#it's about what that act of kindness means

[eddiethebrave]

secret admirer part twenty-two

759 words

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Eddie do you ever think about what you’re gonna do after high school? like how am i expected to know what i want to do with my life? i mean, i have another year to think about it but not that much can change in a year you probably wanna do something with music, right? make it big with your band and have people screaming your songs i’d go to every show if i could be your own personal groupie who knows? maybe that’s my calling p.s. have a good time at hellfire tonight i hope you win !!!!! -H

You’d think the win last night would put him in high spirits, and it did. At first. He celebrated with the guys, passed on the get together someone suggested, and drove home feeling proud. It was when he was laying in bed, though, that he started thinking. When he graduates, how often will he be able to ride a high like that? From pure accomplishment?

Steve puts on a brave face for morning practice. He doesn’t wanna drag anyone down with him. He goes through the motions of accepting congratulations and pats on the back from his peers and teachers alike all morning long. 

It only makes him think, though. 

Seriously, what comes after this? More school? Does he accept that internship at his father’s soul sucking company? Does he get a gob and jump right into adulthood?

What it really comes down to is the fact that Steve had never thought he’d have a future. Honestly. He’s getting closer and closer everyday to the next stage in his life, though. The years snuck up on him and now he has to deal with it. 

On a lesser scale, Steve doesn’t like thinking about what life will be like once Eddie graduates this coming May. How is Steve meant to tolerate this hellhole without him? Sure, he’d gone years without really noticing him, but now that he knows what it’s like to have a taste of him in his life, he doesn’t think he could go back. 

The whole thing makes his pulse quicken and sweat begin to bead at his hairline. By the time he makes it to art class, there’s a tension forming at his temples and he’s not looking forward to the headache. He doesn’t think he has it in him to act like everything’s normal. 

For once, Carol doesn’t acknowledge his foul mood. She’s too busy staring at Robin. For the portrait, of course. 

The teacher had informed them today the class is basically a free period and they can choose what to work on or what to not work on. 

Steve sits slumped over the table with his head resting on his folded arms. He kind of wishes Eddie hadn’t put the divider up and also that he had his sunglasses so he could stare at him without feeling weird about it. 

Instead, he rests his eyes and tunes into the sounds of pencil on paper surrounding him. He dozes for a while and has nearly fallen asleep when he’s awoken with a poke to his cheek. 

Steve peels his eyes open, but no one seems to be wanting his attention. There is, however, a piece of paper placed next to his left arm. 

It’s a drawing. 

A stick figure with tall swoopy hair and eerily realistic eyes. 

Steve looks to his left, only to find the culprit still hard at work with his face tucked behind the divider. 

Steve visually fills in the blank and surmises Eddie’s smile probably matches his own. 

Steve doesn’t dare fold the paper. He tucks it into the notebook he has to keep it safe. Throughout the rest of the day, he opens the book just to look at it. When he takes it home, he tapes it to a wall in his bedroom, somewhere he can always see it. 

Eddie did i ever tell you how sweet it is that your club has matching tees? i haven’t seen anyone who doesn’t do sports or the school band have a uniform but it makes sense that other clubs would, too you look good in black, don’t get me wrong, but GOD i thought i was gonna die the first time i saw yours so thanks for that also, while we’re on the subject of how hot you are,  you should wear your hair up more often p.s. sorry about the existential crisis on friday i wasn’t doing too good but i got a pick-me-up eventually <3 -H

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[heart-eyed-love]

Your Stupid Little Fucker

Summary | Eddie teases you about a said stuffed animals that turns out you don't have anymore and he takes that to heart.

Contains | Fem!Reader, Friends-to- Lovers (eventually), Cursing…

Word Count | 1.3k

An | Soooo, I kinda want to make series of oneshots and drabbles and what not for a bestfriend!eddie and bestfriend!reader, so i think this will be my first installment of that… and i’ll write stuff for the timeline that will be put out, out of order but i’ll make a masterlist so everything can be ordered correctly @_@ (which is also heavily inspired by the way wheels-of-despair sets up her amazing evil woman series)

“And you still sleep with it?” Jeff laughs as he questions Gareth, whose face only seems to be getting redder. But you’re not sure whether it’s from embarrassment or building anger.

“No, I don’t sleep with it, Asshole.” Gareth glares over at the boy, “Just because I still have it doesn’t mean I sleep with it.” 

“Then why do you still have it?” Grant questions with a grin. As he lifted the stuffed animal off of Gareth's bed as he seemed to inspect it.

Gareth was 100% not enjoying the interrogation on the stuffed rabbit that he had had since he was a baby. If he had known that everyone would have ended up in his room after band practice he would’ve hidden the ratty old thing.

“My mom is making me keep it.” It was a lie, and obvious one at that, but just in time Eddie cut in. Ultimately it wasn’t to benefit Gareth, but rather to put you on the spot.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, man. (Y/n) still sleeps with one too!” He looks over to you with a smirk, teasing tone he knows will piss you off. And he’s proud to be met with a glare already staring back at him.

“No, I don’t.” The other boys giggle, but Gareth feels your pain so he stays quiet.

“So, you don’t still sleep with that stuffed bat?” He eggs you on.

Ah. The stuffed bat. One that Eddie himself had so proudly won for you back in your freshman year. He was pleasantly surprised with himself that night at the fair, an “athletic” game that involved him throwing? And actually successfully knocking down all the pins? Yeah, he was pretty stoked, he was able to pull that off on the first try. If he had missed those with you standing next to him that experience would have been all too humbling.

But no, he had successfully won you a prize. A stuffed bat he picked, and he turned to you with an overly cocky smile for a guy who had gotten lucky with his shots.

But the bat seemed fitting, something he’d selfishly hoped you would see and immediately think of him.

“For me?” You ask with a smirk as he hands the plush over to you.

“Yeah, well I don’t have much use for it…” He’s trying to act all cool about it, but he knows he only even purchased tickets to play that game for you.

“Well, thank you, kind sir.” You smile up at him.

“Yeah, whatever, dork.” He shoves your head playfully and turns away before the slight redness of his cheeks can be noticed by you.

To say the least, that night was a night both of you remembered fondly. One of your favorite memories is Eddie gifting you that stuffed bat, and now he’s using it to try to embarrass you?

“No, I actually don’t, Eddie. I got rid of that thing.” Lie, big lie. It currently sat smack dap next to the pillow you slept on but you weren’t going to admit that. It probably wasn’t the best thing to lie about but right now, you didn’t care, he was trying to embarrass you and you weren’t going to let him get the satisfaction.

But why should you be embarrassed? Is it weird that you kept it after all this time? Is it weird that you feel so attached to it because Eddie gave it to you?

But in the slight blinded anger you felt, the fall of Eddie’s cheeky, teasing attitude had gone unnoticed by you. 

“You got rid of it?”

“Yeah, kinda just outgrew it I guess.” He watches you shrug like it’s nothing, like he had won that thing especially for you.

And truthfully, as Eddie thought back to it he couldn’t actually recall if it had been in your room the last time he went in there, he really just couldn’t remember. 

Thankfully for you though, cause yeah, it was still in there then too.

The boys have already moved on to another subject, and Jeff and Grant recklessly went through Gareth's comics as he screeched at them to be careful snatching it away from Grant. You walk past Eddie and over to the boys, taking your own time to look through the piles, trying to forget lying directly to Eddie’s face.

He stood moderately frozen at the news you just broke to him, but he pulled himself out of it and rejoins the groups, staying rather quiet as he went through the comics.

Staying way quieter than Eddie normally would all the way until pulling back up to your house that evening. And you finally crack…

“What’s wrong?” You asked with a brow raised in confusion as you looked over at the boy. 

“Nothing, wrong. Why would something be wrong?”

“Cause you’re barely talking… and while I do love this peace and quiet…” you tease but to no avail, “it’s not like you…”

“Did you actually get rid of it?” He turns to you suddenly, and you’re partially surprised by the harsh tone.

“What?” You know exactly what but you don’t know how to get into this right now.

“Did you actually get rid of it? Like did you give it away or did you just throw it in the garage or something?” His tone becomes more annoyed by the second, and you actually fear you might have made him mad. Which wasn't what you had even wanted in the first place, you just wanted him off your back.

“I never said-“ But he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because honestly it’s kinda shitty if you did either way.”

Now you’re rolling your eyes and he’s widening his. Why don’t you care about this?

Why isn’t he letting you speak? Instead of even trying to explain you just slide out of the van as Eddie watches with furrowed brows. 

Were you actually walking away from him right now?

“Are you coming?” You ask over your shoulder as you approach your front door, and you stand there as you watch Eddie scrambling to turn his van off and hop out to meet you at the door.

You both walk to your bedroom silently, and Eddie trails behind you kind of confused but ultimately letting this play out. And as you open your bedroom door you walk a few feet in and you point to the soft plush sitting next to your pillow.

“Where it literally sits every single time you come over, where it sits every single day. I don’t know how you actually believed me.”

“Why did you lie…?” He asks softly.

“Cause you were obviously trying to embarrass me for still having it.”

“What? No! I was just messing around, I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad about it, (Y/n)…” He tries to defend, “Sorry… I’m glad you still have it, relieved actually.”

“Yeah, Well no shit, I thought you were about to start crying in the van…” You tease, lightening the moment.

“I was not about to cry.” He glares, “It’d just be pretty rude, considering I almost threw my back out trying to win that stupid thing for you.”

“Almost threw your back out?!” You cackle out at his dramatics, “Eddie, the pins weren’t even 10 feet away from you.”

“Yeah, I put my athletic abilities to the test for you and this is the thanks I get?” You pull fingers into quotes as he mentions his athletic abilities, and he rolls his eyes at you.

“You did all that just for me?” You tease with a smirk, “You really won that for me?” 

“Yeah, whatever. Thought it would be nice.” He rolls his eyes again and plops onto your bed, purposely knocking the stuffed bat off your bed, causing you to let out an audible gasp.

“Oh my Gosh, you did not just do that!” You screech as you dramatically pick him up and cradle him to your chest with faux shock.

“What? That stupid fuckers causing a lot of drama.” He smiles playfully.

“Yeah, well, he’s my stupid fucker.” You say setting the bat back down in its rightful spot. Smiling down at Eddie as you do.

And he can’t help but smile back. 

God, he hopes he can be your stupid fucker too.

[allforthegaymes]

Somethin about Andrew Minyard who shoves himself face first into danger no matter what risk it poses to himself

Being 5 feet even and still taking on four grown men who try to beat up Nicky outside of Edens.

Knowing his twin brother for less than a few months and willingly killing Tilda, even planning on himself dying in the process if need be.

Andrew willingly putting himself in direct harms way if it means protecting those he loves, while unwilling to put those same people in a even slightly potentially dangerous position.

Andrew who deals with Aarons withdrawals on his own, sat outside a locked bathroom door to intermittently slide his brother new food, water, and clothes. Unwilling to risk sending his brother to a place where he knows people in high positions would be willing to abuse their power, willing to hurt Aaron.

Andrew who despite knowing all of this and making sure Aaron never had to witness it, goes through his own withdrawls at easthaven, knowing what kind of abuse could and would happen to him.

Andrew who promises to protect Kevin and Neil. He knows theyre lying to him and he knows he doesnt know the full truth of who they are and what (who) exactly he is protecting them from.

But he also knows it helps Kevin to have a buddy system to lean on, to have someone who can shove his way through a crowd of exy fans all trying to get at Kevin, both fans and haters of him following his Ravens departure.

The way Neil describes Andrew as being a wall he can lean on and know he wont tilt under the weight of Neil’s past and current issues.

Somethin somethin about Neil looking at Andrew and seeing Andrew in a way no one else can. A way no one else has.

Neil looks at Andrew and sees how his carefully created stony exterior is a way to protect his family, by taking on the brunt of the negative attention from others. Both the other foxes, exy fans, his own classmates.

The rest of the foxes cant hate Aaron or Nicky the most if Andrew is always the one acting out to take all of their feelings of hatred on himself.

And no one recognizes this until Neil.

Neil who sees the way Andrew loves his family so much that hes willing to let them hate him as long as theyre safe.

Neil who knows Aaron thinks Andrew hates him and goes to Katelyn directly to tell her she needs to push to get Aaron into group sessions with Bee to fix his and Andrews relationship, because if Andrew or Neil were the one to suggest it Aaron would be against it.

[rinnstars]

all sides of you!

the five love languages rin shows to you

itoshi rin x reader: fluff, hcs/drabble, not proofread, likes n reblogs are appreciated <3

words of affirmation

- at the beginning, i think hes a lot more averse to saying romantic stuff so its more of in a long term/after months of dating

- mainly leaves sticky notes/passes notes during class/at home with what he wants to say ar rhe beginning

- after a while tho, he’ll try to at least praise you/compliment you irl then slowly tell you he loves you (altho rarely at the beginning)

- has a bunch of scribbled notes he never passed to you all filled with confessions/ things he wants to say that he eventually says at the back of his closet in a box (because he thinks its sentimental)

- a lot better at expressing his feelings and can say them without freaking out internally or stuttering before giving up and calling you a mean nickname to neutralise the compliment

- believes in a speak not tell but he knows communication is key so he’ll try his best so bear with him

- slowburn moment for this but its 100% worth it when he comes home from competition and all he can say is repeatedly whisper i love u into your ear as he pulls you closer into his embrace

physical touch

- again, at first hes a bit touch averse / awkward with hugs/kisses but after a while of dating..

- 100% super clingy esp after coming back from competition/bllk : his hands have to be somewhere on your skin, doesnt matter where hes not picky

- has to sleep with you, hugging you like youre his plushie (drools a little too btw)

- links pinky when you guys walk together doeznt matter where “you’ll get lost” excuse except his entire face goes pink at the touch of your hands

- really likes kissing your neck, he thinks its rlly cute when he can hear you & esp if it leaves a mark :p

- has piggy-backed you before even when youre not lying about your shoes hurting or being tired to be carried by him

- enjoys being babied ngl like he loves it sm when you pepper his face with kisses while he just lies there or when you comb his hair with your fingers: he feels like hes in heaven esp after stressful days

quality time

- tries to see you everyday : either through school/going to yours/his house, dates, or even facetime call

- calls you every night when hes overseas btw and during breaks he’ll try to text you back n reply to your messages

- the type to make up excuses just to hang out with you like “oh i need to get new shoes, come with me” even though he has 2038839 different pairs and then have to huy another one because he cant be caught (you can tell)

- wld go on “study” dates where he just stares at you 3/4 of rhe time and actually doesnt finish any of his “assignments”

- has gone on hangouts where both of you just chill in silence n rlly likes it because theres no pressure to do anything and its kind of calming/relaxing esp after having to deal with teammates n whatnot during work

- wld watch you play games/do anything while he sits beside you, just enjoying your company even if he craves a little more but thats alright by him

acts of service

- lowkey such an act of service guy like even pre-relationship even if he makes excuses for him bc hes trying to be #idgaf

- the type to rush to your home with meds/food/everything if you text him youre sick after missing school

- i feel like. he just kind of enjoys the peacefulness of like cleaning and would do it whenever hes stressed (ignoring the loud music he listens to)

- would bring your necessities sometimes, and ends up at some point lending a hairtie to reo (he has a pack of hair ties bought for you at all times)

- anytime he goes out to get food/on the way home, he’ll always get a portion of what youd like just in case, and doeznt mind just eating it as leftover if you dont want it

- has a notepad on his phone on your favourite orders (drinks, meals, desserts etc)

- if youre forgetful, he’ll text you to remind you : whether that be to attend events/eat lunch at proper times/buy something

- would go back to the store if he didn’t buy what you wanted/if you wanted something else without any hesitation as long as it makes you smile even if he doesn’t admit it

- would learn how to take pictures for you on his own accord : you didn’t even realise until one day you pass him your digicam and suddenly he was an expert photographer compared to just months ago when. you started dating where his hand was blocking the camera

giving gifts

- has a matching necklace with you at all times and its his lucky charm and he’ll 100% kiss it before a game / when he wins the game

- shared wishlist on online stores except he stalks through yours and buys them for you randomly to surprise you

- if you have something spoiled/doesnt work as well, doesnt matter if its a home appliance/jeans that don’t fit etc, he’ll buy one for you without any hesitation when he goes out/on his phone

- gets you trinkets/keychains/stuff that reminds him of you including any sanrio/anime/designs you like / even your favourite food ie. chocolates/candies/chips from different countries he goes to for matches

- would notice if you wore his gifts or not and try to buy more things that you like more ie. if you like silver accessories more, he’ll buy more of those

- even during school days, he would 100% blow his money on arcades if you like to play claw machine/those rhythms games and watch you play and sometimes if you don’t get it, he’ll try to get them after his football training for you and pass it to you as nonchalantly as you can the next day

- always buys matching things: that bracelet he bought you? yup he has an exact pair in his drawers, feels its more meaningful and intimate

- if you ever ask for anything, just know he’s willing to give you that and the whole world and even the whole galaxy

-

[jay-joy113]

Imagine being in an dnd universe and meeting Jason.

You were walking with no real place to go when you headbutt a 6'7 brick wall of muscle who may or may not be an knight.

Now, ussualy he doesn't do charity, but seeing you so weak and alone makes gim go soft and bring you back to his humble abode (a whole ass castle).

His home is filled with weapons of many kinds but manly swords. The soft red carpet being spotless tells you hes either an clean freak or he doesn't stay inside much. The small Garden of roses is on the brink of decay because of over watering. Your room, the guest room, is a bit dusty but overall confy. Your blue sheets are made of an fine silk, theres even cute patterns on it.

Jason tells you that you can stay while you look for a place to stay, that you can even eat from his food. Honestly i would cry of sheer happines . Anyway, and thats how your slice of life adventures beggin. Wheater you prefer cleanning, cooking or gardening you end up doing something. And Jason is a bit emotional about those little acts of service, if you pick cleaning he will tell you how he never bothered because he rarely goes back to his castle (workaholic bitch) and say the smell is wonderfull. If you pick cooking he might actually cry, the last time he ate a home cooked meal was when he was a kid, he does cook for himself but that hits different. If you go care for those poor angiosperms he will look at you as if you did wichtcraft, what do you mean you fuking fixed those?? He couldn’t really care for them so he just... let em be yknow?

Afther a few more days and a more yapping, congrats, you endered him. He never had só much noyse in his castle, its not as umpleasent as he tought. That might be selfish but.. He doesn't want you to leave.

You been a great company, a great friend, a great crush- NO. He must not. You are an vunerable woman/ man/ person Who has no place to go, he shouldnt have these sinful toughts... so why when you smile he wants to kiss you? Why when he sees you helping in the castle those stone walls look more like a home? Why does he itch to hug you and never ever let go?

Afther some nights he cant take it anymore and touches himself. The warm feel of his big hands on his fat cock trying to mimic how you would feel around it. What sounds would you make? Would them be as pretty as you? With your name on his lips and face on his mind. Just as he is about to come you enter his room, whatever the fuck you had to say it scapes your head the second you see sweaty buff Jason calling out your name as he pants his abdomen white. His veiny dick doesn't go down, no, in fact it seems to get even harder under your gaze, even if its owner its looking like a fresh tomato. He asks for forgivnes, that he didn’t want you to hate him, he begs and begs...

His begging gets way cuter when you put your mouth on his member. You lick the head then gives it a little kiss, making Jason even more confused. You start to put him in, Jason puts his hand on your head, petting it softly as he lets an string of praises. When he finally cums in your mouth you can taste his salty taste. He tells you to spit, but you cant let such amazing meal go to waste can you?

When he sees you swallowed something snapped in him. He gets on top of you, undressing and carressing your body. Kissing his way down to your pussy/ cock/ hole(?). You are going to orgasm that way at least twice, he looks like an starved man, and he is, starved for love YOUR love.

Once you are both ready to do the did he will ask for consent at least 5 times. He will ask if you are 100% sure. Of course you are, its fuking Jason Todd. As said before he is most defnetly blessed, those 11 inches didn’t joke at all. Hes gentle, hugging you close and giving your face a bunch of little kisses as he says he loves you. If you ask him to go rougher he might not be able to, his life is a battle field, everything in him is rough, but for you he wants to be gentle, in these four walls he wants to be delicate.

Once you are both done he will clean you both up, dont bother doing much he wants to take care of you, just as you cared for him, he loves you a lot, he tells you that as you both cuddle on his bed, he asks if you want to live with him for real, if you want to stay forever.

If you say Yes in some days a cute little ring will be in your hand.

Thanks for reading

[thewrstinme]

“You want to act like a brat? Then I’ll treat you like one.”

summary. you’d been pissing noah off all night before his performance, taunting him right before he had to go on stage. what you forgot is that the tour bus would be empty for the night, leaving him alone with you to dish out punishments for your behaviour.

TW. 18+ mdni mean!noah. punishment but it’s rlly just smut. brat taming. hair pulling, choking if you squint. aftercare ofc. degrading. lmk if i missed any!

As soon as the two of you step into the tour bus, the door barely closes behind you before Noah grabs you by the waist, spins you around, and pushes you roughly against the sofa. The suddenness takes your breath away, but the tension that’s been building between you all night finally snaps. His body pins yours down, chest to chest, and his eyes flash with something dark and dangerous.

“Think you’re funny, don’t you?” he growls, his hand already gripping the back of your neck, holding you in place. “Bratty little act all night, teasing me in front of everyone like I wouldn’t do something about it?”

Before you can respond, he forces you down into the cushions, leaning in close so his breath is hot against your ear. His hands roam your body with a kind of restrained violence, fingers gripping hard as he pulls you tighter against him. His lips brush your neck, his voice dripping with mockery.

“You’ve been asking for this, haven’t you?” His hand slides down to your hip, squeezing hard, as he presses himself firmly against you, making sure you can feel every inch of how much you’ve wound him up. “Thought I’d just let it slide? After everything you pulled tonight?”

You open your mouth to retort, but he’s quicker. His hand is suddenly at your throat, not choking but keeping you still as he smirks down at you. “Not so talkative now, are you?” he taunts, his thumb brushing along your jawline before squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes glint with amusement as he watches you squirm, clearly relishing in the control he has over you.

His lips crash against yours without warning, rough and punishing, like he’s trying to prove a point. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, tugging hard enough to make you whimper. He chuckles darkly against your mouth, pulling away just enough to look you in the eyes.

“You want to act like a brat? Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Noah’s grip on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to keep you in place as his free hand moves lower, grabbing your waist and pulling your body flush against his. The heat between you is immediate, and you can feel how much restraint he’s been holding back all night. His lips brush yours again, but he pulls back just before you can deepen the kiss, a mocking grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, you want it now, don’t you?” he teases, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Too bad. You’ll get it when I say so.”

He shifts his weight, pressing you harder into the sofa, his knee wedging between your thighs, making it impossible for you to move. You try to push against him, but he doesn’t budge, his eyes daring you to try again. When you do, his hand tightens its grip on your waist, fingers digging in painfully, and he leans down, lips hovering over your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Rubbing up against me backstage, giving me those bratty little looks in front of everyone. You think I wouldn’t notice? Think I wouldn’t do something about it?”

His teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to send a sharp jolt of pain mixed with pleasure. You can’t help the small moan that escapes your lips, and that only makes his smirk grow wider.

“See? You like it rough, don’t you? Couldn’t just behave, had to push me.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you squirm beneath him. “Now you’re gonna pay for it.”

With one swift motion, Noah yanks your shirt up over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His eyes rake over your body, the intensity of his gaze sending a thrill through you. His hand moves from your waist to your chest, fingers curling around the fabric of your bra as he tugs it down roughly, exposing you completely to him.

“Look at you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his voice low and rough. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Before you can say anything, his mouth is on you, lips and teeth leaving a trail of bruises down your neck and chest. His touch is anything but gentle, every movement designed to remind you who’s in control. His hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he teases the edge of your skirt, but he doesn’t go any further. Not yet.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you again, that wicked smirk still playing on his lips as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. His hands grip your hips, holding you firmly in place as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dark and commanding, “was it worth it? Being a little brat all night? Do you like how this feels?”

You can barely form words, your mind clouded with the heat of the moment, but that’s exactly what he wants. Noah’s grip on you tightens, and he chuckles lowly as he sees the effect he’s having on you.

A small part of you wants to fight back, to prove that you’re not completely at his mercy, but the rest of you is lost to the sensations he’s igniting in your body. His eyes are dark, filled with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

“I asked you a question,” he says, his voice harsh and demanding. He tugs at your hair, forcing your head back, making you look at him. “Answer me.”

“I-I-“

Noah sneers at your stammering response, clearly unimpressed. “Is that all you’ve got?” he mocks, his tone dripping with derision. “A simple question and you can’t even form a proper answer?”

He tightens his grip on your hair, pulling your head back further, making you gasp as a sharp jolt of pain courses through you. “Look at you,” he continues, his voice a low growl. “Such a mess when you’re like this. So desperate and needy.”

The heat in his gaze only amplifies your confusion, the thrill of submission battling with your instinct to resist.

“You’re pathetic,” he says, his words biting and cruel. “Can’t even control yourself when I’m around. Pathetic and desperate.” His hand tightens around your hair again, pulling harder, making you whimper at the pain. “You like this, don’t you?” he sneers, his tone rough and dominant. “Being at my mercy, at my command. You never had a chance of resisting.”

The way he looks at you, the intensity in his eyes, makes your heart race, and despite the humiliation, a thrill courses through you. You’re caught in the exhilarating mix of pain and pleasure, knowing he’s right—even if it stings to admit it. He sees the shift in your expression, the reluctant acknowledgment of what he’s saying, and his smirk widens. He chuckles lowly, his fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you closer to him.

Noah’s smirk turns into a condescending sneer as he looks down at you, his gaze filled with mockery. “Look at you, desperate little thing,” he mocks, his voice dripping with scorn. “So needy for me, can’t even control yourself.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle the truth?” His laughter is low and mocking, sending a shiver through you. “You’re a mess, and you love every second of it.”

With a rough tug, he pulls your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You think you can hide it? I can see how much you crave this. How much you want to be at my mercy.” His fingers dig deeper into your scalp, and you can’t help but let out another whimper.

“Pathetic,” he repeats, letting the word linger in the air. “You think you’re tough, but look at you now—completely undone.” He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, reveling in your vulnerability. “I bet you’d do anything for just a little more, wouldn’t you?”

You can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, embarrassment mixing with something more intoxicating. The way he’s mocking you only heightens your need, and Noah knows it. He leans closer, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers, “Just admit it—you love being my little brat.”

Each word is a taunt, a reminder of how completely he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and you can’t deny the thrill that comes with it.

As he pulls your head back further, forcing you to look at him directly, you feel a mix of humiliation and excitement coursing through you. His gaze is intense, filled with mockery and disdain, but it only serves to fuel your yearning. You want to resist, to prove that you aren’t as desperate as he thinks, but the way he’s talking to you, the way he’s dominating you, it’s impossible to deny the truth.

Every time he mocks you, every time he calls you pathetic, it cuts through you, but it also ignites a fire inside you that you can’t deny. You’re torn between the desire to fight back and the need to submit, to give him what he wants. “I-I’m not,” you breathe out, trying to sound defiant, but your voice betrays you, quivering with vulnerability.

Noah laughs at your weak attempt to resist, the sound rough and condescending. “Oh, you’re not?” he sneers, his tone dripping with mockery. “Is that right?”

His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling harder, making you gasp and wince from the pain. “You’re not desperate. You’re not needy. You’re not falling apart right now at my mercy.” His voice is laced with derision, mocking your words with sarcasm.

He leans in closer, his lips almost touching your ear, and his voice is a low, taunting whisper. “Pathetic little thing. Can’t even be honest with yourself. Look at you, trying so hard to prove you’re not helpless.”

The way he emphasizes “pathetic” sends a jolt through you, and you find yourself wanting to squirm under his grip. It’s infuriating and intoxicating all at once. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the shame mixing with a thrill that only he can provoke.

“Admit it,” he continues, his voice a seductive growl. “You love being like this. You crave it. You want me to take control.” He releases your hair just enough for you to breathe but keeps you close, his eyes locked onto yours, challenging you to deny it.

Your heart races as the truth hangs heavy in the air, and the fight in you wanes. “Maybe…” you start, but the word barely escapes your lips, filled with uncertainty.

“Maybe?” he scoffs, tilting his head, a condescending grin spreading across his face. “You can do better than that. I want to hear you say it.”

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, and you realize he’s not going to let you off easy. The thrill of submission floods through you, and with a shaky breath, you find yourself on the edge of surrender.

You can feel your resistance unraveling, the fight in you slowly giving way to submission. It’s embarrassing, knowing how much power he has over you, and yet you can’t deny the rush it gives you.

“Please,” you say, your voice a shaky whisper, and you can feel the heat of embarrassment on your cheeks. He’s watching you intently, waiting for another response. He wants to hear you say it, to admit how much you need him, but you’re struggling with the words.

He smirks at your response, knowing you’re holding back. “Please, what, doll?” he mocks, his tone condescending and taunting. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

You’re practically trembling with a mix of humiliation and desire. You need to say it, to acknowledge your own neediness, but the words catch in your throat. It’s so shameful, yet the thought of submitting to him, of being completely at his mercy, makes your heart race even faster.

Noah can see the conflict etched on your face, and his smirk only widens. He knows you’re on the verge of admitting it, but he’s not going to make it easy for you. He wants you to crawl, to beg. “Come on, little one,” he mocks, his voice a low and seductive purr. “Say it.”

You’re so torn. You want to resist, to fight back and prove him wrong, but at the same time, you know deep down that you crave this. Need this. The words are on the tip of your tongue, the truth of your submissive nature right there, but it’s still hard to admit aloud. You look at him, the heat in your cheeks making you feel exposed, and a small whimper escapes your lips. “I-I…I want…”

He leans forward, his breath hot on your skin as he mocks you. “You want what?” he eggs you on, his voice rough and commanding. “Come on, use your words. Don’t be shy now. Tell me exactly what you need.”

The heat in your cheeks intensifies, and the shame and excitement mix, creating a potent cocktail that makes your head spin. “I…I need you,” you whisper, the words shaky and laced with embarrassment. “I need you to take control.” The confession hangs in the air, the truth of your submission exposed, and you can feel it in your bones, the way your body responds to his dominance.

Noah's smirk widens as he hears the words he's been waiting for. He sees the mixture of surrender and humiliation in your eyes, and it only fuels his desire for control. He lets out a low, mocking chuckle before pulling you closer. “There it is,” he says, his voice rough and taunting. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, pretty girl?”

You shiver at the tone in his voice, the realization that he has you completely at his mercy. The mixture of emotions swirling inside you is a heady cocktail of shame, excitement, and an undeniable need for more. You can feel the heat of his presence as he pulls you closer, his mockery and mockery only fueling the fire within you.

With a smug smirk, Noah holds you close, almost tenderly, his touch so different from moments before. “Poor thing,” he coos, his voice dripping with mock comfort. “All worked up and needy. Is that what you wanted, princess?”

The gentle tone catches you off guard, his touch sending a shiver through you. “N-no…I didn’t-“ you stutter, but your weak protest is obvious.

“Shhh,” he hushes, still holding you tight. “Don’t lie to me now. We both know the truth.” He lets his hand trail down your back, his touch so gentle and deceivingly comforting.

His eyes are locked on yours, watching your every reaction. He’s playing with you, and you both know it. The way he’s holding you, the touch of his hand against your back, it’s like a cruel game. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, the shame and excitement mixing into a dangerous cocktail.

“I wasn’t-“ you try to protest again, but the words die in your throat as you meet his gaze. He’s watching you, like a predator sizing up its prey, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Noah continues the charade, his voice dripping with false concern. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he coos, his other hand coming up to caress your face. “You don’t need to lie to me.” He looks at you, his gaze intense, searching. He knows he’s got you, knows you have nowhere to hide. “Just tell me the truth,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Did you do it on purpose?”

The softness of his touch, the way he’s holding you, it’s maddening, drawing you in. You want to deny it, want to push back against the tidal wave of desire and submission that’s washing over you.

“I-“ you start, but the words fail you, caught in the storm of your conflicted emotions. It’s all so confusing, his sweetness and his mockery mixing together in a dangerous, intoxicating cocktail. “Yes…” you eventually force out, your voice a hushed whisper.

Noah's eyes darken, and his grip on you tightens slightly. There it is, the moment he’s been waiting for. He knew you did it on purpose, and now he has you admitting it out loud. “Good girl,” he drawls, his voice suddenly rougher, more commanding. “At least you can admit what a desperate little thing you are.”

The change in his tone hits you like a punch to the stomach. The switch is so sudden, so stark, it takes you completely off guard. You’re still reeling, trying to process the swift shift, but he’s already moving on.

His mockery cuts through you, a cold reminder of your exposed vulnerability. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he mocks, his hand moving down to firmly grip your chin, forcing you to look directly at him. “Needy and shameless, you just had to push me, didn’t you?”

Tears well up in your eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you look up at him with wide, tearful eyes. You feel small and vulnerable under his intense gaze, and the shame and excitement mix in your stomach, creating a powerful mixture of longing and trepidation.

“Oh, look at you,” he purrs, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “All big eyes and teary. But don’t think you’re going to get off easy just because you look pretty when you cry."

His eyes dark and dangerous, he leans in closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours. “You teased me back there, made me all worked up, and then you lied to me about it. Did you think I was just going to let you get away with that?”

"P-please...I'm sorry...I didn't...I won't do it again...I-“ You're a mess of blubbery whines and stuttered apologies, the tears flowing freely down your cheeks. It's humiliating, being so small and defenseless under his gaze, and yet you can't deny the submissive thrill of it all.

He holds you tight, his hand still on your chin, forcing you to look up at him. There’s a smirk on his face, a look of victory, as he mock-comforts you. “There, there, little one,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “I know you didn’t mean it. You’re just a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

The way he’s talking to you, coddling you like a child, it’s infuriating but it only makes the heat in your stomach burn hotter. You want to protest, to defend yourself, but the tears and blubbering make you weaker than ever, and you know he’s enjoying every minute of it.

“Oh, sweet girl, don’t cry,” he mocks, his voice deceptively gentle. “But maybe I should teach you a lesson. Wouldn’t that be fair, to show you what happens when you tease me like that?”

The threat in those words sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement twisting in your gut. You’re too vulnerable like this, and you know he’s going to exploit it to the fullest.

“Is that what you want, doll?” he coos, his fingers loosening their grip just enough to let a tear slide down your cheek. “You want me to show you what happens when you drive me crazy like that, when you push and push until I snap?”

You whimper lowly, unable to form a coherent response as you blink up at him through a haze of tears. Maybe you do want it, crave it even, the thought of being completely at his mercy both terrifying and thrilling.

His smirk widens at your helpless response, the realization that he has you completely under his sway. “That’s what I thought,” he says, his voice now deeper, darker. “You’re just begging for someone to put you in your place, aren’t you, pretty little thing?”

The condescension in his tone only serves to make you weaker, and you let out a soft, pathetic whine, your body trembling under his gaze. “I’ll be good, I swear,” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. He chuckles darkly, his eyes boring into yours. “Oh, I know you will be,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “But it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?”

With an effortless display of strength, he pushes you back against the sofa, pinning you in place with his body. His hand leaves your chin to trail down your throat, his touch like a caress and a threat all at once. “I told you not to tease me,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin. “But you just had to do it, didn’t you? Had to test my patience, to see how far you could push me.”

You're a mess, a whiny blabbering mess, and you struggle to control the sounds of helplessness that leave your mouth. The words "I'm sorry" and "please" and "I didn't mean to" mix with pathetic sobs and moans, each one more pitiful than the last. You can't even look up at him, so you just keep repeating those words, desperate to make him see that you regret disobeying him. The tears won’t stop, and the shame of your behavior, the pleading and begging, only makes them stream faster. You’re completely at his mercy, a vulnerable, fragile thing that he can mold however he sees fit. It’s mortifying, and yet somehow exciting, the knowledge that he has this power over you, that he can bring you to this point of surrender.

"Don’t cry, doll," he murmurs, his hand moving back to your chin to force you to look up at him. "Just listen. Just take it like a good girl." His voice is rough, not quite mocking or gentle. It’s something else, something possessive and dominant, that makes your stomach twist in knots. “You brought this on yourself,” he continues, his gaze intense. “You had to push and push until I couldn’t take it anymore. I warned you, didn’t I?”

You nod helplessly, the tears still falling, your voice reduced to little more than a broken whisper. "I-I'm sorry," you repeat, your words punctuated by sniffles. You're completely overwhelmed, the mixture of shame and desire leaving you a shaking, blabbering mess.

His hand tightens on your chin, his gaze narrowing. He enjoys seeing you like this, so low and vulnerable, reduced to a puddle of tears and apologies. “I know you’re sorry,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “But I’m not sure it’s enough, pretty girl. I think you need a bit more of a lesson.”

Your eyes widen at his words, the realization that he’s not going to let this go, that he’s going to push you further than you’ve ever gone before. You open your mouth to speak, more apologies on your lips, but he cuts you off, his grip on your chin tightening.

“Shhh,” he hisses, his voice mocking and cruel. “No more excuses. You’ve already begged enough, angel. Take it like a good little girl.”

The humiliation is overwhelming, the way he’s holding you, the condescension in his voice. “Please…” you whimper, the word escaping before you can stop it. “I can’t…I’m sorry…”

He scoffs at your plea, his grip on your chin growing tighter. “I don’t care,” he snaps, his voice cold and dismissive. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be pushed, to be broken down until you’re a whimpering mess under my hands?” You nod helplessly, unable to deny the truth of his words. You had wanted this, craved it even, and now you’re getting your lesson, whether you’re ready or not. He smirks, satisfied with your response. “That’s what I thought,” he says, his tone cruel. “Now be a good little girl and take it.”

Your words are caught in your throat, but you can only nod again, your body trembling with a mixture of shame and desire. You know he’s not going to stop, that he’s going to push you to your limits and then some.

His hand moves from your chin to your hip, his fingers finding the edge of your skirt. He tugs at it teasingly, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “No panties, huh? Dirty girl. You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” His hand moves around to your behind, squeezing it roughly before he slips his fingers under the hem, touching your bare skin.

“No wonder you’ve been so needy and pathetic, doll. You’ve been waiting for hours for this, just hoping I’d pin you down and give you what you need, yeah? But you had to push my buttons and misbehave, didn’t you?”

His voice is firm, his fingers still digging into your flesh. “You couldn’t just wait like a good little girl. No, you had to be bad, pushing and pushing until I finally snap.”

The feeling of his hand on your bare skin makes you shiver, and a pathetic whine leaves your lips as the tears continue to fall. “I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, your voice weak and broken. “I didn’t mean to…sorry, please I didn’t, I’m sorry.”

He silences you with one look, his fingers gripping your chin again. “I told you to stop apologizing,” he snaps, his tone harsh. “You’re not going to sweet-talk your way out of this one, little one.” The command in his voice makes you weak, the fear and shame mixing with the longing in your stomach.

You nod as best you can, trying to communicate your understanding through the tears. “Please,” you whisper, so soft it’s not even a word, more like a pitiful whine. His grip on your chin tightens, his eyes narrowing. “What was that?” he says, his voice soft and dangerous. “Speak up, angel, unless you want me to punish you for mouthing off too.”

You shake your head wordlessly, your eyes wide and pleading, begging him to understand that you only want to please him. “No, no, I’m sorry,” you manage to gasp out, your voice weak but sincere. “Please, I’ll be quiet.”

He sighs, the sound both annoyed and exasperated. Your pleas and apologies are irritating him, and he’s done with the tears and blubbering. “Enough,” he barks, his fingers releasing your chin. “Bend over. Now. Against the sofa.”

The command is sharp and authoritative, and you know better than to disobey. You shuffle around awkwardly, your heart racing as you bend forward, your hands gripping the back of the sofa. The position feels vulnerable, exposing, and your back is arching in anticipation.

“That’s it, doll,” Noah says, his voice gruff. “Good girl. Stay right there. Keep that pretty little ass up for me.” You hear him moving behind you, the sound of rustling fabric and something clinking. The sound of his belt undoing is unmistakable, the leather sliding through the loops with a harsh sound. It makes you shiver, fear and excitement coiling in your stomach.

His hand smooths over your back, caressing the curve of your behind before he smacks it lightly, a warning and a tease all at once. “Be good for me,” he says, his voice a dark rumble. “Stay just like that.” You nod, unable to speak, and brace yourself for what’s to come, the mixture of emotions swirling inside you. The anticipation hangs in the air like a thick fog, every nerve in your body alive and on edge.

His hand leaves your skin, and you can only imagine what he’s doing behind you, the sound of the leather of his belt moving the only hint of his actions. Then you feel his hand on your thigh, gripping you, positioning you exactly how he wants. “You know how this works,” he murmurs, his voice laced with warning. “You push, I push back harder. You misbehave, you get punished. You get that, doll?” You nod again, your head resting against the sofa cushion, the fabric cool against your heated skin. “Yes,” you manage to whisper, the shame and humiliation mixing with the excitement coursing through you. “I understand.”

“Good girl,” he says, his hand moving higher up your thigh. “And you remember your safe words?” You nod weakly. “Yes,” you reply, your voice shaky. “Red to stop, yellow to pause, green to go.”

He hums in approval, his fingers toying with the edge of your skirt, slowly lifting it up, exposing more of your skin. “Good girl,” he repeats, his voice a low praise. “You’re going to need them. Now close your eyes.” You blink in surprise at the words, but you obey, closing your eyes tightly, the world going dark. The lack of sight makes everything more heightened, the anticipation building, your breathing fast and ragged.

The silence is filled with the sound of your own breathing, the rustle of fabric, and the occasional thump of something being dropped onto the floor. You’re painfully aware of his presence behind you, the heat rolling off him in waves. Then you feel it, the cold leather of his belt running along your thighs, tracing a path up and down, teasing but not touching where you want it to. The anticipation is almost overwhelming, your body thrumming like a wire about to snap. “Please…” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.

You hear him tsk behind you, the sound of disapproval. “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet, angel.” His hand lands on your hip, squeezing it roughly, a silent command to be quiet. “You’ll get what you need when I say so, doll,” he growls, his voice taking on that authoritative tone again. “Be patient.”

The touch of the belt disappears, and you wait in tense silence, wondering what he’s going to do next. Then you feel it, a hard smack on your behind, the sensation sharp and unexpected. The pain stings, and you whimper, the sound coming out before you can stop it. “Shhh,” Noah says, his tone harsh. “Just take what I give you.”

“And keep. Those. Eyes. Closed.” The command is punctuated with another smack, harder this time, and the sting spreads across your skin. “Colour.”

“G-green,” you manage to stutter out, the word a gasp. “Good,” he says, his hand caressing where he spanked you. “Good girl,” he says, the praise sending a shiver down your spine. “Now you’re being such a good little thing.” His fingers trail up your legs, his touch light and teasing. “You can take more, princess. You’ll take as much as I give you.”

The words send a wave of pleasure mixed with fear through you, the duality of the moment making your head spin. You press your face into the fabric of the sofa, trying to stay still, to be good, to take what you’re given. “Y-yes,” you whisper, your voice shaky. “Yes, what?” he asks, his voice sharp. There’s a pause, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air, the only sound your ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart. “Say it proper, doll.”“Y-yes, sir,” you manage to say, your voice meek and submissive. “I’ll take what you give me, sir. I’ll be good, I’ll take it all.”

“Look at you.” His voice is a rough rumble, edged with mockery and condescension. “Already completely submitting after a couple of spanks, and I haven’t even touched you where it counts. Such a pathetic little girl, willing to take whatever I give you, desperate for anything I’ll give you.” He moves closer to you, the heat of his body almost touching your own. His hand tangles in your hair, tugging at it roughly, pulling your head back to look up at him. “Just a little brat, so easy to put in her place.”

“Is that all it takes, princess?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “Some harsh words and a few spanks and you’re just ready to give me everything, huh?” You nod as best you can, your hair still clenched in his grip. “Y-yes,” you gasp out, your voice low and shaky. “I’ll give you anything, sir,” you whisper, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. “Anything, huh?” he says, his grip tightening in your hair. “That’s quite a claim, pretty girl. Are you sure you can follow through?”

“Yes sir,” you gasp out, the pain in your hair mixing with the pleasure and shame. “I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you say. Please,” you add, your voice pleading. A cruel laugh tears from his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He’s enjoying your submission too much, relishing in his control over you. “Anything I say, huh?” He hums, the sound condescending. “That’s a dangerous promise, little one.” His hold on your hair tightens, pulling you even further back. You can see the smug look on his face, his eyes looking down at you. “Are you sure you can handle it, doll?” he purrs. “You’re not going to break on me, are you?” He mocks you with his tone, the words dripping with mockery. “Answer me,” he snaps, giving your hair a sharp tug.

“I …I won’t break.” You manage to gasp out, though your voice is small, shaky. You feel like you’re drowning, completely at his mercy, his control over you absolute.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, his tone dark, still laced with mockery. “You’re going to take everything I give you, just like you promised, right?” His hand lets go of your hair, and for a moment, you’re left feeling lost, abandoned. Then he gently pushes you forward, your bare skin against the cool leather of the sofa. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” he commands.

You keep your body braced on the sofa, your cheek pressed into the fabric. You can hear him moving behind you, the sound of his boots moving across the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, the anticipation and fear building. Then he’s back, his presence behind you stronger than before. There’s a moment of silence that is almost unbearable, the tension in the air heavy and thick. Finally, he speaks, his voice coming from above you. “Lift your hips up,” he says, his tone a command. You obey, lifting your hips up as best as you can. The fabric of your skirt bunches up around your waist, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. You feel vulnerable, exposed, and helpless.

You hear him draw in a sharp breath, the sound sending a jolt through you. “That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Look at you, so eager and desperate.”

“Such a needy little thing,” he continues, his voice a low rumble. “So willing to do anything I say, just to get my attention.” His hand comes down on your skin, a hard smack that leaves a burning trail behind. “Isn’t that right?” he adds, his tone sharp. “So desperate to be good, so eager to please.”

“Yes sir,” you gasp, the words coming out in a ragged breath. “I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you say. Please,” you add, the word falling from your lips before you can think about it. He raises an eyebrow, the action condescending and mocking. “Big statement for a little brat,” he murmurs, the words a challenge. “Let’s see if you can live up to it.”

He pauses, the silence stretching out between you. You can feel his eyes raking over your body, taking in every detail, every flaw. “Because I have a feeling,” he continues, his tone low and dangerous. “That you’re all talk, and no action.”

He moves behind you, the sound of him removing his clothes the only thing echoing through the space. His hands are gentle on your skin, the action almost a contradiction to his rough demeanor. “Lift your hips up a bit more for me, doll” he instructs, his voice a gentle command.

You obey, raising your hips higher as he positions himself behind you. There’s a rustling sound as he reaches for something, a moment of silence before you feel the cool touch of lube on your skin. It’s a gentle sensation, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words. He slicks his fingers, the motion firm and purposeful. The whole situation is a strange mix of gentleness and control, a constant reminder of who’s in charge. “Shhh,” he says, his tone soft for a change. “Just a bit of cold, doll.”

The words are a comfort, a slight reprieve from his harsh tone before. You let out a soft whimper, your body tense under his touch. Your hands clutch at the sofa cushion, the fabric bunched in your grip. “Just relax for me, okay?” he adds, his voice gentle but still holding that hint of command. “I’m just getting you ready, princess.”

His slick fingers against your core are both soothing and arousing, a contrast that makes your head spin. “Fuck, baby, so wet for me. You been thinking of this while I was on stage?” You press your face into the fabric, biting your lip to keep from making a sound. The feeling of anticipation coiled tight in your belly, the knowledge of what’s coming next both exciting and terrifying.

He takes his time, gently preparing you with a care and precision that’s surprising given his earlier attitude. “You’re doing so well, my doll,” he murmured, the praise wrapping around you like a blanket. “Being so good for me, letting me take care of you.” His words are gentle, but the control in his tone is undeniable.

After a little more prep, you feel him withdraw his fingers, leaving you feeling empty and wanting. There’s a moment of silence, and you’re not sure what to expect. Then he speaks, his tone suddenly rough and commanding once more. “You’re ready for me now, pretty girl,” he grunts. “Just the way I want you.” The words are a stark reminder of who’s in charge, his hand grabbing your hips roughly and pulling you back towards him.

His grip is tight, holding you in place, as if you were an object to be used for his pleasure. “Been waiting for this,” he growls. “Been waiting to feel you around me. So desperate and needy, aren't you?” There’s a possessive edge to his tone now, the gentleness from before vanishing completely. His body is pressed close against your own, the heat of him burning through your skin.

He pauses for a moment, the heat of his breath against your skin your only warning before he speaks again. “Gonna take what’s mine” he growls, the words thick with desire. “This pretty little pussy belongs to me.” You can’t hold back the soft whimper that escapes you, your back arching almost unconsciously, your body needy and ready. You’re lost in a sea of sensation, every nerve ending on edge.

You claw at the sofa to find something to hold onto, a lifeline to tether you to reality. But it's all becoming a blur, his presence behind you taking up your entire focus. “Such a pretty little sound,” he murmurs, the words a harsh contrast to his gentle tone before. “Like music to my ears.”

You’re pressing back against him, desperate for friction, your body desperate for any touch he’ll give you. “So impatient,” he chuckles, the sound deep and rough. “Impatient little doll, so needy for me.”

“Just can’t wait, can you?” he adds, the words a taunt, a challenge. “No, I thought not.”

“No, you just need to be taken care of, don’t you?” he continues, the words sharp and mocking. “Just need something to fill you up, don’t you, doll?”

He chuckles, the sound low and guttural against your skin as his lips brush your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re always so desperate for my attention, it’s pathetic. But I suppose I can’t blame you for that.”

His hand slides up your thigh, his palm warm and rough against your skin. “You do look your best when you’re begging. I’ll give you that.”

You whimper, trying to find the words, but all that comes out is a series of garbled, incoherent sounds. Your brain is mush, all thoughts of bratting or teasing gone as you cling to him, your body arching into his touch.

He notices your inability to form a complete sentence, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Looks like I broke you. Can’t even string a sentence together anymore, can you?” His fingers find the edge of your skirt, slowly sliding it higher up your thighs, his other hand still on your neck, keeping you in place. “Poor thing. That’s what happens when you make me wait all night.”

His hand taps your thigh, a firm but not unkind command. “Leg up,” he instructs, his voice stern and expectant. It’s an unmistakeable order, one you know not to ignore. With a small, whimpering sound escaping your lips, you obey, lifting your leg and draping it over the arm of the sofa, exposed and vulnerable.

Your words come out as a whiny, desperate plea, a jumble of sounds that are barely coherent. “Please-” you manage to get out, your voice trembling. His hand has moved up your thigh, now so close to where you need him the most, and you’re keenly aware of how exposed and vulnerable you are in this position. “Please-“ you repeat, hoping he takes pity on you and gives you some relief.

He hums softly, his eyes fixed on you, a dark amusement dancing behind them. “Please what?” he asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “Use your words, doll.”

Your words are pleading, the tone of your voice making it clear how desperate you’ve become. You whine and blabber, your brain completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence. “Need you in me, please,” you finally manage to speak.

The smirk on his face widens as he hears your desperate plea, the edge of mockery and condescension in his tone making it perfectly clear that he’s enjoying this. “Need me in you, do you?” he repeats, the words hanging in the air for a moment before he continues. “How badly do you need it, then? Can you tell me that?”

Your throat feels tight as you try to respond, your brain so overwhelmed that speaking seems like a struggle. “Please,” you repeat again, the word pleading and raw. “So badly, I need-“ you cut yourself off, unable to fully articulate the depths of your need right now.

He lets out a low, amused sound, clearly relishing in the power he has over you right now. “What a desperate mess you are,” he murmur. A wicked, satisfied smirk plays across his lips as he finally gives in, his hand gently caressing your inner thigh as he hums in mock contemplation. “I suppose I should give you what you want,” he says, his tone still dripping with condescension. “Since you asked so nicely."

You’re a complete mess, your body shuddering and tense, your words a jumble of desperate pleas and whimpers. Your hands clutch tightly at the sofa, your knuckles white as you try to ground yourself. Your eyes are pleading, and you’re whimpering and whining, the need inside of you growing more intense with every passing second. He pushes you back, the movement firm and assured. You feel his body heat against yours as he positions himself on top of you, his hands grabbing your hips to hold you in place. He’s dominant and in control, his eyes burning with a mix of desire and satisfaction.

“You gonna behave now?” he husks, his voice a low, growling sound, as he pushes you even further into the sofa, your body pinned and at his mercy. “That’s what I thought,” he says, his smirk growing as he notices your nod and the way you’re whining. “You’ve finally learned your lesson, huh? Finally learned not to tease me and act like a fuckin’ brat?”

His hands grip your hips even tighter, his fingers digging into your skin as he slowly pushes into you, the feeling overwhelming and satisfying, the air leaving your lungs in a rush. You hear his voice through the haze of pleasure, barely distinguishable past the buzzing in your ears. “That’s it,” he groans out. You whine and whimper, clinging to him, unable to form a coherent thought or sentence. “Yes, please, yes,” you manage to get out.

You feel completely unraveled, your body trembling and sensitive to every touch and movement. He’s relentless, each thrust rough and commanding as he takes what he wants. You struggle to hold on, the pleasure so intense that it’s almost too much to bear, your body writhing under his hands, each motion drawing cries from your lips.

“Noahhh!” His name on your lips like a chant, a prayer, a plea, sends a jolt through him, a low curse leaving his mouth as he thrusts harder into you, his fingers holding your hips so tight it feels like you’ll fall if he lets go.

His movements grow rougher in response to your reaction, the need for control seeping through his actions. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he demands, “Colour. Now, princess.” The authoritative tone in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, the demand clear and uncompromising. “Give me a colour, baby, talk to me,” he repeats, his words a command that demands an immediate answer.

You struggle for a moment, your brain so clouded with pleasure that forming a coherent response feels like an impossible task. But finally, you manage to gasp out, “G- green.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer, the grip on your hips loosening just a little as he slowly eases back, his movements still assertive and powerful but with a hint of tenderness. “Good girl,” he praises, his voice a low growl in your ear. “Such a needy little thing,” he coos mockingly.

The sound of your safe word seems to unleash something in him, a primal and dominant side taking over. He pushes you further into the sofa, his movements rougher and more demanding as he takes what he wants. The mockery in his voice is even more apparent now, as he mutters, “Can’t believe how needy and desperate you are for me. Just begging for me to take you like this, huh?”

His hands roam your body, grabbing and pulling, his fingers digging into your skin as he pins you down more firmly. “Look at you, a complete mess under me. Did you think I was just gonna let you get away with your little act all night?”

Your hands scramble for purchase, grasping and clawing at anything you can reach. They cling to his thighs, then the sofa, then his upper body, trying to find some grounding as your body goes completely limp in his arms. Your whimpers and moans are constant, a incoherent string of sounds that seem to urge him on even further.

Your body trembles and writhes under his touch, completely undone and at his mercy. You're not sure how long you can last, but you're sure he's not planning on making it easy for you. He continues to push you to the brink, each movement calculated to drive you to the edge of madness. The intensity is overwhelming, the sensations and feelings almost too much to bear. And through it all, the mockery in his voice never fades.

His hand moves up to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make the pressure building in your core even more intense. “Going to break you for this, you know that?” he mutters, his voice gruff and low, nipping at your ear. “You won’t misbehave next time, will you?”

You shake your head vigorously, unable to form a coherent response, the sound that leaves your mouth sounding more like a plea than anything else. “That’s what I thought,” he responds, a smugness creeping into his tone as he continues to drive you further and further towards the edge. “Just gonna let me take you apart and put you back together, over and over again, is that right?”

His hand tightens ever so slightly around your throat, his other hand moving back down to grip your hips again, holding you in place as he continues to take you mercilessly. Your body is so sensitive, every touch and movement feels like an electric shock, sending tremors through your entire form as you cling to him.

It’s so much, it’s too much, and you’re sure you won’t last much longer, but you’re trapped and completely powerless in his grip, his control over you absolute. “Please-” you manage to gasp out, the word catching in your throat as your body trembles even more. “I-”

You can’t finish your sentence, the words cut off by a whimper as his movement increases, the overwhelming sensation building like a tidal wave. He groans at the sound of your whimper, the pleading word cutting through the haze of ecstasy he’s experiencing. He goes faster, his breathing ragged and his muscles taut with exertion. “I know,” he responds, his voice ragged and strained. “I know, I’ve got you."

“Not going to slow down, not gonna be gentle with you,” he hisses, the words edged with mockery. “This is what you get for being such a tease all night, huh? You love playing games, but you aren’t so good at handling the consequences, are you?”

Each word cuts through the haze of pleasure, a stark reminder of the control he has over you right now. “You’ll remember this the next time you decide to act up,” he continues, his voice low and rough. “You understand?” Your body trembles, overwhelmed and oversensitive under his touch, the words adding an extra layer of intensity to the heat already building within you. “Y-yes,” you manage to gasp out, your breath coming in short, ragged pants.

“That’s right, you do,” he responds, satisfaction seeping into his tone. “You’re gonna learn your lesson pretty quick like this, aren’t you, baby?” Your head spins, the relentless pace of his movements and the words he’s muttering driving you closer to the edge with every passing moment. It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, and you’re not sure how much more you can take. “Please-“ you manage to gasp out, the word catching in your throat as your body trembles even more. Your vision becomes fuzzy at the edges, your senses heightened to an almost painful intensity.

“Please what?” he demands, mockery seeping into his tone once again. “You think you deserve to finish after acting like that all night? After misbehaving and being a tease?” It's clear he's enjoying this, revelling in your desperation, your need for release. His eyes burn into yours as he continues to push you to the limits, his smile both sweet and sadistic in equal measure. “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet, doll,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Think you need a little more convincing.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, the warning clear and present, but you're helpless to do anything other than cling to him, surrendering to the sensations and the dominant grip he has over you. "You're such a sight like this," he hisses out, his tone a mix of mockery and amusement. "So needy and desperate for me, begging and whimpering. Makes me wonder why you bother putting up a fight. You clearly like this way better." His words are both a taunt and an affirmation, a confirmation of the power he holds over you right now. You can feel his control in every touch and movement, every word and command, and it only serves to make you more overwhelmed and desperate for release.

"Fuck," he curses lowly, his voice tight and strained. "You feel so good like this, so tight. Like heaven.” His grip on you tightens, holding you in a position where you can't move, completely at his mercy. "Can't get enough of this, can you? Don't you remember the last time I made you wait like this, huh? You remember how desperate you were for me?"

You can barely think, your mind a mess of sensation and need, the only sound you can manage is a string of incoherent words and moans. You're a complete mess, a whiny, trembling bundle of desire, your body completely at his mercy. Your mind has turned to mush, your only focus on the intense pleasure and the man holding you captive in his arms. You're beyond coherent thought, your body completely taken over by pleasure and sensation.

The only words you can manage are broken, incoherent moans, your mind consumed by the overwhelming feeling of being at his mercy, completely at his control. You're a trembling, needy mess, a helpless victim to the pleasure he's wringing out of you with every movement and touch. You're completely overwhelmed by the power he has over you, and you're not sure how much more you can take. “Fuck, this pretty little pussy is all mine. So fuckin’ tight for me.” There's no room for doubt or question in his tone, only a certainty that you belong to him, completely and utterly. His hand tightens around your throat, a reminder of his power and control over you.

“Gonna cum-“ I whine, unable to speak a coherent sentence properly. He smirks at your struggle to form words, enjoying the effect he's having on you. "Yeah, you gonna cum for me, doll?" he mutters, his words a taunt and a demand. "You'll cum when I say. And not a moment before." His hand tightens around your throat, his grip a reminder of the control he has over you. "You understand?"

Your voice is wrecked, your response no more than a broken whimper, but you manage to nod, the submission clear in your expression.

He smiles at your acknowledgment, clearly satisfied with your obedience. "Good girl," he purrs, his tone both praise and condescension. His hand shifts from your throat to your hair, tangling in the strands and pulling your head back with a firm, commanding grip. The tug is sharp and sudden, eliciting a gasp from your lips as your head snaps back, exposing your neck to his gaze.

You're a mess, a trembling, whimpering thing, tears streaming down your face, pleading for release. Your words are a jumble, an incoherent babble of desperate pleas and need. "Please," you gasp, choked out in between ragged breaths. "Please, I can't- I need-" It's all you can get out, the rest of your words lost in the haze of pleasure and need. Your voice is raw and hoarse, your body a quivering mess in his arms. Your face is streaked with tears, your eyes pleading as you look up at him, fully at his mercy. "Please," you implore again, the word a broken whisper. You're past the point of embarrassment or pride, past the point of coherency. All you can think about, all you need, is release, and you're completely reliant on him to get you there.

Your body twitches and trembles under his touch, oversensitive and hypersensitive all at once. You're utterly wrecked, a complete mess of need and desire. Your pleas have dissolved into incoherent whimpers and gasps, the only word you're able to form is a broken, desperate "Please." There's no trace of the confident, fiery woman you normally are. You're broken down, a trembling mess under his touch, completely reduced to a state of raw need and vulnerability.

He grins at the sight of you, completely unraveled before him. "Look at you," he murmurs, his tone both mocking and affectionate. "You're a mess, princess. All worked up and begging for me, huh? You're adorable." He smirks down at you, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. "Needy little thing," he mutters, his tone still holding that hint of mockery. "Begging me so pretty.” There's a gentleness in his words, a hint of endearment amidst the mockery. It's a reminder that he enjoys having this power over you, relishes in the fact that he can reduce you to a trembling mess with just a few words and touches.

You're writhing and wriggling against him, your body quivering with barely contained need. You clench and tighten, desperate for release, your voice reduced to a needy whine. "Please-" you gasp out again, your tone pleading and desperate. "I can't take it, I can't-"

"Cum for me, pretty girl," he purrs, his voice both gentle and commanding. "Let go for me. I've got you." His tone is soothing, reassuring, despite the demand in his words. He knows you're at your limit, and he's going to push you over the edge, but he'll be there to catch you.

With a final few words of praise and encouragement from him, the tension that's built between you finally reaches its peak, and you come undone. Your body tenses, every muscle tight as the wave of pleasure washes over you, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. You're a trembling, gasping mess in his arms, held up by him as you ride out the waves of pleasure that crash over you, and slowly, as the pleasure subsides, you collapse against him, boneless and exhausted, completely spent. His arms wrap around your body, holding you close, a mixture of satisfaction and endearment etched in his expression.

His demeanor shifts instantly, the dominating, commanding persona fading away to reveal the softer, gentler version of himself that you know so well. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you with a tenderness that's a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. “Colour, baby? How are you feeling?" he asks quietly, his voice filled with concern and affection. His fingers run gently through your hair, a soothing gesture as he checks in on you, ensuring that you're okay and that he hasn't pushed your limits too far. There's a hint of self-reproach in his tone, a silent apology for any moment when he might have been too rough or demanding.

You manage a small, exhausted smile, the aftermath of the intense pleasure still lingering. "Green," you assure him softly, your voice hoarse but steady. "So green, baby." His shoulders sag slightly in relief, the tension that had subconsciously built up in his body releasing at your reassurance. He pulls you closer, rubbing a hand along your back in a comforting, gentle motion. "Good girl," he murmurs, his tone filled with praise and affection. "You did so good, you were so perfect. I'm proud of you." The words come easily, a natural response to your submission and obedience. He's still in caretaker mode, his concern for your wellbeing trumping any remnants of the authoritative persona he had moments before.

He lifts you up gently, your body still weakened and trembling in his arms. With a soft, caring demeanor, he sets you down on the couch, a thoughtful gesture to prevent you from exerting yourself. “Just relax, baby," he soothes, his tone gentle and affectionate. "I'm gonna get you cleaned up, okay?"

He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with a damp towel. He sits down beside you, his touch soft and tender as he begins to gently clean up the residue of your intimate encounter. He moves between your legs, the gentle touch of the towel against your skin a soothing contrast to the previous intensity. You're boneless, barely able to move, your head falling back against the couch as you struggle to catch your breath.

His gaze is filled with affection and care as he cleans you with gentle, steady movements. Every now and then, he pauses to press a soft kiss to your skin, offering words of praise and reassurance in his quiet, comforting tone. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his words soft and sincere. "So good for me, princess. Always so good for me." He's careful in his movements, his touch gentle and slow so as not to overstimulate you. His focus is on caring for you, attending to your needs and reassuring you with his touch and words.

Once he's finished, he discards the towel and returns his attention to you, shifting to sit beside you on the couch. He pulls your weary body into his arms, cradling you against his chest and wrapping his arms around you, enveloping you in a protective embrace. You feel yourself yawn, exhaustion settling into your bones now that the adrenaline has faded. You snuggle closer to his chest, your body a perfect fit against his. He smiles at the sight, gently maneuvering you into his lap, cradling you against him with a protective, loving grip.

He lets a few moments pass in comfortable silence while he absentmindedly strokes your hair. Then, with a soft chuckle, he speaks up, his tone filled with affectionate sarcasm. “You learn your lesson about teasing me yet, princess?" You roll your eyes, giving him a light elbow in the side. "Oh yeah, I'm a changed woman," you reply sarcastically, a playful smirk on your lips. He laughs, enjoying your playful banter. "Yeah, right," he retorts, raising an eyebrow at you. "You're still a brat, sweet girl." His tone is affectionate, laced with a hint of mock severity. He loves your feistiness, secretly enjoying the way you push his buttons. It's all just a part of your dynamic, an endearing trait that he finds endearing even as he playfully chides you for it.

He presses another soft kiss against your hair, his voice a soothing rumble. "Get some rest, angel," he murmurs, holding you tightly against his chest. "I've got you, just relax."

He continues to stroke your hair, a gentle, repetitive motion that is meant to soothe you into sleep. He stays alert, watching over you as you slowly drift off.

“I love you, princess.”

taglist @aubrey-melinoe @cainified @krrule1 @ihrtlonghairedboys @somewhere-diamond

[signanothername]

How do you see Nm's and Ccino's relationship? Is it different from canon?

Ngl didn’t expect people to be this interested dhdhhdhdh

Kay so, ngl, i’m still kinda refining how I interpret Ccino and his Au as a whole, so what imma say is just a few paragraphs of the gist of how i think of it so far dhxghxhxh

Nightmare found out about fluffytale and by extension Ccino through doing research of different AUs, as Nightmare has a tendency to study AUs to understand how they work and how he can apply it in his own plans/take advantage of them

The reason Fluffytale even caught Nightmare’s attention at all, was for 2 reasons:

1- the Au no longer has any Alternative timelines as there only seems to be one single timeline left, meaning, it’s the one singular unique Au, single main Au with no copies that illustrate different events, and the code of the Au seems completely corrupted, meaning the very concept of new timelines being created is impossible

Nightmare isn’t completely sure why every other timeline seems to have been erased out of existence and why the code is corrupted, but he guesses it’s Error’s work

2- the Au has a cafe which is open to host whoever in the multiverse, regardless of who they are, whether infamous for violence or known for their kindness, whether they are a person who’s part of another Au, or an outcode, it welcomes everyone, including his twin, and by extension himself

Not only did Nightmare see potential in having another set of eyes on the outside world and a great source of info, but even as a source of negativity considering the misery in that universe in general

Nightmare eventually visits the Au himself and watches the cafe from afar for a few weeks before actually visiting the cafe himself

Obviously, with the intent to make a “deal” with the owner of the cafe (Ccino)

Ccino is completely unaware of the state of his Au, thinking that other timelines do exist, and by extension, having a bit of courage to refuse Nightmare’s “offer” at first

Nightmare being the bitch who never takes “no” for an answer, threatens Ccino that he will destroy his Au, and kill his family, and let him watch it happen, which again, Ccino is fine with (lie) as long as he knows there are other timelines in which they live peacefully (he’s not actually fine with it, he’s terrified of Nightmare and his threats, but the idea of other timelines existing gives Ccino a little bit of hope that even if he dies, another version of himself and his brother are out there happy and safe)

And that’s when Nightmare tells him about the state of his Au, and even proving that there’s only this one timeline, and that crushes any sort of hope and confidence in Ccino, and well, Nightmare takes that as a chance to manipulate Ccino into a deal

The deal Nightmare’s trying to entrap Ccino into is for Ccino to be an outside source of info on the multiverse and what happens within it, considering his cafe is open to anyone out there, and an active info source at that, so if Dream were to visit the cafe, Ccino is to report that to him immediately, if anything happens within the cafe that could be good info that might benefit Nightmare, Ccino is to report that to him, if Nightmare were to visit himself, he expects a full report of what’s been happening out there when Nightmare’s been busy with his own nuisances, however Ccino isn’t allowed to provide info about Nightmare or his gang to anyone else

Ccino however, wouldn’t just accept Nightmare’s deal without his own terms, so he tells Nightmare that if he were to provide info, Nightmare’s forbidden from harming his Au or anyone in it (including people who visit his universe from other universes, no matter who it is, even if it’s Dream) which Nightmare (reluctantly) agrees to, and so the deal is made

So now, Ccino acts like an outsource spy to Nightmare without anyone’s knowledge, so an innocent Dream who thinks he can tell Ccino whatever thinking Ccino’s a good confidant would have the shock of his life if he ever found out anything Ccino was told went to Nightmare

Ccino obviously, finds no joy in this, and he even tries to keep somethings from Nightmare, it’s just hard to do that when your soul starts beating fast and fear grips his nonexistent throat and Nightmare catches his fear and starts questioning him :)

Ccino carries a lot of guilt for it, but just like any victim under Nightmare, Ccino is forced to do shit he isn’t proud of or want to do, it eats away at him and is just making his mental health worse than it already is

Ccino hears from Dream about how much Nightmare means to him, and so, since his job is to “provide info” he also relays those sweet conversations to Nightmare, hoping it might stirr something inside his cold soul, Nightmare barely twitches at such comments tho (further crushing whatever false hope he may have)

I plan for Presso (Fluffytale Paps) to also have a big role in the story and how it all connects to Nightmare, but I’m still working on that part so uhh nothing to say about that for now zhxhhdhdhhs, all I know is that I want Persso to also fall into making a deal with Nightmare shshhs

Ngl been working on a comic with Nightmare’s and Ccino’s “deal” but i’m far from done dbbdbxbx here’s a lil snippet tho

[rafecameronssl4t]

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” you ask, your voice sharp. There’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of your own question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what you’ve just implied. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

[seafarersdream]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So…?” she pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned. “Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwayne grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

A few hours later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lukolabrainrot]

Thank you for the kind words and glad you are here!!

I have talked about this some on my blog, so feel free to scroll through to see my thoughts. I will add this:

In healthy friendships, regardless of your own personal feelings, you should be happy if your friend's partner makes your friend happy and treats them well. I don't know L/N of course, but from everything I have observed between them, they seem to just glow around each other and make each other happy and treat each other really well (at least in public). I think the friend groups would probably have to adjust some to the change in the dynamic, but I don't personally see the friend groups as being a major reason L/N wouldn't pursue a relationship. I think L/N would be able to integrate themselves into their friend groups.

A lot of people talk about how L/N seem really different in a lot of ways (including their friend groups), but with the type of connection we have seen between them, I strongly disagree. They obviously really like spending time with each other, and bring each other a lot of joy and laughter. This means they DO have things in common (most notably their love for acting). But yes, they are also different in ways, which isn't really a bad thing necessarily in a romantic partnership. This is the analogy I will use. They are like two heads of the same coin. Each side is a little different, but each side goes together and works as a unit. That is kind of how I see L/N. I think they balance each other out, they each offer things the other person seems to need, and they work well as partners in life. And then add EVERYTHING ELSE I have talked about on my page related to what I have observed with their connection... and yeah I just don't see their friend groups impeding them from pursuing a relationship with each other if that's what they want to do.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

You know, if I have to read another take or fic that treats Ed ordering that racist French captain skinned with the snail fork as proof of Ed's anger issues, or, somehow bizarrely commonly, has Stede talk down to him about it, I'm gonna lose it. Both Ed and Stede indirectly cause some pretty major violence in s1e5, but only Ed's seems to be proof of a violent nature. Strange.

And I'm honestly a bit tired of talking around this, because when you look at what some portions of this fandom can excuse and what they can't, it becomes very obvious how this is really just a racism problem. I mean, in this episode:

Ed responds to racist abuse by ordering the French captain killed. It's in the context of him having already given the captain a chance to back the fuck off ("what's that supposed to mean," said very calmly considering we all know what "your kind" means), has to visibly hype himself up to start yelling, and is responding to being called a donkey. It's vile and Ed deserves to be upset, not to mention he knows he can't just let that slide when senior crew members like Fang are right there watching. Ed is visibly upset and shaken by this whole situation and what he thinks it says about him as a person.

Stede, upon learning that the party guests were cruel to Ed (in a passive-aggressive but undoubtedly racist way), is angry on his behalf, and also wants to retaliate, just as Ed did earlier. It's sweet that he's defending Ed, but this is surely also personal for Stede, who felt mocked and belittled earlier and has had to deal with a lifetime of that. We see the results of Stede's playing the crowd here, with the boat burning in the background and the screams of people jumping out into the open sea, and Stede is also visibly pretty stoked about the whole thing.

There's no way around it, I think: we have been conditioned to think it's morally superior for someone to "turn the other cheek" and "be the bigger person" in the face of racist abuse, and Ed doesn't do that, so that's why this is still such a big issue for some people. When Ed gets upset again at the party, unlike earlier when Stede was put off by Ed ordering the captain skinned, Stede validates his feelings and is the one to respond, and that's the difference in reactions, I think. In the second case, Stede has validated Ed's anger and pain - Ed's feelings have gotten White Permission to exist.

OFMD does something really very unusual in the current media landscape, and that's how it treats racism in itself as violence. It doesn't expect characters to look away, turn the other cheek, or try to make amends with racists when they're cruel to them. And the only problem here wrt Ed is that some viewers of the show, bringing in the biases of the society we live in, will get uncomfortable when Ed acts in accordance with the show's philosophy - it doesn't matter that Stede is much more gleeful about being the one to respond in a similar situation, it matters that Ed is brown, and we therefore expect him to have to put up racist abuse. The show doesn't ask us to pass judgment on Ed in this episode, and I think that if you're automatically more inclined to believe Stede's actions more "reasonable" and "justified" than Ed's, you just might need to unpack that.

[bitethedevil]

What do you like about the character of Raphael ?

A Feral Love Letter to the Devil We Know

Oh boy. Here’s my list of why Raphael is like catnip to me (it’s not short and it is possibly a bit extra deranged because I am currently sick).

Purely physical things that convince me that this man was made for me in a lab:

Brown eyes and dark hair has always been my type

The slight stubble and those cheekbones (generally just his whole facial structure is beautiful)

The fucking n o s e <3 <3

Those thick thighs (perfectly sittable and bitable). He is just perfectly shaped.

Those hands he waves in your face all the time and those long fingers (does things to me)

His clothes. Yes, even in cambion form and even the silly clown boots, I love them. It is just all too extra, and I live for it

Everything about his cambion form

I have this crazy theory. There has been made these studies that depending on hormone levels, women are attracted to different kinds of men. At one end of their cycle, they prefer more ‘feminine’ looking men, and on the other end they prefer more traditionally ‘masculine’ looking men. If I get tired of his human form, I get more attracted to his cambion form and the cycle repeats. I think that is why I just do not get tired of staring at this stupid man every day. I know I’m not crazy. It’s science (and we all know I’m a trusted scientist).

Non-physical things that intrigue me:

How expressive he is. I love how his face changes constantly and dramatically with each sentence he speaks. It’s mostly an act but he is so charismatic. He has ‘rizz’ like the kids would say.

I can’t fix him. I don’t want to. His mind games intrigue me. I want to study him like a bug and play mind games with him too (I’m not delusional enough to think I’d win). Let it be toxic as fuck on both parts.

This man is just chucking stones from his glass house like there is no tomorrow. He plays such a big bad devil, but he is really just a little wet cat with a god complex and daddy issues. Not to mention his little hissy fits if any of his perceived weaknesses are pointed out. I find it endearing (unfortunately).

His voice and his eloquence. I love it. Even his shitty poetry. I could listen to it for eternity.

He is so smart. I have been shouting it from the roof tops: he is not stupid. He is always ten steps ahead.

He’s honest. He doesn’t lie and you know where you’ve got him (if you know how to keep up with him).

Genuinely everyone thinks he sucks, both devils and mortals, and yet he thinks he is the shit, either genuinely or as a coping mechanism.

He just such a nuances character if you really dig into it.

Things I relate to:

The scheming and overthinking. Everything is meticulously thought out to the point of obsession. He is playing 4D chess but doesn’t even consider that the other players might just eat the pieces to win. He strikes me as someone who completely overcomplicates things for no reason, and I felt that.

His idea of order is very different from what’s actually orderly. It just has to make sense to him, like ‘what do you mean it’s not orderly to have dead people lying around, trash everywhere, and debtors running around aimlessly in my house? Completely intentional. What’s not clicking?”. I felt that too. There is order to my chaos, and you don’t have to understand it. I get it.

He’s a cringy theater kid with a love for poetry too.

I too find it annoying when other people don’t follow the script I had in mind for the conversation.

Just human enough to understand how human interactions works, but either doesn’t give a shit or genuinely thinks that just spouting vaguely threatening poetry to strangers is a completely normal thing to do.

The obsession and ambition that just completely makes him lose the plot of everything else.

He is just so obsessed with everything being perfect to a point where it almost seems silly.

Acts like he doesn’t care, but actually cares A LOT about how other people perceive him.

I could honestly keep going but you get the picture.

(Thank you for the ask <3)

[a-leg-without-fear]

The Miranda to His Ferdinand

this is actually the response to this ask from the lovely @yarrystyleeza!!! i was so frickin inspired and ended up writing this :)

Ship: College!Matt Murdock x f!Reader

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 1.3k

Warnings: lots o' Shakespeare, kissing, suggestive material

Series: Request Fulfillment

Your dorm's mattress creaked as you and Matt settled on top. He sat to your left, braille script clutched in his hand, with his sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar and his hair ruffled after a long day. An easy smile settled over his full lips.

"What's the play, again?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked as a large hand swept over the front page of his script. Long fingers traced the raised bumps on the solid white pages.

"The Tempest," you replied with a sighed chuckle, "It's about a woman, Miranda, who's lived on an island her whole life, knowing only her father and their slave, Caliban. Ferdinand shipwrecks on their island, then he and Miranda fall in love. Typical Shakespeare stuff."

Matt laughed at your synopsis, shaking his head, "And you're auditioning for Miranda, I'm guessing?"

"Nope, Caliban," you snarked in return. Matt rolled his eyes as you stuck your tongue out at him.

"Alright, Caliban. Which scene are we reading?"

"The last part of Act Three, Scene One," you said, flipping your script to the correct page, "Should be page ten in your booklet."

Crinkling pages filled the comfortable silence between you. It was quick work to find the correct page, considering the section you'd be reading from was labeled "MIRANDA AUDITION." The booklet lay open in your palms as you scanned briefly through the lines. You could almost feel the adoration formed by the prose, the pure affection woven into the words. Shakespeare truly was a genius.

"Okay, page ten," Matt announced, breaking your silent reverence of The Bard. You cleared your throat.

"Right. Ready?" you asked as you straightened your posture. Matt nodded, gesturing for you to start. A deep breath filled your lungs, chest expanding like a balloon, as you tamped down your nerves.

"Do you love me?" you read from the script. You glanced at Matt out of the corner of your eye. His lips ticked up in the corners as he read his part.

"Oh heaven, oh earth, bear witness to this sound," he began, fingers rapidly skimming over the pages, "And crown what I profess with kind event if I speak true. If hollowly, invert what best is boded me to mischief. I, beyond all limit of what else in the world, do love, prize and honor you."

You couldn't breathe. Not when Matt's sightless gaze was fixed right between your eyes. Not when this profession of love came from him so earnestly. Not when your years of pining after him had finally bubbled to the surface.

"I-I am a fool," you stuttered. You shook your head, clearing the distracting thoughts, then tried again, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of."

Matt placed his free hand on your knee. Your heart pounded against your ribs, anticipation leaking into your blood like ink in water.

"Wherefore weep you?" he read softly. His dark eyes traced the space around your head. Almost searching, scouring for your answer in the planes of your face.

"At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what I desire to give, and much less take what I shall die to want. But this is trifling. And all the more it seeks to hide itself, the bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning, and prompt me, plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant. Whether you will or no."

A tense silence fell over the two of you like a sudden burst of snow. Your pulse coursed rapidly under your heated skin. The weight of the line you'd read felt world-encompassing. Would he understand that it wasn't just you reading words? That the meaning behind them is what you felt?

"My mistress, dearest, and I thus humble ever," Matt whispered, a faint glance of understanding passing behind his eyes. You swallowed a lump the size of a baseball.

"My husband then?"

The hand nearly burning a hole in your knee wrapped its fingers around your own.

"Ay, with a heart as willing as bondage ever of freedom. Here's my hand," Matt breathed, fingers tangling with yours. Your breath caught behind your lips. This is happening.

"And mine, with my heart in it," you said shakily.

That same silence. Charged like the static before a lightning strike. Nearly choking you with how intense the moment felt. The pad of Matt's thumb rubbed circles into the back of your hand.

“Does Ferdinand get to kiss Miranda in this scene?” he asked, gaze landing on your lips. Your heart leapt like a horse over a hurdle. Swirls of anxiety and finally! chased each other through your mind.

“It-it’s not in the script, but I think ad-libbing is more than okay,” you said as your heartbeat roared in your ears. Matt’s signature, cocky smirk pulled at his lips.

His hand seemed to move in slow motion as it lifted from his braille script and cradled your jaw. Palm warm, almost searing, and calloused like you could barely believe. Yet you’d never felt anything softer. His thumb passed over your flushed cheek slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, before it caught on your bottom lip.

“Is this okay?” Matt asked, voice barely above a whisper, as his thumb pulled gently on your lip. A shudder rolled over your spine like rumbling thunder.

“Yes,” you uttered with a quick nod.

Before you could blink, his lips were pressed against yours. Lightning struck your mind and rendered you breathless. Shocks coursed through your veins. Your heart nearly stopped beating.

He was kissing you.

Matthew Michael fucking Murdock was kissing you.

You quickly reached out and clung to him like he was your lifeline. You didn’t want this moment to end. This singularity that felt impossible, your whole life building to this one kiss. 

Warm fingers carded through your hair and tangled in the strands. Matt pulled you closer, your chests pressed together. He swiped his tongue along your lips to silently ask permission. You more than welcomed the intrusion as an involuntary moan kicked up your throat, opening your mouth to grant him entrance. A groan of his own matched yours in kind. He licked into you like you were the first drop of water after a month in the desert. Drinking from you, clinging to you, almost desperate.

Your head was spinning. You could barely breathe. Your hands shook where they clung to Matt’s t-shirt.

And just like that, it was over. Matt parted from you like separating two strong magnets. His forehead rested against yours, heaving breaths puffing along your cheeks. You screwed your eyes shut at the loss of his lips on yours.

“I could… I could do that forever,” Matt laughed breathlessly. You grinned as you opened your eyes. His sightless gaze was fixed on you. Pure adoration flowed from his joyful expression, how his eyes crinkled in the corners and how his dimples dug into his cheeks. You couldn’t help but match his wide smile.

“Me too,” was your clever response. You inwardly groaned at your quick wit. Matt chuckled, placing a chaste kiss to your hairline.

“When’s your audition?” he asked, like how close he was didn’t render your mind completely useless. You took a moment to gather your deteriorating thoughts.

“Tonight. At eight,” you said. Matt hummed.

“And what time is it now?”

You glanced at the digital clock that sat on your nightstand. In bold, red letters, the clock displayed “4:48 pm.”

“Almost five,” you replied. Matt ran the tips of his nails over your scalp. Pulses of pleasure coursed through you, your head tipping back in his hands, as your eyes fluttered shut.

“I think that’s plenty of time to run the scene some more, don’t you think?” he suggested, voice a low rumble deep in his chest. All you could do was nod.

And if rehearsal ran long, who were you to object?

[basu-shokikita]

Skwisblocked, a Klokllege fic

I really like @kaanagen's Klokllege AU about the boys going to college, so I decided to write a little one-shot based on Skwisgaar and Toki's dynamic in it. You can read the full post of her AU here!

Plot: Toki comes up with a bit of an unusual method to deal with his (seemingly) unrequited feelings for Skwisgaar.

As usual, full fic under the read more but you can also read it on ao3. Amazing art by Kaana also 🫶💖

As usual, they had the last shift at the antique shop, which means it was their job to close the thing down, leave the place tidy and make sure the door was locked so no accidental shoplifting happened. Again. Toki wasn’t looking to get fired, so he was extra cautious with the keys now.

By the corner of his eye, however, he noticed a girl standing outside. She had long brown hair, silver hoops and a denim jacket over her loose, airy dress. A customer that came too late?

“Um, sorries, we ams closed.” He told her.

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” She smiled. “I’m just waiting for someone.” Her eyes darted to the inside of the store before looking away.

Ah. 

Toki went back into the store and heard Skwisgaar whistling as he arranged the boxes behind the desk, totally unaware of the exchange that had transpired. Toki opened his mouth and then closed it, choosing to turn off the remaining lights instead.

He liked Skwisgaar. He really liked him. What was there not to like, anyway? Skwisgaar was handsome, cool and really talented at the guitar. Maybe he was sort of grumpy, but it only added to his aloof demeanor. So it wasn’t surprising to him at all that he was so popular with girls.

That didn’t mean he was happy about it. 

__

About five minutes later, they were coming out of the back of the store. As Skwisgaar dunked the plastic wrap on the trashcan, Toki dared to ask. “Anythings funs for tonights?”

Skwisgaar closed the trashcan and rubbed his hands together. “Sleeps.” He walked down the alleyway, with Toki following quickly. “What abouts you?” A sly smirk. “Hangs with the college bands nerds?”

Toki wanted to act offended, but he couldn’t hold back a smile. “Very funnies.”

“Ja, dats my second names.”

“Reallies?”

“...Noes.”

Toki hesitated for a moment. “Does you wants to eats-”

“Hi!” They had barely crossed to the pavement when the girl came running to them. Before any of them had time to react, she continued. “I came by the store earlier.” She bit down her bottom lip, glancing at Skwisgaar.

“Oh.” Skwisgaar grinned. “Finds somethingks whats you likes?”

She giggled and, if there was any doubt remaining in Toki’s mind about her intentions, it was completely gone now. “You free tonight?”

“Wells-”

“W-We ams abouts to goes eats a borgers!” Toki impulsively got in between them. “We ams really hungries after works.” He rubbed his belly dramatically to emphasize the statement. “Buts you cans come pals if you wants?”

The girl’s gaze alternated between the two of them with surprise. “Sure?” She said, kind of confused. 

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow at Toki but said nothing. He wasn’t lying, he really did want to ask Skwisgaar to grab dinner together. And just because he didn’t manage to get the words out before she arrived, didn’t mean he had to give up.

Right?

__

“Byes!” Toki bid his classmates farewell, before making his way for his next class. Although, checking his mail, he realized the professor had canceled the class that morning. Awesome, that meant he had time for a quick nap under the sun. Maybe pet some of the kitty cats in the grass. He was so grateful that this college allowed cats to lounge in the park, it was the perfect distraction on stressful days.

Merry on his way he was, when he spotted his other favorite distraction sitting at a nearby table. “Oh!” He raised his hand enthusiastically. “Skwisgaa-” But the word dropped out of his mouth when he realized Skwisgaar wasn’t alone.

Toki hid behind a bush as he spied on them. The girl sitting in front of Skwisgaar had blonde hair picked up in a high ponytail and rosy cheeks. She was wearing a white cardigan with a plain blue top underneath. Her auburn eyes seemed sweet and the way she stared at Skwisgaar was anything but platonic. 

Toki turned around and breathed in deeply, holding tightly onto his books. When he glanced at his books, an idea scoured his mind. 

__

“Skwisgaar! Skwisgaar!” Toki ran towards, shouting his friend’s name.

“Toki?” Skwisgaar called his name in confusion, only to be flabbergasted when Toki dropped his books dramatically on the table. “Whats?!”

“You gotsa helps me!” Toki cried out, pointing at his books. “This financements class! It ams killings me!”

Skwisgaar clenched his jaw. “Tokes, ams in the middols of somet’inks right nows.” He glanced at his companion. “You knows?”

As if he hadn’t noticed her, Toki turned towards the girl. “Oh, Gods! Cans you helps me? I has a tests comings up and-”

“Toki!”

“Oh, it’s no big deal!” She smiled gently and Toki almost felt bad for crashing their date. “Are you guys friends?”

“Ja!”

“Noes!”

She laughed heartily, extending her hand to Toki. “I’m Jennifer, Skwisgaar’s classmate.”

Toki extended his hand back. “Ams Toki!”

“Well, Toki,” Jennifer said, inspecting his books. “I think I know a thing or two about finances.”

He smiled, amazed that his plan had worked. “Reallies?”

Skwisgaar, on the other hand, was completely baffled. And Toki? Toki felt ecstatic over his newfound power.

–

From then on it just kept happening.

Like when Toki was heading to the club and he found Skwisgaar and a short girl with curly red hair at the fountain. The sun was setting which made the location all the more attractive, with the golden reflection of the water bouncing back on their faces. They were dangerously close, with Skwisgaar holding her waist, whispering sweet nothings into her so Toki had to think fast. 

“No ways!” He pointed at the couple. “Skwisgaar, you dumpeds Jennifers?”

Whatever romantic mood there was, it completely dissipated as Skwisgaar turned towards him like he had seen a ghost. “Heugh?”

“Jennifer?” She took a step back. “Who’s Jennifer?”

“Jennifers!” Toki answered quickly. “The sweet girls Skwisgaars was goings out with de other days! Why you does that, Skwisgaars? She ams so nices!”

The red-head turned towards Skwisgaar and he put up his hands instantaneously. “Waits-”

“Asshole!” She slapped Skwisgaar right across the face. 

“Augh!” Skwisgaar rubbed the swollen cheek. 

“Wowee!” Toki was surprised by the sight but she glared at him with anger. “Um,” He tried to look for candy in his pocket, as she approached him. “Does you wants-”

She smacked him in the face. “You too!” She said and strode away.

“Yous cheatingks on yous boyfriends, too!” Skwisgaar yelled at her, still massaging his cheek. “Whats?!” He barked at Toki.

__

Or when he interrupted Skwisgaar’s meet-cute at the library by constantly asking the girl about bugs. 

Or when he surprised Skwisgaar and the girl he was evidently planning to sleep with by waiting at his dorm because it was ‘guitar night’ and played songs for her under Skwisgaar’s annoyed stare.

Or when he kept sending drinks ‘on the house’ for the girl Skwisgaar had come with, at the bar he also worked part-time at. He got fired soon after, though.

Or when he-

“Dats it! Ams done!” Skwisgaar screeched, pants entirely soaked because Toki dropped soda on him when he was asking Skwisgaar’s date about her hand-made skirt. She left while laughing at Skwisgaar, obviously. “What does you wants?!”

Toki feigned innocence. “What you means?”

“You ams been ruins kings my dates for weeks! Weeks, Toke! Can’ts remembers the last times I gets laids!”

Pride swelling in his chest, Toki tried not to smile. “I just wants to pals, Skwisgaar! And dese ladies ams so nice soez I can’ts helps it.” He looked down in pretense shame.

Skwisgaar squinted at him for far too long, and Toki feared he had seen his through motives. “...You wants a goils?” He asked.

This could be the moment. This could be it, when he finally admitted to Skwisgaar how he felt. In the american movies Toki had seen, this is when the confession would happen. And Skwisgaar would like him back, and they would be happy forever after.

“Uh, ja! I wants a goil…friends, haha…” He scratched the side of his face, laughing awkwardly. Reality wasn’t so perfect like those movies.

“Wells, den just says dats.” Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. “I cans sets you up with somes goils. Just stops beingks dildos.”

“Haha, okays!” Toki agreed, slinging an arm around Skwisgaar’s. “Whats abouts a Marios Karts before works?”

Skwisgaar’s face was still severe, brows furrowed when he looked at Toki. However, his expression swifty softened. “Fines.”

“Hoorays!” Toki cheered, pulling his vintage console from his messenger bag. “Ams gonnas destroy yous!”

“Eugh, keeps dreamingks, littol dildo.” Skwisgaar said, though he was smirking. “Mademes Peaches and me ams a pretties good teams.”

“Yoshis and Tokes ams betters!” Toki countered, laughing too.

As they walked away, he wondered if he’d ever have the bravery to tell Skwisgaar the truth. If he’d ever had the courage to ruin what they had for a meek gamble. 

Perhaps one day, but definitely not this one.

[the-s1lly-corner]

And heres the other half! Creepypastas x reader who always calls them cute regardless of the situation!

Crps x reader who always calls them cute

I need to hype myself up for the seasonal baking orders chat send help GROWLS HISSHISS HISS RAAAAAAAH!!!

Characters: slenderman, jeff the killer, ticci toby

Notes: reader is GN

CWs: canon typical violence and death

SLENDERMAN

it should come as a shock to absolutely no one that no one has ever really called him cute, and hes never really considered himself cute... so he does kind of... stands there for a moment as he turns over what youve just called him

he knew you were peculiar but this is something else, but hes not going to demand you to stop. he simply treats it as any other compliment and name you call him

doesnt talk much outwardly and even with being able to speak in your mind he doesnt talk much- more of a gesture and service person- but he does point towards you when you call him cute... hes calling you cute, in his own way

JEFF THE KILLER

he does not like it! if youre going to call him something call him beautiful or cool, not cute! it makes him feel... a certain way.. not a good way

shoots you a look when you call him it, if he still has eyelids his eyes would be squinted too but... it kind of just looks like hes staring wide eyed at you with angry eyebrows... its hard to tell if its amusing or terrifying or-

you call him cute and his face goes red as he huffs and turns away. its probably best to find a different word to call him to keep him from getting too upset

TICCI TOBY

strikes a small pose when you call him cute, nothing too crazy- the most he will do is put his hand on his hip and make a peace sign with the other. usually its just the peace sign

doesnt care about the circumstance or scenario, if you call him cute hes going to dwell on it for a bit! doesnt know how to feel about it, perhaps its the unfamiliarity of being called cute that gets him... you think hes cute, regardless of how you mean it... like do you mean he looks or acts cute, or.. some secret third option?

does tell you that youre not half bad looking yourself, clearly teasing you but he does give a light chuckle if you lightly swat at him... your words do mean a lot to him

[dvilsdesire]

The many faces of Raphael

So I headcanon that Raphael can be seen as two very different people, depending on who is dealing with him. I truly believe that Raphael acts a lot. It is the nature of a devil, to understand their company and possible opponent, to lean into what it is that he could use against someone, and in turn, to lure them in for his own gain. To be manipulative and attractive, to get inside their head and to get under their skin so they can't stop thinking about what he can GIVE them in return for whatever it is that Raphael wants.

Raphael is a devil, and he is a smart devil, with wit and charm to top off that personality of his.

However, the opposite side of that charm and wit, when he is within company and attempting to manipulate someone, is someone far more cold.

Behind closed doors, Raphael, whilst he is still charming in his own way, and intelligent, is also far less performative, straight to the point, and often cold and blunt. Whilst he still has a very creative vocabulary, there is simply no NEED for it behind closed doors, and it would be wasted energy (unless he's getting something out of it).

This also comes down to the power that Raphael holds and can wield. For mortals on the Material Plane, Raphael is generally in control and much stronger. He can manipulate and control the situation a lot easier than he can in the Hells--for he is the only devil in the room (generally speaking), and he can use that to his advantage. Most mortals are terrified of his kind, and he can use that against them, trapping them and making sure to manipulate the situation so he is their only choice. He is a master at trapping others and even making them feel like they are making their own choice, when really... it's the only choice they actually have left because he's likely taken out the competition.

In the Hells, it's obvious that Raphael is not popular (especially if we can go off Haarlep's letter in endgame). As a cambion child, he would have been looked down upon because of that. If we lean into the theory that he's a nepo baby, it means devils would have hated him even more because of the privileges he was given above others, when that's not supposed to be how the laws of Baator work (though this is a theory I'm sort of... 50/50 on considering those laws).

I honestly think most devils see Raphael and think he's incredibly annoying to deal with, a fucking nerd loser who likes to sing (Yurgir pretty much confirms that Raphael sings even if it's for torture purposes), and is... as what most of the fandom has stated, a theatre dork.

This is where I see Raphael's power shift change in how he acts. If he knows he has the advantage over someone, he is that charming and pompous actor, grandeur in nature. However, when that power shifts, I believe Raphael is far less theatrical, and behind closed doors, he likely is a lot cooler and colder in nature.

I consider his relationship, in particular, with Haarlep, to be something far more domesticated (though not without its power games of course, and Raphael's constant need to attempt to stay in control, though Haarlep is far too good at twisting that control).

The art of a devil is being able to manipulate and gain control, to keep that control and bend anything to his whim. Raphael will always see himself as in control, will always be selfish, and will always be a cruel and sadistic, evil devil. Everything he does, he does for his own gain and benefit, whether or not it's control, power, souls, whatever else, and in doing so, he picks the best personality to go with what will get him what he needs, what people will find attractive in him.

But I do believe that behind closed doors, he drops some of that facade as it's simply not necessary, and especially when he is within the Hells, when that power dynamic can change as other devils are around him he must follow the laws of Baator.