of her falling in love with The One, and knowing that's the case that also extends the metaphor to Morpheus knowing Neo is the one = Morpheus being in love with Neo. And I think how excited he acts around Neo, how physically affectionate he to him, arguably flirting with him during the dojo scene and shit bla bla bla sounds lame as fuck to write but I do think yeah whether literally or metaphorically that's kind of what's up. I think we can be confident that Morpheus loves Neo, and I think romantic love is a close approximation, or at the very least there are certainly real & valuable parallels to be drawn to it

But back to the previous paragraph, the specific kind of devotion towards Neo that Morpheus experiences where he is putting on all kinds of airs trying to mystify Neo, viewing himself as a supporting figure to prop up Neo as the savior -- Morpheus's underlying adoration is expressed through the language of respect, restraint, and selflessness, and a kind of self-sacrifice he is like...excited about. Feels very similar to the whole "best friend who is in love with the main character, but nobly tries to get him another love interest / somehow make his life better without any respect to his own desires". It's very sweet and well-intentioned, but totally excessive. Nobody else is asking you to go this far man this is just you. And it also comes off as a really big obfuscation of at least quasi-romantic feelings, both externally and internally, lacking a lot of self-awareness, so it makes it feel like Morpheus has this like elementary school crush he doesn't quite understand yet and it's really funny and delightful

There is definitely a certain writing style in The Matrix that is dramatic, over the top, and mythological, but compared to Morpheus, Neo and other ppl in his crew speak and act in ways much more grounded. Something I noticed a lot is just how much doubt and disillusionment all of the characters express in living life outside the Matrix, in the effectiveness of the revolution, and of Neo being The One, but Morpheus is totally an exception to this. The only person who puts on nearly as much airs, acting as dramatically and poetically as according to plan as Morpheus is Agent Smith, and like the dude isn't even a person he's a program. But even then Agent Smith expresses disappointment in his own life, and Morpheus doesn't. Seriouusly Morpheus is like the only guy in the movie who does this shit. By seeing himself as a mechanism in a prophecy to save the world and minimizing his own wants and discomforts for the greater good, he has kind of dehumanized himself in a way that's kind of sad. I think it's very easy to buy into it and take his self-perception at face value, and I think most people have, but there are a lot of moments in the movie where you can see through that. That underneath the appearance of a pure legend is a real person who means the absolute best, who is endlessly dedicated and adoring, but suffers from a one-track mind makes Morpheus a really fucking cool and unique character, and has one of the greatest impacts in making the movie's scenario feel believable. And also makes him sooooooooo cute. Anyways I forgoet what happens in the other mvoies this is only about the first one. Rewatch The Matrix 1 and open your eyes and you weill see the truth.

Also another thing I wanna mention that but its only tangentially related -- I think its very interesting how Neo is treated as a protagonist. I can't place exactly why but way the movie is written and shots are framed, he really isn't treated as an audience insert, and many moments in the movie are from other characters' perspectives (including their perspectives towards him, bereft of Neo's own expression). The movie honestly, more than identifying with Neo, expresses empathy and adoration towards him. So it kind of feels like literally everyone in the movie has a crush on him and so should you LOL. Morpheus is definitely a part of this, but I also appreciate the romance between Trinity and Neo feeling equally or more from Trinity's perspective, neither of them really being the object of desire, but if you had to choose one it'd definitely be Neo

Well let me know what you think & Dont try to troll this post because this is real shit

[brotherwtf]

Just thinking thoughts… following up on the last breeding kink ask… setting the scene 👀

Gale in the kitchen about a month after the pickle incident eating something weird for him but not that strange, an olive. John IMMEDIATELY clocks it and is down on his knees in front of him kissing and cooing at his stomach. Gale is obviously confused but game, until Bucky digs his little chin into Gale’s stomach looks up and says “it’s the size of a blueberry!” And Gale just heaves a big sigh, “there is no way I’m pregnant!”, “not even a little??”, “there is no such thing as ‘a little pregnant’” - cue devilish look from John as he proceeds to absolutely wreck Gale against the kitchen cabinets, dishes falling, draws rattling, olives smashed on the floor - Gale, “ok maybe I’m a little pregnant”

John being delusional is everything I need in my life rn

again, Gale just wanted something a little salty, knew he had olives in their fridge bcs John likes to put them on his fingers and eat them one by one like the fool he is and Gale just kind of wants to try it to see if they're really all that good

they're not, Gale deduces, and he's putting the jar back in the fridge when John comes in and is like ‼️‼️ this time it must have worked!! because this is the second time Gales eaten something he usually doesn't in the past month!!

so he deduces, because he's a little dumb, that the baby is indeed growing in Gales stomach and he falls to his knees again, starts crooning that Gales gonna look so pretty with a baby in his arms, is so excited for their child together and Gale has to slowly explain to John AGAIN that he can't get pregnant, to which John's face just falls, looks back down at Gale's stomach and looks back up at him with the biggest puppy eyes ever and is just like "not even a little bit?"

and Gale shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, says nope not even a little bit and now there's a look in John's eyes, one that Gale knows means that John is planning something

and by something, he means lifting Gale up by his thighs and putting him on the counter, pressing his head against the cabinets and kissing him senseless, kisses him until Gale's lips are red and swollen

Gale goes easily, because why wouldn't he? and gasps when John kisses him again with a deep sated hunger, he's grasping his hair with a vice grip and Gale groans at the pressure, moans into John's lips and whimpers his name when John fucks his tongue into his mouth

eventually John lifts Gale again and brings his feet back down to the floor, turns him around and presses his nose into the give of Gale's cheek, breathing hot and heavy as he unbuttons Gales shirt, trails his hands down every inch of exposed skin, teasing his fingers until Gale's shivering beneath his touch

Gale rolls his head back against John's shoulder, reaches a hand back to press John's head further into his neck, moaning when John bites him, knows it will leave the prettiest mark

John takes his time massaging Gale's ass, opening him with his fingers until Gale's shaking, dropping his head and grinding his ass back against John's wrist, keening when they hit the perfect spot inside of him

When John fucks into him, they both moan LOUD, so loud that it echoes throughout the kitchen. Gale fumbles for a grasp on the kitchen counter when John starts to move, starting at a brutal pace that makes them both see stars

John sneaks his arm around Gale's shoulder, pressing his forearm into Gales neck and groaning at the slight choked sound he makes into it, groans even louder when Gales clutches at it like a lifeline

John's fucking into him so hard his thighs hit the cabinets and make them shake, Gale knows he'll have bruises there but it doesn't matter, not when John's this deep inside of him

he almost screams when he comes, thighs shaking and hips jumping forward onto the counter top, resting his head back against John's shoulder, shaking with how hard John was fucking into him

"fuck...maybe I am a little bit pregnant, God,"

[solxamber]

Cake and Crime - Jade Leech x reader

After a long week of assignments and sleep deprivation, all you wanted to do was satisfy your craving for a specific pastry at your local shady café. What you didn't mean to do was accidentally order a hit on yourself.

It all started with a misunderstanding. To be fair, things like this always seemed to start with a misunderstanding, but this one really took the cake. And, of course, it involved Jade Leech, because why wouldn’t it?

You’d been to the Mostro Lounge before—after all, it was the go-to place for your family gatherings. Azul’s idea of a café-slash-business-operation had gotten buzz, and like everyone else, you found yourself sipping a drink and enjoying the food, none the wiser to the shady dealings that went on behind the scenes.

And why would you know? Despite being an heir of a crime family, you had absolutely no idea that your family was basically the mafia. No one had ever sat you down and said, "Hey, just so you know, we're kind of in the business of making problems disappear."

In hindsight, maybe you should’ve been suspicious when your uncle’s "bakery business" never seemed to actually bake anything, or when your aunt talked about "solving problems" with a knowing wink. But you chalked it up to eccentricity. After all, who wouldn’t believe their family was just full of quirky folks?

This week was a disaster for you. Everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong. You hadn't slept in three days and had about five papers due in two. So, you really needed a pick-me-up, and where better to go than your usual place?

Of course, when you wandered into the Mostro Lounge for your usual drink, Jade Leech, with his ever-present smile, was behind the counter, asking in his polite way, “What can I get for you today?”

Without thinking much, you let out a long, exhausted sigh and said, “You know what? I could really use something sweet. Do you guys do special orders? Like, something custom?”

Jade, ever the picture of politeness, raised an eyebrow, his smile polite but predatory. “Special order, you say?”

You nodded. Maybe they’d have what you were craving. "I heard you guys can make it happen."

Jade’s smile widened ever so slightly, and you swore his sharp teeth glinted under the dim lighting. “Ah, yes. Special orders.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And what exactly were you looking to order?”

You thought for a second before blurting out, “I’ve been craving a Thai tea pastry with cream cheese. Maybe with boba, too?”

Jade paused, his eyes glinting for just a moment before his usual grin returned. “A Thai tea pastry with cream cheese, you say?”

You nodded, leaning on the counter, not noticing the flicker of interest in his expression.

“And who is the lucky recipient of this… special treat?” he asked.

You shot him a confused look before pointing at yourself. "It's for me."

“Of course,” Jade replied, already scribbling in his little notepad. “Consider it handled. You'll receive your delivery in a few hours.”

Handled. Now, at the time, you hadn’t thought much of that word. You figured Jade was just being friendly, efficient, the perfect worker he always was. So, naturally, after putting in your "order," you headed back to your family’s estate, feeling strangely lighter.

Later that night, as you sat down for dinner with your brothers, you casually brought it up. “Hey, guys, I put in an order at Mostro Lounge today. Jade said he’s going to ‘handle’ everything for me.”

Your two older brothers, hardened men who’d seen more than their fair share of the family’s business, froze mid-bite. Forks clattered against plates as they slowly turned to stare at you with wide, horrified eyes.

“W-What?” the eldest sputtered, his voice rising several octaves. “You… you put in an order?”

“Yeah,” you replied, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing. “I asked for a Thai tea pastry with cream cheese and white boba. You know, to get rid of my craving.”

The middle brother choked on his drink, sputtering wildly. “You… WHAT?!”

Your confusion only deepened. “I just needed some stress relief! It’s not that big of a deal. Jade said he’d take care of it.”

They stared at you in disbelief, as if you’d just told them you’d sold your soul to a demon—which, considering who you’d been talking to, wasn’t far from the truth.

The eldest brother put his hands on the table, looking like he was about to have a mental breakdown. “Do you even know what you just did?”

Your other brother, slightly more composed but clearly panicking, started pacing. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

Now, it was your turn to look concerned. “Okay, what is going on? Why are you both freaking out?”

The eldest brother ran his hands through his hair, exasperated. “You… you used a code, you idiot!”

“A… code?” You blinked. “What kind of code?”

Your middle brother, still pacing, stopped long enough to stare at you incredulously. “*Thai tea cake with cream cheese*?! That’s not a pastry order! That’s a request to kill someone! It’s the ‘break their legs but don’t kill them quickly’ code! And white boba means 'make it as painful as possible!'”

You gaped, your stomach dropping as realization hit. “Wait, WHAT?”

Your eldest brother slowly knelt in front of you and asked, “Did you mention who the order is for?”

When you slowly nodded and pointed at yourself, his face dropped, and he let out a long-suffering sigh.

Your middle brother groaned, shaking his head. “And you told Jade Leech—the most terrifying guy in Mostro—to ‘handle it’?!”

Panic set in as you finally started piecing it together. “Wait, so I didn’t just… order a cake?”

Your eldest brother gave you a deadpan look. “No, you didn’t. You ordered a hit. On yourself.”

*You ordered a hit. On yourself.*

You stared, wide-eyed, as the words sank in. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

The middle brother waved his arms frantically. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying!”

Jumping to your feet, you knocked your chair back and grabbed your coat. “I need to fix this! How do I fix this?!”

The eldest sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “You need to go back and cancel the order before Jade actually follows through!”

Which led to your current mad dash back to the Mostro Lounge, heart pounding as you practically burst through the doors. Breathless, you ran up to the counter where Jade stood, his ever-pleasant smile already in place.

“Ah, welcome back,” Jade said, his tone smooth and unbothered. “I was just about to finalize your… order.”

“No!” You flailed, hands waving wildly. “I need to cancel it! Cancel the whole thing! I didn’t mean it!”

Jade’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he leaned on the counter, his sharp teeth barely peeking through his smile. “Cancel it? Are you sure? You seemed quite certain earlier.”

“I’m very sure!” you said, desperate. “It was a huge misunderstanding!”

Jade hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the counter. “Misunderstanding or not, it was quite an amusing order. I must admit, it’s not every day someone orders a hit on themselves.”

You slumped against the counter, groaning. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

Jade chuckled, a low, amused sound. “Not at all. But… I suppose I can let this one slide. After all,” he added with a wicked grin, “it’s far too entertaining to see you squirm like this.”

You sighed in relief, but Jade wasn’t done. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Though, I must ask… are you certain you don’t want anything else? Perhaps a ‘shaken not stirred’? Or maybe a ‘dark roast with extra cream’?”

You squinted, half-curious, half-terrified. “Uh… what do those mean?”

Jade’s grin widened. “The first is full-blown sabotage. The second? Well, let’s just say that’s for when you want someone to ‘vanish.’ Permanently.”

You shuddered. “Yeah, definitely not. Just cancel the ‘pastry,’ and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

Jade straightened, still smiling. “As you wish.”

Relief started to wash over you, but the look in Jade’s eyes—sharp, calculating, amused—told you that this situation was far from over.

“So, it’s… canceled, right?” you asked, feeling a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t haunt you forever.

Jade tilted his head, considering you for a moment. His smile never faltered, but there was a glint of something more behind it—something that made you feel like you were still caught in some kind of trap. “Hmm… I did say I would cancel it, yes. But I must admit, it’s not often I receive such an… intriguing request. Canceling something this entertaining doesn’t come without a price.”

You blinked. “Wait, a price? I thought you said you’d let it slide!”

Jade’s grin widened, the sharp edges of his teeth visible as he stepped out from behind the counter, moving closer. “Oh, I am letting it slide. But everything comes with a little negotiation, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a beat. Jade was standing much closer than you anticipated, and the way his mismatched eyes gleamed under the soft lounge lighting had you frozen in place. You weren’t sure if you were more terrified or intrigued at this point.

“And… what kind of negotiation are we talking about?” you asked warily.

Jade chuckled softly, his voice almost a purr. “Oh, nothing too extreme, I assure you. You see, I was thinking…” He paused, letting the moment stretch out as his gaze lingered on you, the tension in the air growing by the second. “…that you could spend a little time with me. Consider it compensation for the… cancelation.”

Your mouth went dry. “Time with you?”

He nodded, his smile still soft, but the teasing look in his eyes told you that this was no ordinary request. “You’ve caught my interest, after all. It’s only fair that I take the opportunity to get to know you better, don’t you think?”

You swallowed hard, trying to process what he was saying. “So… if I spend time with you, we’ll call it even? No hit, no thai tea cake, nothing?”

“Exactly,” Jade replied smoothly. “Just a pleasant exchange. I’d say it’s quite a generous offer, wouldn’t you?”

Generous? Sure. But the way he was looking at you made it feel like you were walking into another trap—though maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t one you’d mind falling into.

You hesitated, glancing at the door and then back at Jade. “And what would… spending time with you entail?”

Jade’s grin softened slightly, becoming a bit more genuine. “Oh, nothing too outrageous. A few meals, perhaps. A walk through the botanical gardens. Maybe I’ll even show you some of the more… exclusive areas of the Mostro Lounge.”

Your heart was pounding now, and you couldn’t tell if it was from nerves, excitement, or a mix of both. Spending time with Jade Leech sounded like playing with fire, but… well, you couldn’t deny the curiosity that had sparked inside you.

“Well…” you said slowly, glancing up at him. “I guess that’s better than being taken out by one of your ‘special services.’”

Jade chuckled again, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Much better, I’d say. Shall we start now?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

Jade stepped back slightly, gesturing toward the lounge’s main seating area. “Why not? I’m free for the evening, and I believe you’ve already cleared your schedule, haven’t you?”

There was no escaping this, was there? But, surprisingly, you didn’t really want to. With a deep breath, you nodded, a small smile creeping onto your face. “Okay. I guess I’m yours for the evening.”

Jade’s grin returned, bright and sharp. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And as he led you to one of the more private booths in the lounge, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—this was the most dangerous, yet exciting, order you’d ever made.

[vmpivory]

UNSCRiPTED ── yang jungwon

★ ——  ‎𝓲N WHICH `⠀◌  rivals l/n y/n and yang jungwon are cast as romantic leads in their school play. with no chemistry and lots of arguing, their teacher suggests fake dating. as they spend more time together, they start to wonder if their feelings are real or just for the play.

✶ - 𝓰𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 : rivals to lovers , fake dating , fluff , comfort (?) ✶ - 𝓹𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 : yang jungwon x fem reader ✶ - 𝓯𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 : minji and hyein ✶ - 𝔀𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝓬𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 : 2.7k

꒰ ⠀ !  ꒱ . .⠀ 𝔀ARNINGS vulgar language (only used 2-3 times), skinship in some scenes, arguments, bad attempt at humor ( lmk if there are more! ) ..

❪ reblogs and feedback are always appreciated! <3 ❫

L/N Y/N STOOD frozen in front of the cast list, eyes narrowing as she scanned it for the third time.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she muttered under her breath.

Beside her, a voice snickered. "What’s the matter, y/n? Can't handle the pressure?"

She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The familiar annoying tone belonged to none other than Yang Jungwon, her rival in almost everything. Of course, she would get to play romantic leads with him.

Y/N whipped her head around, glaring at him. "You have to be joking. There’s no way we’re playing the romantic leads. That has to be a mistake."

Jungwon shrugged casually, his lips curving into an annoying smile. "I don’t know. Looks pretty official to me."

"PARK Y/N, YANG Jungwon—my star-crossed lovers! How do you feel about your roles and the script?" Ms. Choi’s smile was wide, far too pleased with herself.

Y/N’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Jungwon, ever the smooth talker, crossed his arms over his chest and fake smiled. "Oh we love it!" Y/N rolled her eyes and elbowed him before answering, "Ma'am there must be a mistake because I really can't pretend I love him. Please, can you change the roles? I'm sure someone else would love to be the male lead." "Hey, if you don't like it why don't you give up your role! I'm staying as the male lead and your role is gonna get changed." Ms. Choi raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Now, now, there's no mistake. You two are perfect for the roles." "Ms. Choi, with all due respect, we have zero chemistry. And this script... it's all about chemistry." Jungwon snorted. "Yeah, negative chemistry. Like me and math." "Well, if we were a science experiment, we’d definitely be a total failure." She rolled her eyes. Ms. Choi chuckled, clearly unbothered by their protests. "Ah, but that's the beauty of acting, my dears. Chemistry can be built, just like any good relationship."

Y/N shot Jungwon a death glare. "There's no way I can 'build chemistry' with him." "You guys, look. I had this same situation two years ago. The main leads couldn't even stay in the same room with each other but you know what they did? Fake dating. It helped a lot and the play was amazing. I suggest you two give it a try." Y/N’s eyes widened. "Fake dating? Are you serious?"

Ms. Choi nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. It’s a proven method. It’ll help you both get into character and build that on-stage chemistry." Jungwon raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued despite himself. "You think that’ll actually work?" Ms. Choi just nodded with a smile.

Y/N groaned, crossing her arms. "This is ridiculous. But fine, if it means we can avoid turning this play into a disaster, I’ll do it." Jungwon’s smirk turned into a genuine smile. "Great. Looks like you're now.. my fake girlfriend." Y/N glared at him, feeling the familiar spark of rivalry flare up. "Don't think this means I’m going easy on you. I’ll be the best fake girlfriend you’ve ever had. And probably you ever will." As Ms. Choi walked away before smiling, Jungwon turned to y/n with a grin. "Guess we better get used to it. You ready for our first 'date,' sweetheart?"

"Don't push your luck, Yang Jungwon."

Y/N FIDGETED WITH the edge of her jacket as she walked into the small café at the corner of their neighborhood. It wasn’t exactly a romantic spot, more of a hangout place for high schoolers trying to avoid homework. But here she was, on her first fake date with Yang Jungwon, of all people.

Jungwon was already seated at a booth near the window, scrolling through his phone as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked up when he noticed her standing awkwardly at the entrance, smirking as he waved her over.

"Right on time, girlfriend," he teased as she sat down, emphasizing the last word in a way that annoyed y/n. She plastered on a fake smile. "Let’s just get this over with. What’s the plan?"

Jungwon shrugged, leaning back in his seat with that same annoyingly calm attitude. "We’re supposed to build chemistry, right? Let’s just act natural. Pretend like we actually, you know, like each other."

Y/N scoffed. "Like that’s even possible."

"Hey, it’s called acting for a reason." "My acting skills are not good enough to pretend I like you." She rolled her eyes. Jungwon grinned, leaning forward on the table. "Come on, it can’t be that hard. I’m pretty likable when you try."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Really? I must’ve missed that version of you." He chuckled, completely unbothered by her sarcasm. "Alright, if pretending to like me is nearly impossible for you, let's start with something easier. Like having a normal conversation. Without insults." "Impossible." "I'm starting to think you are not that good at acting." "Okay fine," She sighed in frustration. "I'll try to be less insulting." Jungwon leaned back in his seat, folding his arms. "Now that’s progress. See? We’re already improving."

Y/N shot him a pointed glare. "Don't get too comfortable. This is for the play, not for you. Plus, this play is super important for me." He raised an eyebrow. "I wanted auditioned for an acting agency and they will be watching the play to decide if I'm good enough or not. So I'm gonna be blaming you if I don't pass." Jungwon’s smirk faltered slightly as he processed her words. "Wait, you’re serious? You’re auditioning for an agency?"

Y/N nodded, her expression firm. "Yeah. I’ve wanted this for a long time. This play is my chance to prove I can actually do this, and I can’t afford to mess it up. So, if you screw this up for me, I swear—" Jungwon raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, relax. I know we clash, but I genuinely want you to succeed too. This isn’t just about me." She blinked, surprised at his sincerity. "You better." Jungwon leaned forward, his expression getting serious. "Look, I know we don't really get along. But this play is important is important for both of us, especially you. I'm not trying to mess up your chances. In fact, I hope you get accepted." Y/N frowned, unsure of how to response to his unexpected support. "Why are you being suddenly so.. nice?" "Hey, I have a heart too."

"SO," JUNGWON STARTED, breaking the silence as they walked side by side to home, "We survived our first fake date. Not too bad, right?"

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "Speak for yourself."

He chuckled. "Ouch. Harsh but fair."

They continued walking in the silence, not having any eye contact.

As they approached a fork in the path where their ways would divide, Jungwon cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, I guess I’ll see you at rehearsal?"

Y/N nodded, feeling a pang of disappointment that the evening was coming to an end. "Yeah. Rehearsal, right."

With a nod, Jungwon turned around and started walking the other way, down the street. 

Maybe pretending to be Jungwon's girlfriend wasn't so bad.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. "What am I thinking?" she muttered to herself, quickening her pace home.

Y/N TRIED TO focus on her lines, but her mind kept wandering back to Jungwon. He was across the stage, laughing with some of the other cast members, looking so effortlessly charming.

"Earth to y/n!" Minji, her friend and fellow cast member, waved a hand in front of her face. "You good?"

Y/N blinked, snapping back to reality. "Yeah, totally. Just... lost in thought."

"About Jungwon?" Minji teased, nudging her playfully.

Y/N shot her a look. "I mean, we’re just... acting. It’s complicated. It feels like I should hate him, but deep down, it’s not that simple."

"CUT!" MS. CHOI called out. "Jungwon and y/n," She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose before continuing. "I still don't see the chemistry. This is our 7th try!"

Y/N shot Jungwon a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “Sorry, Ms. Choi. We’re really working on it.”

Jungwon leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for y/n to hear. “Maybe we should try to actually like each other for a moment?” She rolled her eyes but felt a smile creeping in despite herself. “Yeah, because that’s so easy right?” “Okay, everyone, let’s take five,” Ms. Choi announced, her tone softer now. “Grab some water and reset your minds.” As the cast split up, y/n turned to Jungwon, crossing her arms. "Can you at least try a bit more? This is important for me, you know!" "I know, I know. I'm trying my best but you should too." Y/N snorted. "I'm already giving my best!" "You are clearly not!" Jungwon shot back. "Maybe if you tried to hide your face expressions, it would be better!" "Or maybe, you are not good at acting as you think you are!" She paused, the air thick with tension. “What did you just say?” Y/N demanded, her voice low. Jungwon took a step back, realizing he had crossed a line. "I meant—" "No, you don’t get to take it back now," Y/N interrupted, her heart pounding. "You think I’m not trying hard enough? I’ve been working my ass off for this role! You know this is important to me!" "Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own expectations, you’d see that it’s not all on me!" Jungwon shot back. "This isn’t just about you, y/n!" “Alright, let's start again!” Ms. Choi called, her voice cutting through the thick tension in the air. Their five minute break was wasted in a stupid argument, great. Y/N and Jungwon took their positions. “Why can’t you just trust me?” Jungwon said, following the script. “Trust? You’re the last person I’d trust!” Ms. Choi watched intently, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Yes! Keep that energy!” She mumbled to herself. For a moment, it felt like they were really connecting. Y/N could see the flicker of something genuine in Jungwon’s expression, and she felt herself relaxing into the performance. But then, as the scene reached its climax, the lines began to blur between acting and reality. “Maybe if you weren’t so self-absorbed, you’d see what’s really happening!” Jungwon snapped, his tone rising, the frustration from their earlier argument spilling over. Y/N's eyes widened slightly. What the hell was he thinking? That was not in the script. She didn't know why and how but she also got out of her character. "Self-absorbed? Says the one with a big fat ego!" Jungwon’s eyes flashed with annoyance, and he took a step closer, his voice lowering dangerously. "You think I have a big ego? You’re so focused on your own expectations that you’re missing the bigger picture—we both want this to succeed." Y/N's heart pounded as the tension between them mounted. This wasn’t acting anymore. Their real feelings—the frustration, the rivalry—were bleeding into the scene. Y/N’s hands clenched at her sides, and for a moment, she forgot they were on stage, with everyone’s eyes on them. "Oh, I’m the one acting like that? Maybe if you weren’t so busy pretending to be cool all the time, you’d realize you're not the center of the universe either!" Jungwon scoffed, taking another step forward, closing the gap between them. "Pretending? I’m not pretending anyt—" “Enough!” Ms. Choi’s voice rang out, breaking the intensity of the moment. She stood up from her chair, clapping slowly, her expression a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

Y/N STARED AT her reflection in the mirror backstage, adjusting her costume for the big ballroom scene. She smoothed down the soft fabric of her dress, trying to calm her racing heart. Tonight was the first full rehearsal with the whole cast, and everything needed to be perfect. The play was tomorrow and this was her chance to prove herself.

But as usual, her mind drifted back to Jungwon.

After the little argument, they went on a few fake dates again. But their chemistry didn't seem to be there, let alone improve. 

"Why do you look so stressed?" Hyein asked, popping her head around the corner. "It’s just rehearsal."

"I know, I know but.. I don't think I'm gonna do well," Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples as the nerves crept in again. "I just feel like something's off. And if I mess this up, I’ll probably never get the chance to be a real actress again."

Hyein stepped into the dressing room, offering her a reassuring smile. "You’ve been doing great so far. Everyone's seen how much effort you've put into this role. You’ll be fine."

Y/N forced a smile but still felt the unease bubbling under the surface. "Thanks, but it’s not just the play. It’s Jungwon."

Hyein raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"

"Since the little argument... nothing’s been the same. We’ve gone on these fake dates, just like Ms. Choi suggested, but it’s not helping. If anything, it’s made everything more awkward. We can barely look at each other without the tension ruining the scene. And—"

"Hey," a familiar voice called out, making them both look away. "Can we talk?"

It was Jungwon.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as Jungwon stood at the doorway, his expression unreadable. Hyein glanced between them, giving y/n a knowing look before excusing herself.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide the whirlwind of emotions that surfaced whenever Jungwon was around. "What is it?" she asked, her voice a little sharper than she intended.

Jungwon stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I just... I wanted to talk before we go out there. This is the last rehearsal you know, it's important." Y/N crossed her arms, feeling the tension immediately creep back in. "About what? If you're gonna tell me I'm not good at acting again, no thank you."

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture she’d come to recognize as his way of stalling. "Look, I know we don't really get along and you hate me, I hate you.."

She nodded slightly as he continued.

"..and I know we’re supposed to be faking this whole... 'dating' thing for the play, but I think that’s the problem. We are forcing it a little too much. Just... think of me as the guy you like or something, okay?"

Y/N blinked, her heart racing at Jungwon’s unexpected suggestion. "You mean, just act like we actually really really like each other? You think that's easy?"

"Hey, you're a good actress. You said it yourself." He smiled and chuckled faintly before leaving the dressing room.

Y/N AND JUNGWON stood under a starlit sky, the backdrop of a cozy rooftop terrace adorned with fairy lights and soft cushions. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, creating a serene atmosphere for their characters.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Y/N’s character, Liv, gazed out over the city, her voice a soft whisper. “Sometimes, I forget how lovely the world can be.”

Jungwon, playing the charming yet mysterious Johnny, stepped closer. “It is,” he replied, his tone warm. “But it’s even more beautiful when shared with someone special.” Y/N turned to him, her heart racing. "Someone special, huh? You mean like a star-crossed lover?"

"Exactly," Jungwon said, a playful glint in his eyes. "Someone who makes the ordinary feel extraordinary."

"Do you really believe in love like that?” Y/N asked, tilting her head as she searched his face for answers. "What if that star is too far away to reach?" Jungwon took her hands, his gaze intense. “Then I’ll climb every mountain, cross every ocean, and travel the whole universe just to be with that star. Which is you.” "Me?" Without breaking character, Jungwon closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against hers. He was still holding her hand, gently squeezing it. Despite her irritation, a flutter of excitement raced through her as their lips met, leaving her speechless. As they broke apart, the audience erupted in applause. The curtains closed, signaling the end of the play.

"WHAT THE HELL Jungwon?! That was not in the script!"

Jungwon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I know, dumbass. I did it on purpose."

“On purpose? Are you trying to ruin everything?” Y/N crossed her arms, torn between annoyance and the thrill of what had just happened.

“Come on, Y/N! We’re supposed to sell the romance. That kiss? It was the spark the audience needed! Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it!” Jungwon leaned closer, grinning.

Y/N's expression softened, a soft smile lighting up in her face. "Yeah, I guess I did."

.vmpivory    ©    all rights reserved    ━    2024

AUTHOR's NOTE i've been thinking about this for a while now and i am so excited that finally wrote this !! this is my first work on here so i hope ygs enjoyed it ! so like.. this sucks. but i tried my best TT and yes, i named the girl liv ( WHICH IS ME ) bc i'm delulu like that eheh :D

PERM TAGLiST: @wonsprincess

[sugar-crash]

🍬King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader👑

(Beginning Relationship Pt. II Edition!)

(Just a tad bit different🔑 than it usually is, Have fun :))

- Tries his best to separate him from who he used to be to ward off suspicion of his shady behavior but as we can all see, he’s not exactly the best at it at times. Especially if you knew him when he was Turbo. Johunlz

- His more friendly King Candy look gives him far more leeway than he had as Turbo which he wanted purposely. He uses it to his advantage, especially when it comes to you, literally that one scene from Adventure Time. Shameless about it on top of that. ohcl

- Much like how he was previously, he teases you. But it’s far more lighthearted I guess? Sometimes he just says something absolutely mean as shit and then pats your head patronizingly in the same breath. Hate him. illu

- Being some of the shortest game characters of the bunch, he’s no stranger to being looked down upon, literally, and by then he doesn’t have much of an issue with his s/o being taller than him…

- However, if by some miracle or chance, you’re smaller than him, he thinks you’re so cute, affectionately calling you “snack-sized”, and he’ll say it when he tries to get on your nerves for one reason or another. thkl,

- Lovessss putting others down, when it comes to you, it’s more lighthearted or joking (with that little metaphorical bug in his ear relishing being able to do so), and anyone else??? Not as much. pu

- Lives for the praise you give him, as much as he doesn’t admit it of course, that self-satisfied and smug grin he gets whenever you congratulate him for having majority wins/being chosen the most as an avatar on Sugar Rush says it all. tvyl

- While being the one to establish the paywall and coin prizes (cause he’s an insidious asshole), he kinda hates that he can’t have an actual trophy like he used to— Can’t exactly display them for you to comment on later on considering they are constantly being used and turned into code. But hey, at least they have his insignia on them. aohu

- Calling myself out on this once more, but, the description randomalistic used for him in this YouTube video (which,,, I highly suggest watching if you haven’t already), specifically “a corrupt politician” is frighteningly accurate, he lies, he cheats, he sabotages, a perfect allegory for a corrupt higher power. vul

- And he fucking knows it man, proud of it even, one of his most successful works and he can’t even brag about it, can’t even tell you. wshjl

- We really don’t see what his relationship is between him and the other racers besides Taffyta claiming he wants to keep them safe and uh… The race track scenes. So from what I can ascertain I can fully see him acting like Miss Hannigan from Annie, specifically this one scene (yeah this post is just chocked full of links, bear with me), the mental image of him mockingly saying “she had to go bathroom” with his lisp makes me weak.

- Even in his new and far more prestigious position as King he still longs for more, with his limits and disguises imperfections not helping this inner turmoil, even in a game as big as Sugar Rush boredom takes root and he even his excuses that explain why he stays in Sugar Rush to you have a nearly invisible air of uncertainty to them.

- Makes a point to make you feel good, loved, cared for all throughout your visits to Sugar Rush, nothing is too good for you, there’s always more.

- I think this kind of behavior stems from this deep seated desire to make sure you don’t leave him, you could have everything you want with his help— Why wouldn’t you stay? Please stay.

- Caged. That’s how he feels secretly, I mean, who wouldn’t? He wasn’t exactly coded to be a monarch, all these responsibilities, not even his coding skills could help him with that…. I mean, would he even be himself without it?

- Achievements, what are they for when it’s the same thing over and over again? Validation? Attention? Power?? You maybe? Things he’s been chasing after for all of his life, well— Not you but he’s realized that he’s become far too attached to you, your softness, your sensitivity.

- Each moment spent together is far more significant to him than what he thought it’d be when he first showed interest in you— Thinking it’d be like every other relationship (mostly platonic ones) he’s been in, fleeting, and ending with you hating him, you had every right to after all.

- Sickness, an insult that had been thrown his way over a dozen times to the point where it usually gets a scoff and furrowed brows, but it feels devastating when you say it after his true nature is unceremoniously revealed by his hubris.

- Abandoned— That familiar pang ripping through his newly mutated form as you struggle for your life alongside the others that stayed behind to help every last one of the Sugar Rush people to get to safety from the unruly swarm of Cy-Bugs eating their home into nothing.

- Red. That’s all he sees as he brutally beats Ralph down into a pulp and cruelly taunts everyone else as he holds the overgrown bad guy in the air, eagerly and sadistically waiting for a little girl to meet a brutal end only to meet his own.

(Almr sarqr dprk’s sll lk sar klqr)

[thatbuddie]

Buck & Eddie in 7.06 "There Goes The Groom"

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Aziraphale: I want a proper apology.

Crowley: No.

Aziraphale: With the little dance.

Crowley: I don't do the dance.

Aziraphale: I did the "I was wrong" dance in 1650, in 1793, 1941…

Crowley: Fine! [doing the apology dance:] You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right. Okay?

Aziraphale: Very nice.

[theworldisabrokenbonebutitishome]

Kang Yo Han is the walking embodiment of I'm Not Okay (I Promise) and relates to Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge far more than is healthy. In this essay I will-

[spacenintendogs]

forever fucking floored gobsmacked, astounded, dumbfounded, open-mouthed, stupefied, breathless, wide-eyed, and left speechless by romantic flight

[marymekpop]

⟢ highlight of the hour: my perfect stranger [14/16] ⟣

a bittersweet farewell

[purplelea]

There's a lot of things wrong with the twewy anime, but if there's one thing they got perfectly, it's definitely Eri.

[everyryuujisuguro]

[dramaism]

watched 1,5 seasons of the originals while i was on vacation and I've come to the conclusion:

one season of the originals >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 8 seasons of the vampire diaries

[lovehandelreunion]

i can't help but laugh when i watch the new p/jo show and it uses all of its effort not to deliver a good story, but to go out of its way to never use more of its vfx budget than absolutely necessary

finished episode 3 and not only do they turn medusa invisible to mime cutting her head off so they don't have to show it but they also have the turning a fury to stone be blurry through a window???

am i crazy? am i a hater?? am i living in an alternate reality where the show is just bad???

[baltears]

undefined

made this visual of all the times williams theme popped up in this scene because im mad that i still cant figure out why it’s in there