#Brit Method

[swagging-back-to]

im actually floored by how well the girls are getting along. they're all running on the wheel together and just napping. they are literally so chill together rn it's insane

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

Asking this as a British person BUT IS ASHLYN BRITSH?? If so I feel like in traditional 2010’s style the kids would constantly make the bohtle of wahter jokes and the like

Oh, they most definitely would! Probably with a few POH-TTAHs sprinkled in.

Honestly, Ashlyn's nationality isn't something I've given much thought to. Originally, in the very very early and unpublished version of this story, she was a self-insert (Oh the cringy shame! but I was in middle school... so valid excuse?) Then I re-discovered my old writing when I was looking for inspiration and decided to fix it up, create a proper plot, and post it. Part of that transition was remaking Ashlyn into a Y/N type character, where I kept the name only because I find Y/N very jarring, instead of purely a mask for my own individual voice.

She is no longer a mini-me, my child is complete with her own virtues and vices that have nothing to do with my previous 11-year-old brain but there are definitely some traces of my voice still left in her. Mostly in her creative swearing.

As the fic has developed, she's definitely grown into her own fully actualized character, and I am *this close* to removing the reader insert tag altogether. The only thing stopping me is that, other than her very striking personality, Ashlyn Moore is still pretty vague.

This makes sense because the story focuses on her transition and the after-effects of dimension hopping, but that means that other details are lost because they aren't as narratively important.

I think I'll continue to leave most of her background up to the reader's interpretation. But, considering the fact you lovable internet stalkers have sussed out that I'm British, her sharing some elements of that would fit with the origins of her character.

But yeah, I feel like Vince would have made a water bottle comment when they first met.

And then Ashlyn would have chucked the bottle at him.

[melit0n]

MEL I AM BUYING YOU DINNER WHEN I VISIT LONDON. That tag was KEY.

I'm glad I could help! Other than immediately thinking 'OH MY GOD THIS IS MY CHANCE' my thought was trying to get you tickets as well 😭

As someone who runs on takeout most nights, whatever you buy me would be much appreciated <33

[radioreprise]

i don't own a kettle on principle bc the ppl who r disgusted by microwaved water 4 no fucking reason piss me off. i'm not allowing 1 in my home.

[haveagarbageday]

Got a secret, can you keep it? \\ Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen (Lestappen)

summary: You're looking for your runaway driver in the paddock when you see something you shouldn't have. Before you know it, you become a part of this well-kept secret.

additional info: I'm on a roll! No, actually, I posted the Max one while I was at work, and then I had half a day left with nothing to do. This idea came to my mind and I had to write it down.

“The moment I find you, Lando, I’m going to skin you,” you hissed into your phone as you searched the paddock for the problem child.

But he only laughed at you, clearly enjoying the hide and seek game he had decided to play with you today. The problem is that he stopped in front of a camera, ready to give an interview, but two sentences in, his attention was diverted by some drama in the background, and he left to check it out. You had to apologize several times, promising to catch him and drag him back to do this properly. But damn it, he was good at hiding. This wasn’t the first time he hid from you, and something told you he could be literally anywhere, even in another team’s motorhome. Anything was possible with this little gremlin.

You reached a quieter part of the paddock that was full of spaces protected from the crowd, the perfect spot for Lando to hide. So, you methodically began to search for him, not missing any of the hidden corners and narrow alleys between the buildings either, but you found nothing. Your frustration was growing with each passing second, with each empty space that seemed to be free of him. When you reached the last one of the alleys, you saw movement in the back, and you were happy that you finally found the runaway driver.

Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Because it wasn’t Lando, and it wasn’t just one person either. The signature blue and red colors of their shirts made it clear which team they were from, but when you looked at their faces, blood froze in your veins. You knew about all the jokes, all the fan theories and hopes, but never, not even in your wildest dreams could you imagine this happening. Sure, they clearly looked more at ease in each other’s company after sessions in recent years, which was good, people loved it, yet you still couldn’t wrap your head around the sight in front of you.

After seeing them almost swallow each other, Lestappen wasn’t just an urban legend to you anymore. Fuck. You wished you didn’t see that. You could already feel the heavy weight on your shoulder.

Before they could spot you, you decided to do the sensible thing and turned around to leave as quietly and as soon as you could. But not two steps later you heard a voice behind you. “Wait, let’s talk about this, okay?” Max said, taking a step closer to you, his hand resting on Charles’s arm.

Letting out the breath you’d been holding, you folded your hands behind your back and took a step closer to them. “I didn’t see anything, I swear. My lips are sealed, you don’t need to worry about that,” you were quick to assure them. Silence fell between the three of you, but then you remembered why you were here in the first place. “Have you guys seen Lando? He’s being difficult today.”

“Have you tried his driver’s room? He’s probably in the most obvious place,” Max offered, knowing the Brit well enough to give you his best guess.

Okay, you already knew he was smart, but this was the best idea you had heard in a while. Lando would surely pull something like this; chilling in his room, maybe playing some games, then giving you a surprised look as he went: “What do you mean? I’ve been here the whole time!” Wouldn’t be the first prank he pulled on you, that’s for sure.

You thanked him, then turned to leave again, and this time they didn’t stop you. But you heard murmuring, a quiet conversation that didn’t sound panicked, in fact, it sounded like they were discussing something excitedly. Whatever it was, it wasn’t your business. None of this was your business, so you were trying your damn best to forget the whole thing.

The problems began the next day after qualifying, when you were in the media pen with Lando, watching him like a hawk, and shepherding him around to make sure he did exactly what he was supposed to. You were between two interviews, discussing a few things, when Max approached you and stopped next to you to talk to his friend. You greeted him like you normally would, but otherwise you didn’t dare to move or speak, afraid it would become obvious you were hiding something. It probably takes time to get comfortable with the secret you knew, it couldn’t be more than that.

But then you felt a jolt of electricity run through your body as Max casually put a hand on your back while he talked, making it look like it was just a friendly move and nothing more. How could this be an innocent move when you could feel his thumb pressing into your skin, drawing slow circles to drive you crazy? You glanced over at him, and you could have sworn you saw a smug smirk tugging at his lips for a moment when he felt your eyes on him.

Lando was oblivious to the whole scene, he was just smiling brightly and giggling as they talked, too lost in their conversation to notice the way the Red Bull driver teased you. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed the reporter you’d been waiting for signal you that they were ready for the chat with your driver, so you apologized for interrupting them, then gently pushed him in the right direction. This left you and Max alone, and he finally let his hand drop to his side as he turned to you, the mischievous glint in his eyes giving away that whatever he was about to say would make you mad.

“How does it feel to know?” he asked casually, sipping on his Red Bull as if you were talking about the weather. Your eyes turned to him, silently begging him to drop this topic, but he didn’t seem to be interested in letting you off the hook. “We talked last night, you know. It feels so good that someone apart from the two of us knows the truth. Seriously, it’s so tiring to hide from the whole world, not having the chance to talk about the highs and the lows or ask for an outsider’s opinion when there’s a fight or disagreement.”

At first, you were just the kind of friend they’d been waiting for, serving as a neutral outsider when they needed another opinion about something. Then you began to hang out with them, one at the time, eventually serving as a glue between the two rivals who hadn’t really been seen together outside the paddock. Because one day you followed a well-prepared choreography at a bistro, making it look like you were out with Charles, while Max jumped in to get some food to go. Then you noticed each other, started talking, and he ended up taking a seat and joining you for dinner.

The same thing happened a few weeks later, when you and Max went to a club, where surprise, surprise, Charles showed up to greet you. The three of you got comfortable on a curvy couch in a corner of the VIP section, downing shots like there was no tomorrow, too lost in your little bubble to notice what you were doing. Because Max had an arm around your shoulder, talking to you while Charles moved forward to capture your lips in a drunken kiss, and only then did you catch the Dutchman whisper into your ear how much fun the three of you could have if you went home with them that night.

You only realized their relationship turned into your relationship, when Lando asked you about a photo of the three of you hanging out in the paddock on a race weekend, chatting and joking freely over your breakfasts. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with them off the track too. Why don’t you ever hang out with me when you’re in Monaco? You’re so mean,” he said with a pout.

Friends. That’s what you were for outsiders. It was good. With the days spent together getting more frequent though, you knew it was only a matter of time before someone sniffed out the truth. All the nights spent tangled up in bed, with the two of them making a competition out of pulling as many orgasms out of you as they could, surely had a toll on you. Physically, you were more than okay, they made sure of that, but being in this relationship was surely difficult to handle mentally.

“I’m not hanging out with you, you muppet, because I might drown you in a glass of water after five minutes. Babysitting you on race weekends is more than enough, thank you,” you told him with your tongue stuck out.

This conversation made you think, it made you reconsider what you’d been doing in the past months with the boys. For one, it was a dangerous game. Hanging out together more and more, especially when you were at a place where they couldn’t keep themselves under control thanks to the level of alcohol in their bloodstreams, the risk of someone finding out their little secret was higher than before you had been dragged into their life. Then there was the fact that you felt like shit. It felt like you were a piece that didn’t fit. They were so good together, why would you stand between them?

You knew that ending a relationship in a text was the worst, but you didn’t want to give them the chance to start negotiating. So, after the race weekend was over, you sent them a text that you wouldn’t go with them this time, then left the group chat, blocked the both of them, and got on the plane back home. The plan was simple: you would spend a few days watching movies and TV shows that were in your backlog while eating unhealthy snacks, and maybe you would meet some of your friends if they still remembered you.

What could possibly go wrong with that?

Well, everything. It was only your first full day at home when your doorbell rang in the early afternoon, and when you opened it, you found a very disheveled Charles standing there, watching you with a disapproving look on his face. You were ready to tell him to leave you alone, but then he gave you the puppy eyes as he let out a tired sigh, and there was no way you could shut the door in his face. You stepped aside and let him in, stopping in the living room door as you watched him sit down on the couch, and when he patted the empty space next to him, you were stupid enough to do exactly what he wanted. If things went like this, you would agree to whatever he came up with. 

“Blocking us? Really?” he asked you, the hint of disappointment not missing from his voice. “You could’ve at least talked to us in person, give us a proper explanation instead of disappearing like that. What the hell were you thinking? We would meet at race weekends anyway, you can’t think we wouldn’t corner you there.”

Looking away, you gulped and thought about what to say. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many stupid, fake explanations for your decision, but deep inside you knew you had to be honest with him. “You were fine together, Charles. Before I found out the truth, you had everything under control, and you were happy. But then you dragged me into your little secret, eventually poisoning our so-called friendship with casual sex, and–”

“So-called friendship? And casual sex?” he asked, his head slightly tilted to the side, eyes narrowed as he watched you. “Did it ever mean anything to you?” 

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. You really liked them, but the fact their relationship had a lot more history always made you feel like someone who didn’t belong. To you it was casual, just an outlet for getting rid of all the stress your job and keeping their secret came with. Just sex, nothing more. No emotions were supposed to be involved. Sure, they were friends, but it wasn’t love.

Apparently, you were an open book to Charles, because he ran a hand through his hair with a groan as he watched you. “We trusted you.”

“You can still trust me, I won’t tell anyone,” you assured him. 

He let out a desperate laugh. “It’s not that kind of trust, we know you wouldn’t tell anyone. I’m talking about us, about our relationship. We thought you felt the same way we did, that you loved us too. You could’ve been honest, you could’ve told us it didn’t mean anything to you before we caught feelings,” he told you, his voice forced to stay calm. 

“Charles, just try to hear me out. The two of you, that’s the relationship that can work in the long term,” you began to explain. “Me? I’m just… I don’t even know what I was to you. A plaything? A brand new shiny toy?”

“You’re not some toy!” he snapped, finally showing you how he truly felt about this conversation. “You, Max, and me? This could work so well if you just stopped being stubborn. Okay, I admit, we never thought about the possibility of a relationship like this, we always thought it would be just the two of us, but that’s because we had to keep it a secret. But you finding us that day? That was the best thing that could happen to us. We love you just as much as we love each other, that’s what you need to understand,” he explained as he grabbed your chin to force you to look at him. 

You took a deep breath to calm yourself, but the way he was watching you, silently begging you to accept the truth… It was too much. Tears began to roll down your cheeks, but he wiped them away, he kept telling you that it was okay, that everything would be okay, and there was no reason to cry. He repeated this enough times to make you believe it. You were beginning to believe they truly loved you, and you actually thought about the possibility of continuing this from where you had left off. Once your tears stopped coming, he leaned in to kiss you with a small smile on his lips. 

His stupid green eyes were mesmerizing as he watched you, and no matter how hard you wanted to resist, how badly you wanted to be strong and step back, you just couldn’t get yourself to say no to him. Sadly, he was well aware of this ability of his, he had used it on both Max and you a few times before to get what he wanted, and this time he looked just as smug as he always did after a win. 

“Pack a suitcase, because you’re coming with me,” he whispered to you. “Until you get ready, I’ll call Max to tell him the good news.” 

You began to wonder how long it would take you to admit to yourself just how important they had always been to you. Because they were important, no matter how many times you told yourself this meant nothing to you, otherwise you wouldn't be in your bedroom now, packing the suitcase as he asked. You wanted to please him, you wanted them to be happy, and why would you feel this way if you were indifferent?

Maybe this time you would be able to let yourself go and enjoy the relationship, and you would finally believe this could work.

As you were thinking about this, your phone that you left on your nightstand began to vibrate and the screen lit up. You picked it up and saw a message from Lando: “Have you seen this? Max's jet is at an airport near you, but I know for a fact he's at home. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING????”

Okay, maybe letting yourself go wasn't an option.

[nachoaveragejoe234]

not just americans

No citizens of any country are somehow inherently bad or evil because of their government. Full stop. That includes Russia citizens, Israeli citizens, Palestinian citizens, Chinese citizens, Iranian citizens, North Korean citizens, etc.

Everyone in this world is just living their lives, each with their own complex needs and desires and interests and emotions. They all have hobbies and friends and families and favorite foods. They all have their own motivations and varying political opinions and views on their governments. They all weigh the risks of standing out or speaking up and they all make their own decisions about that.

They all fear the same in times of danger. They all feel grief and pain and terror the same. They all love and hate and bleed the same.

They are people. They are no different from anyone else, they are not monsters or caricatures or nameless bodies in videos. Complexity and humanity are not exclusive to your country, to people like you.

[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.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 12

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, emotional stuff and vulnerability, typos

Words: 1766

The One I Want Masterlist

“How?” he says as you remove yourself from his lap. He immediately stands and runs a hand through his hair, then he looks at you. “When?”

The expression on his face is indecipherable, lingering in the realm of confusion and shock, and—looking a bit deeper into his eyes—nearing the cusp of anger. 

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress. “After you left."

Jake takes a step away from you, the back of his knee knocking into the coffee table causing a slight stumble. A knife makes a little slash in your heart as he turns his back to you, but then he spins around, opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head, and finally locks his eyes onto yours. “She knocked on the door.”

You shrug. “I guess so.” Not that it matters. Brit wanted to separate you from Jake so she could get you alone. Whether that was due to her own fist banging on the door or another’s, the goal was achieved. She got to you. 

Jake’s tone falls dark, much darker than you could imagine coming from him, when he grinds out, “What did she say to you?” 

You don’t instantly respond. It’s a delicate matter simply because you know that, in Jake’s eyes, a line was crossed. Well, not so much crossed as obliterated, but you're not sure how he's going to react, or where that reaction will be directed.

“Tell me,” he demands. You don’t miss the underlying plea.

Clearing your throat, you say, “In a few words?”

“However many you need.”

You nod, glancing down to find your fingers still messing with your dress. You could potentially ruin it with the constant rubbing and picking at the same spot, but that’s not enough to deter the habit. You lick away the dryness of your lips that came after losing the warmth and moisture of his, and you look back up at him. “That it’s only a matter of time before you hurt me.”

Jake’s face crumbles—all darkness lost to devastation—and his body loosens as if about to slump right onto the floor. He manages to stay upright enough to make his way over and kneel in front of you. Though fiddling with your dress is the most comforting method you have to keep nervous energy at bay, your hand doesn’t resist being taken into his. 

“You should have told me,” he says, but it’s so weak and desperate that it’s more of a whine. “I could’ve–”

“It was your birthday,” you stop him. “I wasn’t going to ruin it.”

Jake’s thumb runs over your knuckles in a back-and-forth motion—such a common reassurance between you over the last few weeks that you’re not sure if he even knows he does it. It has just become one of those things you do now. He takes your hand, caresses your skin, and in return, you squeeze your fingers around his.

“You think I care more about my birthday than I care about you?” he asks, but after a few moments of your silence, his brow pinches and he says, “Why aren’t you answering me?”

“Jake, I–” you pause to consider the response he’s likely to give, but you don’t want to—can’t—lie to him. So you let the words slide evenly out of your mouth and prepare yourself for the inevitable. “I don’t want to be the cause of good things getting messed up for you.”

Jake regains the strength in his body and stands on perfectly sturdy legs. Your hand falls from his as he, once again, backs away. His eyes narrow, his mind clearly running through all possible reasons why you would say something like that to him, but coming up short on anything that will make him feel better. 

“Don’t say that,” he says lowly.

You sigh. “That’s why I kept it to myself.”

Then there is fury growing; a rage threatening to coat the living room that only minutes ago was so peaceful while your bodies and lips and touches were slotted together like puzzle pieces. 

“Well that's a bad reason!” he snaps. 

“Why?” you shoot back, rising from the couch. “Why is that so bad?”

“Because I don’t want you to start thinking like that!” It’s a shout now; the beginning of a rapid tumbling of words. “You could never mess up anything! But I can’t keep her away from you! I can’t control what she does or says! She’s the one who will mess things up and then I will lose you because you’ll go looking for a twelfth new place, and fuck knows where that will be, which means I won’t have a chance to fix what she destroyed because I won’t even be able to find you!”

His voice echoes, bouncing off the walls, and as words settle in, every ounce of his anger melts into anguish. With a groan, his head falls forward into his hands. 

“Fuck,” is muffled by his palms. “I'm sorry.”

You allow yourself to look at him; at the man who is ready to fall apart before you, who cycled through every emotion you've been hoping he wasn’t keeping inside. But you knew of this possibility. You knew that sharing your past with Jake could plant seeds that might have him wondering if you will one day leave him, too, because of circumstances entirely out of his control. 

You pictured yourself much more persuasive, though. You’ve changed, Jake changed you, and you thought it was evident enough to keep him from believing that he could fall victim to your old patterns. As it shows, you were wrong.

Easing yourself around the coffee table, you go to Jake—the magnet you’re drawn to—pry his hands from his face, and press your lips to his. 

He doesn’t waste a moment adapting to its unexpectedness. Never does, though. Whenever you kiss him when he’s least expecting it, he reacts so quickly—snaking an arm around your waist, tangling his fingers into your hair, moving his lips with yours—as if the taste of your mouth flips a switch inside of him. He returns your kisses with the enthusiasm of a man not wanting to sacrifice a single second of the feeling you give him. He kisses you back like he wasn't just on the verge of shattering.

“Breathe,” you whisper when you break the kiss.

His forehead rests against yours. “I can't.”

“You can.”

Eventually doing as you ask, he inhales and exhales and inhales and exhales, his breath brushing your face until he’s calm enough for you to accept. His hold on you tightens, pulling your body into his. 

“Don’t leave,” he says, lips briefly ghosting over yours. “You’re the only one who has made me feel like this since I lost them.”

“Like what?”

“Whole,” he replies. He swallows. “Safe.”

One of your hands slides from his shoulder to rest over his heart. Despite the breaths you requested from him, your fingers practically feel the relentless jackrabbiting thump within his chest. Wild, and yet, heavy, strong. Were you to put your ear up to him, the sound alone would be enough to drown out your other senses. 

“Jake, look at me,” you utter, so faint that his non-compliance has you questioning if he heard you; if the drumming beat inside his body is overpowering his head, his ears, and your voice lacks the might to break through. 

But then, with great reluctance you can feel, he pulls back. 

You almost gasp. The green you love is too green. No longer the grassy hue of a shaded forest floor, but more vivid, like a single leaf from a single tree within that forest shining under morning’s sunlight. It seems odd—unfair—to only see such a stunning green when his eyes are glassy and surrounded by red.  

Don’t, you think. Don’t cry. Because then you’ll cry, perhaps sob, for the man who has spent so much of his time working to restore a bit of life into you. Had someone told you when you first moved in that he’d succeed, you would’ve brushed the idea under a rug and taped the edges and corners to the floor to keep yourself from neglecting the likelihood of being let down. But Jake doesn’t let you down. Jake was there and Jake is here, still here, and so are you.

“Why would I leave?” you ask, louder, clearer.

Jake’s gaze travels from your eyes to your nose to your mouth where it remains as he answers. “You said that’s what you do when–”

“When people break me.” The hand not above his heart cups his cheek. “Jake, you haven't broken me. You’re healing me,” you swear. “Ok? You're saving me.” 

Maybe it’s because you think of him so often, or that you’ve pictured his face enough to have memorized it, but you continue to see him perfectly through the blur of your tears, so much so that the blur goes unnoticed. When he should be an indistinguishable mass of fuzzy shapes and tan skin and blond hair, you see, as if completely unaffected, the sharp lines and smooth planes and sculpted features of his face.

He’s all you focus on. You don’t feel the tear that gets caught on your chin, or the second tear that joins the first, making it heavy enough to drip onto the floor. You do feel Jake’s thumb gently rubbing the salty trail into your cheek. 

“I'm not scared of her,” you continue. “I understand why you’d think I might be, but I’m not. She's not enough to change anything. She won’t make me leave.”

Everything slows after you’ve spoken. Painfully long seconds extend into a minute, during which your vision unblurs and the air surrounding you settles. Jake is silent, and you give him that time. He listened, and now he’s quiet—processing. It's when his eyes finally soften that you know he understands. He knows that what he feels for you is what you feel for him. 

His lips curve in a hint of a smile that encourages yours to do the same. 

“What?” you say.

He shakes his head and his forehead meets yours again. 

“I tell you something, you tell me something,” you remind him.

Jake hums as if he anticipated you calling out the deal he made with you that started it all. Bare heart for bare heart, that’s how it works, and though Jake has already expressed his fair share, you know he won’t deny you a little bit more. 

“You’re healing me too, beautiful,” he says, his nose nudging yours. “More than I knew I needed.”

---

Tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @emma8895eb @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @hookslove1592 @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06

[frida-kahl-of-the-rocky-horror]

Okay, @sihatn wishes to be so hung up on the particular war crime the Israeli government is using to excessively slaughter innocent Palestinian civilians, so let’s explain the difference between Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing:

Genocide: the deliberate killing of a large number of people from a particular nation or ethnic group with the aim of destroying that nation or group

Examples: The Armenian Genocide (where the term actually originates), the Shoah/Holocaust, Taíno Genocide, and Rwandan Genocide to name a few.

I have seen some Zionists on this platform and on Instagram argue that Israel cannot be committing Genocide because it is a “very specific instance in history that only includes the Holocaust”. That fact is ardently incorrect. For one, the first event to be called a Genocide and where the term was coined was the Armenian Genocide and countless events have been labeled a Genocide since 1943/1944 when the term was initially coined (including events coined after the fact that had already happened like the aforementioned Taíno Genocide).

Ethnocide: the deliberate and systematic destruction of the culture of an ethnic group or nation without deliberately killing large numbers of people within that ethnic group or nation

Think “kill the Indian, save the man”, the American and Canadian policy against American Indian tribes and First Nations that sought to forcibly assimilate them into W.A.S.P. culture. A similar policy occurred in Hawaii during the “Republic of Hawaii” and “Territory of Hawaii” days, and even the destruction of Yiddish Culture by Zionists in Israel who feared it for being “too Middle Eastern”. Most Re-Education camps fall in this category too.

Ethic Cleansing: the mass expulsion or killing of members of an unwanted ethnic or religious group in a society

This term is relatively new and was coined in the aftermath of the collapse of Yugoslavia and Serbia’s treatment of Croats, Bosnians, and other ethnic minorities, as well as the Stalinist movement of ethnic minorities to different SSRs.

Mass Homicide: the deliberate killing of a large number of people

The only distinction here is the people are not being killed because of their ethnicity or nation, but for ✨ other reasons ✨

Now here’s the kicker, most Zionists would say they are committing Ethnic Cleansing. They might not say it out right, because the term has a nasty connotation, but they will say they’re doing the definition of ethnic cleansing.

Some propaganda reblogging Zionists might claim that they’re just committing Mass Homicide but here’s the thing, almost every example of mass homicide being committed by one nation to another nation has been an example of one of the first three categories. The only real examples of Mass Homicide actually being Mass Homicide occur within a state (see Mao famines, Pol Pot’s mass killings, or the countless purging of communists or anti communists during the Cold War).

Some (wrong) historians may claim the Bengal Famine and Irish Potato Famine were examples of mass Homicide but here’s the thing, in both cases aid from other nations and governments were barred from entering the effected places because the UK forbid it. Food exports were forced to continue to come from Ireland and Bengal because the UK forced it. The reasons these famines were so severe was because the UK had a eugenics inspired belief that the Irish and Bengalis were “sub human animals” and “less deserving of food than the Brits”.

The Irish Potato Famine and Bengali Famine were Genocides, with famine being the preferred method of killing.

Was it intentional at first? Maybe not. Did it become intentional after the fact? Yes.

But this takes us to the most important point. The difference between Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing AND Mass Homicide is the intent.

But the intent isn’t truly known until after the fact, when internal government documents are released and the facts of the situation are holistically known.

The Jews/Poles/Romani/etc knew they were going through a Genocide (or well, they didn’t know the word, but they knew what was happening) but most of the outside world didn’t because the N@zis were secretive about it. Yes some activists and Jewish/Polish/Romani/etc diaspora groups warned other governments, but these other governments (US, UK, USSR, China, France, Brazil, Mexico, Canada, Italy even) were skeptical.

We don’t full know intent now, but given Herzl and Jabotinsky’s rhetoric which essentially established modern day Zionism and the Israeli state, and the establishment of Area C for Israeli settlement after conflict in the West Bank, the fact that Israel has threatened a Second Nakba, an event internationally acknowledged as ethnic cleansing, the fact that there are oil reserves underneath Gaza and the forcing of 2 million people into an airport sized camp would allow Israel to open up drilling where the ruins of Gaza city lay, or the fact that Israel is an Ethnonationalist country that relies on the superiority of Israelis over Palestinians and other neighbouring countries in order to exist makes the intent known to those of us familiar with the history of this conflict.

Ok ok ok ok ok here’s where I M. Night Shyamalan this whole thing: Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing are all the same crime according to multinational organizations like the United Nations. They are all Genocide.

All Ethnocides are Genocides, but not all Genocides are Ethnocides.

All Ethnic Cleansings are Genocides, but not all Genocides are Ethnic Cleansings.

The Nakba was an Ethnic Cleansing, therefore the Nakba was a Genocide.

The Netanyahu administration claims that their on going attack on Gaza is a “new Nakba”.

Nakba = Ethnic Cleansing = Genocide

The Netanyahu administration claims that their on going attack on Gaza is a “new Genocide”.

Genocide carries with it negative connotations. If the term was as widely used in 1944 as it is today, Hitler would deny genocide allegations, just as the Turkish continue to deny genocide allegations from the Armenian Genocide, why the Japanese continue to deny Genocide Allegations during their rule of Korea, Taiwan, parts of Micronesia, Manchuria, and Nanjing. Why the British refuse to acknowledge the Irish Potato Famine or Bengal Famine as Genocides. Why the conservative right want to ban the teaching of American genocides against countless groups (namely Native Americans, African Americans, Native Hawaiians, and Chicanos). And why Zionists get so offended when you refer to the actions of Israel as a Genocide.

Those who commit Genocide will never acknowledge that they are committing genocide. The fact that the current mainstream Zionist reaction, like @sihatn, is to deny that the ongoing genocide exists just proves that one is happening… if the horrific videos didn’t prove it enough (this one is from an American pro Israel source, but it doesn’t not take long to find ones from individuals in Gaza)

In conclusion, Israel is committing a genocide, and if you say otherwise, you are blinded by Ethnonationalism just like the Germans were in the 30s/40s, the Turks were during the 10s/20s and onward, the Brits were for (well forever), and the American right wing is.

If you don’t acknowledge the fact that Israel is committing a Genocide you are part of the problem shawty, and it’s not a good look 😬

[cieloclercs]

grace , send me a trope + a character and i’ll write a short drabble from it

hii, can i please request best friends to lovers with ollie?

congrats on 1k btwww 🫶🫶

call me cupid — ollie bearman

pairing. ollie bearman x best friend!reader

word count. 2.7k (i swear i tried to make it short lmao)

warnings. kind of a weird fusion of fluff and angst ??? unrequited love vibes (that’s not actually unrequited but u get what i mean), pining ollie, pining reader, arthur lowkey is the mastermind, and is also sick of said pining, abrupt ending i’m sorry 😭

author’s note. hello anon! thank you so much for your request ☺️ i hope this is ok ! i know it cuts off quite abruptly, but i’d be open to writing a part 2 with the confession if you want one &lt;3

read below the cut

He’s staring again.

It’s becoming a problem, but can anyone really blame him? You look nothing short of angelic under the strobe lights, your shimmering dress catching his eye every time you move. You’re dancing with a girl he doesn’t recognise, that beautiful smile he adores stretched across your crimson-painted lips. It makes him wonder what she’s saying to you to make you seem so content.

Best friends shouldn’t look at each other the way he’s looking at you now. Ollie knows that. Yet on days like today, he really can’t help it. This is your party, celebrating your third Formula 2 victory in a row. He’d watched from way back in P5 as you stormed through the field, fighting off every challenge your opponents tried to throw your way. There’s a reason the fans call you the Queen of Formula 2, after all. You’re practically untouchable. All it does is heighten his awareness of his own pounding heart whenever you’re around; turn his insides to velvet when you so much as smile his way. Yes, it’s becoming a problem — and Ollie isn’t sure there’s anything he can do to stop it.

“You know, I’ve just thought of something you should try.” A voice speaks up to his left, breaking him out of whatever trance you’ve unwittingly put him under. He turns. Arthur Leclerc stands like the devil on his shoulder, arms folded, expression unimpressed. When Ollie says nothing, he goes on, “It’s called talking to her. Works wonders, really, I’d highly recommend. It’s how I met Carla.”

The younger of the two rolls his eyes. Arthur is the only other living soul on earth who knows about his infatuation with you — officially, at least. In reality, almost everyone in the Ferrari Academy has long since figured it out. Everyone except you, ironically. But Ollie supposes it makes sense; why would someone like you ever even consider him as something more than just a friend?

“Can we not do this tonight?” Ollie sighs, exasperated, “I’m just trying to forget about…all of that for a moment.”

This time it’s Arthur who rolls his eyes. Ever since he first caught on to his friend’s crush on you a little over eight months ago, he’s been trying every method under the sun to try and make him see that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be so pessimistic about his chances. But the answer is always the same. Ollie remains convinced, like some poor, naïve, completely oblivious child, that you’d never so much as give him a second glance if he told you how he felt. It’s complete bullshit, of course. Arthur has seen the way your eyes search immediately for his after a race, be it a good result or even a bad one. He’s watched you brush off close friends (including him, many a time) even family members, to get to Ollie. But of course, Ollie himself doesn’t notice. No fool in love ever does.

“You’re not going to forget though, are you?” Arthur muses, glancing at his friend out of the corner of his eye, “I know you, and I know you can’t stay away from her for that long. You’ll cave eventually.” he smirks. At the sight of Ollie’s pink cheeks, he knows he’s caught him out.

“Why don’t you go annoy someone else for a change?” the Brit grumbles. There’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Arthur could pick it out even in the pitch dark.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love me.” he teases.

Within moments he’s cowered behind Carla on the other side of the room, chased away by Ollie’s (half joking) threats to crash him out of the next race on purpose if he doesn’t shut his mouth. But Arthur’s words stick with him throughout the entire night. Somehow, they always do.

In truth, Ollie's been grappling with the idea of telling you for quite a while; to put him out of his own misery more than anything else. He's sick and tired of the 'best friends' label. It seems so trivial, so reductive to say that it hurts him, when in fact, every time you refer to him as such, he’s sure you must be ripping his heart out of his chest. But then he can’t help but feel melodramatic — at least he has you, even if only as a friend. Even if you don’t love him in the way he loves you, you’re still there. Close, though perhaps not quite close enough. Ollie has decided not to take that for granted. He knows how easily it can be snatched away from him.

In the end (just as he always seems to be) Arthur is right — it’s not even an hour before he finds himself gravitating towards you; unwittingly being pulled into your orbit from which he fears, if he’s not careful, he’ll never be able to escape. You’re hovering on the edge of a group of engineers now, sipping on a glass of sparkling water out of a straw. How you can appear drop dead gorgeous yet so damn adorable at the same time, he has no idea. Ollie feels he’ll be spending the rest of his life trying to figure you and your many layers out.

“Hi, Ol.” you greet him with a smile like the sun when he finally plucks up the courage to approach. He mutters something in reply, though as soon as the words have left his mouth he’s already forgotten them — he could have said something completely unintelligible for all he knows. That’s the effect you have on him.

“Having fun?” you prompt again, your soft smile spreading into a full-blown grin. Ollie glances briefly around the room. It’s absolutely packed full of Ferrari Academy members, both drivers and personnel. Normally, this kind of event would be his worst nightmare. Even if he’s known these people for years, the idea of having to socialise and look like he’s having fun makes him feel sick. But then he remembers all this is for you. It’s to celebrate your achievements in a male dominated field, which no woman has ever managed to do before. When he reminds himself of that, all his anxiety suddenly seems to melt away.

“Of course.” Ollie grins back. His heart soars to see you light up at his words, to see you giggle behind the rim of your glass and look at him as if he’s the only person in the world. At times like this he can truly believe that maybe Arthur is right — maybe, if he confesses, his world won’t come crashing down. Maybe you’ll light it up for the better.

“What happened to you at turn one? Nic told me you dropped out of the points." you go on, eyebrows furrowing with the remnants of confusion. Ollie had begun the feature race in P2 behind you, yet you'd find that the competition you'd so anticipated disappeared not even before the first lap had ended. The Brit sighs, shaking his head.

"I collided with Jack trying to defend." he tells you with a wince, "Damaged my sidepods."

Your expression twists into one of sympathy. There's almost no coming back from that, even for a driver as talented as Ollie. Still, you think, to climb back up to P5 after sustaining damage like that is no mean feat. You don't miss the way he flushes bashfully when you tell him as such.

"It was my own fault." he mumbles, trying desperately to cool the flames in his cheeks as you watch him, eyebrows raised. He always feels like he's been put under a microscope when you look at him like this. There's no escaping the calculation in your stare, the curious scrutiny. "I took too much of a risk."

You shake your head. There's the tiniest of knowing smiles on your lips. Ollie is always so hard on himself. It's something you both admire him for, and find yourself exasperated with; he never seems to be able to see how brilliant he really is -- or at least, how brilliant he is in your eyes.

"Well, whoever was at fault, it's a real shame." you dismiss with a wave of your hand, "I miss sharing the podium with you."

Ollie is sure he must be melting. He can't figure out if it's from your words alone, or from the tiny pout that's fallen on your lips, or even the soft glint in your eyes as you gaze up at him. Suddenly the proximity between the two of you seems to have all but diminished. He chuckles nervously.

"Next race will be ours." the Brit murmurs. Little by little you inch closer to him, your hand resting on the ledge you're leaning on, just ghosting over where his own lays flat. He breathes in sharply.

"Promise?" you whisper. The point of your heel bumps against his foot. Ollie glances down at it in a panic, before his head snaps up to meet your piercing gaze. He fears that if he rocks forwards only the slightest bit on the balls of his feet, he'll be close enough for his nose to bump yours. He's never felt so consumed, so intoxicated by another person in all his life. He can smell the honey scent of your hair, feel your warm breath tickling his cheek. His gaze flickers down for the briefest of moments to your lips - soft and pink, parted as if there's something else you want to say, but the words have gotten trapped in your throat.

"I promise." Ollie croaks.

Just one more step, you think. One more step, and he'll kiss you. He's so close, closer than he's ever been before, and suddenly you can see everything falling into place: all the nights spent crying on Arthur's shoulder, wondering whether Ollie is truly just scared as your friend says he is, or whether he simply doesn't feel the same. It will all fade into a distant, long-abandoned memory. Finally, you'll be able to call him something more than just your best friend.

But then he steps away.

You flinch, taken aback at his sudden movement. Ollie stares at you, wide-eyed, breathing heavily as if he's just run a marathon. He can't believe what's just happened — can't believe he was about to kiss you. How could he be so stupid?

"I —" he stammers. The look on your face is hard to decipher: shocked, confused, hurt. If Ollie looked a bit closer, he'd be able to see the last of those emotions, or the way your shock is mixed with a horrible sinking feeling of disappointment. But, of course, he doesn't see it that way. He's stuck on the same, poisonous idea that's been plaguing his mind ever since he first figured out his feelings — you don't feel the same way.

"I'm sorry." Ollie gasps. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and runs, leaving you stood alone, arms half outstretched as if to try and stop him. You're too late, of course. Within moments he's out of sight. Gone, just like your hope.

"Well that was a train wreck." a familiar voice speaks up from somewhere on your left. You spin around, groaning as you spot Arthur, arms folded, eyebrows furrowed in what you can only imagine is frustration.

"You don't say." you drawl bitterly, glaring down into your empty glass. Wordlessly, your friend passes you his own half-full one. You lean down to sniff at its contents, and pull away, nose scrunched in distaste — definitely not water. But you think, at this point, you're owed some kind of distraction.

"Why does he keep running away from me?" you grumble. It's been months of this cat and mouse game now. Tonight is the closest you've ever got; the first time you've seen with your own eyes that Ollie does reciprocate your feelings. Yet it feels like for that step forward, all you've gone and done is taken another two back.

"Because he's an idiot." Arthur answers plainly. The Monégasque watches as you take a gulp of his drink, pulling a face at the burn in your throat, and wordlessly reaches forwards to take the glass back from your hands. He's grateful that you don't complain.

"Well I wish he'd stop." you mutter. As much as you're willing to wait for Ollie for as long as he needs, it's painful, having to go on loving him from a distance like this. Every time you lock eyes, the longing grows more intense. You're not sure how much longer you can take it.

"You know, you're just as bad as he is." Arthur speaks up. Once again, your head snaps towards him, eyes narrowing.

"What?"

"You heard me." the Monégasque says with a sigh, "Look, I want to help you, I really do, but you could make all of this so much easier for yourself if you just tell him how you feel."

And there it is. You can’t help but let out a bitter chuckle. It sounds so simple coming from Arthur’s mouth — so easy. God knows you’ve tried, time and time again, to be honest with Ollie about your feelings, to rip off the plaster in the hopes the pain of it won’t be too great; that he might just tell you he’s been trying to say the same thing all this time. But whenever you feel as if you might be ready, the words catch in your throat. You just can’t stomach them. It’s a kind of vulnerability you’ve never shown to anyone before, let alone someone who already means so much to you. At the end of the day, you’re still young. No matter how much you love Ollie now, the chances of him being the one are low.

At least, that’s what you’ve been trying to convince yourself. But a part of you knows already — there’s no one else on earth you’ll ever feel this way about. Young or not, it’s always going to be Ollie.

“I don’t know if I can take that risk, Arth.” you say quietly, “If Ollie and I — if we’re not meant to be together…isn’t it better just to have him, even as a friend, than risk losing him entirely?”

You’re honestly not sure which is the most painful: having to pretend that you don’t love him, or the idea of one day not having him at all. Yet, you still know which one you’d choose — even if it hurts like ripping your own heart out of your chest.

“Huh.” Arthur says, eyebrows furrowing again. There’s something different in his expression this time, though. It’s less frustration, more a spark. As if he’s realised something you and Ollie may not have just yet.

“What?” you ask. Suddenly, Arthur begins to smile. You watch him disbelievingly, none the wiser as to what on earth he has to be so happy about at the present moment. Then he’s laughing, shaking his head as if in mirthful despair.

“You really are soulmates.” the Monégasque snickers, watching almost gleefully as you grow even more confused.

“What?” you ask again. Part of you begins to wonder if Arthur has lost his mind — you wouldn’t blame him after the game he’s been playing: acting as some sort of secret go-between in the middle and your and Ollie’s back and forth self-doubts. But Arthur hasn’t lost the will to live with it all just yet. In fact, he thinks he’s finally figured out how to make the both of you see sense.

“He said the exact same thing to me.”

And with that, Arthur turns on his heel, leaving you stood alone, your mind racing. All this time you’ve been trying to play the long game; trying to anticipate what Ollie is thinking, when in reality, your thoughts are practically shared. You’re both afraid. More than you ever have been in your life. But for the first time you begin to think, perhaps fear doesn’t have to be the dividing factor.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” Carla Brocker asks her boyfriend as he retakes his familiar position at her side, still grinning like a child who’s just been told Christmas is coming early. Arthur says nothing, merely tilting his head in the direction of where you stand motionless. It only takes a few moments for Carla to catch on. She turns to face her boyfriend again, mouth hanging open.

“You think you’ve got through to her?” she whispers urgently.

Once again, Arthur Leclerc grins proudly.

“Just call me Cupid.”

[ellecdc]

The Drink Snob (part 3)

mafia au!Remus Lupin x fem!reader - 3.1k

p1 // p2 // p3 // p4

CW: attempted drink tampering, attempted human trafficking, a lot of swearing because it's Remus and reader (obviously)

Synopsis: You take Elle's advice, Remus returns the favour.

You waited at the end of the counter for your mocha to be called through the café. You were feeling pretty good about yourself; you had an interview lined up at a nice restaurant at the end of this week, you’d guest lectured for Minerva and got great feedback from both her and the students, and you’d found time to facetime Elle twice more.

The café was fairly busy with a fair number of students trying to get their caffeine fix between classes. The barista apologized to you for the wait, but you waved him off; “I’m not in any rush right now, take your time.” You had said to him.

“That was quite polite of you.” A voice to your right commented. 

You turned and raised your eyebrow at the dark-haired man. His hair was an array of curls pulled back into a low bun, and he kept his onyx gaze fixed on you. 

“And that surprises you?”

He smirked at you. “From a yank? I’d have to say a little.”

“Right,” You scoffed, “I’m not American.”

He looked at you strangely at that. “You sound like an American.”

“Maybe I’m just practicing for a part.” You shot back.

He hummed in response. “A budding actress, hm?”

Before you could respond, your name was called at the counter.

“Peppermint mocha for Y/N!”

You picked up your cup and turned back to the man. “As nice as this was, I have to take my leave.”

“Come to dinner with me.” He interjected quickly. You stared at him incredulously.

“I’m sorry?”

“Come on, I want to hear more about this budding acting career of yours.” He said as he winked. 

Your immediate thought was hell no. But then you thought of The Man ™ from the pub last week, and how surprising and nice it was to finally connect with someone. Wasn’t this exactly what Elle was saying you should be doing? It went against every part of your better judgement, but this opportunity had been placed in front of you twice, were you really in any position to ignore it?

“What’s your name?” You asked. You were met with a victorious smile.

“Tan.”

You considered him for a moment.

“Fine, one dinner.”

He clapped his hands together. “Wonderful, how about tonight? There’s a Spanish fusion restaurant that just opened downtown that I’ve been dying to try. I could pick you up. Say 7?” 

You looked the man up and down; you may be stepping out of your comfort zone agreeing to a date with a stranger you met at a coffee shop, but you weren’t suicidal. 

“I’ll meet you there.” You offered. Tan seemed to deflate a little, but the emotion passed quickly over his face.

He gave you the address and then actually kissed you on the hand before you turned and exited the café. 

Were all Brit’s this bold? Was this just an English thing? You walked back to the faculty building hoping this was a meet cute opportunity you could tell Elle about. 

“It’s kinda smart, really.” James commented, taking another drink from his water. 

“What is?” Remus asked, not looking up from the salad he was pushing around on the plate in front of him.

“Scouting near the universities.” 

Remus looked up at his mate then, his black hair as wild as ever as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. His knee was bouncing under the table, and Remus knew he was just trying to make conversation while they waited for Lestrange to make his appearance, but James could be so thick sometimes.

“Yes, James. It’s almost as if the traffickers have a method that they follow to find young women they can pick up.” Remus muttered quietly, finally shifting his gaze up to the door. 

“Sorry.” James muttered as he ran his hand through his hair again. “I just hate waiting.”

Remus chuckled. “I can tell.” 

James made it through at least a minute and a half of silence before Remus finally took pity on him. “Harry’s so close to walking now, eh?” 

James’ face lit up as he began a long tangent of his son’s different methods of movement which ranged from scooting, crawling, shifting, and rolling. “And Moony, yesterday he stood at the coffee table and walked around it all by himself! He was holding the coffee table, but still!” 

Remus smiled at his friend’s happiness just as he noticed their target entering the building. 

“He’s here.” Remus muttered into his collar which hid his speak piece.

“Greasy bastard, how do they manage to look creepier and creepier every time I see them?” Sirius muttered darkly into Remus and James’ earpiece from his car parked out front. 

Sirius hated not being able to join on some stakeouts on account of his family. For example, Rabastan Lestrange is technically related to Sirius through marriage as he is the brother-in-law of Sirius’ first cousin Bellatrix. Sirius and Bellatrix, both Black’s by birthright, and the Lestrange’s have historically held ties to the mob boss Tom Riddle who had his followers call him Lord Voldemort. Pretentious fucks at best, but at worst they were prejuidiced, racist, bigots who were involved in human trafficking, which meant it was very important that they get caught and stopped, not the other way around. Which meant Sirius had to play back-up. 

Remus was fine with that. James could be a little annoying on account of his ADHD, but he’d take that over Sirius’ inner rage any day. 

Remus got it, he really did; Sirius had been surrounded by this his whole life – born and raised to carry on the Black line of arseholes, and he’s seen things many people haven’t. His family was awful and what these women and children went through at their hands was horrible, but being hot-headed in the field didn’t save them.

Remus figured Sirius would probably make a good police officer if they weren’t so corrupt, though he would struggle playing by the rules.

Maybe in another life. 

“He’s got a seat in the far left. It’s secluded and near an emergency exit. Reg, are you able to get eyes back there without being caught?” James asked into his own speak piece. 

“On it.” Was Reg’s response. 

Remus watched the door as James watched Rabastan. People came and went but James never mentioned a change in our target, so Remus disregarded them.

Suddenly, Remus’ breath caught in his throat. No. Not her. 

“We should try the croquettes.” James said - their code.

No.

“No.”

James looked up at Remus. “What?”

“It’s...” Remus started, but he didn’t know how to finish. James kept his eyes on Rabastan as you walked past Remus’ line of sight.

“Wait, is that-” James started but they were interrupted by Regulus.

“I’ve got eyes on the emergency exit.” 

“Copy.” James muttered and looked back to Remus. “What is it?”

“What’s going on?” Sirius interjected in their earpieces. 

“Is that the girl?” James whispered to him, causing Remus to scrunch his eyes shut.

“Wait, what?” Reg called.

James sighed. “Remus’ girl from The Drunken Sailor, it’s her.”

“Wait.” Sirius yelled causing both men to wince. “The girl Rabastan is meeting, it’s Remus’ girl?”

“She’s not my girl.”

Sirius called out the wrong name. “Right?”  Sirius carried on over top of Remus. 

“Y/N.” Remus corrected.

“Oh my God,” James said wide eyed at him. “You’ve got it bad.”

“I do not.” Remus started before changing gears, “fuck off, Prongs. Now is not the time. We’ve got to get her out of here.” 

“Easy, Remus.” Regulus encouraged him quietly.

“Tell us how you want to go about this.” James added.

Both Black brothers shouted a what over the earpieces. 

“The plan stays the same, Prongs. Same as it always is – get her out.” Sirius barked.

“No, Padfoot. This has taken on a new element. If Remus isn’t careful, he could be accused of nefarious actions himself. She’s scheduled for an interview at the restaurant in a few days.” James chided. “It’s your call.” He said to Remus.

She wasn’t supposed to get caught up in this. 

She was supposed to go back to school and stay away from dingy bars – and dingy men. She was so clever; how could she have gotten swept up with Rabastan?

No.

Don’t be an arse, Remus.

These men were smart. They knew how to come off completely charming, and targeted women, well, women exactly like her.

She was a student, she was foreign, and she was probably alone when he approached her. She was their perfect target.

Remus just hoped she had kept her wits about her; she had noticed so quickly that his drink had been tampered with, hopefully she’d be just as alert tonight. Remus knew from the staff at the café that she had declined his invitation to pick her up, hopefully she didn’t give him her number, either. 

“Do you want me to swap, Remus?” Regulus queried over our earpiece. 

Did Remus want him to swap? 

What did Remus want?

Remus kind of wanted to be the one to be sitting over there with you.

He turned to look at your table to see you place your jacket on the hook of the booth beside you. As your head was turned, Rabastan’s hand hovered over your glass of water which began to fizz.  

“Moons?” James asked quietly again. 

But before Remus could respond, you looked back up and your gaze found him. Your eyes and nose scrunched a little as you considered him as if you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. You finally shook your head slightly and offered Remus a small smile before turning back to Rabastan. 

Well, you knew Remus was here now. 

So much for keeping her out of this. 

“Now.” Remus said as he stood from his place at the table. 

The world had to be fucking with you at this point, right? You weren’t actually seeing The Man™? He must just be a figment of your imagination?

Apparently, he was not just a figment of your imagination because he was suddenly standing at the end of your table as if he was about to take your order.

“We really must stop meeting each other like this.” He said with a smirk.

You chuckled nervously as you stared at his beautiful face. “Uhm, yeah. Haha. What are the odds?”

“Uhm, do you mind?” Tan said as he considered The Man ™ and you with furrowed brows.

“I do, actually.” He said severely, before a second man with a mop of curly black hair sidled up behind him looking far more pleased than his counterpart.

“Rabastan, my man, it’s been too long.” He said entirely too loudly. You felt your cheeks heat up as you offered the people around you a nervous smile. 

Tan seemed to pale at the sight of the newcomer. Suddenly, his glass of water was turned over in front of him as he scrambled to stand. Before Tan could get anywhere, the curly headed man embraced him in an aggressive looking hug that involved an arm around his neck.

“You bastard, I can’t believe we let it go this long without catching up. Why don’t we have a little family reunion, hm? I know some cousins of yours who are just dying to see how you are.” He announced to the entire restaurant as he man-handled Tan to the emergency exit behind your booth.

You watched with your mouth hanging open as the door closed behind them and the restaurant returned to its appropriate volume. 

You turned your head towards The Man ™ as he slid into the booth Tan had just been dragged out of for all intents and purposes.

“What?” was all you could manage to mutter. 

“Don’t drink your water” was his response.

You looked down to see the table – now pooled with Tan’s water – and sat there in front of you was your water with a filmy layer on top. 

“What the fuck just happened?” you muttered more to yourself than anything.

“I returned the favour.” The Man™ replied with a shrug as he mopped up the water on the table that was starting to spill onto the bench of the booth you were seated on.

“What? Were you following me around waiting for some guy to drug me?” You asked incredulously.

“Relax, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

You scoffed in outrage. “Do not tell me to relax you fucker, I was nearly drugged, and lord knows what else.”

“I know exactly what else.” The man snarked back. “He would have brought you out to a van that his buddies would have pulled up upon his command, they would have dumped your purse and all of your belongings in the dumpster behind some business a few blocks away, flown you to Portugal and sold you to the highest bidder, and that’s ignoring everything that would have happened in between. I can assure you, darling, that there was only one fucker here and he was just dragged away by my mate there. So please for all that is holy, relax.” He pressed the end of his sentence as he dumped your glass over as well just as a server came by.

“Oh, let me clean this up for you!” The server exclaimed at the mess just as The Man apologized in faux embarrassment. “I’ll get you two new glasses. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

Completely stunned, you decided to field the question to the infuriating man across from you who, fucking damnit, looked just as handsome as the first time you’d seen him. 

“Just the waters for now, thank you.” He said with a smile which flashed his dimples, the bastard. 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly which was in stark contrast from his demeanor before the server came.

“I’m fine.” You muttered probably more aggressively than you should have. “Fuck, I’m going to kill her.” You growled as you leaned your elbows onto the table and shoved your face into your hands.

“Who’s that now?”

You groaned, hands still covering your face. “My friend, the bitch. This is all her fault.” 

“How so?”

“This was her idea! Going out with him, I mean.” You answered miserably as you leaned back against the booth and crossed your arms.

“Your friend knew that guy?” He asked somewhat alarmed.

You snorted a laugh. “No. She just thought I should get out more. Was so worried about me being all sad and lonely in this new city. This’ll teach her.” You muttered as you picked imaginary lint from your skirt.

The man was mirroring you; leaning against the back of his booth with his arms crossed as he seemed to consider you.

“Is that why you started handing out your CV?”

You felt your eyebrows furrow. “My what?” 

The man dramatically rolled his eyes. “Oh, my apologies. I meant your resume.”

You nodded your head in understanding before slamming your hand down on the still damp table. “How do you know I’ve been handing out resumes? Are you actually stalking me?” 

“No, even your luck doesn’t seem to be that bad. Though, being nearly drugged twice is not a good track record.”

“If I’m remembering correctly, you were the one nearly drugged last time.”

The man smiled at you and something about it felt far softer than you felt the moment called for. “You applied at my mum’s restaurant – the one on 72nd. She was going on about finally having live music in the joint; I saw your CV.”

“I didn’t apply as a musician.” You shouted somewhat panickily. You cleared your throat before correcting yourself. “I mean, I just...I was just looking for a job as a server.”

He squinted his eyes at you before responding. “Well, good luck trying to say no to my mum.”

“What are the chances of me getting drugged if I work at your mum’s restaurant?”

This surprised a bark of laugh from him. “Actually, your chances would be quite a bit lower.”

“I don’t know...” you said suspiciously. “Every time I’ve been with you, drinks have been drugged.”

He hummed as he squinted his eyes. “Hazard of the trade.”

“And what trade is that?”

“Crime.” He said simply. You chuckled, but as you looked back up at the man, you noticed he wasn’t laughing.

“Oh, you’re serious?” You commented.

The corner of his mouth seemed to quirk at your word choice, but he offered you one quick nod.

“But...you’re the kind of criminal to have your drinks drugged and to stop other people from getting drugged?”

He moved his head side-to-side as if to say sort of.

“And you’re telling me this...because?”

“Because” he said as he seemed to square himself, “you ought to know that before you accept the position.” 

The Man stood and left some bills on the table. “Are you safe to get home on your own?”

Still reeling from this whole ordeal, you nodded dumbly at him. He offered you a soft smile.

“Take it easy, Y/N.” He said as he left through the emergency exit.

It was only at his use of your name that you realized you still haven't caught his.

Remus was kicking himself. He should have just asked if you were okay and went about business as usual. He shouldn’t have sat with you, he shouldn’t have confessed about his mother’s restaurant, and he definitely shouldn’t have told you about the nature of his career. But he couldn’t let you walk into that interview without knowing what you were potentially getting yourself into.

And what would have happened if you had taken the job and then seen him there? Then you really would have suspected him of stalking.

Well, Remus has technically stalked before, but not in like a stalkery way, you know? It was like...

It was surveillance! 

Fuck, he was grasping at straws.

It just seemed like the world was hell bent on shoving you in Remus’ path. And when Remus first met you – he was insistent on keeping you away from him, from this.

But you just had to drop your resume off at his family’s restaurant.

And you just had to get picked up by a human trafficking sociopath. 

So, if you were going to insist on walking this dangerous line Remus calls life, you might as well know where the line is.

He didn’t know what he was more worried about: that you’d take his warning or that you wouldn’t. 

Continue to part four here.

[basiliomagnus]

This quote made me think, how do you think tastes and styles of cooking differ between the tribes? Each party member has their own style of food, but Eupha and maybe Heismay are the main ones who we could extrapolate things about their culture from.

I think that paripus food definitely uses the most spices. Rhoag food uses the least

oh im so glad at least one person asks me this i've been thinking like. too much about tribe culinary profiles lately

so to start a while ago i tried to group all the principalities into their climates and ecosystems right. aside from the fact roussainte are fuckin everywhere from what we know:

oceana has a healthy fishing business and is mostly woodland, through they have a small stretch of arid land from central euchronia

central euchronia is high in desert and (presumably) arid soils, though for the purpose of sustaining grand trad let's say that south euchronia contains fertile wetland

montario is extremely mountainous and cold BUT it also has that patch of thick forest though a lot of the fauna there are like. venomous and spit fire

virga island

so when i think about the food part of their cultures i tried to keep in mind where a majority of the tribes seem to be located and how that would have impacted their culinary development, assuming that the population has been relatively consistent since the annex war. there's also their individual values to consider (VERY LONG UNDER CUT)

clemar are like, white brits, so i think assuming they have similar food to irl england is a good starting place. thanks to central euchronia having the desert climate it does however i think mostly in oceana do they have fish as part of their meals and in grand trad its mostly a delicacy. a lot of local dishes that are made up of what can be found lying around, nothing too complex, but due to the nature of where grand trad Is i think they lack a lot of real "desserts" that aren't considered a luxury (sugar is expensive)

roussaintes NEED high protein meals to sustain the amount of physical work they do, so i think meat and leafy green vegetables are a staple in most dishes. lentils, tofu (soybeans are actually really protein dense), nuts, the like. roussainte in montario probably have a lot of spice in their meals for cold weather but to also manage their appetite during military work.

rhoag are a tricky case but hear me out: i feel like a lot of their food takes after other tribes due to how long they live. it's probably customary for a rhoag to wander around a lot in all the time they have to live, so a lot of what they cook ends up influenced by all the other tribes in different ways. as for methods i imagine that they focus on recipes that don't require much physical labor (spending most of your long life in your geriatric stage probably isn't great), so a lot of soups, pan fried stuff, grilling, etc. is probably shared around.

ishkia are almost 100% spice fiends, if you're like me and assume they have bird-like traits in a lot of places they probably have much higher spice tolerance than most other tribes, in addition to their climate requiring warmer meals. a lot of farmwork is probably done down in the lush forest area because mountain farming is historically a bitch and a lot of Brain Food can't be grown in the cold. heavy "brain food" presence in casual meals (fatty fish, coffee, collard greens). a lot of roots, mushrooms, and foragables that grow in cold climates (snowpeas, watercress, acorn, etc) at high altitudes are common, though this sounds horrible bc you cant really Get them anywhere else in euchronia.

nidia because of the Everything read to me as having a high dependence on magla-rich food and stuff that grows low to the ground. a lot of root vegetables (carrots, potatoes, turnips) and berries (straw, blue, the likes) that can be infused during the growing process. lot of emphasis on eye health on that note (leafy greens, citrus, probably raise a lot of chickens for eggs in their villages). theyre very fae folk inspired to me so i imagine a lot of their delicacies are an important part of their culture (muffins, candied flowers, tarts, yknow)

paripus probably take a lot after recession foods given their status and wide-spreadedness, a lot of cheap options like rice, beans, grains, fruits and meat dried. however i also see them as having a large amount of "leftovers" or "community" foods yknow? stuff like hunters stew or bread pudding or salads, generally stuff you can make with what's left over after a big meal and you can share with other people. i think they probably have a lot of "loose" recipes with easy replacements or things you can swap out if you don't have them.

eugief society is analogous to japanese culture if you look at the architectural styles of heismay's village and his clothing so they probably have a lot that's taken from there haha. fish, savory foods, big on spices and they probably invented some form of oil frying. i imagine that the area between oceana and euchronia is heavy in rice production due to the hot and humid climate, on that note

mustari are very analogous to southeast asian/pacific islander culture! lot of rice, game, seafood, emphasis on pairing sweet with salty or savory. i imagine a lot of steamed or roasted foods. mustari that came to the capital or montario probably ended up having to mix traditional styles with the ones present there, esp due to the lack of ingredients that were only capable of being found on the archipelago (side note: here's a nice article about this stuff that i found interesting)

as for elda theyre like. they remember shit from the old world. i know this probably just means they understand how to cook meat the best and get how to properly process certain foods with what cooking material but what if will came out and showed people how to make french fries. imagine

[machveil]

I like the idea of Simon cooking because of how it’s methodical, practical, and creative all at the same time; rations taste like ass and he’s been enough places to have a good variety of things to try (and no it’s not to beat the stereotype that Brits don’t season their food, Fuck You Soap you eat goddamned haggis).

Bonus idea: Someone unknowingly eating what he’s cooked and going “I wanna marry whoever made this, it’s so good” and him perking up subtley because he may or may not have a thing for them.

Sorry if I’m blowing your inbox up, just developed COD brainrot and love your stuff

no, anon - keep blowing up my inbox, I’m here to feed everyone’s CoD brainrot<3 I love seeing inbox notifications for CoD

Simon loves cooking, I agree. he’s been all over the world, he knows what he likes to eat. he’ll take a good, hardy steak and potatoes dinner any day, but he also likes to branch out. when he first joined the military he heard about how “street food is the best” wherever you go - it’s not pricey and it’s usually a good baseline for what the food is like in that country

I like to think Simon has a collection of recipes scribbled down from different countries he’s been to - ranges from classic street food to actual restaurant meals. he’d rather blow a bunch of money on actual food than eat rations, but he can suck it up and swallow it down. when he first started his military career he didn’t mind them (not that he thought they were good, they still sucked), but once he started eating better all he could do was compare the rations to the better food he’s tried

he doesn’t pride himself on his cooking, but he knows it’s really good. he can follow instructions without batting an eye, and he’ll experiment here and there to fit something to his taste. he doesn’t really cook for other people, but he’ll bring leftovers in sometimes if he’s just doing desk work for a day… and if you happen to snag a piece and tell him it’s good? “S’nothing, besides, it’s cold.”, he’ll shrug, voice gruff and dismissive

but when you tell him it’s the best food you’ve ever had? he’s a little taken aback - he wasn’t lying. it’s cold, a day old, he just put it together last night for a quick dinner. but, he can’t deny his ego soars a little, the offer to cook you a hot meal on the tip of his tongue

[aziraphales-library]

Hi! 👋

Do you know if there are any soldier or warrion Aziraphale fics around? The concept is he was a soldier prefall due to how in the tv show Aziraphale hints sometimes that he fought in the war.

Possibly ones where nobody knows/hid how powerful and strong he actually is until something happens and he has to reveal it.

The only fic I could find was "Being Gentle" by "Sodium_Azide" but I would like to read more if there are others.

Thanks a bunch! ❤️

Hey! Here are some soldier Aziraphale fics...

Lucky Shot by wyrmy (M)

Crowley makes a few discoveries about Aziraphale's natural physical abilities and starts having ideas about things they might get up to together in the bedroom.

Soldier by lalaland666 (G)

Aziraphale was a soldier. A platoon leader, even. He’d fought in the War, in the Rebellion, and he’d been good at it. Good at fighting. Good at killing. That didn’t mean he had liked it.

Hang up your ensign, let your drums be still by hapax (T)

“I am here,” the Quartermaster said sternly, “about your regimentals.” Aziraphale, regrettably, gaped. “My what?” “Your regimentals, soldier! Or perhaps I should say ex-soldier!” A disgusted sniff. “Deserter, traitor, whatever you like. I’m here to strip you of uniform, rank, insignia, command, any connection whatsoever to the Host of Heaven.” When Heaven restores one of Aziraphale’s repressed memories of the War of the Rebellion, it threatens to destroy the tentative relationship he has begun to forge post-Notpocalypse with his hereditary enemy.

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky by SilverMirror12 (T)

“Aziraphale, they want to kill you!” “Oh good.” Aziraphale turned to look over the horizon Gabriel and Sandalphon had been thrown beyond. “It’s always nice to be on the same page.”

Who Dares, Wins by Santillatron (M)

Aziraphale is an officer in the British Army. He hears about a fellow Brit captured somewhere he shouldn't have been, who is being kept far behind enemy lines and is apparently holding up miraculously well against the German methods of persuasion. He absconds to rescue him accompanied by a small band of men who decide to tag along, and the rest, as they say, is history...

Saunter a Mile in my Shoes by LoveLettersUnsent (T)

In War there are no winners, only losers. It was an eternity ago but Aziraphale and Crowley were shaped by their actions in the First War. They're about to learn first hand what the other did that fateful day - a secret neither has told the other in over 6000 years. Adam was just trying to help, but you know what they say about good intentions... The question is will their friendship survive it? Or will it burn like sulfur for something new to grow in its place? Welcome to the Start times...

And the one you mentioned...

Being Gentle by Sodium_Azide (M)

Principalities are built for war. Only for war. However, as bewildering as it may be, on Earth sometimes peace breaks out. He felt like a siege catapult attempting to skip pebbles on a pond. Aziraphale, a very gentle angel created to defend Eden against all of the horrible might of Hell, does his very best to be soft.

- Mod D

[earthstellar]

Currently combing through the Transformers Exodus novel, as I often do.

Some notes, by which I mean, this is going to be long:

Using an Abandoned Hydraulic Mining Facility as a Battle Arena: This Sort Of Happened in Real Life -- Know Your Labour History

The building in Kaon that is used by Megatron for gladiatorial battle is an abandoned hydraulics works, and on the page prior to this it refers to extremely deep slag pits, which indicates this hydraulics facility was almost certainly used for mining. The location is given specifically as "to the south of Kaon's centre".

This makes me wonder if the now-abandoned Orgreave Coking Plant may have been some inspiration to someone somewhere in building the backstory; A coking plant uses massive amounts of hydraulic machinery and components, and the location of this specific facility is to the south of the centre of Rotherham.

Plenty of Brits work on Transformers, and I wonder if any English people who may have been on the team for developing the Aligned Continuity bible/character backstories might have thought of Orgreave as some kind of inspiration.

It's worth noting Orgreave Coking Plant was famously the site of a huge labour dispute which turned into a borderline Battle of Harlan situation, called the Battle of Orgreave in 1984.

Which makes it excellent potential inspiration, both visually and in terms of historical significance in union/labour and working class struggle against the oppressive upper class- A significant theme in Transformers.

Nearby, there is also the abandoned Orgreave Colliery, and while all abandoned collieries would fit the mechanical and dark, heavy design of Kaon, Tarn (the location, not the bot) and so on, it's still worth pointing out that Orgreave has plenty of industrial ghosts (abandoned industrial facilities).

That having been said, hydraulic mining works could also refer to actual hydraulic mining methods rather than just any hydraulic machinery present, which would also explain the large pits that Orion Pax sees at the site in Kaon, and would add another level of horror: Using fluids to carry out this type of mining would be a huge hazard to bots. I'd imagine rusting was a common problem, not to mention gradual armour/frame wear, increased fall/slip hazards for most frame types, etc.

CONTENT WARNING: Here's where some medical conjecture begins, you might want to skip this section if you're sensitive to medical discussions! There is no detailed comparison to any particular real world cases in this segment, however there is brief mention of ableism in a fictional context.

This would also account for the description of optics and audials needing more frequent repair even prior to suffering any gladiatorial damage--

--In some frame types, these components/sensory systems may be more exposed to the environmental pollution as mentioned in the text, but also, would be sensitive to abrasive damage from spray back/high pressure soil/stone/crystal like particulate materials present in Cybertron's surface and sub-surface layers acting essentially as sand paper against their bodies as they worked in any such hydraulic mining sites.

This is the type of shit Kaonite workers in these mining facilities were likely exposed to on a regular basis, because they are Cybertronians and could physically tolerate this kind of thing without dying-- At least, not right away.

A combination of repeated extreme wear, chronic overwork, likely poor medical resources, and complicating factors like questionable access to healthy fuels etc. would have inevitably resulted in a generally very unwell population with high workplace casualty rates.

This was the type of life most low class/caste heavy labour designated frame types were assigned to, under the Functionist system.

I've talked about my headcanons re: hearing disabled Megatron before, and it's kind of interesting to see that canonically here, that's very much possible. Audial damage from mining, audial damage from the fighter's ring.

But in general, the Kaonite population is seriously at risk, especially medically. Same deal with other low class/caste designated regions across Cybertron. Much like many Appalachian mining populations, where COPD is as common as flies in summer, the chronically poor health of this population would be staggering in comparison to better-off polities like Iacon.

Rust in their optics, rotting their optical components from within, likely leaving many workers sightless--

--At which point they were probably deemed "useless" under the ableist Functionist system, as they would then likely be unable to work their prior jobs or would only be able to work in limited or different capacities; Any system that determines worth by perceived functionality is inherently ableist, and Primus knows there were almost certainly no disability accommodations provided or available potential repairs/treatments in places like Kaon on Cybertron.

As a result, these newly disabled bots were likely left unemployed and therefore without any income source for Shanix, therefore left to their deaths via fuel deprivation etc.--

--Unless they fell in with mob-controlled sources of materials or aid, as a last resort...

Apparently Megatron Displaced The Local Kaonite Mafia: Pit Bosses Could Be Mob Bosses Too

This is also a real thing, as a lot of productive industrial facilities (not just mining, but textiles etc.) were often tied into in local black market raw material goods and organised crime shit, owing to less than moral site owners and company bosses. (At least in the USA, it may have varied in other countries or from region to region.)

This is because if you have a productive facility, you can make a fuckload of money bypassing any common sense safety rules or proper waste/product handling or disposal protocols etc. and skip the whole regulated market and just go right to making a fuckzillion moneys from whoever will buy this shit illegally.

(This is part of why a lot of Appalachia is polluted to hell and back-- Even at the time, a lot of these industrial works and companies knew perfectly well that dumping coal ash and other horrible shit into every single river and creek available was a bad idea. They did it anyway. Why? It saved money overall and they didn't have to pay for more long distance drivers to reach actual approved waste sites etc.

For those of you who may not be familiar with this USA specific shit, let me introduce you to the concept of a Superfund Site. It's depressing. Most are former industrial illegal waste dumping sites. These places are so fucked up that even the American Government was forced to acknowledge how bad it is. Some of them are straight up literal nuclear waste sites.)

This has been a huge problem in American industrial history, because America can turn out some very, very productive sites using very, very unsafe and cruel means to force workers to work. Paying in scrip etc. were all methods to ensure a workforce could not leave. And so on.

Not to mention the horrendous impact on Native populations, the poor in general, immigrants in general, etc. who were all subject to the worst possible treatment throughout.

And there are many modern examples too-- Not just in the USA, but in many places around the world, such as Peru. Note that capitalism is often the facilitator of mistreatment, pollution, etc. and serves as the motivating factor for much of this fuckery worldwide. This also includes factors like western companies wanting to appear more "green", so they simply go abroad to abuse people in other nations and exploit their labour and raw labour products instead.

Capitalism is the root problem, on Earth and evidently, likely on Cybertron as well.

Can you imagine the amount of Shanix these fucking Kaonite mob bosses were making, possibly from selling raw materials and energon crystals mined in Kaon to other polities with fewer natural resources, arranging illicit under the table deals with large energy distributors etc. in other regions? Depriving Kaon of its own natural goods and stealing the near-entirety of their labour, constantly, endlessly?

(If this all reminds you a bit of Marx's Theory of Alienation, you are correct.)

Much of Kaon is, essentially, a Superfund Site. Dangerous industrial waste, materials, and abandoned facilities, all affecting the population in all sorts of ways into perpetuity even long after one industry dies and another rises-- Or a new industry never comes along, and you end up with even worse off sections of an already brutally deprived area, living in the remnants of an equally hellish past that was just marginally better enough to make some bots yearn for the good old days of having a job to be worked to death at.

If this is relatable or frustrating to you, you are correct. These are all real world problems. It's easy to relate to the plight of the Kaonites-- Megatron, at this time, is still largely a sympathetic figure to many.

Because of course, even from the outside, it is clear that this degree of suffering cannot be sustained. Even Orion Pax recognises this, despite his own total lack of exposure and lack of class awareness at the time in which he initially starts speaking with Megatron.

Anyway. Briefly back to our real world example, because it's important here:

All of this capitalist corruption is another example of systemic level rot; A lot of the time regulators knew that facilities were engaging in illegal dumping and worker rights abuses etc. but couldn't do anything about it due to a lack of federal involvement and lack of means or resources to raise a larger case or investigation on the scale that would be needed.

And of course, some regulators and investigators were paid off. Sigh.

It's genuinely impressive that Megatron was able to run off an industrial crime syndicate, because that shit goes very deep and has lots of tendrils that tie into pretty much everything else going on in a given area, especially in towns or regions where only one or two industries make up the entirety of everything.

It doesn't surprise me at all that Megatron gained such a large following so quickly.

Nobody else in Cybertron was willing or able to acknowledge (let alone try to address) the horrible abuses going on in Kaon.

Endless, brutal labour, often resulting in horrible deaths. No reward for any of their work, with much of their meagre pay going to the mob and likely to companies based in other polities around Cybertron, so none of the materials or money ever stayed local. No care was put into their living conditions or standard of living, with most bots being used up and worn down with nothing to show for it but the industrial hell that consumed their own region.

And by getting the organised crime rings out of the local industries and community, by turning this abandoned facility into a gladiatorial ring, that provided both a more personally rewarding use of their physical skills developed through hard manual labour and gives an opportunity to gain legitimate funds and potentially fame-- Granting a social status previously completely unattainable to Kaonites, while clearly being built up on the legacy of all of their prior labour.

No wonder the appeal to follow Megatron was so strong, even in the early days.

Not even Primus helped these people, none of the Primes helped these people--- But Megatron did.

And that is powerful, to be liberated by one of your own, someone you know truly understands the difficulty and suffering and misery of a cruel, unending grind.

All that most of these bots could ever look forward to previously was dying in a hopefully not-as-painful way.

Now, there is potential for a genuinely tangibly better future, quite possibly for the first time in Kaon's history. Certainly for the first time within living memory.

Megatron turned an immiserated local population with no hope and no prospects beyond being worked to death into up-and-coming athletic stars with a burgeoning sports industry, using their local culture and previously disparaged frame types to prove the inherent wrongness of the class/caste system to a literal mass audience.

Megatron essentially took waste from the Cybertronian equivalent of colliery spoil tips and used it to forcibly create some kind of real hope and better future for every Kaonite, both individually and gradually on a larger regional scale, while living under an oppressive system that was just as likely to kill him in the same way as it had been killing everyone else around him his entire existence.

Megatron turned an industrial hell into a revolutionary city-state.

And he started local, he started with the injustices closest to him, what was visible rot to him in the environment he grew up in. Start small, strategize, your morals are your fuel-- In part because they keep stealing the fuel we mine. Does that seem fair? Does that seem just? What sense does it make, to have a system in which your most important workers are kept deprived and struggling into perpetuity?

He is the perfect Cybertronian revolutionary, he is the figurehead the people of Kaon needed, and his words were heard planet-wide from an arena he facilitated the building of himself, that he reclaimed from decay and loss.

From the bare frame structure of an abandoned mining pit, Megatron spoke words that inspired the downtrodden and lifted up countless impoverished populations through solidarity, the collective power of the working class, the low caste bots, the low class frame types.

The people that were previously discarded, were now using their means and their frames for their own purposes, gradually weakening the grip of the Council, gradually proving to more and more bots that this system is broken and this world can be better and we deserve better, and by any means, we will obtain better. We will make it better, with or without your permission.

No wonder Megatron became so powerful, so quickly.

He appealed perfectly to his people and others in similar living conditions, he articulated perfectly the flaws in oppressive Cybertronian society, he showed that different frame types can and do have multiple uses beyond the classist interpretation of their build schematics--

--All Megatron did, fundamentally, was care.

He cared about what was happening around him, he did not buy into the idea that life has to be miserable and this is the way things are and it can never change or get better, he saw and lived the awful conditions and suffered discrimination and understood that working together for each other would improve things for all.

And he acted on this understanding. There is always someone who is first to act, because there must be.

And Megatron does not act in half-measures.

I like that they mention him getting rid of the crime syndicates, here; It gives you a good idea of his morality pre-war.

It would have been easy to collaborate with these crime syndicates for some time, to secure funds for a new gladiatorial ring.

But instead, he took out the crime syndicates entirely and opted to build his arena inside an abandoned facility.

No capitulation to capital.

No money was exchanged, not a single Shanix, no deals made. No fucking around. This is Kaon, and you are no longer powerful here.

Megatron is increasingly powerful, however, because he embodied to the people the collective power of the people; He reflected themselves and their experiences back at them. But actions like this also played a large part in gaining that trust, in proving his skills and worth as a revolutionary and potential leader. It's not enough to be like everyone else. You have to prove you're not just another asshole looking to exploit everyone for influence or other personal benefit.

If you want a collective movement, it has to be about the collective. And for Megatron, it very much was. And things like this helped him prove that from very early on.

The Council and the mobs effectively have no authority anymore; They are losing control. Megatron, very quickly, becomes the accepted authority. Kaon becomes a freed city-state, it escapes the grasp of Functionism.

Standing up to one crime syndicate may not seem significant in the grander scheme of things, knowing how things occur in the story from this point onward.

But it is hugely significant-- It is a very important thing to highlight.

Because it is "smaller" things like this which are actually massively important and impactful.

And each "smaller" thing built up, and improved things for people to the point where Kaon could function entirely independently with a better off population of previously severely oppressed peoples.

Every "smaller" thing counts. Every "smaller" thing is the entire world to someone, or to a lot of someones.

How many lives were saved and debts erased, when Megatron took out this one crime syndicate?

How immediately did that improve a lot of lives, how quickly did that endear those people to him, to his ideology, to his plans for their collective future? How fast did they start listening, when he started speaking?

This is how revolution happens.

--

Anyway, thank you as always if you read any of this-- I know this got very long and it is nearly 2 AM now where I'm at, so it may have lost a bit of coherency here and there.

tl;dr labour history is important, fuck capitalism (this includes fictional capitalism), and intersectional solidarity is key to collective survival in general but especially among the working class and all groups subject to systemic oppression/discrimination in various forms

[guppybibi]

Not much of a Romancer..

𖦹 pairing: Necromancer!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x ghost!fem!reader

𖦹 word count: 1543

𖦹 content: Dead Johnny (shockers), most likely inaccurate information, maybe ooc, mild cursing, i feel like this will be a rushed slowburn

𖦹 notes: the definitions are from google lmao, idk how necromancy works but..how do u do dialogue what.

Necromancy, the practice of magic involving communication with the dead by summoning their spirits, a certain act that Simon wasn't familiar with. Yet, at least. He’s been browsing through local libraries whenever he isn't deployed, researching on this topic. It never really piqued his interest to begin with, you know? Well, not until Johnny brought it up once. It stuck with him since.

“Aye whin ah die L.T., mak' sure tae git an ouija boord or learn necromancy sae we kin still talk.” He joked, already tipsy from the amount of alcohol in his system. Simon knew he was kidding, the man was bloody drunk after all. The idea didn't seem..horrible though. Would it really work? Could he still talk with Johnny or the other undead by simply using a haunted board or using witchcraft?

Now that Johnny really was gone, it wouldn't hurt to try it out, right? Simon chose to use the Ouija board first as it looked easier than to learn literal black magic. And did it work? It definitely did! Except he wasn't talking to Johnny’s spirit, instead he was talking to a fucking demon. That could also be the late Sergeant messing with him but he wasn't taking any chances of being possessed by an actual demon, he had enough demons he was fighting internally, he didn't need any more. So he turned to the last option in his book which was learning necromancy, which certainly wasn't easier.

First, he went and browsed the endless world wide web, finding tips and tricks of what you're supposed to do or not do. It was quite useful, being able to learn in the comfort of his own house was convenient. One of the few downsides of researching on the net is the fact that the internet was a cobweb of all sorts of false information, just waiting for the users to fall right into their sticky trap. Simon wasn't one of them though, he wasn't one to trust that easily, especially strangers. So he went to the public library, a place he hasn't been to in years.

It felt like he was out of place to say the least, every heavy step he took made the aged floorboards creak, earning the librarian’s stern glare every time while he nodded his head to silently apologize. So far, the most important thing he learned to keep in mind in necromancy is respect. After all, it was the undead he was disturbing. To never forget to say things like “please” and “thank you” deemed easy enough. Sure he was a cold-hearted man, a lot of people were skeptical if he even had one in him, but he wasn't a disrespectful man. So he kept these things in mind, they were easy enough to do anyway.

So, after months of researching he finally decided to start his very first ritual. He got some chalk, some white candles to repel any negative spirit, he would've chosen to use tea candles but that wasn't the better option. Get it? Because Brits like tea? Well there were a bunch of different methods he could've used, but he chose this so it better work. He was taking this chance, the chance to speak to Johnny again, to properly say goodbye.

At last, it was time. It was the dead of night, Simon decided to perform the ritual in an abandoned building. He managed to accurately set everything up, proving that the months of studying necromancy was worth it. Then, he started the long awaited ritual. It started out smoothly, with him reciting chants and doing whatever was required for him to do. He was anticipating to hear an annoying Scottish accent to come out soon, but instead he heard..a high pitched voice? From what he could tell, it was no doubt a woman. Shit, did he just summon the spirit of an unknown dead woman? Well he had to deal with this, he can only hope it wasn't a hostile spirit. It’s his responsibility now, he can't just shove your soul back into the afterlife.

“I was having a really good rest, ya know..” The spirit starts. “Until a certain someone here decided to ruin it.” She glares at the masked man in front of her, making Simon feel like he was being pierced by sharp needles. “Sorry, that wasn't my intention.” He states the truth, sighing when he realizes his first attempt at speaking to Johnny failed. He should clean up and get going before he pisses you off even more. So he does just that, cleaning up after himself and packing up. “Hey hey, stop right there big guy.” She calls out, disappearing from where she was and reappearing right in front of him.

“You bothered my peaceful slumber, now I’m bothering you!” She announces proudly as if she had just said the best idea for vengeance. Okay, maybe it was because Simon’s ears were already starting to ring from your voice. “Sure, go follow me or whatever.” He said with an indifferent tone, he’s been through the worst things. Things that also caused his ear to ring and rupture, so he could surely handle this. From what he could tell, you seemed like you just wanted to provoke him. That's fine, at least you meant no harm. Physically at least.

And so, you did indeed follow him. No matter the occasion, rainy or sunny, you’d be right there beside him like a pesky shadow. Unless he went to the bathroom, that's where you’d finally cross the line. You still waited for him out the door like a clingy dog though. That was when he was not deployed though, you weren't exactly aware of him being a lieutenant..Sure his room seemed very soldier-like and had remnants of proof all over but he could've been just a military enthusiast or something!

Now here he was, packing all of the essentials as he prepares for deployment while you watch him intently. “Seriously? 3-in-1 shampoo? It's not even scented!” She bitches, concerned about his hygiene routine. “It's efficient and convenient.” He answers dryly, continuing to shove all of the necessities in his bags. “Where are you going anyways? Vacation?” To which he scoffs at, do you really think he's bringing a pistol to a vacation? “Did the afterlife take all of your wits too? I’m getting deployed.”

“..Deployed?” She questions. “I’m in the army.” And with that, her eyes are as wide as saucers. “Excuse me, no wait–excuse you? And you never bothered mentioning it to me once!” Then he cuts you off. “You never bothered to tell me your name. I think we're in pretty similar situations.” Her mouth is instantly zipped, he did have a point. “Oh right..well it isn't too late to get to know each other, big guy.”

“Stop calling me ‘big guy’.” “Then tell me your name. Look, I’ll even start. My name is Y/N, nice to meet you.” She starts, holding out her hand as she expects a handshake from him. Because that's how proper formal introductions start! “Ghost.” He replies blankly, getting a raised eyebrow from you. “That's it?” She sulks. “Just an alias, that's enough.”

‘What a killjoy’ she thinks, why couldn't someone more interesting make her come to life! Like maybe a group of rebellious teens or anyone but like this ‘Ghost’ guy! “Well then ‘Ghost’, let's get to know each other!” She insists. “I won't be talking to you when I’m deployed, don't want the soldiers thinking I’m a madman.” She whines, how much did she sin during her lifetime to deserve such dull torture? Before she could even open her mouth to complain, he spoke up. “If you dislike haunting me then just leave.” “I can't.” She tells, and Simon has never seen you this quiet before.

“I bet I owe you some kind of explanation huh? Looks like you didn't research enough on this necromancing disturbing the dead shit.” He nodded, admitting his mistake. “Whoever awakes the undead is the only one who can put them to rest again, you have to perform another ritual for it. So if I don't stop following you, I could possibly lose you and permanently wander as a ghost forever. I don't want that, none of the undead does.” She explained, the words are hard to get out of her. While the masked man nodded in understanding, that's why she acted like she was glued to him like honey. He thought about it, it did seem pretty shitty. You can only do so much, going around as a ghost doesn't seem like the funnest thing in the world.

“I see. Just..stick by me or whatever.” There's something in him that doesn't wanna get rid of her just yet, maybe it's his conscience? Yeah, that was for sure it. It would feel like he was purposely putting someone back in their grave, the soil being used to bury them a little too familiar to other experiences. The woman blinks a few times, burning straight through his soul as she stares at him before nodding. Looks like he was in no rush to get rid of her, that's nice. She’ll stay by his side the whole time, whether he likes it or not.