#and minorities only matter when i need their vote

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Mercy Kill | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello! This was the fic that got the most votes in the poll I ran recently, so here it is. I'm glad yall picked this one, cause I was really excited to write it!

Also, there is something wrong and I cannot tag people properly right now for some reason. So, if you are on my tallest and happen upon this fic, I'm sorry! I don't know what the fuck is going on 😭

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings: PTSD, Hydra, blood, violence, minor reader injury, Bucky injury, angsty shit

“But if I could talk to him, if I could just see him-” you pled, “just for a minute! Please, he needs me and-”

But Bucky’s doctor remained steadfast. He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to move out of your way. Behind him sat the door to Bucky’s room, the door you hadn’t been allowed to enter for hours now. Bucky was only feet away, but you couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t check on him. Couldn’t hold his hand. 

Anxiety rendered your hands completely numb. The urgent need to see him, to take care of him, to reassure him vibrated inside your chest. Every second that passed, every second that Bucky sat alone in his room in the medbay filled you with dread. Bucky needed you. You always swore you’d be there for him no matter what. But no amount of begging could get you through that door. 

The mental image of him lying in his hospital bed all by himself threatened to make your throat close. Bucky didn’t like the medbay; his PTSD reared its ugly head each time he stepped foot in the white, sterile environment. He just couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom, of pain and suffering and agony. And he didn’t like doctors, didn’t trust them. Not after he suffered so severely at the hands of Hydra’s “medical” team. 

Every time he required treatment after a mission, he refused. He fought and clawed against the gloved hands that tried to guide him onto a gurney. And only when you calmly and kindly begged him to allow the doctors to take a look at him did he relent. But he held you tight as a vice grip the entire time. The sensation of your hand in his was the only thing that kept him grounded, kept him from spiraling. With you there by his side, he found a sliver of safety amongst the white coats that poked and prodded him. 

Today, however, was different. 

Things didn’t go as smoothly as you or Bucky had hoped. And your many calls for backup went unanswered. It looked like this would be the last mission for you and Bucky. Like you’d return home in matching body bags.

But just as he was overwhelmed by Hydra operatives, completely swarmed and swallowed by their agents- the backup team arrived. Hope bloomed anew as you heard their leader’s voice in your comm, announcing that they’d breach the door in the next few seconds. And they did. They helped you take down every last Hydra agent, freeing Bucky from their clutches. 

But before you could rush to his bloodied side, a few members of the backup team whisked him away. They loaded Bucky onto their jet and set off toward the compound, leaving you and the rest of their team behind. No one listened to your pleas, your desperate insistence. They assured you that Bucky would be fine, that they’d get him the medical care he needed. But he needed you, too. He needed you to sit with him, to hold his hand. 

No such luck. 

As you boarded the jet that brought you and Bucky to the mission site, you kicked yourself for not demanding that you accompany him. It felt like you failed him, like you couldn’t keep your word. He deserved better from you. He deserved to have his anchor there by his side when the flashbacks gripped him by the throat. But you swore to yourself that you’d visit him in the medbay as soon as you landed. That you’d sit by his bedside and hold his hand.

But you didn’t- you couldn’t.

“Our new policy says no visitors,” Bucky’s doctor said. 

“I’ll do whatever I have to do,” you insisted. “I’ll sign forms, I’ll wear a visitor’s badge, I’ll-”

“No exceptions.”

Even if Bucky’s hearing hadn’t gotten a boost from the serum, you were certain he ‘d be able to hear you fighting with his doctor.  

“This is ridiculous- since when?”  Passersby gave you judgmental sideways looks, but you paid them no mind. “Every doctor and nurse here knows that he needs me. That he isn’t comfortable around doctors- he has PTSD. Please, I always sit with him-”

“Not anymore.” The doctor nodded at a security guard who took you gruffly by the arm and escorted you out. 

It didn’t make any sense. Every hospital allowed visitors. And even though the medbay wasn’t exactly your standard general hospital, they operated by most of the same rules. The always allowed visitors- sometimes two at a time. Their patients needed to see family and friends- needed a support system. And you were Bucky’s. But they stole you from his side for something as insignificant as a policy change.

With your hopes of being there for Bucky dashed, you pulled out your phone; the screen blurred as tears welled in your eyes. Bucky’s number sat the very top of your ‘favorites’ list, just as it had since you became friends. With a shaking hand, you pressed ‘call’ and held the phone to your ear. It rang. And rang and rang and rang. Until finally, Bucky’s voicemail answered. 

“You’ve reached James Barnes. Leave a message.”

“Hey, Buck,” you sniffled. “I guess you might be sleeping. Um, I had it out with your doctor in the hall, but he wouldn’t let me see you. Something about a-” you rolled your eyes, “a policy change or something. So, just… just let them take care of you, okay? I know how you feel about doctors, I know you’re probably scared- but you need to let them treat you. You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe here. And you can call or text me any time- we can facetime. Whatever you need. I’ll see you when you get out, okay? Call me.”

But he didn’t. 

Without Bucky around, your world didn’t fall into place the way it was supposed to. Everything around you felt off kilter. Disjointed. Like you’d been dropped into a universe in which you didn’t belong. Part of you was used to this feeling by now. Every time Bucky went off on a mission that didn’t include you, you found yourself in this same, fragmented reality.

But this version was far worse. Because Bucky wasn’t away, he was here; he was only a few floors away from you. But you couldn’t see him. And you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, just how uncomfortable he was. How scared and alone and miserable. He was hurt- he needed rest. But you were certain he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep in the medbay. Not with his near-pathological fear of medical treatment. 

Two days passed without you taking notice. Meetings came and went without your attendance. You missed training sessions and team dinners. None of it mattered, not without Bucky. He was all you thought about. All you cared about. Every absent thought, every passing notion revolved around him. He was in good hands in the medbay, you knew he was. But you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying about him. From spiraling.

Was he getting enough sleep? Was he allowing the doctors and nurses to care for him? Was he eating? Was he having panic attacks? You found yourself afflicted by the not knowing. By the unanswered questions. On any normal day, you knew about everything going on in Bucky’s life, every thought populating his mind. But now, you were adrift in a dark see of uncertainty. 

It didn’t help that your every attempt at contact with Bucky came up empty. Hundreds of texts went unanswered. A myriad of voicemails garnered no response. He was radio silent; it made you nauseous. He should’ve been able to text back, right? To, at the very least, give your messages a thumbs up or a heart? It was out of character- completelyunheard of- for him to not answer you. 

What if he was worse off than you thought? Was he physically incapable of even using his phone? Was he comatose? Was he dying? The possibilities were endless. Nauseating. Horrifying. Each scenario you imagined was far worse than the last. Far scarier. Far deadlier. And calls to the medbay offered no insight. You urged them to give you an update on his condition, to provide you with proof of life. But they refused.

You supposed that went against their new policy, too.

The anxiety, the worry, kept you wide awake. But even if you could sleep, you wouldn’t dare. Closing your eyes brought with it the possibility that you could miss correspondence from Bucky. Or his doctor. And you weren’t going to risk it. Hell, you even brought your phone with you into the shower. Just in case. It had been two days since you last saw Bucky. Since you last heard his voice. You wouldn’t dream of missing a call from him. 

Twice a day, you cleaned and redressed the stitches holding your side closed and appraised the butterfly stitches above your brow. Everything inside of you ached to trade places with Bucky. To swap your minor injuries for his.

He’d gotten the large brunt of the onslaught when the ambush descended on the two of you. He’d drowned in a sea of Hydra operatives as they stole his weapons and beat him within an inch of his life. He was strong, yes, but he was still only one man. And taking on throngs of Hydra’s mercenaries without a single weapon was difficult- even for him. You did your best to provide support from the sidelines, to take out as many of his attackers as you could. But it wasn’t enough. Not until the backup team arrived did the horde of Hydra agents fall.

 And now, Bucky was lying in a hospital bed. Without you. 

He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to hurt anymore. To bleed. He didn’t deserve to be in this line of work. Every other week, his assignments involved Hydra. And every other week, he was forced to retraumatize himself. Forced to see things he never wanted to see again. Forced to come face to face with people who hurt him, tortured him, treated him like an object.

For him, you wished nothing but ease. Warmth. A soft, slow life filled with love and gentle hands and safety. He never should’ve been forced to continue this kind of work. To put himself in harm’s way. To sacrifice his mental health over and over again. Hadn’t he given enough? Hadn’t he suffered enough? He did everything he could to build back his body and mind. To recover from the horrors he endured. And yet, here he was, being forced to risk his progress and peace of mind, all for a world that hated him.

On the third day of Bucky’s absence, your body begged for sleep. For a respite from the worry. For a meal that didn’t consist of Doritos and Gatorade. But you didn’t have the energy or the attention required to assemble a decent lunch. When Bucky got out of the medbay, you told yourself, the two of you would have a nice dinner together. You’d share his bed with him as you often did. And you’d both find solace in the arms of the other.

“I’m guessing we’re not going to spin class?” 

Nat’s voice yanked you out of your spiral, scaring you half to death. She leaned against the wall nearest your bed, her arms crossed over her chest. How long had she been standing there?

Nat took in the scene before her. You laid sprawled out on your bed, resembling roadkill. Your head rested where your feet should’ve been, and your feet leaned against the headboard. Your arms were stretched wide against the bedspread like a dead starfish. And your gaze rested firmly on your phone, as though you were waiting for a call.

“What?” You eyed her for a moment before dropping your head back to your mattress. “I forgot about that. Sorry.”

“You need to get out of this room,” Nat gave your shoulder a gentle shake. “And you need to stop moping. Your life can’t come to a screeching halt because Bucky’s hurt.”

“I know…” But Bucky was your life- or at least, a very, very big part of it. 

She was right, though. You knew she was right. 

But it wasn’t just that he was hurt. It wasn’t just that he was alone. Of course, those were both massive, contributing factors. But it was the missing him. It was the not seeing him, the not talking to him. The not knowing if he was scared and panicked and lonely. The two of you were inseparable; being without him felt like losing a part of yourself. Like half of your heart was missing. 

An unsettling cold seemed to worm its way under your skin without Bucky around. The world was a darker, utterly freezing place. No number of sweatshirts or blankets could keep the chill from biting at your skin. No heating pad could stop the frequent shivers. Somehow, your insides fell to subzero, Siberian temperatures. But after a while, you didn’t care anymore. You stopped trying to rid your body of the piercing, bitter cold. Only Bucky could do that. And he wasn’t coming back to you any time soon.

“It just sucks,” you groaned. A small shiver rocketed up your spine.

“I know. But it’s not like he’s dead.”

“I’m talking about the whole policy change thing in the medbay. It’s bullshit. Bucky needs me,” you let out a frustrated huff. “I mean, when did they put that in place? And why? It doesn’t even make sense.”

Nat furrowed her brow, “policy change?”

“Yeah, the new rule that doesn’t allow any visitors,” 

“Oh. Right. That.” Nat threw her gaze to the window. Cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t know why they’d do that. But yeah, it sucks. Anyway,” she took a seat on your bed, “if you get changed, we can still make it to cycle. Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

You shook your head against the mattress. “You should go without me. I haven’t slept at all the last few nights- I barely have the energy to breathe. I can’t even fathom taking a spin class right now.” 

It was the truth. You didn’t have it in you to spend an hour burning calories you desperately needed. To waste your limited energy on something so trivial. But if you were completely honest with Nat, you’d tell her that the class would force you to focus on something other than your phone. And if you missed a call or text from Bucky because of something as stupid as a workout class, you’d lose your mind.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Nat sighed. “We can-”

“Hey!” Hill leaned against your doorframe, dressed in her workout clothes. “Are you guys ready for class?”

Nat stood and took a few steps in maria’s direction. “Well, I am. But she’s not coming with us.”

A frown pulled Maria’s features downward, “What? Why not?”

“She wants to stay here and wallow about Barnes,” Nat told her. 

“They’re not letting me visit him in the medbay,” you groaned in Maria’s direction. “And I haven’t heard from him at all. So, I’m just-”

Confusion pulled Maria’s brows together. “But he got out of the medbay,” she said. “Yesterday.”

The energy you claimed not to have sprung forth all at once. In a matter of seconds, you were standing upright and crossing the room toward Maria; the quick nature of it all made you a little dizzy. 

“What do you mean he got out?”

She was shocked by your intensity, “Um, I mean, he was released-”

“Released to where?” you demanded. “Like, they transferred him to another hospital? Or-”

“No, released as in discharged,” she said. “They let him leave around six-thirty last night.”

Last night? If Bucky was released last night, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he sent you a text or dropped by your room? Was he that depleted? That worse for wear? The suffocating worry rushed back in full force. But you didn’t care about the crushing weight on your chest or the restriction of your windpipe. Bucky was back. He was healed enough to be released. And he was right down the hall.

Before Nat and Maria could stop you, you took off like a bat out of hell. Clumsy steps carried you down the hall and sent you careening into passersby every few feet. They mumbled curses under their breath and told you watch where you were going, but you didn’t have it in you to care. Stopping wasn’t an option, not when Bucky was finally within reach once again.

As you screeched to a halt outside his door, you raised your fist to knock frantically against the wood. But before your knuckles could strike the door’s surface, you recoiled. There was a very substantial possibility that he was sleeping. He was hurt, after all. And he needed his rest. Instead of a boisterous, borderline-obnoxious knock, you opted to lightly tap the wood with your knuckles. If Bucky was awake, he’d hear it. 

But no answer came. After a few moments, you gave the door another gentle knock. Again, nothing. If he was asleep, there was no telling when you’d see him. He could be asleep for half the day, and you’d have to wait as long to reunite with him. Would it be too pushy to just let yourself in? Bucky was used to it by now- you both were. If one of you was already asleep, the other would often let themselves in and crawl into bed. It was just what you did; it was commonplace within your friendship. 

And though you didn’t want to disturb him, your selfish side won out. Your hand found the doorknob and gave it a slow turn- but it didn’t fully give way. It stopped after twisting only a few millimeters. Locked. 

“He needs to rest,” Nat called from down the hall. “I don’t think you should bother him- just let him sleep it off.”

Again, she was right.  

And so, with slumped shoulders and shattered hopes, you dragged yourself back to your room. Once you’d collapsed onto your bed, you snagged your phone from its resting place and fired off a few quick messages to Bucky.

“Hey, Hill said they released you from the medbay!”

“I just dropped by your room but got no answer. Call me when you wake up :)”

“I don’t wanna disturb you or anything, but I miss you, Buck.”

The hours inched by with no response from Bucky. You did your best to avoid staring at your phone, reminding yourself that a watched pot never boils. But you couldn’t help yourself. Every few seconds, you had to sneak a peek at the screen in search of Bucky’s name. And every time, you found yourself disappointed. Broken-hearted, really. 

Of course, this wasn’t the longest you’d ever gone without seeing Bucky. Many past missions stole him from your side for weeks at a time- sometimes even months. But the complete and utter lack of communication was new. No matter how dangerous a mission got, not matter how risky it was- you both still found a way to contact the other. Whether it was a short “I’m okay” text or a seconds-long phone call, a quick correspondence from the battlefield provided a reassurance that was desperately, desperately needed.

Sitting at home while your best friend faced life-threatening danger was never easy. When Bucky was away, you tore off every fingernail, biting them down until they bled. And anytime it was you on the frontlines while Bucky rode the bench, he started climbing the walls; he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, until you got home. 

The two of you simply weren’t meant to be apart.

Without those reassuring texts, you felt yourself losing your mind. You did your best to hook your nails in, to fight and claw to retain your grip on your sanity. But you didn’t have it in you. And so, your nails fell by the wayside. In only a matter of minutes, your fingers were reduced to a bloody horror scene. Every cuticle was in tatters, every quick exposed. Your hands throbbed and stung, but you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. 

Four more days passed without word from Bucky. You texted. You knocked on his door. You called. You even slipped a note or two under his door. And still, nothing.

The worry slowly devoured you, one piece at a time. With your sanity long gone and your optimism dashed, nothing remained but pure, undiluted panic. And though you already decimated your nails, you gnawed at them anyway, digging your teeth into any free piece of flesh you could find. You wondered if this was how things were going to be forever. Would Bucky ever return to you? Or would you always feel this empty, aching void? 

On the seventh night without Bucky, you didn’t have it in you to even lay on your bed. You knew it would take what little life you had left to heave yourself up onto the mattress. And the effort simply wasn’t worth it. Had there ever before been anyone this pathetic? This broken and utterly hopeless? 

“What are you doing?” Nat loomed over you, taking in the scene. She found you lying face down on your bedroom floor, utterly despondent. “You didn’t want to lay in your bed? It’s almost midnight, you should-”

“I still haven’t heard from him,” you muttered into the carpet. “Why haven’t I heard from him?’

Nat knelt down next to you and gave your shoulder a tug, rolling you onto your back. 

“Hi,” she gave you a wave.

“Hi.” You didn’t wave back- you didn’t have the energy.

Nat gave you a long look. She noted your messy hair, your limp body, the dark circles under your eyes. “I’m not trying to be a dick here, but you don’t look so good.” 

“I don’t feel so good, either,” you shrugged. “I think I might be dying.”

Nat eyed you with pity. She knew how deeply you cared about Bucky. How much he meant to you. And she knew just how hard you were taking his injury and subsequent absence. For the past week, she hadn’t seen you eat anything other than a few chips here and there. She knew for certain you hadn’t gotten even a wink of sleep. And the bloody splotches where your nails used to be sent up a litany of red flags. 

“I’m so… I’m so worried about him, Nat,” tears trailed down your face. “This is so unlike him- we never go this long without speaking.”

Nat stoked your arm a bit, “I know.”

“What if he’s not okay? He could be dying, and we wouldn’t have any idea.”

She gave your hand a squeeze, “Come on, don’t think like that. I’m sure he’s alright-”

You shook your head, “I keep calling down to the medbay. I keep telling them that there’s something wrong- that they need to check on Bucky. But his doctor is…” you gave a frustrated huff. “He’s being weird. It’s like he’s being evasive, or something. I don’t know why he isn’t more worried- I don’t have any idea what’s going on.”

Nat let out a long, heavy sigh. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose for a long moment. This was the moment she’d hoped to avoid, the moment she dreaded all week. 

“Alright, um, I wasn’t supposed to say anything- I wasn’t supposed to tell you this. But…” She gave you another long, sympathetic look. “You’re very obviously not okay. And I think that, if I don’t tell you the truth, you might actually die-”

Suddenly, you bolted upright. “Tell me what?”

“Bucky’s fine.”

Your shoulder’s slumped forward and you ran a hand down your face. Nat had no proof to back up her claim. No evidence. “But how do you know-”

“Because I’ve gone to see him,” Nat said, just above a whisper. “Multiple times.”

The world came to a screeching halt. Nat was allowed to see him? But you weren’t? Of course, Nat and Bucky were friends. But they weren’t nearly as close and you and Bucky- hell, you didn’t think anyone had ever been as close as you and Bucky.  

Nat continued. “He’s a little banged up, but he’s alright. He’s just been hanging out in his room. Reading. Watching tv. That kind of stuff.”

The confirmation that Bucky was, in fact, okay helped you breathe a little easier. The pounding headache pulsating behind your eyes relented a bit, the knots in your stomach loosened ever so slightly. But you didn’t find ease. Not yet. 

“But why didn’t he-”

Nat didn’t want to say it. She didn’t wanna tear you apart and burn your world. She didn’t want to be your personal messenger of destruction. But one look at you and your pitiful, heartbroken form gave her the resolve to be honest. You deserved honesty. 

“Because he’s mad at you.”

It was the most preposterous thing Nat could’ve said. Not once over the course of your entire friendship had Bucky ever been mad at you. Sure, he pretended to be mad when you snuck a bite of his dessert or beat him at cards. But he never got mad at you for real. 

But, you told yourself, there’s a first time for everything. 

You knew you were capable of fucking up. Of committing transgressions against others. But for the life of you, you couldn’t think of a single thing that would make Bucky angry enough to completely ignore you like this. You racked your brain, shaking loose its contents in search of anything that might warrant the coldest shoulder you’d ever experienced. But you found nothing. 

It didn’t matter, though. If Bucky felt slighted, if he felt like you hurt him in some way- who were you to say that you hadn’t? Who were you to claim innocence?

“What? Why?” You looked to Nat for help. “What did I do?”

“Something about a broken promise,” Nat shrugged. “But that’s all I’ll say. This isn’t any of my business. And I-”

A long silence filled the room as you thought about this new revelation. Nat’s words allowed you to look back on the past week with a new perspective. You saw things in a new light, a new context.

“So, there wasn’t a policy change-”

Nat gave a somber shake of her head. “He just… he didn’t want to see you.”

And just like that, Nat gutted you. You could’ve sworn she ripped out your still-beating heart with her bare hands and splattered the carpet with your blood. 

He didn’t want to see you.

He didn’t want to see you.

The words reverberated inside your inside your skull. Their razor-sharp edges sliced into you time and time again, leaving you breathless and aching. Over the course of the last week, you thought you’d reached the deepest pit of despair, the darkest possible recesses of agony. But you were wrong. There were deeper and darker, more excruciating places- and you found yourself in the depths of the most miserable, agonizing one of all.

“I was able to visit him in the medbay. So was Sam,” she told you. “He wasn’t all alone like you thought. He had us there with him to make sure he was doing okay. I mean he still struggled- you’re definitely better at giving him peace of mind than I am- but…” 

Nat gave a shake of her head, clearing from her mind the image of Bucky having a massive panic attack in the medbay. His raspy inhales, his shaking hands, his wide, vacant eyes. Flashbacks plagued him each and every day down in the medbay. Medication didn’t touch his violent, soul-crushing episodes of PTSD. And Sam and Nat found themselves at a loss. 

They did their best to be there for him, to help him find ease and comfort. But there was something missing. And that something was you. Nat even suggested to Sam that they sneak you into Bucky’s room. She proposed that, just maybe, Bucky’s need for your reassurances would outweigh his anger. And maybe upon seeing you, he’d drop his grievances and allow you to help him wade through the dark, choppy waters. 

But super soldier senses be damned, Bucky overheard her idea; he vetoed it immediately.

“And his doctor seemed so unconcerned on the phone because he knows that Bucky’s fine- he checks on Bucky every day.” Nat let out a sigh of relief, as though she’d been holding her breath for days. “So, at the very least, you know Bucky’s okay. And now, you kind of know what’s going on. Do you want me to-”

Nat didn’t get to finish her sentence. Or maybe she did. You weren’t sure. Because before she could get the rest of the words out, you were gone. The panic coursing through your veins reinvigorated your depleted body, carrying you frantically in the direction of Bucky’s room. 

Your knuckles struck his door before your feet came to a stop. 

“Buck. Buck, it’s me-” you pounded on his door. “Can we please talk? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Silence. 

Your knuckles stung against the wood, but you paid them no mind. “Please! I just want to- please, let me apologize.” 

No answer. 

“Buck, I’m…” Tears flowed freely down your cheeks. Your lungs burned from lack of oxygen. A crushing ache settled into every fiber of your being. And your strong knocks deflated into weak, pitiful pats. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so…”

He wasn’t going to answer. You knew he wasn’t. But some part of you didn’t want to accept it. Didn’t want to acknowledge that you’d lost Bucky- possibly forever. A tidal wave of weakness launched itself at you, robbing your body of the faux strength granted by the adrenaline. 

Your hands found purchase against the opposite wall and guided you clumsily to the floor. With your back propped against the wall and your knees tucked into your chest, you stared at Bucky’s door. Waiting. He couldn’t stay in his room forever. Eventually, he’d have to return to work or visit the kitchen. And when he did, you’d be ready.

Because no matter how grim it all seemed-no matter how soul-crushingly hopeless your situation- you had to try. Bucky was worth it. Your friendship was worth it. Of course, if he told you to fuck off and never speak to him again, it would hurt. It would destroy you. But at least you’d never have to wonder. If you didn’t try, the not-knowing, the what-ifs wouldn’t haunt you in the middle of the night. 

You didn’t care if the odds were egregiously stacked against you. If there was any chance at reconciliation, you were going to do everything in your power to make it happen. 

It didn’t matter if you had to wait hours, days, weeks- you’d be there. You’d sleep in the hall, eat in the hall. Whatever it took. You’d wait a lifetime. 

Lucky for you, a lifetime wasn’t required. Because after only four and a half hours, Bucky’s door opened. And for the first time in a week, you caught a glimpse of your best friend.

He was unshaven, his facial hair a little longer than normal. The gash on his forehead was almost completely healed. And the bruises that used to stain his cheek and jaw were nowhere to be seen. The knuckles of his right hand, though, retained their dark purples and inky blues. And the skin under his eyes matched; you knew instantly he hadn’t been sleeping. 

But he looked so good, so beautiful. They way his hair fell in his eyes. The worn sweatshirt- the sweatshirt you gave him. Had he always been this perfect? This breathtaking? Of course, he had. It was stupid of you to even ask.

Seeing him again was like being saved from drowning. Like the first gulp of air after being swept away by a rogue riptide. Your lungs filled to capacity for the first time in a week. Your muscles released their hardened knots. And the ever-encroaching sense of biting cold vanished. In its place grew the warmest, most comforting summer. 

Somehow, he didn’t even notice you sitting across hall. You knew he must’ve thought he’d waited you out. That you were long gone by now. But he clearly underestimated your stubbornness. Your determination. Your love for him. 

The door was only open wide enough to allow him to place a tray of used dishes on the floor. And in the few seconds it took for him to do so, you launched into action.

“Hey!”

Bucky’s head snapped up. He locked eyes with you for a moment. And in that moment, you could’ve sworn he looked happy to see you. Relieved to see you. 

His momentary pause gave you just enough time to rush to his door. You placed your hand along the frame, curling your fingers inside the jamb. If Bucky wanted to slam the door and shut you out, he’d have to crush your hand in the process. And no matter how angry he was with you, he’d never hurt you. 

He let out an exasperated huff at the site of your strategically place hand. This was exactly the kind of thing he used to applaud you for. The quick wit and sharp thinking that he so admired about you. 

“Buck, can we please talk?” you pled. “Whatever I did, whatever promise I broke-”

A sigh deflated his chest, “You talked to Nat.”

“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry,” the words fell frantically, wildly out of your mouth. “I’ve never been sorrier in my life. I’d never, ever want to hurt you-”

“That’s the problem.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it made perfect sense. As though it made any sense at all.

You wiped a few stray tears from your cheek, “What does that mean?”

With a huff, Bucky encircled your wrist with his fingers and pulled you inside. He didn’t like the looks the passersby shot your direction. The way they ogled and whispered as though witnessing a car wreck on the highway. 

Finally, after the longest week of your life, Bucky granted you entry to your favorite place. He did so begrudgingly, but you didn’t care. This room felt more like home than anywhere else in the world. It wasn’t the furnishings or the design that you loved so much; both were rather sparse. It was the memories. The countless nights spent watching movies in Bucky’s bed. The laughter, the tears, the deep heart to heart talks. 

When Bucky first moved in, he didn’t leave this room for quite some time- not even for meals. And that was how you first got him to trust you. Every day, you gently knocked on his door and delivered breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and snacks. It was your way of welcoming him to the building, of making him feel comfortable in a new place with new people. And of course, you couldn’t let the soft-spoken man with the kind blue eyes starve to death.

It took him weeks- maybe months- to finally invite you in. And once he finally did, all bets were off. The two of you became inseparable from that moment on, spending nearly every night in this room, seeking the comforts of one another.

But this moment was nothing like those of the past. This was awkward. Cold. Quiet. The tension hanging in the air grew so thick, so heavy that you wondered if your lungs might actually collapse.  You waited for Bucky to speak first. And waited. And waited. And waited. But he didn’t say a word. He simply leaned against the wall, avoiding your eyeline. 

Finally, the uncomfortable, permeating silence pushed you to speak.

“I’m- I don’t understand what’s going on. I just know that I fucked up somehow. And I know-” you rolled your eyes at yourself. “I know I said this a million times already, but I’m sorry. Whatever I can do to fix this and make it up to you, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky considered your words for a while, letting the silence drag on as he mulled over your sentiment. He knew you were serious, knew you meant what you said. But it was too late.

“You made me a promise,” he said. “And you broke it.” 

Truth be told, you’d made him a lot of promises over the course of your friendship. Promises to give him the pickle spear that came with your sandwich at the deli. To watch all of Game of Thrones with him without spoiling anything. To listen, to be open-minded, to never judge him for his past. You promised to always be there when the nightmares tore him to shreds and to be honest with him when he needed to hear the truth. You promised to be kind to him, to protect him. To remind him of his goodness when his demons called him a monster.

And above all else, you promised to never, ever hurt him. You took these promises upon yourself without Bucky even asking. And as far as you knew, you’d kept them all. 

“Which promise? I don’t-”

“What’s my worst fear?” Bucky asked. His tone calm, like he was asking you trivia questions about himself.  “The thing that scares me more than anything else? The thing that keeps me up at night and makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about it?”

And without skipping a beat, you answered, “Being taken by Hydra again.”

Your eyes opened wide. It was then that the puzzle pieces fell into place. 

A guttural sound burst from your lips. It was haunted and broken, like a wounded animal��s final cry of pain before surrender. It ripped through the room and echoed off the walls; Bucky flinched as the sound barreled into him. Your nose burned, warning you of oncoming tears. Both of your hands clapped firmly over your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds of sorrow and shame. The attempt was unsuccessful.

And the deepest, darkest pit of guilt opened inside your stomach. 

The promise. That promise.

“When I told you about that fear- my greatest fear,” Bucky continued. “I asked you to make me a promise. Do you-” his voice wavered ever so slightly. He did his damnedest to fight it, to build a blockade against the oncoming emotion. But his eyes grew glassy with tears, anyway. “Do you remember what that promise was?” 

Even with his enhanced senses, Bucky struggled to hear your thin, hollow whisper.

“That I’d kill you…” you rasped. “If you were ever at risk of being taken by Hydra again, I’d kill you.”

The memory of your latest mission with Bucky barreled into you like a train. 

He was overwhelmed- buried- by the deluge of Hydra operatives. They came at him from every possible angle, swarming him before he even had a chance to react. Even with his super-human strength, he was no match for the volume, the sheer barrage of assailants. Seconds after they descended upon him, his weapons were lost, ripped from his hands and thrown far out of reach. He didn’t have enough room to breathe, let alone fight. Knives plunged into his flesh, setting loose a river of crimson. And heavy batons pummeled his face and head, leaving him dizzy. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he felt them pulling him, dragging him toward a doorway. Toward an unknown, and certainly horrific, fate. But through it all, he managed to call to you- to scream to you- one phrase. 

“Do it!” he begged. “Do it! DO IT!” 

The pain, the sheer terror in his voice, sent a flurry of goosebumps rushing over your skin. The head trauma you received only moments before left you dazed, and the knife wound in your side made breathing almost impossible. Blood oozed down the side of your face and painted your vision red. But you found the wherewithal to aim and shoot- at everyone except Bucky.

“Oh, Buck, I’m…” you stumbled back a few paces, the sheer weight of your guilt knocking you off balance. Your back crashed against the nearest wall with a thud. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Hot bile rose in the back of your throat, saliva coated the inside of your mouth. You forced greedy inhales through your nose, hoping to stave off the nausea. “I don’t know what to say…”

Bucky didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. You wondered if he was even breathing. He just stood there with a broken, tormented look on his face. He didn’t allow himself to blink, didn’t allow the tears gathering along his lash line to fall. He simply curled his metal fingers into a tight fist before spreading them wide again. Over and over and over again. It was a subconscious act, an anxious tendency he often displayed when his mind grew dark and uninhabitable. And, more often than not, it was your cue to step in. To rush to his side and save him from the torment. 

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were the last person he wanted to see- he’d made that abundantly clear. And even if he wanted to you hold his hand as you always did, you couldn’t move. The guilt weighed you down, turning your feet into blocks of cement.

“I know- I know I said that I’d do it, but I…” A fresh wave of tears crested over your lash line and flooded your cheeks. “I couldn’t.”

“You promised,” Bucky’s voice was so anguished, so despondent. “You swore to me that you could- that you would.”

“The backup team was in my ear,” your words dripped with deperation. “I heard them in my comm- I knew they were there, I knew they were only a few feet away-”

“But I didn’t!” he erupted. “My comm fell out- I had no idea they were there! I thought-” His voice splintered; his rage shattered, setting free a tsunami of despair. “I thought I was going back!” 

And finally, his tears broke through. They saturated his skin in seconds as they rolled down his cheeks and dripped into his beard. Shivers rippled up and down his body. Goosebumps covered his skin. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. Just the thought of being dragged back to Hydra doused him in a cold sweat.

His shaking hand swiped at the tear tracks dripping down his cheeks. He would’ve given anything for a hug from you. For your reassuring, comforting words. But he couldn’t find it in him to ask. Couldn’t find it in him to allow you so close. And so, he forced the tightness in his chest to relent, to accept the voracious inhales he pulled into his lungs. He couldn’t surrender to the panic attack looming on the horizon- not yet.

It was confusing, his need to touch you. His craving for your comforts. You’d betrayed him, hadn’t you? You’d broken your promise to him and almost fed him to Hydra’s meat grinder. But it wasn’t that black and white- he wasn’t sure it ever was. No, this situation lived deep in a gray area, never giving Bucky a cut and dry solution. And deep down, he knew it. He knew you never would have allowed him to be taken. He knew you had your reasons for leaving him alive. But anger was easier. Betrayal was easier. 

“I’m sorry, Buck. I know- I know for sure it’s not enough”, the shame dragged your eyes down to the floor. “But I’m so sorry.” 

What could you do, what could you possibly say to fix this? Nothing could ever make it okay. Nothing could ever heal what you did- or didn’t do.

“It was… it was selfish of me,” you admitted. “I just hoped you could hang on for a few more seconds until backup came in. Cause I- I wanted you to come home with me. That’s all I could think about. Just getting you home safe. I didn’t even consider k-” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the word. “Doing that to you. But it’s- I was wrong. I made you a promise. And I broke it. And if you ended up back at Hydra,” you took a deep breath. The truth was ugly, hard to swallow. It poked at your throat like a mouthful of push pins. “If you ended up back at Hydra, it would be my fault.”

Only silence followed. 

Bucky hated the heartbreak in your voice, the tears streaming down your face. He hated seeing you in pain. The urge to wrap you in a bearhug yanked at his muscles, desperately trying to drag him in your direction. But he couldn’t, could he? He was mad at you- he was supposed to be mad at you. Once again, the strange, conflicting emotions needled at him. All week long, he forced the gray area behind a wall and chose, instead, to live in the black and white. To lean into anger. To side with the demons calling you a traitor and a liar. 

But now that you were finally here, standing in front of him, the voices quieted. It was just the two of you, together. You weren’t the villain he’d painted you to be. You weren’t heartless. You weren’t evil. Hell, this whole thing would’ve been a lot easier if you were. And jus like that, Bucky found himself smack dab in the middle of the gray area he tried so desperately to fight.

“I understand why you’re mad, Buck. It’s-”

“I’m not. I- I was mad. Now, I’m just,,,” he gave a shake of his head. “I don’t know. There’s a lot going on inside my head.”

“I get it. And if you don’t,” you cleared your throat, fighting against the words that tasted so vile. “If you don’t want to be friends anymore, I get that, too. This was a- a really major breach of your trust. We always say that we have each other’s backs, but I didn’t…” You used the collar of your sweatshirt to wipe the tears running down your neck. “I didn’t have yours. So, if you want to be done with me after this, I-”

Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat. “No, that’s not what I want. I don’t want to cut you out of my life. I’m-” He gave a frustrated huff. “I’m just- I’m confused. Cause I genuinely wanted you to shoot me in the head back there. I wanted you to mercy kill me.” 

The words tore through you.

“But now,” Bucky raked a hand through his hair, “I’m glad you didn’t. Because everything turned out okay. And I’m here. With you. But I…” He dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. “I almost wasn’t. I was almost there. With them. Again.”

All you could do was nod. What were you supposed to say to that? Nothing you had to offer could assuage his deep-seated, stomach-turning terror. You could never understand what he went through. Could never imagine the horrors. And it never even crossed your mind to put a contingency plan in place for yourself. To ask your closest friend to kill you in order to save you. You’d never understand that level of desperation. 

“I don’t care about dying,” he shrugged. “I’m not scared of death anymore. I wished for- I prayed for death when I was-” he cleared his throat. “When I was there. I would’ve welcomed it.”

The mental image nearly brought you to your knees.

“I’m just scared of being their prisoner again. I’m scared of the torture, and the blood, and the-the…” His breathing grew shallow and erratic. His voice faltered. “The way they fucked with my mind.” Anxious tremors rendered his hands unsteady. And his attempts to wipe away the tears fell short. “And the killing, and the pain, and the-”

He was losing his battle against the fear. Against the spiral. It grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him downward, plunging him the darkest, most hopeless recesses of his mind. He found himself lost, adrift in the deepest, most sinister sea. The ice-cold waves crested over him endlessly, nearly drowning him with each thin breath he took.

But the sensation of your hand in his dragged him to shore. With the warmth of your touch, he found his way back. He returned to his body. He always knew you were his saving grace, his life preserver. 

But holding Bucky’s hand didn’t feel quite right. Not after what you did. Especially because, deep down, you knew this was partly selfish. Knew that you enjoyed the feeling of his fingers braided with yours. But who were you to relish in it? Who were you to make this about you, and your needs? 

And so, when he finally found his way back to the present, when he finally breathed evenly, you freed his hand from yours and gave him his space. 

“Thanks for that…” he ran a hand down his face, still recovering from his trip to hell. Still needing you. 

“Yeah. Of course- anytime.” You already missed his touch. But you refused to reach for him again- not unless he needed it. You pulled your sleeves over your hands and balled them into fists.

“I just- I’m never going back there. I can’t,” he said after a while. “And I get it- you didn’t want to kill me. I wouldn’t want to kill you, either. But I’d choose a bullet between the eyes over being their chew toy. Every single time. Cause it’s…” he absentmindedly let his hand drift to his face, to the scar the sat atop his cheek bone. The scar left behind by the device they used to wipe his mind over and over and over. “It’s worse than death.”

The vitriol burning in your chest smoldered and scalded your soul. You’d never hated anyone- never detested anyone- as much as you hated yourself. You were supposed to protect Bucky. You were supposed to be there for him. You were supposed to be the person he could trust no matter what. But you failed him. He was completely terrified. Retraumatized. All because of you.

Bucky rubbed at a hard, tense knot in his shoulder, “But you’re my best friend, and-”

“Exactly,” you scoffed. “You should be able to trust me. But you can’t. Cause I’m selfish.”

“I do trust you,” he said, almost immediately. There was something in his voice- offense, maybe? Like he took your self-flagellation personally. “You’re smart. You- you knew back up was down the hall. You knew I’d be okay. And now that I’m home, I know you made the right call. I was-” He pulled his vibranium hand into a right fist. “I was just really scared, you know?”

He flashed back to the moment the Hydra agents descended. To the moment the encapsulated him completely. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Bodies swarmed his vision. Voices deafened him. And the coppery smell of blood- his blood- filled his nostrils. He felt his boots sliding across the concrete floor. And deep down, he knew they planned to drag him out. To make him theirs once again. 

He shook his head, clearing the image from his mind.

“Um, what I was going to say,” he continued, “is that you’re my best friend, and I shouldn’t have iced you out. I shouldn’t have lied to you- I shouldn’t have made Nat lie to you.” He gave a heavy, remorseful sigh, “I should’ve talked to you. You deserved better from me.”

“No- no, you deserved better from me.” You couldn’t believe his ridiculous sentiment. “You shouldn’t be apologizing- you honestly should’ve kicked my ass for this.” 

If he’d wanted to hurt you, to make you bleed, to show you even a fraction of the pain Hydra put him through, you’d let him. He deserved some revenge, some retribution, against you. And if he wanted to act on it, you wouldn’t fight back. You’d sit perfectly still and quiet, allowing him to beat you black and blue. To drag a knife through your flesh. To break your bones and steal your will to live. 

But you knew he’d never do anything like that- and he’d never want to. He wouldn’t even slam your fingers in the door.

“I never want you to be scared like that ever again, Buck. I never want you to go through something like that- I should’ve…” Saying it didn’t seem right. The words had razor sharp edges that carved into your throat as you spoke. “I should’ve done what you asked. And if this ever happens again,” You paused, banishing the oncoming flood of emotion. “I’ll do- I’ll do what you asked me to do. What I promised you I’d do.”

The words kicked the floodgates wide open. Another wounded, rasping sound escaped from your throat. And the sheer volume of tears threatened to drown you. Promising to end Bucky’s life was hard, but something about this second round was worse. More painful, somehow. A weak, wobbling sensation made your knees unsteady. And your face fell into your hands. 

But Bucky was at your side in the blink of an eye. He rested his hands on your shoulder, unsure of how much physical contact to make after a week of silence and hurt. He let his thumbs sweep over your clavicles every few seconds, waiting for the storm to pass. And when the clouds finally parted, he gently pulled your palms from your face. 

He cradled one of your hands in both of his, ensuring that you couldn’t slip away this time. “I’m not asking that of you anymore- I can’t ask that of you.” He freed one of his hands for only a moment, and only to angle your chin upward. He needed your eyes to meet his, needed you to know that he was serious. “It’s not fair for me to put you in that position.”

“No, Buck, it’s- it’s fine,” your voice wavered. “I can-”

“I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week,” he shrugged, “cause I- I haven’t been sleeping…”

Of course, he hadn’t been sleeping. Of course, the nightmares returned in full force. He’d worked so hard to correct his sleep schedule, to find a way to get the rest he needed. It just so happened that the cure-all to his sleep-related woes was you. He trusted you. Knew he was safe with you. He felt at home with you. Sleep came easy with you by his side. 

But his recent assault by Hydra’s forces left him almost irreparably shaken. And his misguided anger pushed you from his side. Together, it was a recipe for sleepless, tormented nights full of flashbacks and panic attacks.

“I realized that I never should’ve put that on you- I never should’ve asked you to make me that stupid promise.” Bucky wanted to go back in time and throttle his past self. “And I shouldn’t have been mad at you. But I- I had a lot going on, you know?” He squeezed your hand tighter, as though searching for an anchor. “All of my old wounds were ripped open again and I was so fucking miserable and scared and…” He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Wasn’t proud of the way he handled things. And though he was working hard in his therapy sessions, his coping mechanisms were still scant. “I needed to feel something other than fear. So, I chose anger. And I directed it at you.”  

“And that’s perfectly fine.” You tried to take a step in the opposite direction, to put some space between the two of you. You didn’t deserve to have him so close, to hold his hand. But he held firm. He wasn’t going to release your hand- not now, maybe not ever. “You asked me to make a promise- a big, important promise- and I broke it. You’re allowed to be upset with me-”

“But it wasn’t fair to you- none of this was fair to you.” He kicked himself for ever asking you for something so heavy. So burdensome. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you to make that promise. The way it must’ve hung over your head. If you asked that of me, I’d…” He squeezed your hand a little tighter, “It would eat me alive.”

And he was right- it had. 

Promising to kill him, in turn, killed you. It devoured you from the inside out, feasting on every moment of joy, every restful Sunday, every waking moment. Your promise to him came with sharp, jagged teeth that dug into your soul day in and day out. And while Bucky found peace in knowing that you may end his life one day, it brought you nothing but pain. Torture. Endless heartache. The darkest, heaviest storm clouds sat just above your head, shielding you from all sunlight, all warmth. 

While Bucky slept soundly next to you each night, you laid awake, wondering when it would happen. If it would happen. How it would happen. Your appetite vanished. Your stomach tied itself into knots. And on more than one occasion, your doctor had to increase the dosage of your anxiety medication. Because no matter how many pills you popped, the weight of your promise sat on your chest like lead.

Each time you and Bucky boarded the jet for a mission, you wondered if it would be the last time you ever saw him alive. If you’d be forced to kill him in only a few hours. 

And you knew, deep down, that if it was your bullet that sent Bucky to his grave, you’d never be able to live with yourself. That your very next bullet would find a home in your chest. 

This dark, heartbreaking promise directly contradicted the first- and most important promise- you’d ever made him. Late one night, back when the two of you first started spending time together, Bucky found himself at the bottom of a pit. His PTSD snatched the reigns and nearly drove him off a cliff.

Flashback after violent flashback rocked his mind and stripped his body of all strength. He was weak, hollow, completely spent. And just as you tried to smooth the hair out of his red-rimmed eyes, he flinched. He yanked himself backward, hoping to avoid whatever blow he thought you might strike against him. He forced his shoulders into a corner and tucked his face to the side, hiding from the pain he so often anticipated. And it broke you. It was then that you promised- that you swore to him- you’d never hurt him under any circumstance. 

And killing him seemed to you like a violation of that promise.

“It makes sense, though,” you said, pushing back against his all too generous rationalizations. “It makes sense that you’d ask me to- to do that. And I don’t want you going back there, either. So, I guess if I…” A sharp pain twisted through your stomach. “If I knew that we were alone. And there was no back up. And you only had two options: Hydra’s prisoner or death- I guess I’d…” Hot tears streaked down your cheeks, “If it meant saving you from them, I’d choose death for you.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, okay?” He wiped a stray tear from your chin. “I’m not holding you to that anymore. And I’m talking to Rhodes tomorrow. I’m gonna see if we can do away doing these two-person missions,” he said. “Cause they’re pretty impractical and risky, if you ask me. It’s safer when there’s a group of us, you know?”

You gave him a small nod, still too overcome by the anguish coursing through your veins.

Finally- mercifully- Bucky wrapped his arms around you and pulled you tight against his body. In an instant, your arms snaked their way around his back and pulled him ever closer. You’d missed him so intensely- so severely- it was like experiencing withdrawal. You could practically feel your body breaking down without him by your side. And he felt that same emptiness, that same aching void. He was convinced that he was never supposed to exist without you next to him. That he didn’t really live until he met you. The two of you were a package deal, two halves of a whole. 

After witnessing Bucky’s attempted abduction by Hydra, spending a week without him was a living hell. You needed to see him, speak to him, touch him. You needed to know that he was there. That he was okay. That he was home. You needed the confirmation that he made it out alive. But he’d disappeared from your life. And part of you wondered if he really was safe and sound in his room down the hall. Or if your mind made it all up just to save you the pain of losing him.

Time seemed to stand still as the two of you held each other. This was what Bucky needed all week. You were what he needed. The residual fear and torment brought on by his latest Hydra encounter seemed to fizzle out as you buried your face in his chest. It didn’t vanish completely- he feared it never would- but you put it on mute. You helped him breathe easy again. 

After was felt like half an hour, you unwillingly unwound yourself from Bucky’s battered body. 

“It’s late. I should get out of your hair,” you couldn’t mask your disappointment. “I know you said you haven’t been sleeping. But you’re still healing. So, you should probably try and get some rest-”

He nodded, but didn’t even attempt to hide just how much he hated the idea of your absence. 

And though you knew you should leave, you couldn’t find the will to move toward the door. Nor did Bucky try to show you out. The two of you just stood there, staring at each other. Leaving soft touches against the other’s skin. Relishing in the reunion.

“Um, you could stay,” Bucky finally said. “If you want.”

You hadn’t even considered it. He was going to need time to deal with everything. To sit with what happened to him. And you felt that your presence would only make it more difficult. Sure, he wasn’t mad at you. But did he really want you sleeping in his bed like you used to?

“Oh, okay. Yeah. Would it-” you pulled at the hem of your sweatshirt as uncertainty got the better of you. “Would that be okay?”

Bucky gave a fervent nod. “I want you to. So, if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me.” He cupped your cheek in his massive hand, examining the dark circles under your tired eyes. “Plus, Nat said you haven’t slept all week. So, I thought we could both get some rest. Together.”

He took your hand and led you to his bed, the bed you’d shared with him so many times before. The bed you’d curled up in almost every night. The bed in which you’d watched countless black and white movies. The bed you’d tossed and turned in every night after promising to end Bucky’s life. But with the offending promise lifted from your tired shoulders, you crawled under the familiar covers and breathed a sigh of relief. Bucky took you in his arms, molding his body around yours as he so often did. And with him lying safely next to you, you thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t keep your promise.

[red-velvet-0w0]

okay listen heres the thing

i was panicking too when i first woke up and heard the news and honestly i still am

but the facts are this

unfortunantly, Donald trump won the election, However:

Donald Trump is getting old as shit and while hes been doing a lot to hide it its going to start weighing him down

Donald Trump is the entire bedrock of the right at the moment, and once he is unable to continue being in office (whether he is impeached, he dies, or simply becomes too old to manage everything) the right will lose a lot of the support it has

A trans woman is in congress

two black women are in congress

several states voted to protect abortion rights

And most importantly:

Even if he does set back LGBTQAI+ rights and minority rights of all kinds, we have been here before. no matter how vocal or active bigots are, I genuinely believe that overall people really have never been as supportive of minorities as they are now. we have made so much proggress in terms of acceptance and representation in just the last few decades, and even if he manages to take all of that away from us, we will come back. No matter how hard he tries, he can only hold back the proggress we have made in terms of acceptance we have made so far and only for so long. No matter how hard he tries, it will get better. We need to have faith that no matter what he does it will get better

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇

pairing: joel miller x webcam model!f!reader

genre: no outbreak AU, explicit smut, minors dni

word count: 9k

summary: Joel, only now starting to feel the impending sense of loneliness, decides to listen to Tommy and sign up on an online streaming service called Ravish.

warnings: joel is bi in this, sex toys, paddles, nipple clamps, pillow humping, self-spanking, female/male masturbation, piv, dirty talking, possesive!joel, cum eating, oral (female receiving), size kink

additional warning: alright so there is a short moment in this where reader smacks herself with a paddle that has a heart-shaped hole and gets a heart mark on her skin, I don't use any descriptions (like calling it red or pink etc) but I'm also not oblivious enough to think everyone would get a mark when getting spanked so I wanted to let you know in case that would put you off and wouldn't want to read and that's completely fine!

a/n: this definitely ended up being longer then it needed it to be bfgbfg I want to take the anon who requested this, and the rest of you who chimed in and voted on the polls. I hope you all enjoy 💜 oh, also a special thanks to @missredherring who gave the idea of a more in-depth reason as to why Joel likes honeysuckle flowers 👀

edit!!! this has more than one part now! click here for the masterlist

Joel was lonely. 

He hadn’t really thought about it until Sarah went off to college. 

Since the day she was born, he had one thing and one thing on his mind only—to give his little girl everything that he could and make her happy. The rest didn’t concern him. He didn’t really care about dating, he didn’t have the time to think about how lonely he was. He had been on a couple of dates, all of which were initiated by Sarah as she entered her teenage years, pleading with him to go out and have a life.

But now that she was gone, studying what she always wanted to study and being happy, the emptiness began to spread like a nasty infection. Every creak and groan of the house sounded like mockery to him. He started keeping the TV open all night, most of the time falling asleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night startled by sudden shouts from a randomly playing film or show. He hated it. This wasn’t how Joel imagined his golden years to be like. 

Maybe that’s why he decided to use the damn website. Ravish. He’d heard it from Tommy first —which was an uncomfortable conversation as one could imagine— and after that, he kept on hearing the name. 

Ravish 

Ravish 

Ravish 

It was like a shitty pop song, stuck between his teeth like toffee, impossible to get rid of. The name made a home in his brain, making its presence known whenever he was doing anything, no matter how mundane the task was. 

Ultimately, he gave in. What was the worst that could happen? 

Joel groans. He stares at the screen with his brows drawn tightly together, the text cursor blinking as it waits for him to type out a username. It’s been almost ten minutes. A brief thought of asking Tommy passes through his mind but he quickly pushes the thought away and leans over the keyboard. 

JMiller. That should be alright. He doesn’t need anything fancy, and J can be any name. It can be Jack, Jacob, Jonathan, John, Jeremy. There are a bunch. Besides, Miller is a pretty common last name, so if someone asks if he's JMiller, he can just deny it. Not that anyone would. Everyone would be too busy jerking off to pretty people. The last thought anyone would have would be of him. 

He quickly decides on his password and he’s immediately overwhelmed. There are too many things happening at once. His eyes widen, heart beating a bit too fast as he moves his mouse around. In the corner, there’s a little pop-up begging for his attention, and on the screen, there are multiple thumbnails of women and men. When he drags his mouse over a thumbnail it starts moving and he jumps. 

“Holy hell,” he mutters. “I’m in way over my head.” 

Joel gets up to pour himself a glass of whiskey. After that, he sits on the couch again and takes three deep breaths. The ice clicks together as he takes a swig, the amber liquid pleasantly burning as it goes down his throat. He looks around some more, looking for the profiles that pique his interest the most. 

While he scrolls, he sees one of a man with the username NicolasCageFreak, which he finds odd, but the man is pleasing to the eye with soft brown curls and natural honey highlights in between. The man has a small bullet vibrator pressed against his hard length, a cock ring at the base of it. Joel presses like and saves it for later. 

Joel has to remind himself a couple of times that the people who stream can’t actually see him. The more he scrolls the more relaxed he feels. There’s a woman with pretty green eyes he saves for later and another man with the username CammingBravo. He has his face hidden, Joel can see the red ribbon circling the back of his head as he bends over, granting the viewers a delicious sight of his ass that has a shiny buttplug. 

Liked! Added to your queue for later.

Until now Joel was fairly certain he was straight, sometimes he’d get the occasional same-sex dream but he figured everyone did at some point in their lives. He’s not so sure anymore. 

Some more scrolling and Joel starts getting restless. His cock strains against his sweatpants, aching for his rough touch. He takes a deep breath. The next live stream he sees that he likes he’ll click and that will be that. He’s starting to get worked up and, unlike NicolasCageFreak, he’s not a fan of edging himself. 

Then he sees her. A woman wearing a delicate chain vest with rhinestones that sparkle whenever she moves. His eyes flit to the username; Honeysuckle. He loves that flower, he has many memories of picking them with Tommy and sucking the sweet nectar hidden inside. He wonders if she tastes just as sweet. 

Not one to break a promise to himself, Joel clicks on the thumbnail. His eyes are instantly drawn to the live chat. There are so many people asking her to do something all at once—Jesus Christ. There are also a couple of them just chatting as if they were friends with her. He sees that everyone calls her Honey, which is fitting and a bit on the nose, he thinks. 

Noticing that he has the stream muted, Joel unmutes it, a pleasant tingle running down his spine as soon as her voice comes through the speakers of his laptop. 

“Wow, Eric47 I’m so happy you got that promotion!” 

“Don’t worry everyone, I’ve been thinking naughty thoughts all day and I’m ready to put on a show.” 

“Patience everyone.” 

“Thank you for buying a private chat, SarahBelieves! I can’t wait to be your good girl. . .” 

Joel is too focused on her tone, the smooth lilt of her voice, to hear the words she’s saying. The only thing his ears pick up on is the words private and chat. He wasn’t aware you could buy some extra time with the streamers. He loves that—

He shakes his head. Loves? Is he already planning on paying? At the thought, his cock twitches with interest, his reserve quickly crumbling to the floor. 

Joel decides to focus on the stream first. He can decide later on if he wants a private session or not. He cups himself through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, groaning as a spike of relief shoots through him. His eyes are glued to the screen. Honey’s hard nipples poke through the chains, her hands delicately kneading the tender mounds as she rises slightly by lifting herself onto her knees. She’s on a bed, wearing black panties and a matching garter. Joel’s mouth waters. The things he would do to her. . . 

His tongue pokes from between his lips, soft tendon moving with muscle memory as he thinks of eating her sweet cunt out. 

“Today my sweet bees,” she addresses them. “I was thinking of fucking myself with the biggest dildo I’ve got, how does that sound?” 

Joel’s eyes drift to the chat. Everyone seems to be cheering and asking her to show them how much she can take. There’s also a bunch of them calling her their favorite size queen. She chuckles. 

“I love all dicks, in any shape or form,” she purrs. “I’m just in the mood for a bit of pain.” 

Pain. That captures Joel’s attention. It makes him curious about all the other things she might be into. Perhaps she enjoys getting spanked, or she would enjoy the feeling of someone dragging their nails down her pretty back. He wants to know. He wants his imaginary scenarios to be as accurate as possible. 

He’s about to pull out his cock when he hears her voice again. 

“I do have one question though,” she says innocently. “Should I keep these pretty black panties on or off?” she grins into the camera, her eyes shining with mirth. “Let’s see those answers, my bees.” 

What do you want? Joel wants to ask. But this isn’t that kind of scenario so he thinks. The answers come flying in, there’s a fifty-fifty ratio. Joel’s mind blanks for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching. He wants her to keep them on. He likes the idea of her sliding them to the side and fucking herself deep, it feels more animalistic, more raw. He enjoys the idea of claiming someone, a curiosity he hasn’t yet fully explored yet. 

He types exactly that. His wording and grammar a bit too neat compared to the rest, but he gives Honey his answer. He wants her to keep it on. Maybe play with herself some more until the fabric is basically see-through, then she can fuck herself with the biggest cock she’s got. 

Joel watches intently as her eyes go over the live chat, there are so many answers coming in, he doubts she’ll see his comment. Still, he likes to believe she’ll see it. 

Honey’s eyes still briefly, hunger swirling in them as a canine sinks into her bottom lip. Her smile is bashful and shy, much different than the character she’s playing. Her eyes move back to the camera. Joel watches her breasts as her chest heaves, nipples grazing against the cool metal. 

“Well, well, JMiller. . . you certainly have a mouth on you,” she tuts and Joel’s eyes go wide. The satisfaction he feels leads to goosebumps coursing over his burning skin, being noticed. . . it’s surprisingly thrilling. “Are you new? I haven’t seen your handle before.” 

Joel swallows, his hands shaking as he types in a quick “yea”, Honey smiles, “Welcome to the hive then, baby. Keep the comments up,” she sighs, cupping both her tits. “I love a man who knows how to dirty talk.” 

A knot forms in his throat, his skin tight. He wasn’t expecting to be this affected. Now he understands why so many people enjoy live streams. They don’t see you, not actually, but still, it almost fills the void. Almost. He’s excited now, eager to type in more of his thoughts, eager to hear her answer him. Joel pulls out his cock, the waistband of his sweats hugging his thighs. He gives himself a firm tug, his spine straightening at the burn gathering in his lower stomach. It feels fucking good. 

“Since it’s J’s first time, and because he got me all hot and bothered, why not leave the panties on for this time?” Honey says. Joel observes the chat, there are a lot of congratulatory messages addressed to him, welcoming him. He doesn’t care. “You want to see these panties soaked, huh? You guys know how much I love making a mess.” 

Honey shimmies back, revealing more of her bare legs. She spreads them for the camera, the soft sound of delicate metal filling the air whenever she moves. Her fingers start to move lazily over her clothed clit, her head falls. Joel can see a subtle dark patch growing, his own hand starting to move slowly up and down his throbbing cock. A drop of precum dribbles down, easing the glide of his rough palm. She doesn’t look at the chat as frequently as she did before, too focused on her pleasure. Her glossy lips part and her eyes scrunch up. Her moans are loud and breathy, signs that she lives alone. 

Joel doesn’t think as he fists himself. Normally when watching porn he would think; he would think of a scenario, or what he would be doing differently, or the things he would want to do. This is different. He’s just watching, inhaling what’s being given to him. He sucks a sharp breath, his hand moving faster, the side of his fist smacking against his pelvis, dark curls damp under his palm. 

“Fuck,” Honey moans, eyes peering toward the screen. Her fingers move faster, her hips grinding to meet the graze of her palm. Joel groans, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “I think I’m going to come,” he breathes out. “Should I?” 

Joel doesn’t bother with typing until he hears his alias. 

“JMiller, since you’re new the decision is yours. Should I? P-Please answer,” she sounds desperate, her hips rutting the air as she presses her fingers hard against her clit. “O-Or do you want me to come on your cock?” 

Joel’s hips stutter, filling the tightness of his fist, “Fuckin’ hell.” 

With sticky fingers he types his answer, telling her that she should come with his cock deep inside her. Joel also adds that he wants to hear her, telling her to be loud. 

“O-Okay,” she whines, almost tearful as she reaches to grab her dildo off-screen. Joel can’t help the grin that makes its way across his face. He types again, telling her not to cry and that she’ll be coming soon enough. When he presses enter, he notices that his name is highlighted in dark orange. “You’re kind of an asshole,” she answers playfully. “I like that.” 

You're the buzzing heartbeat of Honeysuckle’s live stream! You are picked by the streamer as the treasured Drone Bee, your unwavering loyalty and vibrant energy create an electrifying atmosphere. Your presence is a key ingredient in making the honey even sweeter! 

A growl echoes in his throat when Honey shows the camera the dildo she had picked out. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was her biggest. It’s bigger than his own dick, and Joel is by no means a small man. He squeezes his cock and looks down, with a sudden need growing in his chest, he purses his lips and lets a long trail of saliva drip between his lips. He shudders when it reaches the head of his cock. He swipes his palm over it and continues to stroke himself, he wants to come. 

He wants them to come at the same time. 

Honey pushes the dildo in slowly, giving her viewers a clear sight of what’s happening. The toy stretches her wide, the ache of it pulling a gasp from her pretty lips. Joel breathes heavily, his nostrils flaring as his hand speeds up. 

Oh, how he would love to be the one fucking slowly into her, to hear those little gasps coming from her in person rather than his shitty speakers. He holds his breath. It’s buried fully inside of her now. She slowly looks down, her eyes looking directly into the camera. 

“I hope the view down there is good,” she says with a smirk. Joel doesn’t type anything. He focuses on the way his cock drools for her, aches to be buried in her cunt. Honey pulls out the toy until it’s only the tip that’s inside and then shoves it all in one smooth thrust. She cries out, her voice unfiltered. Joel’s stomach jumps at the sound, his pupils dilating like a wolf seeing its prey for the first time. 

She fucks herself hard, whimpering and crying out every time she fuck herself deep. Joel sees the way the plastic surface shines with her slick, he bets she tastes fucking sweet. 

He knows she’s close when her thighs begin to shake—he also knows thanks to the live chat going completely berserk, cheering her on and telling her to squirt. Joel, despite her own release close enough that he can taste it, rolls his eyes. 

“This one is for you JMiller,” she whimpers and Joel’s eyes go wide, his cock pulsing in his wet fist. “Hope you’re gonna fall down the edge with me, big guy.”  

Joel doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until she’s coming—she does so with a loud moan, her cunt fluttering around the large cock. Her head falls back completely, giving a clear view of her heaving chest, nipples fully erect under the see-through armor. 

His fall from grace is less pretty. He lets out a grunt, his hips fucking into his hand helplessly as come spurts from the slit, it’s almost painful. His heart beats aggressively while he tries hard to keep his focus on the screen, he doesn’t want to miss anything. Joel makes a mess of himself and his surroundings, the rug underneath his socked feet stained with his release. 

 Joel’s cock stops throbbing and with a pleased sigh, his shoulders drop. 

“That felt fuckin’ goood,” he groans, staring blankly at the ongoing live stream. Vaguely he notices Honey pulling the toy out, an equally fucked out expression on her face. The live chat is still going wild, he manages to lean over and type in one last sentence before going offline. 

Good girl. 

Joel is a weak weak man. 

Watching Honey quickly became a routine for him. She would start streaming around the same time he would come back from work and it was the perfect way to let off some steam. Tommy had asked if he checked out Ravish, to which Joel promptly said no. He didn’t need his baby brother making fun of him. 

Besides, some primal part of him didn’t want Tommy to know about Honey. It’s an odd thought, he realizes, since she’s enjoyed by many many people. Still, he didn’t have an explanation for what he was feeling. 

Once she had brought in a guest, and his body had immediately rejected it. He was ready to close the stream and head to the bathroom for a quick shower—however, he stopped when he noticed who the guest was; CammingBravo. Another streamer who had caught Joel’s attention when he was scrolling through the endless amount of entertainers for the first time. He watched Honey eat out his tight little asshole, then he watched Bravo fuck her senseless, making her soak the sheets. 

Joel never came that hard in his life before— It was exhilarating. He tipped handsomely that night and Honey mentioned how JMiller was one of her best viewers. Bravo’s smile, which was surprisingly kind, was infectious. 

He would be lying if he said his chest didn’t puff up a little. 

And, of course, he ended up buying a private chat with her after that. He just had to. It would just be this one time, he told himself, just one hour without the live chat. Just him and her. 

He turns on the laptop, already knowing that he’s kidding himself. There’s no way this will be a one-time thing. He’s too. . . smitten to leave it with one private chat. 

Maybe he can limit himself to once a month. That seems reasonable. 

The familiar website of Ravish loads and he clicks on the little gray person in the corner. He finds the section that’s titled “private chats” and clicks. Her username, Honeysuckle, pops up. On the screen, it says she’ll be with him shortly. 

A minute later the screen goes black and her face comes into view. She’s wearing a pink see-through bra with strawberries on it, Honey’s smile is bright as she looks into the camera.  

“Hi there J!” she greets him, his stomach warms at the sound of her voice. “This is your first time doing a live chat right?” 

He nods absent-mindedly while typing. Honey reads his answer and gives him an empathetic look. 

“Okay, so you don’t have to show your face—obviously—but if you want you can click the tiny microphone in the corner and talk to me directly. But if that’s also too much you can continue to type what you want me to do.” 

Joel’s eyebrows raise. Talk to her. . . with his actual voice? The thought both excites and sends cold fear down his spine. What would he even say? What if she doesn’t like the sound of his voice? 

“Are you there?” her voice comes through. “Is everything alright?” 

His fingers tense and rigid, Joel types in the questions that swirl in his head. Luckily the questions sound cheeky without any tone indicators so Honey smiles, her eyes narrowing while her lips curl seductively. 

“You can say anything you want, big boy,” she licks her lips. “And don’t worry about your voice, I’m yours for the hour. You might as well have the most shrill voice in the world, I would still tell you how sexy you sound.” 

You always call me that. Why?  . . .  Also, it doesn’t make me feel any better when you say you’ll tell me how good I sound regardless but I get what you mean. 

Joel aggressively chews the smooth inside of his cheek. Honey reads his messages, a grin stretching across her beautiful face, “Let’s just say streamer’s intuition,” she winks. “As for the other thing, I mean that you don’t need to worry. I doubt you have the most shrill voice in the world.”  she thinks over her words before adding. “Of course, it’s up to you. If you don’t want to use voice chat that’s completely fine.” 

 Joel sighs, his curser hovering over the tiny microphone. Closing his eyes, he clicks. 

“Can—Can you hear me?” 

Her eyes sparkle. 

“Crystal clear,” she answers with a wide smile. “You sound hot.” 

She sounds genuinely impressed. Joel can’t help but chuckle with the shake of his head. “Don’t sound so surprised but thanks, I think?” 

“Oh it’s definitely a compliment,” she says rolling her tongue. “Is there anything you want me to call you or should I just call you J?” 

There’s a brief moment where he thinks of just telling her his name but he bites his tongue at the very last moment. His heart does a little jump when he answers, “You can call me. . . sir.” 

“Understood, sir,” she repeats, her voice dripping with lust. A shudder crawls up his spine and he has to brace himself by holding his knees. “There is also a matter of safewords, I don’t do everything as I’m sure you don’t as well. Red is for stop, yellow is for slow down and green is for go. I think that’s the simplest one but if you want to use a different word I’m okay with that.” 

Joel blinks before answering, “Uh, yeah sounds good.” 

“Also the website doesn’t allow screen recordings—which I appreciate— so you can’t film these sessions in any way. I’m just letting you know because no one reads the terms of service and one client was very unhappy when he got a cease and desist.”

“I. . . okay, I wouldn’t even think of it.” 

She smiles and Joel’s heart feels a bit lighter, “Good,” with the rules established, a sense of relaxation washed over both of them. “So, do you have anything planned for me?” 

Joel clears his throat as a warning and her eyes glimmer with amusement. 

“Sorry,” she breathes heavily. “Did you have anything planned for me, sir?” 

“Would you laugh if I said no?” 

“Sir, I would never laugh at you,” she pouts, brows turning upward. Momentarily she looks off screen and when her eyes find the lens again she smiles giddily.  “Would you want me to show you the toys I think you’ll like?” 

Joel smiles at how genuinely excited she sounds, it’s hard to remind himself that this is all an act and that this is her job. He wants this to be real. He wants her to actually be excited to show him all the things she wants him to use. 

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he answers not missing the way her lips part with a soft gasp. “Show me what you got.” 

Honey shows him a handful of her toys. She has a lot. Dildos of various sizes, vibrators, nipple clamps, kegel balls, anal plugs, anal beads, floggers, collars, paddles. . . she might as well have an entire sex shop in her room. Joel takes mental notes of all of them to use during their next sessions.  

“Anything that you like, sir?” 

“The paddle,” he murmurs, feeling a bit flustered now that they’re actually getting into it. “The one with the heart-shaped hole and. . . the nipple clamps—” 

“The heart-shaped ones?” 

Joel swallows thickly, “Y—Yeah.” 

“No need to be shy, sir,” she grins. “It’s only you and me.” Honey picks out the toys Joel requested and raises an eyebrow while her gaze searches the pile. “So, no dildos? Or vibrators?” 

“I . . . had somethin’ else in mind, if that’s alright.” 

“Ohhhh, a mystery,” she purrs, winking into the camera. “I love it, sir.” 

Honey is slow to rid herself of her bra, sliding one arm out and then the other before moving both hands to the back to unclasp herself free of the dainty fabric. Her chest nears the camera, giving him a full view of her fully erect nipples. Joel’s breathing grows heavier by the second. He can feel his cock stiffen, pleasure stirring in his gut. He quickly kicks off his shorts, leaving himself bare on the couch as he watches her secure the clamps over each nipple. She lets out a tiny sigh of bliss, pulling her arms back and planting her palms firmly against the mattress, she shows her newly decorated nipples. 

Joel groans and wraps his hand around his cock. She does a little wiggle, the soft sound of bells making his cock twitch. 

“Are you touching yourself, sir?” 

“Yea.” 

“Good, I want to hear you get off,” she quickly adds. “Sir.” 

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweet thing,” his eyes flutter closed as his fist moves down, and he opens them back up after giving himself a firm squeeze. “Turn around,” he grunts. “And don’t forget the paddle.” 

She does as she’s told, which in return gives Joel an immense sense of control and satisfaction. Precome drips down his length, he uses it to lube himself further, paying extra attention to be loud for her. Just like she wanted. 

His eyes follow the movement of the paddle, she drags it over the right cheek of her ass, caressing her skin. Her panties disappear between the crease of her gorgeous ass, leaving little to the imagination. “Is this okay, sir?” she asks, her voice thick. “Am I being a good girl?” 

Goosebumps rise over his skin. He’d called her, wrote to her, good girl after every stream—his smirk is laced with something dark when he realizes that she must’ve enjoyed it. 

“You’re being very good,” he answers. “Now hit yourself with it, I want to see a heart tattooed on that pretty flesh of yours.” 

“Southern man into branding, why am I not surprised?” she purrs and lifts her ass closer the camera. “You like seeing your pretty girl all marked up by her owner?” 

Fuck. 

“Don’t get full of yourself,” he orders, adding a bit more venomous tone to his voice. Honey stills, and briefly Joel worries he’d overstep. He stops breathing, not wanting to miss even the smallest hint of the safeword. 

But then she shudders, hitting herself lightly with the paddle. “How’s this, sir?” she says, her lilt indicating that she’s highly aware it isn’t enough. 

“Harder.” 

She spanks herself harder, her body jolting. Joel can hear the bells. He circles the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb, groaning as he makes himself more comfortable on the couch. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’re listenin’,” he inhales slowly, enjoying the way her muscles tense. “I want to see those hearts on your skin. I thought this was supposed to be a show.” 

“Y-Yes, sir.” 

He loves how breathy her voice has gotten. Heat licks the base of his spine, his cock begging for release. 

She raises the paddle, smacking her plump meat much harder than before. Her asscheek ripples and Joel can finally see a faint trace of a shape. But it’s not clear enough to be a decent heart. “Again,” he orders. 

It takes about six to nine times before the heart takes shape on her skin. She’s whimpering, tremors moving up and down her body as she fights the urge to collapse. She loves seeing his mark there, she might’ve placed herself, but it was his doing and he revels in it. 

“Good,” he says, swallowing thickly. “Good fuckin’ girl. Lookin’ so pretty for me.” 

“S-Sir,” she mutters. Joel doesn’t know what to expect until her hand comes between her legs, sliding the thin line of her panties to the side. Her cunt is a sopping mess. Joel leans further towards the screen, his tongue licking the roof of his mouth. “Do you see how wet I am? P-Please, I want to come—Can I, sir?” 

“Fuck, ‘course you can,” his neck feels warm, burning almost. “Turn around, grab one of them pillows behind you.” 

“P-Pillow?” 

She sounds dazed, Joel almost feels bad for her, almost. “Yes sweetheart, pillow,” he coos. “I want you to grind that pretty cunt against it. . . honey.” 

“Shit, say that again.” 

“Honey,” he groans again, his hips thrusting into the air, burying himself deep into his fist. His voice drops further as he begins to chant, “Honey, honey, honey, honey—” 

She visibly clenches at that, her entire body tight with arousal. With shaky hands, she brings the pillow between her thighs, straddling the soft cushion. Her head falls back as she gives it an experimental roll of her hips, Joel’s breath catches in his throat. She looks delectable. Her hands come up to her chest and tugs at the clamps, she jumps, a wanton moan echoing from the back of her throat. 

“You’re so worked up aren’t you?” Joel continues as she grinds herself further down, leaving a wet, darkened patch behind. He’s preaching to the choir. His own arousal drooling over his knuckles. He closes his eyes, allowing his mouth to roam free. “Stuff three fingers in your mouth, want you to choke darlin’.” 

With a whine, she nods and pushes three fingers between her lips. Joel smirks, “It ain’t nearly enough but at least you can get a feelin’ of how much my cock would stretch those pretty lips, honey,” he rasps. She shudders, her hips moving wildly over the pillow. “You love havin’ your mouth full don’t you?” 

“Yesh, sur,” she moans around her own fingers, she move acutely, and with every jerk of her hips, Joel can see her throbbing clit. He’s teetering on the edge of his release, heat pools between his legs, his balls go tight. 

“I’m gonna come, honey,” he groans, his tight shaking. “Come with me, show me how wet your get that pillow.” 

With a hint of mischief in her eyes, she loudly gulps around her fingers, giving Joel a clear few of her cunt before rolling her hips down against the smooth surface. His eyes go wide and before his brain can register the coil snapping, he spills over his hand. Heavy strings of come dripping down his hard throbbing length. He makes a choked sound as he tries to breathe in and out at the same time. Honey pulls out her fingers from her mouth and grins, her hands drop in front of her and she bounces up and down, mimicking the way she would ride him. 

The action manages to squeeze one last rope of come from him, his lungs collapse, his body burning. She comes right after, her thighs squeezing around each side of the pillow before gushing around it. Joel can see the shine as she continues to grind her hips. 

“Show me,” he pants, his next words quickly shifting into a growl. “Show it to me.” 

Licking her lips, Honey pulls the pillow from between her legs and shows it to him. His cock twitches with interest. “Wanna taste you,” he says without thinking. 

“Sadly technology hasn’t improved that much yet,” she answers. “But I’ll tell you this much,” she leans in and flattens her tongue against the soaked fabric. Joel’s jaw tightens, his molars digging together painfully. She moans. “I taste sweet. Like honey.” 

You hate visiting home. 

You hate the heat, the crowd, staying at a home where you’re still treated like a child when you haven’t been one for a long long time. But you didn't really have a choice when your dad hurt his leg, which meant that you had to help around with the tiny bookshop your family owned. It was a miracle that it was still standing, but people did love their old, dusty bookshops. You had to admit, you enjoyed the aura of the place.

Your mom had asked you to bring over two coffees before coming in, she opened up shop early which you were grateful for. Now that you were home, you didn’t have the luxury to do as many private calls as you wanted to. You still streamed late at night, keeping silent, your audience didn’t mind. They thoroughly enjoyed the whispering and the “we can’t be caught” act. You only indulged in one private session, a session that you couldn’t bare letting go of. 

JMiller. 

You thought a lot about what his real name might be. Jacob, Jeff, Jeremy. . . none of them felt right. It was disappointing because you wanted to scream his name when you had your hand between your legs. But since you couldn’t decide on a name, you whimpered a string of sirs over and over again. 

You eagerly counted down the hours until you could finally spend time with him. This was a funny thought on its own because you boasted about how professional you were. You kept things clear, not allowing for any miscommunication or—potentially—feelings. But there was just something about him that got your entire body yearning to hear his southern drawl. Maybe it was the nostalgia of it all. You did grow up in Austin after all. But still. It was odd how excited you got before going online. 

You briefly mentioned you were going back home, you didn’t tell him where, obviously, but you did tell him that there could be scheduling issues. He understood. 

Of course he did, he was perfect. 

Pulling yourself away from your thoughts, you impatiently drum your foot against the clean marble floors. This line is insane. You let out a groan, sending your mother a quick text that it might take you a while. A second later your phone buzzes with a thumbs-up emoji from her. You sigh again as you shove the phone down your back pocket, you hate waiting, it gets you anxious and even though you don’t have a boss that will yell at you, you don’t enjoy being late. 

Then, as if he popped out of the concrete like a weed, a man pushes himself between you and the other person that was waiting in line in front of you. 

Your heart races, your eyebrows knitting together, no way in hell are you going to allow someone to cut in line. 

“Hey,” you call out. The man ignores you and you tap his shoulder, he turns sharply, his eyes glaring daggers. “You can’t cut in line,” you say defensively. “You need to move to the back of the line.” 

“Look lady I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about I was always here.” 

“Ummmm, no you weren’t,” your chest heaves, heat rising to your cheeks. You don’t like confrontation—you’d do it, but you’d hate it. Your legs are already shaking slightly. “I’ve been staring at the pink paint stain on that guy’s shoulder for about half an hour so I know what I’m talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes, an ugly snarl taking shape, “Just leave it. I ain’t gonna budge. I have places to be.” 

“And the rest of us don’t?” you snort, eyebrows raised. He shrugs, makes a face, and turns his back to you once again. It takes you everything not to stomp your foot like an angry bull. 

You’ve had enough. You’re tired of the assholes of the word, you don’t care if you’re not allowed into the coffee shop ever again. Puffing up your chest, you open your mouth wide, ready to give this rude stranger a piece of your unfiltered mind. 

“You know what—” 

“Is that any way to treat a lady, moonshine?”  

You turn towards the source of the voice. It’s a man you’ve never seen before. He’s rugged looking, the salt and pepper in his beard endearing. He has a deep crease between his brows, his brown eyes dark as he stares down at the rude stranger. You take in the sight of his broad shoulders, thick neck—your heart does a little flip. You don’t know why but you’re drawn to the man, he has a nice voice. 

The man, however, isn’t as pleased as you. 

“What’s it to you? She your girlfriend?” 

You’re not but you kinda wish you were. 

“Get in the back of the line, I saw you cut in front of her.” 

The tension in the air is thick enough that you can cut it with a knife. You hold your breath, your lungs starting to burn as electricity crackles between the two men. Finally the asshole caves and sighs, going to the back of the line. You let out the breath you’ve been holding, your shoulders sagging with relief right after. 

“Thank you,” you say, your gaze finding the kind strangers. “I was right about to blow my lid before you stepped in.” 

He doesn’t answer and just continues to stare at you. Worry builds in your spine. Why isn’t he saying anything? His softened gaze flits across your face, taking in every detail before looking away. He pushes his hands down his pockets, looking almost boyish with the way he drops his gaze to the floor. 

“Don’t mention it,” he mutters. 

You raise an eyebrow. His voice still sounds familiar. Your curiosity getting the better of you, you shove the thoughts of familiarity into the back of your head and grace him with a wide smile. He blushes profusely, eyes slightly going wide, he takes a sharp inhale. 

“How about I pay for your coffee. . . or whatever you’re buying?” you ask. 

“You don’t have—” 

“I insist!” you chirp, glad that the line is finally moving. You extend your hand with enthusiasm, which he accepts a bit tentatively. Your smile never wavering, you tell him your name and an emotion akin to guilt washes over his eyes. He releases your hand, lips a tight, frigid line. “Is something wrong?” you ask. “You don’t like the name?” 

“N–No, it ain’t that,” he shifts from one leg to the other. You nearly look down, curious to see how tightly his jeans hug his muscular thighs. “I’m. . . Joel.” 

The world around you falls into a complete silence. Joel. Joel. Something electric and searing shoots up your spine, your lashes fluttering. Your heart starts beating a mile a minute but you’re not sure why. The only thing you do know is that this is a significant moment. An important moment. 

Your rake your brain for answers. 

Why? 

Why is it important? What piece are you missing to complete the puzzle? 

His lips break into a soft smile, he gestures towards the counter with his head. “We’re up.” 

“O-Oh, yeah,” you swallow, barely able to pull your gaze away from him. “Sorry.” 

You tell the kind barista your order and she writes it down on both your cups happily. The two of you move away from the line to wait for your drinks; a black coffee for your mom, a caramel macchiato for you, and an iced quad espresso for Joel. You raise an eyebrow. 

“I have a long day comin’,” he says with a small smile. “And I didn’t do much sleepin’ last night.” 

Your mind immediately flashes you memories of last night. Legs spread wide with two dildos stretching you, JMiller really enjoys it when you test your limits. Your pulse pounding in your skull, you look down. “Don’t I know it.” 

“You had a late night too?” there’s a teasing lilt to his tone. Your stomach churns and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. It looks like he’s about to say something else but the barista calls your name and both of you head towards the counter. He takes his death juice with a grateful smile, his demeanor more relaxed compared to when you introduced yourself.

“Thank you, honey. I appreciate it.” 

Oh shit. 

Shit shit shit shit. 

It is him. 

JMiller—J stands for Joel. 

Fuck. 

“You. . .” you begin, panic raising in your voice. “You’re. . .” 

He nods, “I think we both know why I didn’t sleep much last night,” he extends his hand again. “Huge fan by the way. You’re great and this is awkward as hell.” 

“It is,” you whisper. Still, you take his hand. “It is.” 

“You’ve never had someone come up to you on the street before?” he asks, curious. “I would assume you get recognized a lot.” 

“Not as much as you would think,” a cruel, humorless burst of laughter drops from your lips. “People don’t exactly want their partners to know they’re watching me. But if they’re alone yeah. . . sometimes they’ll say hi.” 

Or they’ll ask inappropriate questions and be weird about it but he doesn’t have to know that. 

Now that he’s mentioned you bumping into others, you’re not sure why it felt like the end of the world before. You feel embarrassed, flustered even, two emotions that a client shouldn’t be making you feel. 

“Well,” he breaks the silence, moving his jaw as he opens the door for you. “Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Technically you bought it.” 

“Right. . .” 

The two of you are out in the street now, staring at each other, contemplating what to say. He scratches the back of his head, then his fingers move to rub at his jaw. Arousal gathers between your thighs, it’s not your fault, now that you know that it’s him, your body acts accordingly. 

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” 

You still for a moment before answering, “Yeah.” 

He turns and leaves, you do the same, only in the opposite direction. 

After learning your name, Joel completely abandoned his rule of you calling him 'sir', making you moan his actual name as frequently as he could. His name stuck to your tongue. It might as well have been tattooed under your bottom lip. He was possessive in the way he asked, in some instances even begging for you to say it—and you fucking loved it. You loved this sick claim he had towards you now that you two had officially met. You loved how much more eager he was to see you make a sticky mess between your thighs. You love how cock dumb he made you feel without actually being there to fuck you himself. 

He even started doing his version of online aftercare. Mostly he would just talk, tell you about every-day things as you came down from your high. Or he would murmur a song. You never asked if he was a musician, he had a nice voice. 

It’s the beginning of the session and you’re getting ready. He says he enjoys watching the preparation you do for him so you decided to start streaming five minutes earlier, allowing him to watch. You really need him today. You had a rough day with an order mix-up, and your mom isn’t the best at dealing with mishaps. He clears his throat, which draws your attention to him. 

“Is something wrong?” you ask. 

“No no, everythin’ is fine, sweetheart. I just. . .” he sighs. “I want to ask somethin’.” 

“Ask away.” 

“Can we—Would you want to—” he groans in frustration and you start grinning. His frustrated pout is adorable. All you want to do is smooth the crease between his brows with your thumb and give him a kiss. 

“Joel Miller,” you tease, not missing the way his breath catches in your throat. “Are you asking me out on a date?” 

Oh god, you hope your intuition is right. If it isn’t this call is about to get really awkward. 

He flushes, eyes dropping as he nods. 

“Is that okay?” 

This is highly unprofessional, “More than okay. I’d love to go on a date with you.” 

His grin is infectious. 

“Good,” he lets out a breath then settles back against the couch. “Now show me those pretty tits, honey.” 

You can’t believe you’re actually in JMiller’s, aka Joel’s, home. 

The date had gone better than you expected. He was kind, charming, and chivalrous which were all qualities you haven’t seen for a while. Ever since you started streaming you hadn’t been on many dates and frankly, after a while, you purposefully avoided them. It just felt like asking for drama that you had no intention of dealing with. But Joel wasn’t like that. He could be blunt, a bit grumpy, yet also kind. He had taken you to one of his favorite pubs. Beers accompanied by the best jalapeno poppers you ever had equated to one of the finest dates you’ve ever had. 

He was a contractor, had a daughter in college, and a younger brother. His mother and father had passed a long time ago and ever since Sarah left, he’d been feeling lonely. He’d admitted shyly that that was the reason why he signed up on Ravish. He wanted company. 

You found it incredibly charming. 

As soon as Joel closes the door behind you two, you fall into each other’s arms. He kisses you with fervor, tongue slipping between your lips as he breathes you in at the same time. You feel him everywhere. Large hands squeezing your hips, waist, breasts—it’s intoxicating. You moan wantonly into his mouth, your lids falling when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like beer and you’re pretty sure you do too. 

Joel pushes you up against the wall, knocking the air from your lungs while you continue to chase his lips with an insatiable need. You can’t bear to be separated from him, not even for a second. He drags his lips down your neck, mouthing at your jugular, sharp teeth nipping the sensitive flesh. Your hips jerk to meet his and with a growl, he pins you back to the wall. 

“Don’t,” he grunts. “I’ve been waitin’ so long for this honey, so fuckin’ long.” 

Your lips curl, a challenge lingering in your eyes, “Show me then, big boy. Show me how bad you want to fuck your slut.” 

“Fuck,” he hisses, gripping your chin harshly and pulling you in for another kiss. Your teeth clink together, he pulls back just as quick, the muscle in his jaw twitches. “Fuck,” he breathes out again. “You have quite the mouth on you, darlin’.” 

You have no recollection of how the two of you clamored upstairs, stripping one another in a lustful haze. The time you realize you’re naked is when you feel the cool air of the room caressing your burning skin, he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down between your breasts, fingers eagerly working your nipples as he forces you to walk back until your back of your knees hit the bed and you fall. 

Not wanting to give in so easily, you wrap your fingers around his heavy cock. It juts angrily between his legs, answering your touch by drooling all over your palm, slickening your movements. You jerk him until he’s fully hard, his breathing heavy as he rolls his hips to meet the tightness of your fist. He sinks his teeth into your neck, the pain that blossoms coaxes a moan from you, your own wetness growing between your legs. 

“I knew you’d be fucking big,” you whisper, tongue toying with his earlobe. “So huge—makes me wonder if I can take it. . .” 

“I’ve seen you take bigger,” he groans, hips stuttering. A whimper drops from your lips, you want him, you want to feel him inside, want to feel his come dripping out later. You feel thick fingers spreading your soaked folds, he drags down a middle finger between them, licking himself into your mouth as he draws circles around your aching clit. “So wet for me,” he rasps. “Gonna make a mess in you, honey.” 

You gasp, “P-Please.” 

He lines himself against your entrance, teasing you, stretching you subtly with the bulbous head of his cock. Your head falls back and your back arches into him. He draws a hard nipple between his lips, closing them as he sucks. Heat rushes all over your body, arousal thick on your tongue. You clutch the sheets. He smiles as he pushes in, filling you inch by inch with a lax jaw and a dazed gaze. 

He stops and waits for you to adjust to him. Joel’s forehead drops against yours, dampness growing between the skin. You feel his breath fanning your face, so warm. There’s a hint of pain, the type that makes you flutter around him. He feels it too. The way you tighten against him, your body begging for more. He obliges. Pushing further and further until his hips are flushed against yours. His jaw is clenched tight, his breathing heavy. 

“Fuck you feel so good,” he presses fleeting kisses all over your face. It’s ticklish and if all your senses wasn’t narrowed in between your legs, you would’ve giggled. 

Your body jerks as he pulls back, the pleasure you feel is instant and overwhelming. You’ve missed the feeling of actual flesh inside of you. Joel snaps his hips forward, locking your breath in your throat, with a moment of desperation you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer. He fucks you in earnest. Every thrust desperate. Every thrust needy. He seems lost in you, whimpers, groans and grunts trembling in his throat and chest. You spread your legs wider, wanting more of him, wanting your cunt to take the shape of his cock. 

“Harder—” you cry out. “Take it—Take what you want—” 

Your arms fall limp, his body moving up and towering over yours. Joel grips your thighs tight before lifting them, he jackhammers into you, tugging and pulling at you like a brand new fucktoy. He splits you in half. The force of his movements making you scream. You don’t miss the way he grins wildly, dangerously. Something dark and haunting washing over his face. 

Your eyes grow wide, your heart beating in your throat, making it hard to swallow. It happens all at once, you clench around him, arousal pouring between your legs in a way it never had before. The look, the cock, the man behind it all—everything combined pushing your mind into the deep stages of want and need. Your eyes roll back, your hands coming up to pinch your tight, tingling nipples. You sob his name, your voice hoarse as you beg him for more and more and more—

“W-Wait, darlin’ if you squeeze me like that I’ll—!” 

A series of curses drops wildly and unintelligently from his lips. You feel him. The heat of his seed filling you to the brim, his cock throbs and twitches, spurting into you again and again. Your lips break into a satisfied smile. Instinctively, Joel pushes deeper, shoving your combined slick even deeper. 

“Shit,” he says catching his breath. “I-I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I usually last. . . longer than that. I—” 

You shush him and cup his cheek. You’re so pliant right now, floating happily in the air. You let out a sigh before willing your lips to move. Has talking always been this taxing? 

“It’s okay Joel,” you slur your words, smiling lazily. “I take it as a compliment, that felt fucking good.” 

“Yeah?” he sounds so innocent and hopeful that you can’t suppress your giggle. His eyes twinkle under the dimmed light. “Well, I’m glad you felt good, sweetheart but I’m not done yet.” 

Your breath hitches when he pulls out, your brows furrow as a chill settles between your legs. You wanted him to stay inside longer. But you’re pleasantly surprised when he slides down your body, kissing every patch of skin before settling between your legs. 

“Let’s see if you’re as sweet as you’ve been tellin’ me.” 

He kisses your cunt, lips moving in tandem with your wet folds. He drags his tongue up between them, curling it as he takes himself into his mouth, tasting both of you at one. You go limp at the pressure of his tongue, your walls fluttering and squeezing for more. With a groan, he shoves his fingers, the wet sound makes your toes curl into the mattress. It’s like torture, a very pleasurable torture. You gasp when he pulls you flush against his face, the bridge of his nose bumping against your clit as he licks you clean. 

Your build up is spontaneous. You feel it coming, the taste of your orgasm at the tip of your tongue. Joel curls his fingers, sucking your clit between his lips and gently nipping at it. You hips chases his mouth, his mustache chafing the tender skin. Your hands come to each side of his head, threading your trembling fingers through the soft locks, his fingers brush against an especially sensitive spot and you tug at his hair. His throat shakes with a groan. His eyes closing. 

“Do it again,” he mutters. And you do. He starts moaning into your cunt, his hips, despite just spilling inside of you, rutting against the bed. Your nails bite into his scalp and he flicks his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

The tension coiling in you finally snaps, your entire body locking up as you gush into his mouth. He gulps you down loudly, fingers still moving deep inside you. Your throat is dry as ou shout his name, hips stuttering helplessly, he pins you down with both hands, moving his head up and down as the fat strokes of his tongue becomes more wild. 

When he’s finally done feasting, he pulls away with a wet mouth. 

“Wow,” you murmur, curling into him when he lays beside you. “That was. . . wow.” 

“You really had low expectations, huh?” 

“Not low,” you grin. “But not that high either.” 

“Well,” he says, guiding you so you’ll lay on his chest. “I’m glad to prove you wrong.” 

You smile, heart fluttering. 

“Me too.” 

[derpygirl-draws]

You know what? I will not be be quiet.

^(just an example of what I am talking about) I wish I could live everyday not having to worry and not having to listen to the people I love panicking or just saying “Welp guess we are fucked”. But because so many people believed in this asshole and voted for him, I have to fear for the lives of people, REAL PEOPLE, some of whom not so long ago did not have any rights or freedoms as much as the average American. THIS IS NOT NEGOTIABLE, PEOPLE’S LIVES ARE AT STAKE. Not just their mortality but their basic right to happiness. THEIR RIGHT AS PEOPLE TO LIVE HOW THEY PLEASE IN THE PUBLIC EYE AND TO FEEL PROUD OF WHO THEY ARE.

I’ve heard people call other’s dramatic.

Those who think the reaction of minorities is dramatic do not know the fear of being deemed less important to the world. I don’t even fully know what that’s like and I don’t want to know. I don’t want anyone to know what it’s like for the world to turn their back on them. It’s a very real feeling that I wouldn’t wish on anyone! I WANT TO SEE THE PEOPLE I LOVE BEING HAPPY. I WANT TO SEE THE WORLD HAPPY. But that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?

I may not fully understand the struggles of every minority. I’ve been fortunate enough to have lived a childhood where discrimination against any part of me has been minimal.

I am a person who was born as female and identifies as female. I am a person of color. I am queer. I am neurodivergent. The majority of my peers and friends are minorities. And I care very deeply about all of them. I don’t hate many things in the world. I believe hate only fosters bitterness. But I will not hide the fact that I HATE seeing the people I care about, no matter how little I know them or how distant the relationship, hurting. I HATE knowing that I can’t immediately take their pain away and tell them not to worry.

Cause who am I to say you or the people around you shouldn’t worry? Who am I to promise it’ll be okay? Who am I to wish for a better world when it feels like the cards are constantly stacked against us.

Who is anyone to call someone else dramatic for fearing the future? When this is the world we live in.

I want to say my peace on the matter cause I feel it would be doing my loved ones a disservice to keep my voice left unheard. To bottle up your thoughts is the give in to the fear.

TELL THE WORLD HOW YOU FEEL. TELL THE WORLD AND SOMEONE WILL COME TO LISTEN. You are not dramatic for being scared. But do not suffer alone. There is always someone who will listen. Always someone who feels the same. Always someone who will appreciate knowing they aren’t alone and that you are with them.

And for those who don’t care or don’t believe this is a big deal, I will not beg. I will not ask. I will tell you to educate yourself and learn about reality we’ve been thrusted into. And if anything, how this affects you too. Cause otherwise there is nothing I can do for you and nothing I will do because there are others I know who appreciate and acknowledge what I have to say. There are others who will stand with me. There are people I want to stand with because they are people that believe and care about me and the millions of people who will be affected by the choices and ignorance of others.

I stand with open arms to those who need it. Who needs support. I will not say please stand with me. I will say I am here and I will stay here and be here no matter what and if you choose to stand with me, that’s your choice.

I will not beg for the freedom to exist and neither should 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.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“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.

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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.

[thedevilspearl]

➛ the good, the bad and the bratty

a/n: here it is!!! cowboy!diavolo surprised me because he was voted least out of the top three yet i found myself loving him so much that i couldn’t stop writing and it turned into a whole fic haha check out the other cowboys here!

tags: 2.0k words, cowboy!diavolo x female reader, bondage, spanking, brat taming, breeding kink, mild exhibitionism. minors do not interact!

diavolo had a busy morning rounding up the sheep that slipped through the fence during the night. he crept out of bed without waking you, leaving you with warm blankets and a kiss to your cheeks as he pulled on his jeans and shirt.

you’re an expert rider, better than him although he won’t admit it — stubborn cowboys never do no matter how sweet they are.

but not waking you up to catch the sheep with him wasn’t due to his pride but rather the fact that you were up all night riding something else entirely.

he had you slamming up and down on his cock for hours, grinding on him until you both passed out. his cock throbs at the memories and he adjusts his crotch in his tight jeans before fastening his belt.

diavolo sighs, wishing he could spend the morning walking the perimeter of the ranch on horseback with you beside him, but you tired yourself out last night. you deserve rest. and on top of that, he can only imagine how sore your pussy must be.

he’d be the devil if he asked you to sit on a saddle before fully recovering.

so at dawn, he ventures onto his land and mounts his horse to chase after the escaped sheep. it takes hours, but once rounded up, he works on fixing the fence and then checking on the cattle.

it isn’t until long after noon when he spots you coming down to the barn.

“hey, sweetie,” you mutter with a kiss to his lips. “why didn’t you wake me?”

you smirk at his eyes widening from your appearance. it’s a hot day so you opted for one of his flannels and a pair of cowboy boots. his shirt is baggy enough to cover you, but the only thing on his mind is whether or not you’re wearing anything under his shirt.

“thought ya needed some rest after last night,” he teases. “you worked so hard.”

“well, you work hard every day looking after the ranch.”

he chuckles lowly and you find yourself warming up at the sound.

“so, what’s the plan for the day?”

diavolo is about to tell you he did most of the work and the only thing you should be doing is resting, but his inconveniently friendly neighbours interrupt him.

“hey!” mammon calls with beelzebub following behind him. “you got hay?”

“what happened to yours?” dia quips.

“found mould in ‘em. can’t use it anymore.”

both cowboys tip their hats in your direction as greeting.

“mornin’, boys.” you beam.

“afternoon,” beel corrects you. “but i assume it’s morning for you.”

they both grin and wink at diavolo, knowing exactly what happened last night given your attire. and diavolo hates them for thinking about you like that.

“why don’t ya head back to the house?” diavolo leans in and suggests. “get something to eat.”

you know he means to say go put on some clothes. or at least stay away from these guys while you’re dressed like that. jealousy rises from his body and you read him easily.

perhaps it’s the exhaustion from last night, or maybe it’s due to the heat, but your brain is frazzled enough to make you want to disobey his request and piss him off. for some reason, making him more jealous sounds like a good idea.

“i already had breakfast.” you say and hop onto a pile of hay, crossing your legs so no one can peek up the little clothing you have on.

dia stares at you starstruck, silenced by your boldness. and the other two cowboys suffocate in the growing tension. beel’s eye’s wander around the room nervously, not landing on anything specific. and mammon lets out a long whistle.

“so….” he clicks his tongue. “the hay?”

“there’s more round back.” diavolo says without tearing his stern eyes from you. you cower under his gaze, knowing you may have gone too far.

when mammon and beel disappear behind the stable, you hop down from your pile of hay. you thought it would be hot to tease him in front of the others but it turned out awkward so you wander back to the house. but diavolo grabs you before you can make it two paces out of the door.

“what?” you ask with feigned innocence.

“you know what.”

“i don’t.”

he scoffs.

“are ya wearing anything under that?” he asks, and your silence is his answer.

he rips open your shirt, his shirt, and buttons go flying in all direction to reveal your naked body. your tits sit freely and your bare pussy was only inches away from being exposed if the shirt was lifted high enough.

and yet, you jumped on that pile of hay without a care in the world, without caring if his neighbours saw what only he is allowed to see. and it angers him in ways it shouldn’t.

“dia!” you push him away, but he doesn’t let go of the shirt and because of its huge size, it slips off your frame too easily.

the cowboy is stunned for a second, but he gulps and tips his hat in your direction, admiring your glowing body in the sunlight.

he was ready to scold you for acting so scantily in front of his friends, but instead of listening to logic, he listens to his cock. despite the hours and hours of fucking you did last night, it aches for more.

and what turns him on to a point of no return is your god damned boldness, not even trying to hide your perky breasts or pretty pussy. your stand before him with confidence he can only admire.

mammon and beel are minutes away from walking in on you wearing nothing but a pair of cowboy boots and diavolo feels inclined to teach you a lesson.

you would dare to be seen naked by anyone other than diavolo?

not on his watch.

your brattiness knows no bounds but you’ve certainly got him in the mood to tame it. to teach you that no one else is allowed to see your pretty, perfect body.

he very rarely uses the lasso he carries on his hip, but all of a sudden he feels inspired to use it.

“c’mere.”

you ignore him, drifting away further without looking back and acknowledging him. if you step outside any further, there’d be no doubt the others would see you.

“don’t ignore me. i told ya to c’mere.”

you turn around with sass, standing with your hand on your hip. “or what?” you follow his hand down to where it grazes against his loop of rope and your heart beats faster, and your pussy throbs.

“don’t make me use this on ya, sweetheart.”

you swallow thickly, feeling your body burn. the thought of him tying you up is provocative, but using his lasso on you?

it’s unexpectedly the sexiest thing you’ve ever imagined.

and he knows it too.

“you like the sound of that?” he smirks and takes big steps towards you. “i’m sick of ya acting like a brat, ‘specially in front of other guys. how about i teach my little cowgirl a lesson, hm?”

you bite your lips and he hovers above you, eyes raking all over your form.

“want me to tie you up and teach you a lesson, baby?”

you nod eagerly but maintain the daring brattiness in your glare.

“i want ya to say it, sweetheart.”

“yes,” you yip, a little too excitedly. “use it on me. tie me up and fuck me good, dia.”

your heart flutters as the corner of his lip twitches upwards, and your pussy clenches as diavolo moves swiftly. he spins you around grabs both of your wrists in one of his hands, somehow rough and gentle at the same time. and with his other, he loosens his lasso before looping it around your wrists and pulling.

he then works some skilful magic to have your elbows touching together and the rope lacing around the length of your forearms.

it’s tight enough for you to be unable to fight against it. not that you’d want to.

your bound wrists rest on your lower back and he pulls you back into the barn, slamming the door behind him.

“what a fucking brat i’ve got,” he growls and bends you over on the pile of hay you were previously displaying yourself on. “wants to get fucked like an animal, huh?”

“yes, dia,” you moan. “wanna get fucked so good.”

you wiggle your ass in front of his crotch which earns a harsh slap on it. and then another.

“best be quiet or those assholes are gonna hear ya.”

you moan louder and lewder when he slaps your ass a third time.

“or don’t.”

diavolo wastes no more time in loosening his belt and pulling his cock from his jeans. it throbbed and ached all morning and now he can finally relieve himself by putting you in your place.

he grabs you by the rope, pulling you upright and pressing your ass against him. 

“fucking brat,” he grunts rubbing against you. “was last night not enough, huh? greedy pussy’s got you acting up like a slut.”

you whine loudly, defiant against his words. his large hand lands on your ass again, causing you to yelp and your whole body to jolt from the impact. writhing to free yourself from the rope is a fruitless attempt, but diavolo enjoys the sight of you struggling.

“use your hands.” he orders.

you could ignore him, piss him off even more. but your pussy is so fucking desperate to be filled and battered by his huge cock that your brattiness slowly fades away and you follow his orders quickly.

it’s difficult to move in the position you’re in but with the little freedom your bound hands have, you arch into him and stroke his huge cock. “fuck, dia. you’re so big. want it in me so bad.”

“patience, brat,” he mutters and runs his hands up and down your body, squeezing your tits with one hand and rubbing your clit with the other. “gotta wait for them to come back.”

arousal leaks from your pussy and you continue jerking him off until the familiar footsteps in the gravel grow louder, and dia takes it as his signal to push you down on the hay again and slam his cock into your soaking pussy.

“fuck!” you scream as your pussy welcomes him in greedily. “dia!”

“you like that, huh? you like my cock?”

“yes, i love it!” you moan loudly, gasping for air against the hay. “i love your cock.”

“that’s right.”

he continues hitting you with thrust after thrust of his hips, the sound reverberating through the wooden walls of the barn. it may be muffled from the outside, but there is no doubt the others can’t hear you.

your pussy is still sensitive from last night, but more than eager to please diavolo’s cock as he drills your hole, slamming against all the right places. “ah! fuck, dia, i’m gonna cum!”

“you’re gonna cum? your bratty pussy’s gonna cum all over my cock?”

“yes!”

“fuck,” he gasps. “want me to cum in your pussy, hm? fill it up ’til ya can’t take no more?”

“yes! dia, please!”

“gonna fuckin’ breed ya.”

“do it, dia! do it!”

“gonna knock ya up, show ‘em all how good i fucked ya!” he groans. “gonna teach my brat a lesson and knock her up.”

your cries turn into fully incomprehensible moans, but he knows you want it as much as he does. you want him to mark your body in ways it’s never been marked before and claim you as his forever.

so while you babble away, you both rock against the hay with hot, sticky bodies and there’s nothing but steamy air and filthy words between you.

before you know it, your orgasm washes over you and your pussy tightens around his cock, causing him to spurt ropes of his cum into your pussy.

your pussy tightens, causing him to spurt ropes of cum into your pussy as you scream in delight; your orgasms instils pure bliss into your body, as it does to dia who lets out an animalistic growl as he fucks you both through the high.

“who fuckin’ owns this pussy?”

“you do! you own it, dia.” you mumble, barely able to form words with how much you’re moaning. “you own my pussy. you own me.”

“that’s right,” he grunts. “i fuckin’ own ya.”

with one last rut, he stills deep groan and leans over, panting above you and pressing soft along your shoulder as you gasp for air.

“your mine, brat.”

[wakandama2]

To my Black people who live in rural or small town Trump heavy areas with those fuckers on lifted trucks with them big ass flag who are about to harass your streets and you. Who will have to tread carefully around and pray they don't get as bold as their KKK predecessor. Here's what you're going to do:

- Get your phone/laptop. Then get a pot of dirt, an regular ass American flag, and a gun.

- First of all, if you were dumb enough to be a visible minority in a place like that and put up Harris or Biden 2024 signs over the course during the campaign run. You are going to take those down and pray no trumper marked down your address.

- Wipe connections to Democrats or Third Party from your social media.

- When Trumpers get in your face(with or without cameras) don't say or show anything that would help them track down your name or social media.

- Matter of fact private all your social media and purge it to just close friends and family that you can trust. Take you and/or your child off any Media use policies for schools, work, hobby organizations ect.

- THOUGHLY REVISE WHO YOU HAVE MADE COMMUNITY CONNECTIONS WITH!!! This can be an outright Trump supporter you tolerated or a person who hangs in those groups yet only tells you they aren't affiliated. They are too close, cut them out and off.

- Idc if you are atheist or agnostic, find a Black church of some kind to make community connections with. In the environment of our new situation this is probably the only community source you will be able to rely on wholeheartedly

-Coach your Black children on situational awareness. Help them recognize when it safe to speak out and when shutting the fuck up and keeping your head down is the only safe option.

- Next you are gonna stick the flag into the pot and put it on your porch or at the end of your driveway. This is an appeasement cover, Trumper will think your pro-America/neutral and you'll have a higher chance of not being harassed, not a guarantee to those if you have been vocal but it's worth a shot.

The gun is your last defense. You may have to shoot them or give yourself mercy. I pray neither option will happen.

I'm dead ass, as a Black girl who's lived a small town/ rural lifestyle all my life. It was those very area votes and gerrymandering that led to the flip of the key battle ground states. You need to be prepared because these are crazed orange dick sucking cultists are going to be a Frontline danger to you, those trucks were outside the polling station in my own hometown intimating and harassing visible brown or Democrat people.

Trust no other minority but your own, and even then tread carefully around those loudly ignorant or have forgotten that they will never receive the benefits of white supremacy.

[pumpkinpaix]

Regarding #EndOTWRacism’s summaries of 2023 OTW Board election candidate positions

Before I begin, let me say now that while I am a volunteer with the OTW, my views are personal and should not be taken as any kind of official statement from the org, its leadership, or other volunteers, especially not the candidates in question. My focus here is on the Asian candidates for obvious reasons, but this post is not meant as endorsement or disavowal of any of the candidates, whose bios and platforms can all be read here.

Do not take this as an excuse harass the mods running EOTWR. I cannot make myself clearer.

--

I am making this post to express my extreme disappointment with End OTW Racism’s post purporting to summarize the platforms of the candidates for the upcoming Board elections. It is no longer rebloggable, but can be read here.

The way that the candidates with Asian names were spoken of is deeply insulting when compared with how candidates with English-language names were discussed. Asian candidates had their platforms misrepresented, their expertise downplayed, and their lived experiences reduced down to “bringing an international presence” to the board, which was then further caveated with, “diversity alone is not going to solve the issue of racist harassment currently allowed in the OTW’s policies and enforcement practice”. While it is true that diversity alone is not a solution, it’s pretty offensive to essentially have “remember! Just because they aren’t white doesn’t mean you should vote for them!” tacked on to one of the Asian candidates’ platforms. 

End OTW Racism seems more concerned with whether or not candidates used the buzzwords they wanted to hear rather than with how racism is discussed holistically within the statements. While I can appreciate that EOTWR has a specific agenda, to say things like, “[s]he does not mention racism, racist harassment, or hiring a DEI consultant in her platform, so outside the outreach and support she mentions, there is not enough for us to conclude that these would be priorities for her” regarding Zixin Z.’s position, directly following the statement, “[s]he also mentions the need for outreach towards non-English-speaking fans and has a desire to provide support to volunteers from minority groups” is fucking laughable, especially after the initial mistake of stating that Zixin Z. only wanted to do more outreach to Chinese-speaking fans. Again, I understand that people make mistakes and that this mistake has since been corrected, but I hope it prompts some reflection on the sort of biases that would lead to such a mistake in the first place. It may have been completely innocuous, but in charged discussions about racism, please understand that it gives an impression that is difficult to shake. I do thank you for not trying to hide that this happened. 

Why is Anh P.’s lack of discussion on TOS/PAC a point against her, while Zixin Z.’s years of experience on PAC, her role as a mod on Weibo, and her background in nonprofits don’t even warrant a mention? For that matter, why did none of the Asian candidates’ skills or experience warrant mention? Qiao C. and Zixin Z. have both been volunteers with the organization for several years now, and Anh P. has years of moderation and volunteer experience elsewhere prior to her work with the OTW.

It is so fucking frustrating that despite each one of these candidates specifically talking about the need for diverse voices, they had their platforms essentially passed over because they didn’t use the right words, and it is particularly fucking aggravating to see that EOTWR will use Chinese issues as props when trying to press OTW leadership on the racism that occurs within the org, but then completely fail to connect the dots on why these candidates are running because the wrong language was used. Zixin Z. is one of the Weibo mods, for fuck’s sake. 

The entire post feels like an exercise in virtue signalling, from every time it was brought up that a candidate did not provide pronouns in their platform statements, despite every one of them having pronouns provided in their bios (why mention this detail at all? You could have simply used the pronouns), to what felt like willful obliviousness to the anti-racism stances in the Asian candidates’ platforms. It feels like the concern starts and ends with racism in Anglophone terms, on Anglophone terms.

I can respect the driving ideas behind EOTWR, even if I disagree with the way that EOTWR pursues their goals. I do believe that we want the same things in the end, and therefore chose not to interact with the many posts I have seen about the protest. However, I saw the summary post and could not let it pass without speaking.

For a protest group supposedly dedicated to ending racism in the OTW, this felt incredibly hypocritical, conscious bias or not. In my most charitable frame of mind, I can see this as misjudging and overcorrecting to ensure that there was no favoritism shown to the obvious non-white candidates lest EOTWR be accused of tokenizing– again, it is true, that diversity in and of itself is not a solution to racism. 

In my least charitable and most bitter frame of mind, I feel inclined to wonder if EOTWR, much like the OTW itself, is uncomfortable with the lack of influence they could exude over an international candidate. It would be much, much easier to push their agenda forward with more culturally familiar candidates, particularly white ones. Guilt and public scrutiny are powerful weapons and easy to wield against those with perceived privilege in our current atmosphere, often to the detriment of the actual discussion at hand in my experience. I know that’s cynical. It’s hard not to be. (For clarity's sake: I do not know the other candidates' races. This is a hypothetical.)

This isn’t a demand for an apology. I think we fetishize the capital-A Apology to the point where I find them sort of meaningless unless they are given freely. I don’t need EOTWR to agree with me, and I don’t really want to keep talking about it. Rather, I would prefer that EOTWR take action to do better as they continue in their campaign. What that action is is their decision. If they truly mean to stand against racism in the OTW, then I’d like them to demonstrate it.

--

DO NOT HARASS EOTWR MODS. I AM FUCKING SERIOUS ABOUT THIS.

[nonexistentbeanbag]

not at all my usual stuff but can we please take a second to acknowledge how much Trump has ruined…everything??

Long one so please stay with me

Donald Trump has been in or around the oval office since I was 9 years old. Think about that for a second. Donald Trump. Has been in the running for president for a decade. Reality TV personality DONALD TRUMP was and will be the president of the United States of America.

Before Donald Trump politics used to be that, politics. Politicians were advocates for policy they deemed to be in the best interest of America and the American people. They were (for the most part) educated people who cared and wanted to make their mark on the history of the country. They respected one another and at least outwardly, seemed to care about the American people. Presidential candidates got where they were, not only due to charm winning over Americans, but because of their tangible policy that was in the best interest of Americans. They were intelligent and qualified.

Donald Trump is not that.

When was the last time you heard not only Donald Trump, but really any presidential candidate, concede that the opponent they're running against has a good point, or is a good person? When was the last time you heard a presidential candidate respect their opponent as an individual who wants what's best for the country? Odds are, not since 2016 at best.

Reality TV personality Donald Trump ruined the reputation of the POTUS. He fostered a climate and set a precedent where internet "stars" like Mr Beast can say they'll run for president, and we don't laugh at them. We see that as a genuine possibility, and horrifically, them winning is not outside of the realm of possibility. Fucking Kanye can run for president and could win. That's insane. The president is no longer an educated person with ideas for improving the conditions of the people. They don't have to be that anymore. The president just needs to be a big enough personality to gain your attention for their own gain.

Donald Trump ruined the race for president. We don't base people off of their merit anymore. We base president on who is loudest, who most easily gets your attention. Who can make the most baseless, wild accusations and claims, and rally people to their cause that means and advocates for nothing.

Not only has he ruined the position of President, he's ruined the American people.

We can't agree to disagree anymore. He's gathered a significant portion of the population, straight cis whites, and rallied them together against the rest of us. He's somehow managed to regress the education and tolerance of the American people by decades.

The people who voted for him don't fucking understand what tariffs are yet believe his claims that more or higher tariffs will fix the American economy.

"The colored are out to get you. They're trying to make white people a minority in this country" "The gays are shoving their sexuality in our face. It goes against the Bible and the core traditional beliefs of marriage" "Trans people are mentally sick and trying to indoctrinate your kids" "Immigrants don't belong in this country and they're trying to take your jobs and paychecks".

Whether these are his true core beliefs or not doesn't matter. This is what his followers feel and believe, and he does nothing but fan the flame of bigotry and prejudice.

Each of his campaigns have been built off the backbone of intolerance and hate. People want someone to hate, to rally against, and he gives them someone. Everyone. His opponents, his detractors, anyone who dares to criticize or look into his wild claims and shoddy policy.

January 6th is indicative of what modern day America looks like. Politics is no longer about civil disagreement or difference in preferred methods of reaching Americas goals. It's about winning.

"I want my side to win and I'll do whatever vile or immoral thing I have to do to make it happen. No I won't look into my candidates policies and make sure it's sound and aligns with my personal values, I'll take their word for it. Instead, I'll burn ballots, I'll fight strangers, I'll storm the capital, because I have to win." And he encourages all of it, because it gets him support, it gets him votes, it gets him money, and it gets him power.

Donald Trump is not a politician. He is not a president. He is a felon. An assaulter. A criminal. A terrorist.

He is a man with power who wanted more and used the American people to get it.

[hwaslayer]

project: make you love me (jyh) | 13.5

♣︎ spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: yunho can’t stand how you’re so wrapped up in the notorious campus fuckboy, park seonghwa. he would gladly love you the way you deserve, despite being shy, awkward and the complete opposite of seonghwa. thus, when he finds himself spending more time with you over literature reviews and random study sessions, he decides to take on the challenge to win you over.

—pairing: jeong yunho x f. reader x park seonghwa

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers/friends to lovers, college au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 1.8k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, just a peek into some stuff that happened over break, very self indulgent honestly i just wanted more yuyu time lolol, the usual teasing between these lovebirds, making out, handjob, teensy weensy bit of spit play, unprotected sex, riding yunho after hes fresh out the shower purrrr 🤪

—a/n: hi! dropping a bonus chapter because it's like ... kinda necessary in order for the next update to make sense? more self indulgent tho LOL but it wasn't long enough to be a chapter chapter 😭 anywho, enjoy!! pls vote on my poll if you haven't already cause ya girl needs to figure out her priorities hehe ty 💕

"Get in the damn car! We're late!" Chaery yells at Seungmin as he lazily walks over after forcing for a pitstop just to get snacks. Yunho laughs as he watches from the rear view mirror, popping his mouth open when you lean over and feed him a fish ball.

"Why don't you get in and stop worrying about me? I'm getting there!" You hear Seungmin yell back as Soobin swings the door open and slides into the back seat.

"Maybe they'll never notice if we just drive off?" Soobin suggests, making Yunho chuckle again.

"He's almost to the car." 

"Why is she hella mad anyway?" Soobin shivers in his jacket.

"He's taking his sweet ol' time. Plus, you know how Chaery is. Her family is full of seasoned travelers. They don't do pitstops and stuff." You dip the fish ball into the sauce and pop it into your mouth.

"Right." Soobin sips on his cup of coffee, scooting closer to the door when Chaery and Seungmin finally slip into their seats.

"We're literally so behind now. You made Yuyu wait." She continues to go at Seungmin, making him roll his eyes.

"Yunho, I'm sorry. I really had to use the bathroom. Some people don't understand it's a thing." 

"You're good." Yunho starts up the car and instantly turns up the heat. "We've only got about an hour and a half left." 

Today, you and your friends were off to spend a few days deep in the snow; renting a huge cabin near a snowboarding and ski resort. Yunho graciously offered to drive, patiently dealing with your friends and their requests on the way over.

Yunho heads to the cabin to help drop off the bags before meeting up with the rest already at the ski resort. He pulls into valet while the rest of you hop out and head straight into the store to get some gear and rent some snowboards. You find the rest of your friends hanging around in the café, sipping on hot cocoa while waiting for your group to arrive. Everyone is in good spirits, excited to see Yunho alongside of you. Even though he's tagged along a few times, you still can't help but feel worried about Yunho. You don't want him to feel isolated or left out, especially if you and your friends already have a good bond with each other. But, he fits in so well every single time, you almost feel like he's been friends with them for as long as you have been.

He tries, and the effort shows.

Once the snowboarding finally takes off, you find out that Yunho has been snowboarding before and is pretty comfortable with it. You, on the other hand, are terrified out of your mind. It takes a few tries, a patient Yunho and constant falls before you're [at the very least] boarding in a straight path. But, you're having fun and sharing lots of laughs with your friends, and you find yourself enjoying yourself no matter the circumstance.

After an hour or so of boarding, you, Yunho and a few of your friends sit off to the side to observe everyone else and play around with the snow in the surrounding area. You give your sister a Facetime call during the brief break, getting your friends and Yunho in the screen. Your sister kept calling Yunho a cutie, demanding for you to bring him over for dinner ASAP. Yunho agrees and tells your mom and sister that he'll see them soon again, waving goodbye before helping you stand to your feet for another round of snowboarding.

You and your friends are out there for another 1.5 hours before you call it quits, heading back to the cabin for a relaxing rest of the evening before another day of playing in the snow tomorrow. Everyone pitches in to make a good, hearty dinner— Yunho and a few of the other boys grilling in the covered back patio while the girls stayed indoors and finished preparing the rest of the dishes over some drinks. Once everything is set, everyone sits at the table and quietly enjoys their food before debating what to watch for the rest of the night.

After dinner, most of the food is gone, and the group is cleaning around before you head upstairs to your shared room with Yunho. You take a shower first, while Yunho hangs out with the group downstairs, enjoying the hot water as it hits your skin. You take a good, lengthy 20 minute shower; gently moisturizing before getting into Yunho's shirt and some shorts, leaving your wet hair to air dry.

Luckily, the cabin is warm enough, but you know you'll get cold the longer you sit around. Before leaving the room, you turn on the portable heater just to warm the room a bit more before you get to bed. By the time you've headed back downstairs, a few of your friends are huddled around the living room now watching a true crime docuseries with some snacks; the rest already resting in their rooms or asleep from the eventful day.

"I'm gonna shower." Yunho kisses your cheek before excusing himself to shower. You watch for a bit before helping clean up around the kitchen and living room. You then bid your friends goodnight— the exhaustion kicking in quick that you don't really have time to sit and enjoy the rest of the docuseries they've started. When you get back into the room with a cup of tea in hand, Yunho has just turned off the shower and steps out in nothing but a towel. His hair is damp and you can't help but ogle at his frame, his body. "Hey. You didn't wanna watch?"

"No, the exhaustion is hitting me pretty badly now. I just helped clean up a bit downstairs and made some tea."

"Mm. Is the room warm enough for you?" He points at the portable heater that he's turned up a bit more.

"Yes. It's cozy." You chuckle. "Thank you." You sit on the bed with your back against the wall, watching as Yunho takes a seat on the edge. He's running a smaller wet towel across his damp hair, his back facing you. You can't help but crawl over and throw your arms over his shoulders, planting random kisses against the side of his neck and shoulders.

"Cutie." He chuckles. "What can I do for you?" 

"A kiss?" He smiles, dipping forward to connect his lips with yours in a sweet kiss. 

"You sure that's all?" He teases. "You know you can just tell me, baby."

"That's all." You continue to kiss him, hand traveling down his chest, to grazing across the tent forming in his towel. 

"Hey." He whines in between kisses, slightly hissing when you continue to gently palm him through the towel. "If you keep doing that, I won't be able to stop myself."

"Your fault for walking out of the damn bathroom when it's literally below 0 outside." He laughs, hands falling onto your hips when you crawl onto his lap.

"It was warm enough in here!"

"Sure." You playfully roll your eyes.

"Take these off." He whispers, tugging on your shorts.

"So bold." You tease as he helps you out of your shorts and bites his bottom lip.

"Mm, well. You started it." His hands come up your shirt to squeeze your sides. "Care to show me what exactly you need, love?" He smirks, a drip of a suave tone slipping through his lips.

"Mhm." You sit back a bit and run your hand up his towel to gently stroke his already-hardened member. He hisses and tilts his head back in pleasure, tempted to thrust into your hand as you pump him at a steady pace. He lets out low, strangled moans, trying his best to keep contact with you through hooded lids. You take the opportunity to spit onto his dick, letting it drip down the head and down his length while you pick up the pace. Yunho's moans are a little louder now, and hearing it drives you crazy.

"Jesus." He lowly groans. "Baby, wait, wait, wait—" He grabs at your wrist and stops you. "You'll make me cum if you keep going."

"You don't want that?"

"No. Or else, we would've gone through all that trouble of taking off your shorts for nothing." You giggle, adjusting your position to line him up at your entrance. 

"We have to be quiet."

"Do we? They have the docuseries on loud downstairs." You slowly sink down his length, lips attaching to his as you both let out soft moans while adjusting to the feeling.

"Mm, but there's still rooms across—" Yunho chases after your lips, enclosing it in a heated kiss before you can say anything else. He grips onto your hips and guides you at a steady pace, more gargled and low moans leaving him as you work him.

"They won't hear a thing, pretty. Don't worry." He smirks against your lips. "Is it really a bad thing, though?"

"Yunho." You giggle, tilting your head back in pleasure when his cock hits you in all the right places, clit rubbing against him perfectly. 

"Love when you say my name like that." He mutters against your neck, tongue swiping against the surface before he bites onto your neck. You let out a sigh just as his hand comes to your neck, gently squeezing as he watches you ride him at a steady rhythm.

"You feel so good." Your hands trail up the nape of his neck, tugging at the ends of his hair. His hands come back to your sides as he whispers in your ear, praising and cooing you straight to the edge.

Gonna keep being a good girl for me?

Riding me like you were made for me.

So pretty, so beautiful.

My baby.

And it only takes a couple of more rolls against Yunho before you're twitching and trembling in his grip, digging your nails into his shoulders as he thrusts up into you and fills you up shortly afterwards. He groans as lets out every last bit into you, lips grazing against your neck before planting a soft trail there, to your jaw, to your lips.

"That was fun." You say, making Yunho chuckle.

"Let's get cleaned up." He looks down at the towel that's now on the floor. "Again." You laugh, heading to the bathroom to clean up, get dressed and do some final touches before slipping into bed with Yunho. He instantly pulls you into his arms, wrapping one around your shoulders while you lay on his chest. "Can barely keep my eyes open now." You smile when Yunho kisses you on the forehead, letting out a content sigh with you in his arms.

"Yunho?"

"Mhm?"

"Thanks for coming along on this little trip."

"Wouldn't miss it for a thing, love." He hums against you, falling asleep in due time just to repeat the agenda all over again tomorrow.

♣︎ taglist: @s-nsanshine @soupbinlily @tyongff-ff @jiminiscricket @g1g1l @staytinyinmybpack @woomyteez @gfksz @bitchwhytho @savluvsmingi @thisisntmyrightera @hyukssunflower @miriamxsworld @tmtxtf @kuromibabe04 @lmnhead @carrietwrites @tournesol155 @persphonesorchid @txt-yaomi @mxnsxngie @h-nji @mundayoonimnida @jalapeno-princess @nakiiko @asjkdk @kunikku @idkwgoh @kyeos4ng @agust-d2 @araknoid @bintificreads @primoppang @betray-the-light @aurorasjoongie @wineyoungie @yunholuvrsblog @yungigiggles @jaerisdiction @ignoretheskies @luminouskalopsia @naeviscall @vixensss @choisansplushie @arya9111 @my-lightspirit @dazednconfusion @astro-doll-the-star @faesmingi

[vavuska]

Elon Musk is threatening a Brazilian Supreme Court justice after the court issued a summons to him which threatens the suspension of Twitter if he does not comply within 24 hours.

To combat disinformation, Brazil gave a Supreme Court justice sweeping powers to order social networks to take down content he believed threatened democracy. Here's how the experiment led to a ban on X, the social network owned by Elon Musk.

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/31/world/americas/brazil-x-ban-free-speech.html?smid=threads-nytimes

Elon Musk claims this is a censorship, because previously he was ordered to ban and close a lot of far-rights account that spread fake news and hate online by that same judge. As protest, Musk closed X offices in Brazil - which means people losing their job or their income.

When free speech is interpreted as anything which matches the law (and viceversa). Under Elon Musk's Leadership, Twitter has approved 83% of censorship requests by authoritarian governments globally. The social network has restricted and withdrawn content critical of the ruling parties in Turkey and India, among other countries, including during electoral campaigns.

Since Musk assumed control in October 2022, the platform has received a total of 971 government requests, a significant increase compared to the 338 received between October 2021 and April 2022.

Prior to Musk's takeover, Twitter had agreed to 50 per cent of such requests, as indicated in their last transparency report. However, no transparency reports have been published since October 2022, making it challenging to assess the current situation. Nevertheless, data from the technology information portal Rest of World suggests that the compliance rate has risen to 83 per cent following Musk's leadership, which again contribute to detect what Elon Musk REALLY think about free-speech: this right is granted only if comply to what oppressive governments and far-right politician approves. Discrimination and criminal behavior are allowed and protected under Musk's Leadership, because targets minorities, immigrants and political oppositors. Musk is a conservative and apply censorship, he isn't the victim of a 'woke' complot lead against him. Musk is receiving the payment for his unlawful action.

Source: El Pais English

As far I can understand, without having many clues here, this order of summon says that Elon Musk refused to appoint a legal rapresentative for X Brasil. For some typology of corporates Brazil require a % of residents in management or a legal rapresentative, with power to vote and deliberate in meetings, to operate online in the country. Yeah. Law apparently seems to be applied to everyone except him.

Summons with translation.

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/28/technology/brazil-x-ban-elon-musk.html

Edit: A legal rapresentative is more a managerial position than what do you think of. Yes, it could be an attorney or a lawyer too, but still isn't simply the guy who defend the corporate's interests in court. In Brazil you need a % of residents in management position to operate. This was a problem issued also with WhatsApp and Telegram.

Edit 2 - 31th August 2024: I was curious about the consequences of Musk's decision to close X's offices in Brazil for his employees. Have they been fired? Suspended with or without salary? I didn't find anything. However, I found this article that adds some informations, like Musk declaring he did this to "protect his staff". However, his legal rapresentative is impossible to be found.

Edit 3 - 31th August 2024: Another article of NY Times that analyzes the matter.

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/18/world/americas/elon-musk-x-brazil.html

Update - 31th August 2024: Brazil has turned off Twitter. Musk’s genius is again on glorious display in losing the 7th most populous country in the world. Oh well. At least the Cybertruck is doing awesome.

Another Update - 31th August 2024: Musk is freaking out right now. He knows if he gets blocked in Brazil it is just a matter of time before other countries follow suit.

However, someone forgot to tell Musk that you get fined for using VPNs to access Twitter in Brazil before he posted this.

Also seems that for a tech genius Musk isn't very smart though, doesn't he know using a VPN will worth the same with apps as it does with a browser?

However, The Brazilian Supreme Court has moderated its first rule. First, even the VPN apps were targeted and should be banned from App store and Google Store to prevent people getting access to Twitter exclusively. Now, the Court realized that banning VPNs is too extreme, so they will only apply a 50k (about $8,900) fine for those caught accessing the platform.

Basically, you don't get fined for using VPNs, that would be too 1984. You might get fined if they FIND OUT that you're accessing X via VPNs, and this is exactly the kind of thing VPNs are designed to prevent.

Just a reminder, you can always access better platform than X, even on your phone. No app is needed.

VPNs are great tools to use worldwide to get around authoritarian and abusive government surveillance and blocking. Zero to do with Musk. And they can only catch you if you aren't savvy.

In a perfect world you shouldn't need to download any VPNs to access innocent contents, because democratic countries will never block a platform that gives informations and entertainment to people. In a perfect world you won't be stuck with platforms that are not free from disinformation and neo-nazi posts.

3rd Update - 31th August 2024:

Musk owns more of SpaceX than Zuck owns of Meta or Bezos owns of Amazon, fwiw. For all intents and purposes, Musk is Twitter, SpaceX, Neuralink and X.

I'm gonna add some technicalities here:

In Brazil there is something called "Corporate Personality" that protects the shareholders patrimony from the company's debts.

But... If you hide behind legal shenanigans in a fraudulent manner, "corporate personality" is bypassed and thus the court moves into your personal patrimony.

Elon is, personally and fraudulently, removing X office from Brazil so they don't obey Brazilian laws.

So the judges target him on his other shares: SpaceX and Starlink.

[bitchy-peachy]

I don't know whether I should find Trump voters freaking out after learning that Trump doesn't care about him funny or infuriating. It's funny bc literally every reason they had voted for this man was a bold-faced lie and infuriating bc ppl on both sides has be telling them over and over that Trump would fuck America over and now that it's affecting them and their precious gas and egg price, they want to cry about being duped.

I find regretful Trump voters quite pitiful and soulless. Which is quite a lot from me cos when I despise someone to the core I go completely apathetic towards any suffering they may have.

They voted as selfishly as possible. Some didn't even care about the prices or anything, but yes for "sticking it to the libs".

But... While a lot of maga voted for Trump because he openly hates those they hate, there's unfortunately a lot of dumbass people that actually believed he would "unify" America.

(I'm not even joking. I've seen some maga online that are that effing delusional. They really thought they were the "good guys" in voting for the orange skidmark. I swear they need to get slapped for the audacity but I don't want to catch shit from them. )

These are the same people that compared wearing a freaking MASK to slavery so they've always been stupid and also racist af. They blame and project their own mediocrity on minorities and women (even if they're women themselves cos holyshit do maga women hate other women. My own maga mother... Oh she's literally hates everything with a vagina, even animals)

Those voters regretting their vote now... They won't even get the concept of pity from me. (My maga mother and her crying over her VA benefits she voted away lost me forever too.)

They didn't even know what tariffs were ffs. Or that "Obamacare" (a nickname given by republicans themselves, btw 😂) is the ACA they wanted to keep.

They just saw "Obama" in the little nickname and thought "Evil Black Democrat President is robbing us blind. We only want ACA🤬!"

Some are trying to lie to themselves thinking the tariffs will bring back American jobs (😂) and make us buy only "American products" ignoring the fact that our "American products" have imported components that will be affected by these tariffs.

So our "Made in America" shit... Yeah. That's going up.

Oh don't get me started on how more than half of our agriculture is imported and the agriculture that's actually done in our country is done mostly by immigrants that get paid shit wages. (And when Trump deports them all and farmers are forced to hire Americans that couldn't be assed to work a field, the prices will go up for our local agriculture as well)

These morons, we have to call them that, voted for the most epic downward spiral that will tank the American economy for potential decades (not just a few years of "hardship" like that Immigrant-That-Should-Get-Pimp-Smacked-Back-To-Africa Musk claimed.)

Sad thing is that we already had poverty. The middle class no longer exists. It's everyone's poor but with a handful of rich fucks.

And these moronic ass people just freaking put that shit on steroids with their dumb fucking voting.

People tell me I shouldn't insult them so much but shit. They're fucking stupid as hell.

They don't even understand why even relatives and friends don't wanna talk to them anymore 😂.

Oh its not a "difference of opinion". They voted to make us poorer, take rights away from the lgbtqia, women (yes, you miscarry and you can die from it now cos the procedure to remove rotting fetus matter is an abortion which these stupid dumbfuckers are very deaf about.), they voted against ALL POC (including the idiots that voted against themselves. DING DING DING! DENATURALIZATION! America has done it before and Trump will be bringing it back with his fake ass "invasion" emergency to activate the army), they voted against affordable healthcare and therefore fucked over people with preexisting conditions/disabilities etc., they voted against education because republicans need only stupid people to keep them in power.

Heck, they voted against gender affirming care because they think it only affects trans people when there's people with health conditions that require this kind of care (like me. A cis woman that produces too much estrogen that causes me a variety of health problems.)

Red states are behind in everything. Education, health, minimum wages but they're sure winning by being higher in crimes, sex crimes, incest and poverty.

They mooch off blue states taxes. They don't give as much as much back as they take. If it weren't for "demonrats" they'd be completely off the map.

Republican voters like living that way without realizing they could have been so much better.

They keep willingly voting for people that keep them in that life or worse... considering that these elections had very high stakes.

These elections were not like others in the past. He has too much power with the SC, senate and representatives.

Trump voters regretting their votes now should wipe words like freedom and patriot off their vocabulary because they have selfishly and quite stupidly fucked America.

Damn this shit was long, LMFAOOO.

[differentpostrebel]

Lost and Found: A Pirates Promise

Chapter: 53 Part 2: Breaking the Rules

A/N: And we are back at it again with part 2! We voted for which idea and the winner was the smut. Now this chapter does contain smut, so minors DNI. We talking defenses broken down, praises, and just the act. In the next chapter, we getting Sanji's wedding! and when I tell you shits going to hit the fan, and we will be having a shocking situation. Thank you guys so much for following and liking, commenting, reblogging. To my old followers, welcome back and to my new followers and even readers, let the adventure begin!

CW: P In V, Cunnilingus, Fingering, teasing, kink praise.

Ichiji POV…

“I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Vinsmoke!” declared the priest we hired for this union. Was this a real wedding? No, not in the true sense. Father orchestrated the entire thing, right down to the priest. But it doesn’t matter. To the rest of the world, this will be seen as a sacred union, a display of power. And that’s all that matters.

A wave of satisfaction surged through me as I turned to my princess—my wife. I had waited for this day, and now that it had finally arrived, all that was left was to attend that failure Sanji’s wedding, and with it, all the power would be ours. A smug smile crept onto my face.

"Congratulations, brother!" yelled Yonji and Niji, their laughter echoing in the hall, adding to the farce of celebration. Their voices were like music to my ears, each note reinforcing the reality of my triumph.

“Princess, welcome to the family officially!” Yonji added, his tone dripping with false sincerity, but I could see Y/N was still in shock, her wide eyes darting around the room as if searching for a way out. The way she looked, frozen for a moment in disbelief—it was almost amusing. How naïve she was to think she could escape this.

I took a step closer to her, savoring the moment. “Don’t worry, my dear,” I said, leaning in to whisper, “this is just the beginning. You’ll learn to love your new life. You’ll see how much power we’ll have together.”

Her expression twisted between anger and fear, and it sent a thrill through me. I loved that I could make her feel such strong emotions. It made this moment all the more delicious.

But there was no time to waste. “Now, let’s go and get ready for Sanji’s wedding,” Yonji said with a laugh, clearly relishing the thought of rubbing salt into Sanji’s wounds.

I leaned in close to Y/N, lowering my voice to a whisper, “Let’s head upstairs and get changed.” I noticed her shiver slightly, the smallest indication of resistance, but it only fueled my possessiveness further.

Before I could guide her away, someone approached Y/N, pulling her into a hug. I felt a flash of irritation but restrained it for the moment. She hugged him back. Who dared to get so close to my wife? My eyes narrowed as I made my way towards them.

Without a word, I grabbed Y/N’s hand, asserting my dominance. “Darling, we have to get ready for the second wedding of the evening,” I said with a thinly veiled possessiveness in my voice. Whoever this person was, they needed to know that Y/N was mine now. No one else had any right to her.

The person, seemingly unfazed, bowed politely. “I’ll see you at the other wedding, princess,” he said before turning and walking out. Y/N nodded at him, but I could still see the fire in her eyes—the same defiance she had worn since the beginning.

Good. She could fight all she wanted. In the end, she was still mine.

“Let’s go to our shared suite here at the chateau,” I said, and Y/N, though reluctant, nodded. We walked in silence, the weight of the situation settling between us. As we reached the door to our suite, I decided to make a statement. In one swift motion, I picked her up, cradling her in my arms.

“Ichiji, you can let me down,” she said, her voice calm but with an edge of defiance. That fire she carried—it was intoxicating.

I ignored her, savoring the moment, the feeling of control. “This is what married couples do, isn’t it?” I replied with a smirk as I carried her inside.

As I stepped inside, the sight of the room immediately brought a smirk to my face. It was exactly how I had ordered it. Rose petals were scattered across the floor, the scent of fresh flowers filling the air. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket near the bedside, chilled and waiting. They even had a bottle of whiskey. The bed itself was adorned with the finest satin sheets and luxurious pillows, all fit for a royal couple like us—even if this was only a fraction of what I could offer her.

Y/N followed behind me, stepping inside the room with quiet confidence, her back straight and her head held high. Despite everything that had happened, she was still trying to keep that unshakable demeanor. I had to admire that about her, even if it wouldn’t last much longer.

Her gaze was steady as she made her way toward the bed, her fingers brushing along the soft satin sheets before she sat down, letting her back rest against them. She looked so composed, as if this wasn’t affecting her at all. But I knew better.

This was all part of the game.

I watched her like a hunter sizing up its prey, feeling the anticipation building as I slowly made my way toward her. I removed my suit jacket first, tossing it aside, and then loosened my tie, sliding it off with ease. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the kind I enjoyed.

I undid two buttons of my shirt, revealing the collarbone beneath as I took another step closer to her. My eyes stayed locked on Y/N, observing every slight movement she made, every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. Even now, she wasn’t going to let anything rattle her. But she was mine now, and she would have to accept that.

I stood in front of her now, close enough to feel her presence, the soft lighting of the room casting shadows over us both. “We’re finally alone, princess,” I said, my voice low and calm, as I leaned down slightly. The edge of the bed creaked under my weight as I placed one knee onto it, moving closer.

“You can stop pretending now. We both know what comes next.”

“You're right, Ichiji,” she replied, her voice as smooth as silk. "We can stop pretending."

I leaned in closer, my smirk growing as I studied her expression. “Oh? Deciding to surrender already, my princess?” I teased, my hand brushing against the fabric of her dress as I leaned over her. “I expected you to fight a little longer.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I could see the flicker of defiance that had always characterized her. But there was also something else—a spark of curiosity, a hint of desire that she tried to suppress. I had my prey in my sights, and I relished every second of it.

“I’m not surrendering,” she said softly, leaning back into the satin sheets, but her tone carried an unyielding strength. “I’m just done pretending… with you.” Her words sliced through the tension like a blade, sharp and resolute. The air shifted instantly, and I could feel it—her defiance wasn’t broken, it had only intensified.

Her words were like a slap to the face, and I paused, caught off guard. I was about to retort, to regain control of the situation, when a loud knock echoed through the room. My eyes snapped toward the door, and irritation flared in my chest.

“Who dares interrupt?” I growled, my voice low and dangerous as I straightened up, the intimacy of the moment shattered. I clenched my fists, the rage simmering beneath my skin as I turned my back to Y/N, the unwanted intrusion leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

But before addressing the intruder, I leaned down swiftly, pressing my lips against hers in a possessive kiss, one that conveyed both dominance and frustration. Her lips parted against mine, and for a fleeting moment, she kissed me back with a ferocity that matched my own. The taste of her defiance, the fiery spirit she carried, only fanned the flames of my desire. It was intoxicating, maddening even, the way she fought me with every breath, yet still responded.

“Uh, Ichiji, it’s urgent!” Niji burst in, his voice slicing through the heated tension in the room. “Father wants us downstairs. Now.”

I broke the kiss, reluctantly pulling away from Y/N, my annoyance flaring like a hot blade. I shot her a quick glance, watching as she regained her composure, her cheeks flushed and her breathing still uneven from the intensity of the moment. My pulse quickened at the sight of her like this, defiant yet affected.

“What does he want?” I barked at Niji, my voice sharp and impatient. I had no time for interruptions, especially not now when I was so close to claiming what was mine.

Niji shifted uncomfortably, glancing between me and Y/N. “Something about the wedding. Father said it’s important.”

“Important?” I hissed, barely restraining my frustration. The irritation boiled just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over as I turned my full attention back to Y/N. Stepping closer, I loomed over her, my body radiating an intense possessiveness that thickened the air between us. I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything disrupt this. Not now. Not when she was this close.

I leaned in slightly, my gaze locking with hers. “What could possibly be more important than this?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous, gesturing between us, as if she were the prize of a game I had already won. The weight of my claim was palpable, hanging in the air like an unspoken promise, and I could see the flicker of resistance in her eyes—resistance that only made her all the more intoxicating.

Y/N’s eyes didn’t falter, her defiance still flickering like embers ready to ignite. But I wasn’t worried. Not yet. She could fight all she wanted; she was mine now. And everyone, even Niji, would have to accept that.

But Niji wasn’t backing down either. “Father isn’t asking,” he said, his voice firm now, cutting through my thoughts. “He’s demanding.”

My jaw clenched in irritation, but I knew there was no avoiding it. Father’s orders were absolute. With a final glance at Y/N, my expression softened for a split second, then hardened just as quickly.

“Fine,” I growled, stepping back. “But this isn’t over, princess,” I promised, letting my words hang in the air before I reluctantly turned toward the door.

As I walked past Niji, I shot him a glare. “Make sure it’s worth the interruption,” I warned, my voice cold, as I left the room, my thoughts still consumed by the fire burning between Y/N and me.

Y/N’s POV...

As soon as Ichiji left the suite, I sprang to my feet, my heart racing as I moved with purpose. I needed a moment to collect myself, to remember who I was before this madness began. Finding a mirror inside the closet, I took a deep breath, staring at my reflection. My mind whirled with everything that had just transpired. This wasn't the end—not for me.

“Y/N!” a familiar voice called out, yanking me from my thoughts. “Y/N, are you here?”

“Carrot!” I shouted back, relief surging through me. My voice carried through the room, grounding me just as her worried face appeared.

“There you are! Tia, are you okay?!” Carrot asked, her eyes wide with concern as she rushed toward me.

Before I could answer, another voice chimed in. “Y/N! That wedding was so beautiful!” Brook’s dramatic cry echoed through the room, his eyes sparkling with admiration, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “You truly embodied elegance and grace!”

“Really, Brook?!” I shot back, unable to stop the disbelief from spilling into my tone. It was as if he had no clue what was really happening.

“Brook, move!” Nami’s voice cut through, sharp with urgency, as she pushed past him, her eyes locking onto mine.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she stood before me. There was fear in her eyes, but more than that, there was determination—a fire that matched my own.

I reached out and placed my hand on hers. “It’s okay, Nami…” I said softly, trying to steady her. But I could see the tears brimming, threatening to spill over. She was scared for me, for all of us, and I could feel the weight of everything we were up against. 

The fear was real. But so was our resolve. We weren’t giving up—not now, not ever. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N… we failed you…” Nami’s voice cracked, her head shaking, eyes downcast with palpable grief. I could see the guilt weighing heavily on her, as if she blamed herself for the situation we were in.

“Don’t say that, Nami!” I quickly interjected, shaking my head firmly. “You didn’t fail me. None of you did. Besides…” A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips, a glint of excitement sparking in my eyes. “This was all part of the plan.”

Her head snapped up, confusion clouding her features. “What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes searching mine for answers. Chopper and Brook exchanged puzzled glances, waiting for me to continue.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before delivering the news. “Guess who’s here on this island…” I said, the weight of my revelation making my heart race. They all leaned in slightly, their anticipation thick in the air. “King.”

“King?” Nami repeated in disbelief, her eyes widening. “You mean… the man who trained you for two years?!”

I smiled, this time a genuine one. “Yes, Nami. The same King. But here’s the catch—he got invited by Big Mom. I don’t know why yet, but he’s here.” Their expressions shifted from confusion to shock, then to understanding.

“You think he’s on our side?” Brook asked, his usual lightheartedness replaced by curiosity. I nodded. 

“I don’t know his exact role in all of this, but what I do know is that he’s heading to Sanji’s wedding,” I explained, my mind already racing with possibilities. “And I need you all to keep a close eye on him for me.”

“Keep an eye on him? What are you planning?” Chopper asked, his little brows furrowed in worry.

“I’ve got a plan,” I said confidently. “Once we execute it, that’s when I’ll make my move.”

Nami, Brook, and Chopper nodded, determination settling in their faces. “We’ll do whatever it takes,” Nami said, her voice steady now.

"Good," I replied, feeling a rush of adrenaline. The pieces were finally falling into place. King’s presence was an unexpected twist, but it was one I intended to use to my advantage. This wedding might have begun with them holding the cards, but soon enough, we’d flip the script.

"Nami, listen to me," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "This wedding? This whole thing—it's not over. I won’t let them win." My gaze hardened, my reflection in the mirror reminding me of the fire that still burned inside. "We’re getting Sanji back, and we're getting out of here."

Nami wiped her eyes, her lips trembling before breaking into a determined smile. “We’ll get through this,” she said, her voice stronger now, her earlier sorrow replaced by renewed resolve.

“I miss you guys so much!” I admitted, the emotion welling up inside me despite the seriousness of the situation. I shook my head in disbelief. “Stupid wedding, and the damn priest didn’t even stop the ceremony when someone objected?!”

Brook laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood. “A wedding without drama is no wedding at all.”

I smiled at him, but my thoughts quickly refocused. “I’ll see you guys out there, okay? I trust you,” I said, forcing a smile. “Now we have to focus on Sanji. We can't let him be trapped in this nightmare any longer. "If you guys see Luffy, let him know, okay?" I said, my voice firm but tinged with hope.

Nami nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. “We’ll make sure he knows. Luffy won’t stand for this any more than we will.”

“Yeah! Luffy’s gonna be so mad when he finds out,” Chopper added, his small fists clenched in determination.

Brook grinned, his usual humor returning. “I can already hear him shouting, ‘I’m gonna kick all their butts!’ Yohohoho!”

Their confidence gave me a renewed sense of strength. “Thank you,” I said, my heart swelling with gratitude for my crew. No matter what happened next, I knew we were in this together. With them, there was nothing we couldn’t overcome.

“Stay sharp, and watch your backs,” I added, my tone serious. “See you out there y/n!” they yelled leaving me with my own reflection once more. 

As I stood up, determination coursing through me, I moved to the door to leave, ready to reclaim control over my fate. But just as I reached for the handle, Ichiji walked in, a smirk plastered on his face, exuding confidence and a hint of mischief.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, locking the door behind him with a decisive click.

“Getting ready for the next wedding,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light despite the flutter of nerves spiraling in my stomach. I knew I needed to stay strong, but the way he looked at me made it difficult.

I began to unzip my wedding dress, letting the fabric slide down my body and pool at my feet. It felt liberating yet vulnerable to stand there in just my thigh halter, a delicate white garter band, my heels, strapless white bra, and lace underwear. The air felt cooler against my exposed skin, and I couldn’t help but feel a mix of defiance and desire coursing through me. I removed my thigh halter with the hidden blade, placing them beside my discarded dress, momentarily setting aside the weight of my responsibilities.

My eyes caught a glimpse of a stunning pearl dress, its fabric shimmering softly in the light. It stopped mid-thigh, and I reached for it, eager to transform into something that truly felt like me. But just as my fingers brushed against the fabric, Ichiji snaked his arm around my waist, pulling me closer, his lips grazing my neck. The sensation ignited every nerve in my body, sending shivers down my spine.

“My wife deserves a little more attention, don’t you think?” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin, enveloping me in a wave of warmth and desire.

“Ichiji…” I breathed, torn between the need to assert my independence and the magnetic pull of his presence. His touch was intoxicating, igniting a fire within me that I struggled to contain.

He tilted my chin gently but firmly, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. “You’re mine now, Y/N. And I intend to remind you of that.” Desire flickered in his eyes, a dangerous mix of possessiveness and lust that sent my heart racing. I could feel the heat radiating between us, pulling me in despite my efforts to maintain my resolve.

But then, in one swift motion, Ichiji turned me around and lifted me effortlessly, hiking me up against him. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, tightening as the intensity between us grew.

"Ichiji!" I gasped, surprised by the sudden movement as he carried me away from the closet, closing it behind us. He pressed me firmly against the wall, his body radiating warmth and dominance. I could barely catch my breath as his lips found my stomach, his kisses trailing upward, igniting a fire that threatened to consume every part of me.

“I thought you wanted to play the role of the dutiful bride,” he teased, his lips brushing against my skin, sending electric shocks through me. “Or is it that you’ve just been waiting for the right moment to let go?”

The way he looked at me, a mix of challenge and desire, made my heart race. “You think you can just waltz in here and—”

“Waltz?” he interrupted with a chuckle, his lips brushing my collarbone. “No, I think I’m about to sweep you off your feet.”

Before I could respond, Ichiji captured my lips with his, the kiss deepening with a hunger that sent my head spinning. The room around us faded, leaving only the intoxicating connection we shared. His hands roamed my body, caressing every inch of me, igniting the fire that had been simmering beneath my skin.

I fought against the flood of emotions threatening to drown me, my mind racing with thoughts of freedom and autonomy. But with each kiss, each touch, the walls I had built began to crumble. “Ichiji, we can’t—”

He silenced me with another kiss, this one more passionate and desperate. “We can and we will,” he whispered against my lips, his voice low and commanding.

The heat between us grew more intense, the air thick with unspoken promises and lingering tension. I could feel my resolve wavering as he pressed closer, his body molding against mine.

“Ichiji…” I managed to say, trying to reclaim a shred of control, but it came out more like a plea than a protest.

He smiled against my skin, a knowing look in his eyes. “You’re fighting a losing battle, my love.” With that, he pulled back slightly to meet my gaze, his eyes burning with intensity. “Let me remind you just how much I want you.”

"Fuck," I whispered, barely able to hold onto my composure as his hands roamed my body. His touch was demanding, claiming, as if every inch of me belonged to him. I suddenly felt far too exposed, the thin lace of my underwear doing nothing to shield me from his relentless desire.

His fingers danced along my sides, tracing the curves of my body with a possessiveness that made my heart race. Each brush of his skin against mine sent electric shocks through me, igniting a fire that was impossible to ignore. My breath quickened as he leaned in closer, his warm breath mingling with mine, filling the air with tension that felt almost tangible.

“Ichiji…” I murmured, but the protest was weak, lost in the heat of the moment. My skin tingled under his touch, the mix of vulnerability and exhilaration swirling inside me.

He pressed me against the wall again, his body pinning me in place as his lips found my neck, trailing hot kisses along my collarbone. The sensation sent waves of heat coursing through me, and I could feel my resolve slipping further away.

“You’re mine, Y/N," Ichiji murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. His words were filled with a dark promise, a possessive claim that made my pulse quicken despite my best efforts to resist. I could feel the intensity in his gaze as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering over mine before claiming them in another searing kiss.

Before I could fully process it, Ichiji had switched our positions, pinning me down against the luxurious satin sheets of the bed. My back sank into the mattress as his weight pressed down on me, his hands gripping my waist possessively as though he were staking his claim. The kiss deepened, his hunger for control evident in every movement.

"Ichiji..." I whispered, my voice shaky as I tried to gather my thoughts. I had to focus, had to find a way out of this. But his touch was consuming, overpowering, and every time I tried to pull away, it was as if he pulled me back in—closer, deeper into his world.

"Hmm?" he hummed against my skin, his lips brushing against my neck now, sending waves of heat through my body. His fingers traced patterns down my side, his touch both firm and teasing. He wasn’t looking up, his focus solely on my body, on the power he thought he held over me.

I bit my lip, struggling to push past the haze that clouded my mind. "We... we have to get ready for the second wedding," I strained to say, trying to remind myself of the urgency of the plan. My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears, as I felt myself sinking further into the mattress. His body was so close, his heat enveloping me, making it difficult to think, to fight back the pull.

Ichiji paused for a moment, his lips still brushing against my skin, but his movements slowed. He looked up briefly, his eyes dark with desire, as though weighing my words. But then, with a smirk, he leaned back down, pressing a firm kiss to my collarbone, trailing his way lower as his hands explored further.

"Plenty of time, princess," he murmured against my skin, his voice low and laced with something dangerous. "Sanji can wait."

I shivered beneath him, trying to maintain my composure as the heat between us intensified. My heart pounded, and I knew that I couldn’t let him drown me in this—couldn’t let him win this battle, not here, not now. But his hands moved lower, and I could feel his possessiveness growing, his dominance overwhelming. My body betrayed me, responding to his touch even as my mind screamed for me to fight back. The line between resistance and surrender was blurring, and I had to pull myself back before it was too late.

The air between us thickened, charged with an intensity I couldn’t deny.

“Ichiji, look at me,” I said, trying to pull myself back, tugging his chin toward me. His shades slid down his nose, revealing the mischievous glint in his eyes, a cheeky smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, my wife?” he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with desire and amusement. Before I could react, he switched our positions with ease, placing me on top, my hands now resting on his firm chest, one of his hands settling behind his head as if he were enjoying a leisurely moment. The other remained on my waist, possessive and steady, keeping me grounded in the moment.

“We need to get ready,” I said, trying to regain control, though my breathless voice betrayed the struggle within me. I made a move to get up, but Ichiji wouldn’t budge. He just smirked, as if knowing exactly what was happening to me.

“Listen, as much as I want you between my legs right now...” I trailed off, my eyes widening as I realized what had slipped out of my mouth. My hand flew to cover my lips, shocked at my own admission. My heart raced as I cursed myself inwardly.

Ichiji growled low in his throat, his eyes darkening with raw hunger as he flipped us over again, pinning me beneath him. His dominance was palpable, a dangerous fire burning in his gaze. “What was that, princess?” he asked, gripping my wrists above my head. His voice was teasing, but the tension between us was real, crackling in the air.

I clenched my thighs together, trying to fight back the heat pooling in my core, but my resolve was breaking. My body ached for him, betraying every ounce of logic left in me. My breaths came quicker, and I felt my control slipping away.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His hands trailed lower, teasing, his touch featherlight but enough to ignite every nerve in my body.

“I want... you to get off...” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmmm, you know I don’t like liars, princess,” Ichiji replied, a playful edge to his voice as he continued to kiss lower and lower. The heat of his breath against my skin sent jolts of electricity coursing through me, and I couldn’t help but arch into him, betraying my own words.

“Ichiji,” I gasped, caught between defiance and desire. But his lips moved lower, trailing kisses along my stomach, each press igniting fire in my core.

“Tell me the truth,” he insisted, his voice husky with longing. “What do you really want?”

The urgency of the moment surged within me, and despite my better judgment, I found myself leaning into the heat, my body craving his touch. “I want you,” I finally admitted, the admission hanging heavy in the air.

Ichiji hummed in satisfaction, his lips curving into a smug smile against mine. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice deep and possessive as he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his dominance consuming every part of me.

“I want you,” I repeated, my voice firmer this time, filled with need as I dragged him closer. My hands moved to his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to feel his skin. I ripped his dress shirt open, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my nails leaving faint marks as I clawed down his back, pulling him deeper into me.

Ichiji growled with satisfaction, his lips crashing back down on mine, his hands roaming over my body like he owned it. He reveled in my surrender, each touch and kiss filled with raw need and possessiveness that made my head spin.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he murmured between kisses, the dark promise in his voice sending a shiver down my spine. I whined as I craved his friction, the heat building between us igniting a primal hunger that urged me to press closer.

His hands slid down to my thighs, gripping them tightly as he pushed me further against the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting the heat radiating from our bodies. Every kiss, every brush of his skin felt electric, a connection that thrummed with urgency.

“Let me feel you,” I gasped, breathless as his kisses trailed lower, finding the delicate skin of my collarbone. I arched into him, desperately seeking the friction I craved, my body yearning for his touch.

Ichiji’s lips found their way back to mine, his kisses deepening, a mixture of hunger and possessiveness that left me breathless. “You’re already giving in, princess. You know you want this as much as I do,” he whispered against my lips, his voice low and sultry.

The heat of his body pressed against mine, the weight of his dominance washing over me, made it harder to think, harder to resist. Each moment felt intoxicating, and the line between desire and reality blurred further. I could feel my resolve crumbling, piece by piece, under his relentless kisses and possessive touches. I brought my legs to his waist, pulling him closer to me, and Ichiji, stunned by my boldness, leaned deeper into the kiss, my nails scratching his back.

“Fuck, Ichiji...” I whispered, my mind clouded with a lust-filled haze. Every nerve in my body sang with desire, and I could feel the intensity of his need mingling with my own. He groaned at my words, the sound reverberating through me like a jolt of electricity, and I couldn't help but crave more of him.

His hands tightened around my thighs, fingers digging into my skin as he pressed against me, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through my body. The heat between us was palpable, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume us both. I tilted my head back, giving him better access as his lips trailed down my neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. “Every time I’m near you, it drives me insane.” He pulled back slightly, locking his gaze onto mine, those dark eyes filled with an intoxicating mix of desire and challenge.

“I can’t help it,” I replied, my voice breathy and laced with urgency. “You make me feel things... things I never thought I would.” I couldn’t deny the truth in my words, the way his very presence ignited a fire within me that I was helpless to extinguish.

Ichiji smirked, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and pressed his body harder against mine. “Then let’s make the most of it, shall we?” With that, he captured my lips once more, the kiss deepening as he lost himself in the moment, our desires intertwining in a whirlwind of passion that left me gasping for air.

His hands roamed freely, exploring the curves of my body, each caress igniting fresh waves of heat. I was lost in the sensation, every kiss, every touch pulling me further into a world where nothing else mattered but us. 

Ichiji looked up from where he was, a satisfied grin playing on his lips as he enjoyed the reactions he was getting from me. With one fast movement he removed my white panties, and tossed them aside. His eyes glinted with mischief and hunger, and with a deliberate slowness, he spread my legs further apart, deepening the sensation coursing through me. Ichiji then inserted two fingers inside my core, while his thumb played with my bud circling and creating a friction I never knew was possible. 

“Ahhh,” I moaned, the sound escaping my lips unbidden as he expertly manipulated the heat pooling inside me. “Don’t stop, please,” I gasped, my voice a desperate plea filled with longing. The weight of his gaze, filled with predatory delight, only heightened my need, pushing me to the edge of sanity.

“You’re such a good girl for me, Y/N,” he teased, his fingers dancing skillfully, bringing waves of pleasure that made it hard to think, hard to remember anything but this moment. The contrast of his teasing touch against my skin and the way he held my gaze was intoxicating, a heady mix of dominance and desire. I nodded my head, at the praise, as all I could form was small breaths. 

With each brush of his fingers, I felt myself unraveling, the world around us fading into a blur as I surrendered completely to the sensations he was igniting within me. “That’s it, just like that,” he encouraged, his voice low and gravelly, making my heart race even faster. “Let me hear you, princess. Show me how much you want this.” “I.. I want this, god that feels good.” I moaned as one of my hands gripped his wrist, while the other grabbed the sheets. “My, my little wife must be excited, just look at how wet she is.” said Ichiji, getting lost in my state of pleasure. 

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the waves of pleasure washing over me, feeling completely at his mercy as my body responded to his every command. I was lost in the moment, each flick and stroke pulling me deeper into ecstasy, teetering on the brink of release, a soft whimper escaping my lips as I clung to him, the tension building higher with every second. I let out a soft whimper, as Ichiji laughed. 

“So responsive, my little wife,” Ichiji said, relishing the sight before him, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Ichiji… right there” I moaned out, arching my back, my heels digging into the bed, as more pressure began to build. Soon, Ichiji removed his finger, causing me to let out a frustrated whine. “Patience, Princess.” Smirked Ichiji. “I swear to god, you're such an, ohh my god!” I yelled out as Ichiji’s mouth was now lapping on my core. His tongue licking and entering my hole causing me to arch my back. I gripped his hair, keeping him in place, as Ichiji brought both my legs and placed them over his shoulder. Ichiji relished in my aching state.  Just then,  persistent knocks broke the moment.

“Come on, Ichiji! You have the rest of the night to have fun with your wife! We have something important happening!” Yonji called, irritation clear in his tone. Ichiji growled, causing me to whimper, as the vibrations felt amazing. 

“Yonji, I’m in the middle of something here!” Ichiji yelled back, clearly annoyed at the interruption. His ministration going back to pleasuring me. 

“He... he’s right, Ichiji,” I managed to whisper, my breath coming in sporadic gasps as I struggled to maintain focus on the mission at hand. Ichiji shook his head, refusing to accept yonji’s interruption. He lifted his head from between my legs, and smirked, “you want me to stop?” I groaned, as my inner being was in conflict. “Just a little longer… I won’t stop until I give you a proper send-off,” he growled, as he went back down, continuing to pleasure me, causing me to grip his hair tighter, the sensation overwhelming. Ichiji moans, mumbling, “you taste devine”

“I... I’m…” I started, the pleasure threatening to pull me under again. “Ic…Ichiji…” I lowly moaned, as Ichiji smirked, enjoying the way my body was responding to him. I gasped when he hit a sensitive spot. “I… I…” I said. As I finally came down from my high, my breathing erratic, Ichiji slowly withdrew his mouth, wiping his lips with his finger, and bringing it to his mouth. A satisfied smirk etched his lips, which made my cheeks flush.

“MMMM,” he murmured, clearly pleased with himself. “Now let’s get ready.” With that, he rolled off me, standing up with an easy confidence, a stark contrast to the wild desire that still thrummed between us.

“In five minutes, we will be out, Yonji!” Ichiji yelled, his voice filled with frustration. The sound made me giggle, the lingering daze of our previous encounter still clouding my thoughts. As I lay back on the satin sheets, my body succumbing to the pull of the moment, I reached down to remove my heels, feeling a rush of relief as my feet relaxed from the arch they’d been held in. I wrapped the satin sheets around me, the fabric cool against my heated skin, but the tightness of my strapless bra only heightened the pressure building inside me, I removed the bra, and tossed it aside, feeling relief. Soon, I caught Ichiji glancing at me with a devilish grin, his eyes dark with intent.

“Yonji, give me 45 minutes instead of five. I have some business to attend to,” Ichiji called out, his voice low but commanding.

“What are you—” I started, but Yonji’s groan cut me off from outside the locked door. “Fine! I’ll let the others know, just hurry up!” he yelled, finally leaving us alone once more.

With a smirk, Ichiji crawled slowly back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. My back met the cool pillow, and I could feel his gaze tracing every inch of me, setting my skin aflame. “Is something wrong, darling?” he teased, the grin on his lips making my pulse quicken. 

Ichiji’s grip on me tightened as he leaned in, his voice a husky whisper that sent chills down my spine. "You don’t realize, do you? How many nights I’ve thought about this—about you." His fingers traced along my jaw, rough yet careful, sending sparks across my skin. "I’ve had fantasies, princess… of you, of us, of every way I could finally make you mine."

His gaze burned as he drank me in, his eyes trailing over me like he was memorizing every detail. "Every time you crossed my path, every look you gave, I wondered what it would be like to have you right here, to feel your pulse race under my touch. I’d picture it, how you’d look when you finally let go, when you’d trust me enough to surrender." He smirked, that dangerous, alluring glint in his eyes. "But now? Now that you’re here… it’s even better than I imagined."

He leaned in, his lips just brushing my ear, his voice barely a whisper. "I want to ruin every other thought in your mind until there’s nothing left but me. Every kiss, every touch… I want you to feel it for days, to remember who made you lose control." His mouth moved to my neck, his kisses hot and lingering, as his hands pressed into my waist, possessive and unapologetic.

Pulling back just enough to look into my eyes, he tilted my chin up, his voice low and edged with desire. "I’m done pretending. I want everything—every laugh, every scar, every moment you’ll let me steal from you." His gaze darkened further, the heat in his touch unmistakable. "And trust me, I don’t plan on stopping until you’re as lost in this as I am."

Before I knew it, my hands reached for him, gripping his neck and pulling him closer, capturing his lips with mine. I poured every ounce of want, every unspoken need, into that kiss, feeling the heat rise between us like a wave. He pulled away just enough to look down at me, his eyes smoldering. “What is it that you want, princess?” he murmured, his hand tracing slowly down my face, his touch making my breath hitch.

I could barely find the words, but the heat of his gaze left me no choice. “You know what I want,” I murmured, my voice a whisper as I tugged him even closer.

“I’m not sure I follow,” he taunted, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot on my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. “Use your words, princess.” His lips pressed into my skin, and I couldn’t hold back a moan as his fingers traced lightly down my arm.

“Mm, I want you…” I finally admitted, my voice barely a breath.

Ichiji’s smirk deepened, and in a swift movement, he rid himself of the last of his clothes, discarding them without a second thought. His body pressed against mine, his muscles flexing under my hands as I ran my fingers along his arms and across his chest. The strength in his forearms made my grip tighten, feeling them flex under my touch as he moved above me.

His lips trailed lower, teasing each spot along my jawline and neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. “ahhh,” I muttered, feeling the heat pool low in my core once more, igniting a spark that flared into a raging flame of desire.The sensation was electric, each touch sending shockwaves through me, awakening every nerve ending. I could feel the raw need in his movements, the way he claimed me with each kiss, each caress. It was as if he was trying to brand me, to mark me as his own.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his lips trailing down my neck, kissing and biting his way to my collarbone. His hands roamed over my body, exploring every curve, every dip, as though he was memorizing me. “You’re mine,” he growled, the possessiveness in his voice sending a thrill of excitement through me. “I want everyone to know it.”

I gasped, my back arching in response to his every touch. “Yes, Ichiji,” I breathed, surrendering to the intensity of his desire. The way he held me, the way he moved, was a declaration of ownership.

He tilted my chin, forcing me to meet his fierce gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent shivers down my spine. “I’m going to make you feel so good, you won’t be able to think of anything else,” he promised, his voice low and filled with primal hunger.

Before I could respond, he captured my lips again, the kiss deepening. The world around us faded away, leaving only the two of us, lost in the passion that enveloped us. His hands gripped my hips, holding me firmly against him as he pressed himself into me, the sensation overwhelming. I moaned as I felt him inside me, going at a steady pace. 

“Let them come for you,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear as he peppered kisses along my jawline. “Let them see how much you crave me.” The thought sent a rush of exhilaration coursing through me, and I could feel my resolve crumbling as his lips found mine again, igniting a fire that burned brighter with every kiss. “God Ichiji.” I moaned as he thrusted deeper in me. Ichiji then moved his grip onto my hands, intertwining them, as he continued to thrust in me, harder. 

Our bodies moved in perfect harmony, a dance of desire that only we understood. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer as I felt the heat of his body against mine. His skin against my skin was intoxicating, every brush of his body against mine sending waves of pleasure crashing over me.

“Ichiji, please…” I begged, my voice barely above a whisper, the need for him consuming me.

With a wicked grin, he leaned in closer, his lips ghosting over my ear as he whispered, “You want me?.” “God, yes!” I moaned out as the Ichiji trust was hitting the one spot that made me see stars. Ichiji laughed, enjoying the effect he had on me, and on my body. “Look at you, all needy, begging for me.” he said

At that moment, I knew there was no turning back. As he captured my mouth again, I surrendered fully to the sensation, letting his kiss engulf me. It was intoxicating, the taste of him lingering on my lips as I melted against him, my body responding eagerly to his every touch. Every stroke and caress sent jolts of electricity through me, drowning out the worries and fears that lurked at the back of my mind.

“Ichiji… ahh,” I moaned, feeling the overwhelming heat of our bodies pressed together. “You feel so good,” I gasped, pulling him deeper, craving every inch of him. The way he moved against me was intoxicating, each thrust igniting a fire that spread through my entire being.

With a swift motion, Ichiji grabbed my leg, hiking it up around his shoulder, bringing our bodies even closer. The new angle sent waves of pleasure coursing through me, and I gasped at the intensity. “That’s it, right there,” I breathed, my nails digging into his back as I encouraged him to take me further. “You like this don't you?” Ichiji teased. All I could muster was a rapid nod, as moans continued to escape my lips. Ichiji then planted kisses on my thigh, and he continued to thrust inside me. “Dont, think I’ve forgotten, I know where your most sensitive princess.” said Ichiji. As he dipped lower, My hands flung onto his shoulders as I scratched down his shoulder blades.

His eyes locked onto me with a fierce hunger, his expression a mix of determination and desire. “Fuck,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “I can’t get enough of you.” He pressed deeper, filling me completely, and I cried out, a mix of pleasure and need spilling from my lips. “You feel incredible,” he said, emphasizing with each thrust.

As he continued to move, each thrust elicited a symphony of gasps and moans from me. I felt as if I was floating, every sensation magnified to a level I had never experienced before. My body responded to him instinctively, arching and twisting as I surrendered to the pleasure he was giving me.

“Ichiji,” I breathed, my voice trembling with intensity. “Don’t stop. Please… just like that.” I could feel the tension building inside me, each thrust sending me closer to the edge, and I clung to him desperately, wanting more. 

Ichiji then grabbed my hand and placed it on my stomach, feeling just how he went in and out of me. “You feel that Y/N, my such a good girl taking me so well.” Ichiji then lowered himself, allowing a new angle to take over causing me to moan louder. “Ah, ah” I said as Ichiji whispered in my ear “I’m going to make you feel everything,” he promised, his voice low and possessive. The way he spoke made my heart race even faster, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me as he claimed me wholly. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I said. 

“God, you’re so perfect,” he whispered, his lips trailing down to my collarbone, kissing and nipping at my skin. I could feel him marking me, claiming me in every possible way, and it only fueled the fire that blazed within me.

“More, Ichiji,” I urged, lost in the waves of pleasure washing over me.

With renewed vigor, he complied, thrusting harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. I lost myself in the rhythm, feeling every thrust deep in my core, each movement pushing me closer to the edge. My body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with desire, and all I could think about was him.

“Y/N, I’m not going to last much longer,” he gasped, his voice thick with need. “You’re too fucking tight… too perfect.”

“Then let go with me,” I urged, my voice breathless as I felt my climax approaching. 

His grip tightened around my thigh as he thrust into me one last time, pushing me over the edge. A wave of ecstasy washed over me, my body trembling with the force of my release as I cried out his name. “Ichiji!”

With a final, powerful thrust, I felt him follow me into bliss, our bodies entwined in a haze of passion and pleasure. As the world around us faded away.

Breathless and spent, I lay beneath him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, the aftershocks of our passion coursing through me. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, a possessive smile playing on his lips as he looked down at me. “Mine,” he whispered, and I felt a thrill run through me. But realization also dawned on me that I had succumbed to the desire Ichiji had promised would ensnare me, and a wave of conflicting emotions crashed over me. Fuck, I thought, the weight of my choices pressing down like a lead blanket.

I turned to Ichiji, breathing heavily as he laid next to me, sweat glistening his skin, as he gripped his hair, pushing it back. A smug grin etched his lips, as a satisfaction was evident on his face. The afterglow softened his features, casting him in an almost ethereal light, and I couldn’t help but admire the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, framing those intense eyes that seemed to sparkle with triumph.

Ichiji then grabbed the satin sheet, wrapping it around us, pulling me closer. My head lay on his chest as his fingers began to softly touch my forearm. “I told you...” he said, looking down at me with a smirk. “You were going to want me soon enough.” His lips brushed against mine, reigniting the fire that still flickered within me.

I ignored that comment, pulling away slightly. “We should probably get ready now... I think I'm going to take a bath,” I declared, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Ichiji raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “A bath…” he mused, drawing me in even closer, making it hard to think straight. “I’ll go set that up then.”

As he stood up, my eyes wandered over his back, glistening with sweat and adorned with the faint scratches I’d left behind. A rush of heat flooded my cheeks as I admired the way his muscles flexed, my body betraying me even further. Why is he so... ahh! I thought, slamming my head back onto the pillow in frustration.

Was it incredible? Yes. Do I hate him? I don't know. Would I do it again? Yes... I mean, what? No! I mentally berated myself, tangled in the web of my thoughts as I felt a mix of desire and annoyance swirling inside me.

Ichiji stepped into the bathroom, leaving me alone for a brief moment. The sound of running water filled the space, but my mind raced. I can't believe I just succumbed to him. I ran my fingers through my curls, feeling the weight of my decisions sink in. I could still feel his touch on my skin, the way his lips moved against mine, how effortlessly he pulled me into that intoxicating bliss.

A few moments later, he returned, holding a towel and some bath oils, his expression a blend of playfulness and intent. “I figured you might want something to help you relax after... everything,” he said, his tone teasing but laced with genuine care.

I raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool. “And what makes you think I need your help to relax?” I shot back, trying to mask the flustered tone in my voice.

Ichiji stepped closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, come on. We both know how that went. Besides,” he leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear, “you might just enjoy my company.”

This man… I thought, feeling the heat rise within me again. Before I could say anything else, he placed the towel and bath oils on one end and scooped me up, carrying me toward the tub filled with frothy bubbles.

“I'll be back,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before stepping away for a moment.

Left alone, I slowly turned to the inviting bath, the steam rising in gentle wisps. I let the satin sheet slip from my body, allowing it to fall as I sank into the warm water. A soft moan escaped my lips as the heat enveloped me, my muscles relaxing into the soothing embrace of the bubbles.

I quickly went to make a makeshift bun with my curls, giggling as they stuck out in every direction. The lightheartedness of the moment made me grab a handful of bubbles and blow them into the air, watching them float and dance around me.

The moment Ichiji walked back in, my breath caught in my throat. His body was wrapped in nothing but a towel, clinging to every curve, every muscle, like it was made just to show him off. His V-line seemed to sharpen with each movement, drawing my gaze unwillingly lower, before I forced myself to meet his eyes. But that only made things worse.

His playful smirk was enough to make my stomach flip, and the glass of whiskey in his hand looked almost out of place—like it was the only thing that could keep him grounded while I spiraled. “Looks like my wife is entertained,” said Ichiji. 

“Well, it’s fun,” I shot back, grabbing more bubbles and blowing them at him with a giggle.

With a mischievous grin, Ichiji removed his towel and slid into the bath beside me, both of us now sitting at opposite ends. But the space between us didn't last long. He reached out, grabbing my waist and pulling me closer until my back rested against his chest.

“We have exactly 20 minutes before we need to get ready,” he said, his voice low and smooth, his arms enveloping me in a warm embrace.

I took a handful of bubbles again, blowing them into the air, my laughter bubbling over with delight. Ichiji pressed a soft kiss on the back of my neck, making me shiver at the sensation.

Soon enough, he began to sing softly, his voice rich and melodic. “Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime; say the word and I will follow you. Share each day with me, each night, each morning.”

I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me like the warm water. though in that moment the lyrics felt awfully familiar. However, I couldn't make that connection, but there was something intoxicating about the way he held me, the way his arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe yet thrilled all at once.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” I teased, tilting my head back to meet his gaze, my lips curling into a playful smile as I took a sip of his whiskey. The warmth of the liquid slid down my throat, mixing with the heat of the bath and the sudden rush of emotions swirling inside me.

Ichiji raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "I have many sides to me, darling," he replied, his voice low and smooth. His gaze flickered down to my lips, then back to my eyes, the intensity never wavering. "Romantic is just one of them.". But before I could get lost in the  moment, a loud knock resounded on the door, startling me.

“Ichiji, princess, in 10 minutes, I’m busting this door down!” Yonji’s voice boomed from outside.

Ichiji growled in frustration, a low, dangerous sound. “Yonji!” he barked, his voice echoing in the bathroom. Then, he muttered under his breath, “I can’t wait until we go on our honeymoon—maybe then we’ll have some form of privacy.”

With that, he stood up from the tub, water trickling down his body as he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself, running a hand through his wet hair, making it tousle slightly. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss on my lips. “I’ll be back,” he said, his gaze lingering on me before he headed out.

As the door clicked shut, I let out a small sigh. Yeah, sorry, but there won’t be a honeymoon, I thought as I rose from the water as well, droplets sliding down my skin. I reached for another towel, drying myself before wrapping it around me, my mind quickly shifting to the mission at hand. But before I could fully focus, I could hear faint shouting from down the hall.

“What’s the big deal, Yonji? Do you have a death wish?” Ichiji’s irritated voice came through the walls.

Yonji scoffed. “Please. If anyone’s desperate here, it’s you. You’re practically glued to her. It’s like watching a soap opera in real time.”

Ichiji’s tone dropped dangerously low. “Careful, Yonji. Unless you’d like to learn how it feels to be on the receiving end of my patience breaking.”

“Yeah, yeah, so scary.” Yonji’s voice was teasing, clearly enjoying getting under his brother’s skin. “Look, I’m just saying, get ready and get out here before we’re late. Besides, I think the princess might appreciate a little breathing room.”

I smirked to myself, shaking my head as I heard Ichiji’s growl. “Maybe you should mind your own business for once,” Ichiji snapped.

After a moment to regain my composure, I stood up and heard Yonji yell from the bathroom “Oh, lighten up!” Yonji’s laughter echoed, his teasing not letting up.

With an amused sigh, I slipped on a robe and started getting ready, a small smile creeping onto my face as I imagined Ichiji’s frustrated expression. I stepped out of the bathroom and moved swiftly toward the dresser, grabbing a fresh pair of panties and a new strapless bra. After slipping those on, I let the towel drop, feeling the cool air against my skin as I headed to the closet to retrieve the pearl dress once more.

The dress was as breathtaking as I remembered—a stunning halter design with a sheer neckline that created the illusion of an off-the-shoulder style. Its shimmering fabric caught the light, accentuating every curve and lending an elegant, yet alluring touch. Just as I started to slip into it, I caught a snippet of conversation from the other side of the door.

“Also, why the hell are you in just a towel? Did you guys finally…” Yonji’s teasing voice carried through, his sentence hanging suggestively in the air.

Ichiji’s irritated growl quickly cut him off. “That’s none of your concern," he snapped, the irritation clear in his tone. "I’m married now and can do as I please.”

“So it’s true!” Yonji exclaimed, his voice dripping with mock excitement. “The signs are all there. Your chest has marks, and don’t even get me started on your hair looking like a complete mess. Tell me, was it everything you wished for?” he teased, his tone playful but nosy.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I slid the dress up, fastening it securely. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pausing to admire the way the fabric hugged my figure, flowing around me and enhancing each movement. The pearls added a touch of sophistication, making me feel both empowered and alluring. With a quiet confidence, I reached for the matching heels, slipping them on with ease; the added height further enhanced the overall look.

Once dressed, I took a moment to fasten my thigh halter and blades securely, feeling the familiar weight against my skin. I lingered, admiring the reflection before me—the dress, the elegant accessories, and the lingering rush of what had just transpired with Ichiji made me feel both intoxicatingly beautiful and dangerously alluring.

Turning to the door, I caught sight of Ichiji and Yonji still bickering. “You really need to learn to read the room, Yonji,” Ichiji muttered, exasperated.

Yonji only laughed, unfazed. “I’m sorry, but there was no sign that said ‘Do Not Disturb!’”

Shaking my head with a small smile, I made my way to the bathroom to touch up my makeup. I applied a fresh coat of red lipstick over the mauve, adding an extra touch of boldness, then smoothed down my dress, feeling thoroughly prepared.

Finally, I walked over to where Ichiji and Yonji were still sparring with words. “And another thing—” Ichiji started, but I stepped into view, effectively stopping him in his tracks. His eyes widened as he took in the sight.

“Come on, sweetheart, we’re going to be late,” I said, my tone dripping with exaggerated sweetness. I turned to Yonji with a smirk. “Thank you for coming up to remind my husband—I had a feeling he’d make us just a little late.” I winked, watching Yonji’s mouth fall open in surprise before he shut it, trying to stifle his laughter.

Then, with a quick smile, I placed a deliberate kiss on Ichiji’s cheek, reveling in the flicker of possessiveness that crossed his face as his eyes softened into something close to heart-eyes. “I’ll wait outside with Yonji so you don’t get too distracted, tiger,” I said, adding, “Hurry up,” enjoying the rush of having him on edge as I reclaimed a bit of control.

Ichiji’s eyes lingered on me as he reluctantly turned back toward the room, his jaw clenched slightly, though his smirk gave away the satisfaction that I was already watching his every move.

Within ten minutes, the door opened, and Ichiji stepped out. He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, black pants, gloves, and his signature red cape that draped elegantly over his shoulders. His red-tinted glasses framed his intense gaze, his freshly styled hair adding to the sharpness of his look. He looked every bit the regal warrior, and my breath caught as I took him in, his presence exuding a commanding confidence that drew me in despite myself.

Ichiji’s gaze landed on me with a glint of pride, his smirk widening as he saw the effect he had. He reached out his hand, eyes promising both danger and intrigue. “This isn’t over, wife,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned in to peck my lips. The touch sent a thrill through me, igniting the fire between us all over again.

“Finally!” Yonji exclaimed, irritation etched on his face as he turned to Ichiji. But then his gaze shifted to me, and his expression softened, his eyes lighting up with admiration. He grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers as we continued to walk, Yonji guiding us through the throng of guests.

Now it’s the real plan, I thought, a mix of anticipation and anxiety bubbling within me. The blade strapped to my thigh hummed faintly with a white hue, resonating with my energy, almost as if it sensed the heightened emotions swirling around us.

Sanji POV…

A few minutes before Y/Ns wedding… 

I finally managed to make it back to my room. The guards began banging on the door, and the little guard who stayed behind looked increasingly nervous. "What should I do?" he stammered, glancing between the door and me.

I stepped forward, opening the door slightly. “Stop that banging! You know how early that is,” I said, irritation lacing my voice, trying to act as if I had been there the whole time.

“You mean to tell me you were here this whole time?!” Montdour exclaimed incredulously, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Is there anyone who can prove you were here this whole time?”

I shrugged, feigning indifference. “You ordered a soldier to watch me, didn’t you?”

“Hey, come here you!” he yelled at the nearby soldier. “Did Sanji spend the whole night in this room?”

“Yes indeed,” the soldier replied, glancing between us, sensing the tension.

“Enough. There’s your answer. I have a wedding to get ready for,” I said, starting to close the door.

“One more thing,” Montdour called out, his tone menacing.

“What now?” I snapped, irritation boiling just beneath the surface.

“Your old captain is dead, and the princess is getting ready to be married as we speak,” he said, a smirk creeping onto his face.

My eyes widened for a moment, though I quickly masked my shock. “I see…” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

“Well, that’s what I heard, but I don’t believe it. I think Strawhat is alive and plotting something,” Montdour continued, the confidence in his words only fueling my anxiety.

“Now get this: I’m a prince of the Germa Kingdom who is going to marry the daughter of Big Mom today. I don’t care what some low-class pirate is scheming, let alone what Ichiji’s bride is doing.” The words tasted sour in my mouth; “I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, let alone what that princess is doing,” I spat.

“Now, if the wedding gets delayed any more, Big Mom isn’t going to be happy,” I warned, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

Montdour’s expression turned cold as he gritted his teeth. “We’re done here.” He turned on his heel and walked away from the door, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

I shut the door and leaned back against it, exhaling sharply. “Geez,” the soldier muttered, looking a mix of impressed and confused. “Nice work back there.”

I lit a cigarette, taking a moment to gather my thoughts as I exhaled a plume of smoke. The soldier, clearly curious, asked, “Where have you been all this time?”

“I already told you. I took some food to Pudding because I thought she wasn’t feeling well,” I replied, dismissing his concern with a wave of my hand. “But don’t ask what happened after that… it’s not cool,” I added, trying to downplay the chaos of the night.

As I prepared for this farce of a wedding, the weight of my decisions loomed over me. I can’t let this happen. Not Y/N. Not like this. I steeled my resolve, knowing that whatever was coming, I had to be ready to face it head-on.

A few minutes after Y/N’s wedding…

I paced back and forth in my room, the stark white wedding attire adorned with gold accents feeling like a shackle rather than a symbol of celebration. Did someone object? Someone had to have objected, I thought, anxiety gnawing at my gut.

Suddenly, I heard soldiers passing by outside my door. “You hear? The princess had an objection at her wedding!” one soldier exclaimed, and my heart raced as I crept closer to the door, eavesdropping.

“Yeah, rumor has it, it might have been an ex-lover or something,” he continued, and my mind reeled. Ex-lover... What could that mean?

“But what was strange is no one came forward with the objection, so the ceremony continued,” the other soldier said.

“What?!” I thought, feeling the ground shift beneath my feet. This can’t be!

“I thought once someone made the objection claim, then the ceremony was over?” the second soldier asked.

“Well, typically, yes, but in this case, the priest didn’t even pay attention. He just continued with the ceremony,” the first soldier replied, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.

My heart sank, dread coiling around my chest. This can’t be… I gritted my teeth, fury mixing with despair. My princess... my love... now you're going to die...

“Yeah, but maybe marriage will do her good, keep the fire in her tamed, you know,” said the soldier, laughing, and I felt my blood boil.

“Maybe, but from what I hear, she and her husband Ichiji are now heading with the other Vinsmokes to Sanji’s wedding,” the other soldier added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, this is about to be eventful,” the first soldier chuckled as they walked past my room, the sound of their footsteps fading away.

“Damnit!” I thought, my rage boiling over as I punched the wall, the pain in my hand grounding me amid the storm of emotions. This can’t happen. I won’t let it.I was filled with a fiery determination, the chaos of the wedding swirling in my mind like a tempest. If Y/N is in danger, I have to find a way to save her. I can't let Ichiji or anyone else put her at risk. The walls felt like they were closing in, but I knew I had to act.

.

.

.

.

[brick-van-dyke]

Okay, in light of the "vote blue or don't vote blue" argument I'm seeing around here, I'm gonna tell you all a story.

I'm Australian and I voted for the Labour Party in the last election. For context, the Labour Party is essentially the left democrat party for Australia, while the Liberal Party is the ring wing republican one. So, I did what you'd all call "voting blue" in the USA, but in Australia. Anthony Albanese is the leader of Labour Left, a faction within the Labour Party to push it towards more leftist policies and ideals. He promised to protect minorities and said he would advocate for a free Palestine. We all voted for him believing it would help and so far, it sounds good doesn't it?

Well, here we are and Anthony Albanese has so far been pushing against pro Palestine protests, trying to implement anti protest legislation and made things actively harder for minorities in Australia. He's done nothing that he promised and of course acted almost as bad as the Liberals when they were in just before. In fact, it's arguably worse since the Labour Party has been attacking the right to protest over the last several months. They haven't done shit for minorities and if argue the ALP has actively made our lives harder.

Is voting important or not important? I don't know if u can answer that, but I can say this; politicians shouldn't be trusted to carry out promises when they're only there for self interest, regardless of what label they use to advertise that self interest. You shouldn't depend on them for change and sit around waiting for that change to come from these people. And, most importantly? There is no difference between those who voted and those who didn't when the most left leaning candidate we had has now just become legally complicit in the ICJ for genocide. There is no lesser evil when even one of us is harmed, and there is no "well at least it's not as bad" when that means sacrificing each other for the sake of a few benefits, so we have to band together and fight the whole damn system. It doesn't matter who did what, because at the end of the day the power is to the people, not the politicians who clearly can't be trusted no matter if you voted for "the right one", or chose not to vote at all. So, sure, vote. But don't expect that to change the world. You change the world through getting up with your fellow community and making a stand through your own physical actions against he system, not waiting for a politician to change anything when it's their job to lie and cheat. Reliance on the system is how we all come to lose and division is how we're silenced.

We're in this together and we need to remember what's important; each other and the power WE hold when we work together and fight against the entire system itself, not some representative in a suit.

[the-rad1o-demon]

START PETITION TEXT:

Why this petition matters

Started by Isabella Smith As a concerned citizen, I am deeply troubled by the potential consequences of Project 2025, which threatens to undermine the hard-fought rights and freedoms that we hold dear in the United States. This petition aims to shed light on the alarming implications of this project and rally support to prevent its implementation. This plan is personal to me because it poses a direct threat to marginalized communities, including members of the LGBTQ+ community and individuals seeking reproductive healthcare. As an advocate for equality and choice, I strongly believe that everyone should have the right to live their lives authentically without fear or discrimination. Project 2025 has been proposed by the Heritage Foundation with intentions that are deeply concerning. If implemented, this project would grant Republicans in power unprecedented authority over legislation related to civil rights, potentially enabling them to make LGBT people illegal and outlaw all forms of abortion across our nation. In their Mandate For Leadership book, they want to outlaw many laws and freedoms we currently have for the sake of their own personal beliefs which will bring upon a dark time in American History. Here are some videos that best explain what the book is about and some of the things Republicans want to implement.

A Deep Dive into Project 2025’s 900 page manifesto, let’s get to it. As a single mom, this document was terrifying to read. There’s a whole section regarding single parent households and basically saying 1/2. PROJECT 2025: They have a plan to make Trump dictator.#wontbesilent #tryit #vote #blue #trump #explode #project2025 Let's consider some well-known historical events as cautionary tales. Throughout history, minority groups have faced discrimination when their rights were left vulnerable due to political shifts or changes in leadership. We must learn from these past mistakes and ensure that our society continues progressing towards inclusivity rather than regressing into intolerance. By signing this petition today, you can join me in urging decision-makers at all levels of government – local, state, and federal – as well as influential organizations within our society not to support or allow Project 2025's implementation. Together we can protect the fundamental rights enshrined in our Constitution while fostering an environment that respects and celebrates diversity. Let us stand united against any initiative that threatens the rights and freedoms of our fellow citizens. Sign this petition to stop Project 2025 and safeguard the progress we have made towards a more inclusive society. Thank you for your support in defending equality, choice, and human rights for all.

Signatures: 699 Next Goal: 1,000 70 people signed this week Thanks to your support this petition has a chance at winning! We only need 301 more signatures to reach the next goal - can you help? Take the next step!

-- END PETITION TEXT

[maxisanangrywell]

"Leftist" Rant

I'm lowkey so tired of calling myself a leftist. Every time I talk to another person, a man, woman or nonbinary person, trans, cisgender, queer BIPOC or Indigenous, there's ALWAYS someone taking the hit for something, somewhere.

I'm a firm believer in human rights. I believe humans shouldn't be controlled by a governing body but citizens should control it. I believe in fighting today a better tomorrow. But goddamn am I so tired of hearing how every time there's something good, it comes at the cost of the blood of another.

No, not all men are bad. Not all white people are bad. No one group of people is evil, and we shouldn't be demonizing any groups of people for any reason. White people need to recognize privilege, but everyone is taught to be wary of other people because of the circumstances of our forefathers or our own personal experiences.

It comes back to the, why can't we just be fucking people? What is so hard about opening your heart to other people's struggles, learning from them and loving them even if they hate you in return? Why do we care about the color of people's skin, or their sexual/gender orientation? Why can't we celebrate life, and celebrate love no matter the form it takes? It's so aggravating. No one should have to feel uncomfortable for who they are or choose to be. I'm so tired of leftists pushing white men out for being white men. I'm so tired of leftists pushing out black people for being black, and indigenous people for being indigenous. The movement isn't supposed to be about specific people, it's supposed to be about the betterment of ALL people.

The betterment of HUMANITY. We're all fucking human. It's aggravating when people try to gauge how human you are about how many minority points you can score. I've seen the ugliest of people, I'm watching a genocide unfold before my eyes. A climate crisis that threatens to kill us all.

But what I'm hearing is the sounds of drums, because everyone either wants to use it for their own gain, or have different ways of wanting to fix it.

Maybe it's because I'm young, I'm only 21. But god, am I fucking sick and tired of hearing people fight and argue. Most of us are on the same fucking side, and can't we get along? It's the only way we are going to survive. Bridging these gaps and healing the generational trauma. But you can't heal trauma if you're constantly taking it out on everyone around you and giving them trauma. I don't know. But I do know most of the men that voted for Trump in my life, did it because they felt pushed out of the movement. They felt demonized by the Harris and leftist voters. If we focused on being intersectional, on inclusion for EVERYONE, no one would feel left out or unwanted. Shouldn't that be our fucking goal in the first place? Healing ourselves and the climate, living alongside each other in blissful harmony? Isn't that what we all want and crave? To never look over our shoulders, just be able to grow and thrive with no laws about tradition or who we are or love?

I don't know about you, but I like the sound of it.