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seafarersdream · 4 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So…?” she pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned. “Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwayne grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

#gwayne hightower #ser gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #gwayne fanfic #hotd gwayne #gwayne x reader #gwayne x you #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower modern au #hotd modern au #freddie fox #freddie fox x reader

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marvel-snape-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Being of the Jealous Kind

Snape x original female character

18+ smutty smutty smut smut

7.5k+ words of grumpy Snape smut 😋✌️

Eleanor is in her first stint of training to teach at Hogwarts. Severus Snape had been the teacher she had been most curious about ever since she was his student. Since time had passed from their teacher/student days, they have caught each other's eyes on more than one occasion. The annual party was underway for all to attend, regardless of teacher, student, or status. Severus Snape attended the party, 25% because he felt it obligatory to do so being in his position, 75% because he wanted to see *her*. Jealousy overcomes him and he manages to get a message to her, inviting her to meet him in his chamber at Hogwarts... will either of them get their happy ending?

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Her voice was slightly timid and her knock a little unsure, never having been summoned to his chamber before.

First there was silence for what felt like too long, but she exhaled quietly when she heard footsteps coming toward the door — half from relief and half from fear. Her heartbeat stalled as she heard the large metal lock unclasp from behind the door, almost as if he was purposely slowing down the process of opening it. His scent was the first thing to escape the room from around the crack in the door as it gradually opened; a dark musk like tobacco mixed with whisky, the knowing that he did not smoke and hardly drank only adding to the mystery of him. It was not too strong to overwhelm but strong enough to wrap you up and draw you in.

His shadow was the second thing to pass through the door; a dominant, broad figure, even a little unnerving, but from over the time of knowing him she could almost swear he carried himself like that on purpose. His eyes ran their way from the floor until they pierced hers, her breath hitching in her throat from the intimidating intimacy he always brought to that moment regardless of where you were or whose company you were in.

“Y-You wanted to—” She repeated shyly before swallowing hard as he cut her off;

“Yes,” He spoke simply, his voice lowering now, “I heard you the first time.”

She pressed her lips together and gazed down at her feet, the silence from before now even more deafening with his eyes upon her. He bit the inside of his lip and squinted his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before pushing the door open a little further as if he had made a subconscious decision in his head before doing so.

“Come.” He said softly, gesturing for her to step inside his chamber.

She followed him inside and swallowed hard when she heard the door shut behind them. Her eyes scanned the room as he now walked in front of her, stopping at his arm chair but not sitting down in it.

“It will never not feel odd to stand in front of you as a colleague instead of a student.” She half laughed, trying to create conversation into the stale environment.

“And, yet, you still know your place…” He spoke quietly, though loud enough for her to hear.

“I…” She paused for a moment, unsure whether to acknowledge what he said or not, “I’m sorry?” She dared herself to say.

“No matter.” He flashed her half a smile this time, “How was the party?”

“Well, you were there… and then you weren't.” She squinted her eyes, looking up at him.

“I am aware I was there, but that is not what I asked…” His eyes met hers, though his expression was more of a glare, “How. Was. The. Party?”

She pressed her lips together from the way he spoke to her and held her hands in front of her, playing with her fingers.

“It wasn’t bad, thank you…” She spoke quietly, only looking at him briefly, “Is that why you asked of me?”

“It may be related to the matter at hand.” His tone returned to normal, stepping further into the room.

“The matter at hand, Professor?” She squinted her eyes.

“Tell me, do you still feel the need to address me as ‘Professor‘ now that we are working alongside each other?” He arched a brow, though a smirk threatened his lips.

“It is your title, is it not?” She looked at him properly this time.

“Correct.” He nodded, gazing over at her for a brief moment before busying himself by dusting one of his book shelves, “Though, I would be a fool to say I don't find it somewhat… one of your more attractive natures, calling me that.”

“Professor?” She tried her best not to show how shocked his comment made her.

“Hm.” Was the only noise he muttered, his back now completely to her.

She watched him as he moved from one book shelf to the next while dusting along each surface, his cloak moving along with him each time and his hair flowing over the top of his collar. She stood there in silence just watching him, though this wasn’t the first time she had found herself in this position. Not in his chamber, but certainly out of it. She admired the way he carried himself; he was harsh when he needed to be and you often felt like you were walking on egg shells around him, but that was almost what attracted her more too him — his power and status. If he was so delightfully forceful when he wasn’t happy with you, the mind boggled at how he would be if he desired you. And that had been the first thought on her mind ever since he was her professor and she was his student.

She decided to play with him, taunt him.

“I was not expecting for Barnaby to ask me to dance with him…” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, tilting her head slightly as she continued to watch him, “Though, I suppose I should've expected it since he did ask me to go with him.”

“Enough.” He spoke softly, his hand pausing with his index finger against the spine of one of his books but his back still facing her.

“He couldn’t really dance,” She giggled, pretending she hadn’t heard him as she continued to taunt, “I think I’ll go back to him now and see if he gets any better throughout the night.”

“I said enough!” His voice was more stern this time, spinning around smoothly and causing his cloak to rise into the air from the draft of air his sudden movement caused.

Her breath caught in her throat from his sudden outburst, lips parting when she saw the look upon his face. His jaw clenched the moment their eyes met and his hands were now held behind his back, exhaling quietly through his nose.

“Sorry, Professor…” She spoke shyly, her eyes still on him, “Shall I excuse myself?”

His eyes squinted, hands clenched behind him as his eyes burned into her before finally speaking softly, “No.”

“No, professor?” She scowled slightly, his intimidating shadow now looming over her as she stepped a little closer to him, “Professor?” She repeated into the silence.

“Stop… S-Stop…” He shook his head, turning around as he groaned out his words, “Stop calling me ‘Professor’.” His teeth gritted, trying to busy himself with dusting his bookshelves again.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” She asked, watching as his cleaning became more erratic.

“It would appear, Miss, that in the time from entering my chamber to now, you have forgotten your place.” His voice remained monotone.

“My apologies…” She bit the inside of her cheek, daring herself to push him even further, “Professor.”

“Don't push it.” The rising anger was heard in his short tempered voice, enunciating each word perfectly.

“It surprises me that someone of your status or power doesn't prefer to be called by that title,” She stepped closer to him, “Or insist.”

“I’ll tell you what I insist…” He grumbled under his breath.

“Yes?” She held her breath slightly, awaiting a loud response from the Professor but pressing her lips together when he remained silent, only letting out small huffs as he dusted along his bookshelf, “Well, alright. I won't talk to your back any longer. Thank you for… whatever this was, but I must be getting back to Barnaby.”

The mixture of her words and her fading footsteps as she turned to walk away caused him to spin around even faster than before, knocking off a couple of books in the process. He raised his wand and fixed the lock on the door, preventing her from leaving.

“Prof…” She tried to say as she turned back around, eyes wide.

“I insist you listen,” He stepped closer to her, “You may leave my chamber when you wish, but please allow me to explain myself…”

She nodded but remained silent.

“Have you let it go unnoticed how we have so often appeared fond of one another? I must admit, as a colleague, you have caught my eye on more than one occasion…” He spoke whilst looking at his feet, his arms now behind his back again.

“I don't understand…” She tried to act like she hadn't found his intense presence wildly alluring even before they had made the teacher-to-student to colleague-to-colleague jump.

“Tell me, Miss Eleanor, do I strike you as the kind of person who would willingly attend an event such as this evening?” He asked, tilting his head as they closed the gap between them a little more, “I think the manor in which I have behaved since inviting you here has proved I am not a… social man.”

“Then why did you…” She gazed up at him with narrowed eyebrows, holding her hands nervously in front of her.

“I came for you…” His tone had never sounded so sincere than it had in that moment, hesitantly raising his hands in want of holding her face within them.

“But… you didn't even talk to me.” She pouted her lips, keeping her eyes on his.

“I’m sorry, I…” He paused, lips still parted as he now cupped her face in his hands, “I saw you and words… failed me.”

“Professor Snape, you…” She spoke quietly, placing her hands against his biceps.

“Stop… calling… me…” He inhaled sharply, their faces now closer, “Please call me ’Severus’.”

“Is this you ‘insisting’, hm?” She bit her lip and giggled, squeezing his biceps in her hands as she leaned up on her tiptoes.

“I have grown so tired of admiring from afar…” Were the final words to leave his lips before they were met with Eleanor’s.

Eleanor’s entire body froze. This was something she had thought about, daydreamed about even, at the back of his class for almost as long as she could remember. She could sense the hesitance in the way he exhaled after the kiss, almost as if he had just remembered that once upon a time they were student and teacher. Eleanor grasped onto the opening of his cloak, breathing shakily against his lips. She dared to lean up and brush their lips together faintly again, letting him know that she was okay, this was okay. A shiver ran through her when she heard the soft whimper escape the Professor’s lips. His large hands brought her even closer to him, their heads tilting now and becoming more comfortable in the kiss as it grew deeper.

They stumbled about the room as their lips parted, hands back and forth from being in one another’s hair and then to their clothes. Grunts left their mouthes, then a giggle from Eleanor as the Professor lightly bumped her up against one of his book shelves.

“S—Sorry…” The apology hardly even became vocal from the intensity of their kisses.

“Shh, let’s go over here.” Eleanor whispered, leading him with his cloak in her fists over to his large armchair but not breaking the kiss.

The Professor felt the hot flush rising through his body as he willingly followed, his hands settling against her hips once the backs of his legs touched the armchair. Eleanor reached up with both hands to place them upon his shoulders, gesturing for him to sit down in it. He did, lips parting as the kiss broke.

“Sit, Professor…” She bit her lip, standing between his parted legs.

“I am not going to ask you again…” He inhaled sharply as she leaned over him, “Stop. Calling. Me. ‘Professor’.”

“Why, hm?” She felt a flicker of cockiness, gazing down into his eyes, “Does it turn you on when people address you as ‘Professor’?”

“Do not be absurd, I work with children who call me that on a daily basis.” He glared up at her, palms against his knees.

The look he gave her made her want to give herself over to him in that instant, the look he would give when he was most displeased with someone’s behaviour. The look that drove her wild regardless of the setting; him being her teacher as a student or him being her teacher learning the ropes as a colleague. It was an expression that had always sent her head spiralling into different ways that she would allow him to take out whatever he was feeling upon her. It always amazed her how quickly he could switch.

“Then, what is it?” She asked, now standing with her hands on her hips.

“It’s the way you say it… the way your lips form the words, the tone of your voice…” He exhaled quietly, biting his lip for a moment before gazing up at her, hardly able to believe he was admitting it, “Frankly, my dear, it makes me weak. Vulnerable, almost. The way you insist on addressing me like so… even though we are now to work alongside each other.”

“But other colleagues call you it, don't they?” She squinted her eyes.

“You are missing the point…” He shook his head, the glare still upon his face.

“Hm?” She tilted her head, trying her best not to smirk.

“It’s you.” He spoke simply, “Come down here.”

“Why?” She tried to push it as far as possible.

“Because your Professor told you to.” His voice was even lower than usual, not quite a command but gravelly enough to turn her legs to jelly.

Eleanor immediately fell into his lap, placing her hands against his shoulders as she felt his arms wrap around her. Their lips smacked together and Eleanor’s fingers found themselves in his hair, tugging at it slightly with several grunts from his lips that followed.

“Eleanor, wait…” He breathed against her lips, unwillingly pulling back.

“Professor Snape, I never had you down as such a tease…” She scoffed playfully when she felt him pull back, her hands still in his hair, “Though, I guess with the power you hold within your position here at Hogwarts you are used to getting your own way as and when you please.”

He paused, swallowing hard as he gazed up at her. He didn't know how much longer he could hold down the fiery desire within him, but something was still holding him back. The position he found himself in, in that moment was what he could've only dreamed of since seeing her at the party, but he was unsure if she, too, felt the same. Little did he know, Eleanor had been having thoughts such as these for a while now, but how would she have ever plucked up the courage to approach one of the most powerful men in the business?

“I am indeed well aware of the power that my position holds and the upper hand that I have over many,” He narrowed his eyebrows, sincerity in his eyes and her cheek cupped in one of his large palms, his thumb faintly skimming over her bottom lip as he spoke, “But I will not allow that to take advantage of something so delicate… without willing reciprocation.”

“Then, you shall have it.” There was barely room for a breath in between his words and her response, her hands now darting to unfasten the cravat around his collar.

Very few breaths were taken between the desperate kisses, Snape’s hands now finding themselves at the zip at the back of her dress. Eleanor nudged herself forward slightly against his lap when she heard the soft groan escape from his lips and smirked when his groan grew louder from her movement. Skilfully, she rid him of the cravat completely and began to unbutton his collar, letting out a shaky breath against his lips when she felt how much his hands were shaking against the fastening of her dress and compared it to how swiftly he locked the door to his chamber, wondering why he didn't resort to the same device to rid her of her dress.

“I would give up spells, potions and power forever for just one chance to tear your clothes off with my bare hands.” He wheezed against her lips, tugging at the zip.

“Do as you please, Professor…” Eleanor whispered, trailing one of her hands down the front of his body.

She mirrored the speed in which he unzipped her dress with the speed she moved her hand down his body, reaching the front of his pants at the same time as he had pulled the zip all the way down. She edged her hand closer to grasping the now evident bulge in the crotch of his pants before teasingly raising both arms above her head to allow him to pull the dress from her body completely. Once the dress was rid of her completely and tossed carelessly to the floor, the Professor’s hands found her breasts, massaging them gently as Eleanor’s hand fell back to his crotch, palming at it slowly. Her free hand placed against his cheek, their tongues tangling briefly before Snape’s breathing was unsteady and he trapped her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it out as he felt her fingertips now working their way along his clothed erection.

“Are you sure you're doing all of this without magic?” She teased against his lips, “Surely a man of your age is biologically incapable of getting aroused so quickly.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” He snapped in a quick whisper, earning a sudden moan from her as a result of squeezing her breasts harder as if in some form of punishment.

“Or what?” She found the head of his cock through the material of his pants, pressing her thumb against it.

“You don't even want to know…” He hissed through clenched teeth, the sensitivity of his length sending bolts throughout his body as Eleanor applied more pressure with her thumb.

“Oh, but, I think I do… Sir.” She gazed down at him with a devilish grin, gasping with a soft giggle when she felt his cock twitch against her fingers from the way she addressed him.

Snape lifted his hand to draw her back down into a harsh kiss, tongues immediately touching as she began to grind over his crotch. His moans passed through her lips, feeling himself straining against the material even more than before. Her hands shuffled along to the opening of his pants and began her attempt at tugging them open, gasping when she felt her bra coming apart from the back.

“Mm, what happened to ‘no magic’?” She smirked against his lips, pulling her bra off completely and dropping it to the floor before focusing her hands back on the button of his pants.

“You are causing me to run out of patience…” He spoke uneasily, parting his legs a little further as she managed to unbutton his pants, now fumbling with the zip.

“Sorry, Professor, let me…” She pushed his crotch open fully and reached into the front of his underwear, “Speed things up a little.”

The Professor felt his breath hitch in his throat when he felt Eleanor’s hand wrap around his warm, hardened length. Their kisses became more clumsy, leaving him hardly even able to concentrate as she began to pump her hand up and down his now impatiently pulsing cock, releasing it from his clothes completely to allow her wrist more ease of movement.

“Mmmh…” He whimpered against her lips, his eyes rolling back from the contact of her hand alone.

“Is that nice, Professor?” She whispered seductively, kissing him back just as roughly as she received.

“Don't speak.” He responded bluntly, claiming her lips urgently as precum began to pool at the tip of his cock already.

Eleanor was a little taken back by his response, but little did she know the touch starved reason behind it; her words and actions combined could easily become too much too soon for the aging, deprived Professor. He had to ease himself into it.

Eleanor’s lips parted into the kiss when she felt the sticky string of precum slide down the shaft of his length and onto her fingers, helping with the ease of her jerking motions which in turn sped up. She felt him fidget beneath her and thrust his hips up into her hand a little in order to stress his need. Her thumb brushed under the head of his cock faintly each time her hand slid up to the top, making his breathing change drastically each time. He was barely even kissing her at this point, just eyes tightly shut as her hand blissfully slid up and down his length.

“O—Off, off…” He repeated the word as if in an uneasy stutter, his hands now grasping at the material of her underwear against her hips.

“Anything you want…” She smirked, ridding herself of her underwear completely and placing her hands against his shoulders. Snape narrowed his eyebrows from the new lack of contact against his cock, longing for her to be all over him again.

“Listen to me…” Snape breathed out heavily, swallowing hard as he gazed up into her heavy eyes, “I fucking need this. Do not disappoint me.”

Eleanor felt her heart flutter from his words alone, trying to remember the amount of times she had pictured this exact scene in her mind. Quickly, she snapped herself out of it.

“If you would like to guide me into how not to disappoint you, Professor, be my guest.” She lifted her hips, hovering over him.

She allowed her gaze to fall down to his aching, unattended length — proudly creating a shadow over his lower stomach as it longed for more attention. Her lips parted and her grip on his shoulders tightened, reaching down with one hand to line him up with her perfectly. She leaned in to kiss him again as her hips desperately tried to sit over him at the same time as their lips touching. That was, however, until she found his large hands clamped against her hips and therefore preventing her from moving whatsoever.

“What do you think you are doing?” He asked, glaring at her once more as he tried to calm his breathing.

“I— I’m sorry, I…” She swallowed hard, both hands now trembling against his shoulders, “I thought that was… w-was what you wanted.”

“I said listen to me,” He spoke lowly, now enjoying taunting her despite the built up arousal he held himself, “You need to make your decent slowly.”

Eleanor lost her breath from his words and kept her eyes on his with parted lips as she followed his instructions, slowly lowering herself over him completely and watching as his jaw clenched from each movement.

“L—Like that?” She asked shyly before biting her lip as he filled her completely.

Snape nodded once before speaking, ��Don't move yet.”

Eleanor’s eyes squinted, hands continuing to tremble against his shoulders as he leaned forward to reach behind him, pulling his cloak off from behind him. Carefully, he wrapped it around Eleanor’s shoulders and gazed up at her with desire filled eyes, his hands now back on her hips.

“What an honour…” She whispered, glancing at either side of her to look at the cloak now upon her.

Snape reached up to bring her into a kiss again, sinking down into his large arm chair as she began to move over him with the return of each kiss. One of Snape’s hands slid up her back from under the cloak and his kisses became more harsh, grunting each time her hips landed down on his.

“Fuck.” He breathed out shakily, his fingers trembling as they dragged down her back.

Eleanor felt herself go dizzy already from the way that word passed through his lips — more of a breathless moan than speech. She broke the kiss and her head fell forward, nuzzled in the crook of his neck from the dip in his high collar since the buttons had been undone. The aroma of his skin so close to her filled her senses; almost like old leather with a very brief hint of lavender, but only like he had dabbed it on in a half-hearted attempt to cover up his somewhat curious appearance. His clothes, however, smelled like damp paper, books, to be more specific, as if he bathed in them.

“Come back…” His words trailed off when he felt her lips upon his neck, “C—Come back up…” His head tilted to the side, lips parted as she suckled upon a certain patch of his neck, “Back up… Back up here…”

Eleanor smirked against his skin, moving against him in harder motions as his hands clamped her hips again. Guiding her back and forth and willingly showing his desperation turned her on more than she could have even imagined.

“I think I could become quite accustomed to your cock, Professor…” She spoke directly into his ear before pressing a quick kiss to it, “I think it will take several visits to get to know every inch of it, anyway…” Her tongue traced down the side of his neck and then back up to his ear again, “Because its so… fucking… big…”

“Agh!” His voice curdled in his throat, not used to such praise, especially not whilst he had someone using his cock as a pogo stick. Her hands found themselves in his hair again, tugging at it gently as her lips latched onto the crook of his neck and feeling his length pulse with each movement. Snape’s sweaty hands slipped from her hips and his grunts and groans grew in frequency as the fire in the pit of his stomach began to increase.

Eleanor’s movements became slightly more clumsy as the familiar warmth in her stomach, too, increased, panting into his ear. Snape’s heavy eyes opened when he felt a draft, losing himself in the moment even more when he saw it was coming from the cloak — his cloak — still snug around her shoulders and wafting into the air each time she bounced over him. He could feel himself easily able to give in to her in this very moment, and so could she, but that wasn't the way he wanted this to end.

“Stop being such a brat, and listen to me…” He attempted at using his snappy tone, though it fell through as the jolts of ecstasy refused to stop shooting through him, “C—Come back here.”

She paused briefly, blowing cool air against the red patch of skin on his neck and grinning to herself when she felt him shiver as a response before lifting her head to gaze down at his flushed face, arching a brow, “Yes, Professor?”

Snape swallowed hard when their eyes met, opening his mouth to speak but instead placing one of his hands on the back of her head and pulling her down into a bruising kiss.

“Mmh, fuck…” Her hands were on his shoulders again, squeezing them tightly as their kisses grew more and more rough with each motion over his throbbing arousal, “Professor, you…”

“N—No, no…” He shook his head uneasily, though keeping their faces close, “Don't you dare make either of us cum.”

Eleanor’s lips parted from his words, shocked from what appeared to be a sudden change of heart. Confusion hit her when his hands were upon her hips again, relentlessly guiding him up and down his length. Her thighs trembled and their lips smacked back together, whimpering as her orgasm began to climb her body.

“S…Stop letting me ride your unsurprisingly large cock, then…” She gasped against his lips, moaning each time she sat all the way over him.

Snape’s fingertips turned white from how hard he was holding onto her, fighting back the urge of giving in himself, too. He grunted each time his cock twitched madly inside her, wanting so desperately to chase his own climax, but wanting something else even more; to make it clear who really was in charge. It was one thing saying she made him weak, but he certainly could not show it.

‘Pull yourself together,’ He thought to himself, ‘For crying out loud, do not embarrass yourself, Severus.’

“O—Oh, fucking…” He began to gasp uncontrollably, his heartbeat rapidly increasing as he pushed himself as far as he could go before uneasily raising his voice, “A—Alright, alright… Enough!” He commanded for her to stop, even as much as it pained him.

“U—Ugh…” Eleanor whimpered, her heavy eyes half open as they stared down at him, “Th-That was so cruel… I thought this was what you wanted. What you ‘fucking need’.” She attempted to impersonate him from before, mid trying to catch her breath.

“Do not use my own words against me.” He inhaled deeply, glaring up at her and placing his hands on her thighs.

“Then, do not use your cock against me…” She narrowed her eyes, glancing down at his hands, “I’m pretty sure if you so much as sneezed right now, I would—!”

“Quit your whining,” He butted in immediately, afraid of the effect her words would have on her, “Stand up.”

“B—But, my…” Eleanor narrowed her eyebrows, pouting her lips as she struggled to even think about moving her legs, “I’m not sure that I can…”

“Stand. Up.” His tone was more stern this time, able to calm himself briefly by forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing instead of what was crying for release between his legs.

Eleanor swallowed hard and placed her hands against his shoulders, trying to steady herself as much as possible as she lifted herself up off him. The feeling of his length leaving her completely, and the feeling of her no longer sat over him at what was just before their orgasms made them both shudder as their contact completely broke — though she did have to grasp onto the arm of the chair in order to keep herself upright.

“In front of me.” He snapped his finger and thumb, pointing to the space in front of him.

He had to practically put his tongue back into his mouth when she stood before him; cheeks flushed, thighs red, fingerprints — his fingerprints — upon her skin. His eyes took a walk up to her chest, mesmerised for a few moments as her breasts were rising and falling with each shaky breath she took. All of this right in front of him whilst wearing nothing but his cloak still. He knew this would be an image he was going to get off on for a long time… the fact being that it was taking everything in him not to take himself into his hand right now.

“L—Like this?” She asked, gazing down at him. He remained silent, but the image she was met with could've made her forget her own name; the once arrogant, stubborn Professor now slouched in his large armchair with his legs spread, lips parted, breathing heavy and uneasy as his unattended, reddened erection stood proudly through the opening of his pants. He was completely at her mercy in this moment, and she was at his. She bit her lip as her weakened legs threatened to give way before repeating herself, “Like this, Professor?”

Hearing her address him like that again gave the Professor the energy he needed to push himself out of his armchair and catapult himself toward her, gladly met with her arms snaking around his neck again. She leaned up on her tiptoes to press a harsh kiss to his lips, grateful for the support as she leaned against him.

“Wh-Why did you make us stop?” She whimpered against his lips, grasping onto him slightly tighter as he began to walk them — or more like stumble — through his chamber, “Mmm… are you taking me to your bed, Professor?”

“Absolutely not,” He responded instantly in between rough kisses, “Do not be foolish and think you have earned a place in my bed by your actions tonight.”

“I…” She was far too turned on from his scolding reply to form a response for a few long moments as he walked her further into his chamber, “Professor, my legs may just give way if you don't give me a surface soon…” She giggled against his lips before pressing a slightly harder kiss to his lips when she felt her back touch one of the stoney alcove walls, “W-Wait… This isn't your bed… How am I supposed to ride your desperate cock from this angle, hm?” She smirked, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I don't care if your legs are shaking. Fuck, I do not care if you cannot feel your thighs or if your body is trembling…” His voice was like sandpaper against her lips, making her audibly gasp when she felt his hardened length now pressing against her lower stomach as he growled lowly in a gruff tone, “If you are going to act like a slut, Miss Eleanor, I am going to treat you like a slut.”

“Ooh…” Eleanor inhaled shakily, feeling herself being pinned against the wall by his hips, “And are you going to fuck me like a slut, Professor?”

Snape didn't respond verbally, his lips were too focused on being against hers again. She attempted to reach for him again but found her wrists being pinned against the wall by his large hands. She pushed her head forward and took hold of his bottom lip between her teeth, tugging at it slightly as she felt herself being pinned with more force this time. Snape winced slightly as he ragged his lip out from between her teeth, grasping one of her thighs now and raising it to his hip as she hooked it around his waist.

“Are you going to behave for me?” He asked, his tone soft now as he rocked his hips forward.

“Y—Yes…” She whimpered, trying to kiss him again but instead being met with his finger against her lips.

“Yes, what?” His voice remained in the same tone, though slightly quieter this time as his lips came closer to hers.

“Yes, Sir…” She felt her body shiver as he reached down to take his length in his hand and slot it between her legs, though staying still.

“Try… Again…” She could feel his hot breath against his lips this time, once again trying to lean forward to kiss him but groaning in frustration as she kissed only the air when he moved his face back.

“Yes, Professor…” She felt her breath hitch in her throat as he nudged his hips upward, making the tip of his cock press against her.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” He looked down at her with a wicked grin, raising himself a little higher and pushing the head of his length inside her just to taunt her before lowering his hips once more.

“F—Fucking tease…” She whimpered, trying to move her hips in an attempt to create any type of feeling at all, “Stop teasing…”

“Or… what?” Snape smirked, kissing the corner of her lips as he moved his hips again, bouncing the tip of his cock between her legs each time and loving the way she squirmed in response.

“P-Professor!” She cried out in frustration, grasping onto his hair each time she felt the brief contact.

“Yes?” He used his free hand to brush her hair out of her face and watching her closely as he continued to taunt her, “What are you going to do, hm?”

“Beg,” She answered immediately, desperate to kiss him and even more desperate for what she could feel pulsating beneath her, “I am not above begging, Professor,” She inhaled shakily, placing her hands against his neck, “I will beg.”

Snape had all intentions of kissing her and giving her exactly what she wanted — what they both wanted — and leaned in with his lips almost touching hers until he heard her words. Words that set arousal alight like a wildfire throughout his whole body. Abruptly, he stopped himself and pulled back, arching a brow as his tone lowered, though speaking simply, “Then, beg.”

He felt her breathing change against his lips from their faces still being so close, brushing his hardened length between her legs several times. Eleanor snaked her arms around his neck again and grasped onto his hair with trembling fingers, trying to pull him as close to her as possible.

“Se…” It came out inaudible the first time. She tried again, “Sev…” She narrowed her eyebrows, feeling him still taunting her as the grip on her thigh became slightly more firm, “Severus*, please.*”

“Wh…What did you…” Snape swallowed hard, “What did you just call me?”

“Severus.” She repeated, though this time in a more seductive tone.

“Mmmh…” Severus quivered against her lips, awarding her with a kiss each time she repeated his name.

“Severus, Severus, Severus…” She groaned in desperation as she brushed back and forth over the tip of his cock still teasing between her legs and lips parting as she tilted her head, “Fuck me, Severus.”

Hearing her calling him by his name rather than his title made the moment grow somewhat more intimate between the two of them. He couldn't explain it. It was as if they had now crossed the bridge into allowing themselves to get to know one another properly.

Severus pulled her leg up a little higher around his waist and thrust his hips upward in one swift motion, whimpering in pleasure against her lips. Eleanor inhaled sharply from the feeling of him finally filling her again, though this time there was no pause before he started to move his hips at an ungodly pace - his pants pooling around his ankles in the process.

“Mm, fuck, no one is to have you like this other than me. Do you hear me?” He grunted against her lips, bruising them once more as he kissed her before she even had a chance to respond.

“That’s awfully possessive, don't you think, Professor?” She smirked against his lips before letting out a louder moan when he thrust her against the wall in a slightly harder motion.

“I am merely stating my… preference.” Severus paused to let out a moan even louder than Eleanor’s, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

“Sounds more like a command to me…” She grinned, gasping against his lips as his speed increased.

“Take it how you wish.” He responded, reaching for her other thigh and pulling it up to join the other at the opposite hip, “Fucking. Take. It. All.”

“S—Severus!” She cried out in pleasure, squeezing her legs around him and digging her heels into his bottom to urge him not to stop, “Ugh, fuck!”

Severus gripped onto her thighs securely, the force of his thrusts now making their kisses become more clumsy. Eleanor’s fingers tangled themselves deeper into his hair, moaning his name each time she thudded against the cold stone. Their teeth clashed together several times as a result of him now moving his hips at a merciless pace. Despite how deep Eleanor had her hands in his hair, it didn't stop it swishing back and forth as a result of his relentless hips.

Deep down, they both knew it wouldn't take them long to get to the same point they were upon his arm chair. Their pulses raised, breathing changed, thrusts becoming even more desperate — if that were even possible.

“Tell me why you came here instead of Barnaby.” Severus pulled his head back briefly to speak, sweat now gathered upon his forehead and top lip from his unsparing movements.

“Because you told me to, Professor.” She responded, her lips remaining parted in delight from each time he moved.

“No, truthfully,” He gritted his teeth, “You could have stayed with him. Gone with him. Gone to bed with him.”

“You really want to know, Severus?” She whispered lowly against his lips, now rocking against him in time with his thrusts.

“Do you think it's easy, being of the jealous kind?” He growled lowly against her lips, bucking his hips.

“Mm…” She lost her breath from his low-key admittance of wanting her all to himself, “Yes, I could have stayed with Barnaby, gone with Barnaby, but…” She clung onto him, feeling her climax near approaching as she spoke again, “Maybe I was far too occupied already being yours.”

“M-Mmh, fuck!” Severus exclaimed in pleasure, those words being the only thing needed to push him over the edge, “Ugh, shit… Eleanor, f-forgive me!” He gasped, releasing his taunted orgasm with each harsh pulse of his cock.

“Sev… Severus!” She clung onto him even tighter, losing herself to her own climax only seconds later as he continued to drive his hips forward.

Their kiss broke, but only to allow for more exclamations of profanities to be shouted into the chamber, each one bouncing against the walls and becoming shattering echoes around them. Both of them chased their pleasure for as long as possible, clinging onto one another for dear life as their bodies trembled in ecstasy.

Eleanor was the first to mentally come back into the room, laying her hands against his shoulders as she tried to catch her breath. Severus slowly opened his eyes and carefully lowered her feet back down onto the floor, pushing his hair back with his hands. For a few moments, they stared at one another with flushed cheeks, almost as if in disbelief as to what had just happened.

“Prof…” She began, biting her lip as she glanced down at his softening length.

“Get dressed.” Severus spoke bluntly, quickly reaching for his pants and fastening them back up.

“What, you toss my clothes about your chamber and now I have to collect them and put them back on?” She scoffed playfully, placing her hand upon his chest.

He immediately took hold of her wrist, removing her hand as he spoke in a more assertive tone, “Get. Dressed.”

Eleanor was taken aback by his abruptness for a few moments, looking up at him and rolling her eyes when she was met with his glare. She did as he asked, placing his cloak over the back of his armchair and turning back to him once she was fully dressed. She swallowed hard, unsure of whether to speak.

“So… what now, cuddle?” She arched a brow, only half joking.

“I think you ought to return to your own bed.” Severus exhaled quietly.

“Interesting thing to say when you never actually showed me to yours.” She looked up at him, hands on her hips.

“Out.” He gestured toward the door, raising his wand to unlock it.

“How romantic.” She spoke sarcastically, walking toward the door.

“I gave you my cloak so your back wouldn't get cold against the stone.” Severus shrugged and followed her toward the door.

She stopped once she got to the door and smirked, placing a hand on his open collar and biting her lip when she saw the dark red circles upon his neck, “Is this why you wear such high collars, hm?”

“Out.” He glared, swatting her hand away.

“Hang on, are we seriously going to—” She squinted her eyes as he opened the door for her.

“Look,” He glanced down the hall to make sure there was no one there before closing the door again but keeping his hand on the handle as he glanced down at her, “You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted, and now we move on.”

“Move on?” She squinted her eyes, “Wait, did you just admit that, that was what you wanted?”

“Goodnight, Eleanor.” He cleared his throat, opening the door again.

“Sev—?” She tried to ask him again before he cut her off.

“Goodnight.” He swallowed hard, gesturing for her to leave.

“Well, the ‘S’ in ‘Severus’ or ‘Snape’ certainly doesn't stand for ‘smooth talker’.” She muttered to herself as she left his chamber, flattening her dress with her hand as she made her way down the corridor.

Severus quickly shut the door behind him as if it would also shut out the events that had just taken place. It didn't work. Even the aroma of the room smelled of sex; sweat, desire, sweet relief, and partial regret. As quick as the door was shut, he found himself reaching for the handle again. This time, he only opened it slightly, enough for him to just peer down the corridor and watch as she walked down it. Away from him. He wished he could immediately take back the coldness he had shown her after their alcove-stone-knee-trembler. He cursed himself for how well and ashamedly comfortably he could disguise his pure intentions and feelings. He felt regret and guilt for how she must have felt upon leaving his chamber, and as fast as the door was reopened, he was closing it again. He leaned back against the closed door and exhaled loudly through his nose, his back sliding down it until his knees bent up against his chest with his head in his hands, speaking into them;

“Oh, fuck.” He took in a deep breath, “Severus, what have you done?”

Thank you so much for reading! This is the first Harry Potter or Snape inspired thing I have ever written, so I won't lie, I was terrified to post this... Please let me know what you think or feel free to send me an ask/request/DM if there's any other plot you'd like me to write and I promise I will try not to read it through my fingers 🤣♥️

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#snape fluff #snape smut #snape fic #snape fanfiction #snapedom #snape fandom #snape love #professor snape #snape #severus snape #pro snape #snape community #snape content #harry potter smut #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #harry potter #alan rickman #potterhead

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pastshadows · 19 days ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 25: Hunting Ground

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 5.8K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The tavern is a grim affair, smelling of stale beer and sweat. Shadows cling to the corners, like oil slicks that refuse to be cleaned away, and the sputtering lanterns hanging from crooked beams seem too exhausted to illuminate the room properly.

The clientele is a mixed assortment of rogues, mercenaries, and people who look as though they have more secrets than morals. A large half-orc with a patchy beard glares at anyone who comes too close, while a wiry elf in a tattered cloak palms a dagger. Even the bartender, a grizzled man with a missing ear, watches with a hawkish stare, his hands never far from the club he has leaning behind the bar.

Astarion leans in close, his eyes shrewd with awareness. “We should split up and cover more ground. It will be easier to catch anything useful if we are not one conspicuous trio.”

Shadowheart nods, her attention already sweeping over the tavern’s interior. “Stay within sight of each other,” she adds, her voice a shade sterner than usual.

You swallow down the knot of anxiety that forms at the thought of leaving Astarion’s side. It’s irrational, you know, given how well he can take care of himself. He could charm half the room and slice his way through the other half if he needed to. Still, the idea makes your fingers twitch with a half-formed desire to grab onto him.

You nod, plastering on a smile that feels far too tight. “Be careful,” you murmur to Astarion, who gives you a wink and a roguish grin.

He slips away into the crowd, moving like silk through the mass of bodies, and Shadowheart gives you an understanding look before heading off. Taking a breath, you step forward and fall into character. A charming yet dangerously mysterious smile slides across your lips, the kind that hints at secrets and makes people wonder whether you’re a friend or a threat.

Your focus drifts across the room, and you catalogue the patrons. Rough-looking sailors huddle over dice games. A pair of cloaked figures whisper harshly at a table near the back. A barmaid moves between tables, her eyes hollow and far away, as if she’s detached from the filth of her surroundings.

This place is a den of treachery, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You know how to play the game, how to be what people in these places expect to see: a pretty face with the potential for ruin lurking just beneath.

A part of you remains on high alert, aware of where Astarion and Shadowheart are, keeping track of the distance between you. Stay focused, you think. Still, you keep one eye on Astarion, his silver hair catching the tavern’s oily light like moonbeams tangled in cobwebs.

He’s joined a game of cards, settling in with the kind of disarming ease that only he can manage. Shadowheart, meanwhile, glides around the edges of the room like a shadow given form. Her wolfish focus is sharp and attentive, missing nothing as she prowls the perimeter.

You take a deep breath, shedding the last of your tension, and begin your hunt with a simple trick: proximity.

You drift close to a group of rough-looking mercenaries boasting about their latest job and make sure they notice you. The trick is to be almost approachable, to seem just out of reach. You toss your hair, and the men’s curiosity sharpens, like wolves sniffing at the edge of the woods.

It isn’t long before one of them breaks away from the pack, sidling up to you with a swagger that tells you he thinks he’s in control of this encounter.

“May I buy you a drink?” he offers, leering in a way that would send shivers of disgust down your spine if you weren’t so practiced at this.

Instead, you tilt your head, considering him, and then let your smile widen just a fraction. “I was about to buy one myself, but I suppose it would be terribly rude to refuse.”

He grins, and you know you’ve hooked him. As he calls for a drink, you let the conversation flow, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. He’s eager to impress, telling you about some recent job escorting a merchant’s caravan, and you listen with feigned interest, nodding at all the right moments.

You slip away at the first chance of escape with a whispered, “Don’t be a stranger,” that leaves him grinning like a fool.

You move on to another cluster of patrons, this time a pair of traders whispering about how business has been suffering. Here, you adopt a different approach: you act the part of a fellow merchant, commiserating with their struggles and sprinkling in enough business jargon to earn their trust. You don’t push too hard, but you nudge the conversation toward anything unusual they’ve heard. They don’t have much to offer.

You glide between groups like a dancer changing partners. Each conversation is a delicate performance, a balance of charm and subtle prying. With a group of dockworkers, you switch to playful teasing, laughing at their ribald jokes and pretending to be scandalized, all the while coaxing out tales of trouble on the docks.

When a more serious crowd catches your eye—hard-eyed mercenaries with their hands never straying far from their blades—you adjust your act once again. Your smile becomes cooler, more challenging, and you weave your words with a thread of danger. They size you up, but when you don’t flinch under their scrutiny, they let you into their circle.

Here, you hear something more concrete: talk of graves being disturbed in strange ways.

It’s not much, but it’s a lead.

You’re nodding along, making the appropriate sympathetic noises as the woman in front of you drones on. Her voice is as grating as boots crunching over shards of broken glass, and you’re only half-listening, the other half of your attention firmly fixed on Astarion.

His laughter—smooth, melodic—floats across the crowd, drawing more attention than a moth-eaten tavern like this deserves. Even now, even here, he’s a beacon. The men and women at his table seem magnetized, drawn to his every gesture.

It’s maddening.

One of them, a rugged brute with arms like tree trunks, leans too close. His hand brushes against Astarion’s shoulder, lingering, and that familiar spark of jealousy ignites in your chest. It coils tight, a snake slithering through your ribcage, and you can’t help the way your gaze sharpens.

It’s absurd, really, the way everyone fawns over him, how they orbit his beauty like planets held captive by a star. Women, men—it never seems to matter; everyone’s drawn in, and you get it. Gods, do you get it, but still, it irks you.

The woman says something that makes your ears perk up, something about people disappearing from the lower districts, especially from a house of healing where the down-and-outs seem to be swept away like detritus in a storm. You refocus, flashing a smile that makes her puff up with importance, but you’re still watching Astarion, your peripheral vision locked onto that table.

You know Astarion can handle himself; you know he’s as dangerous as the blade he keeps concealed in his boot, but that knowledge does nothing to calm the roiling heat in your gut. The man is talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and when his hand drops lower to rest on Astarion’s knee, you feel your fingers curl into fists.

Astarion throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—deliberate, meant to disarm and entice. The minutes creep by, and your patience wears thinner than an old piece of parchment. Your attempts at charming conversation yield no further leads. The whispers and rumours all swirl around the same topics: the city’s underbelly swallowing the unfortunate whole.

Astarion’s game of cards continues, round after round, and he’s building up quite the impressive stack of coin. The gamblers around him are varying degrees of drunk and frustrated, their brows furrowed in disbelief at how thoroughly they’re being played.

Then, there’s the drunken ass—his hands have grown bolder, the touches escalating from lingering grazes to something more presumptuous. That ember of jealousy roars into a bonfire, and you resist the urge to stride over there and burn the oaf to ash.

Astarion remains poised, every move calculated to avoid the touch without looking like he’s avoiding it. His hands perform little flourishes, as if he’s merely emphasizing his amusement at the game, knocking away a grasp with an airy gesture. The ease with which he handles it should reassure you, but instead, it needles at your already raw nerves.

The man laughs, and he reaches out again. This time, he aims lower, his intentions crystal clear. Your vision blurs at the edges with the intensity of your fury, and you dig your nails into your palms to keep from marching over there and making a scene—or worse, letting the magic that hums under your skin break free and turn this entire bar into a funeral pyre.

Shadowheart’s presence is a calming anchor in your peripheral vision, but even she seems tense, her dark eyes darting between Astarion and you. She’s noticed your simmering anger, the way you haven’t moved from your spot in far too long. You press your lips into a thin line, silently willing Astarion to end the game, to finish this charade before your composure snaps like a brittle twig underfoot.

You exhale slowly, reminding yourself that your anger won’t help him. If you intervene, it’ll only draw more attention, but gods, it’s hard.

Gale’s manor looms, a great silhouette of stone and ivy under a sky washed with the fading indigo of retreating night. The air clings to a chill, fog curling in wisps around the base of the steps like restless phantoms. Astarion barely notices. He drifts, an apparition himself, anchored to the world only by the occasional murmur of Kamena’s voice.

His thoughts drift, unmoored, back to that tavern and to every awful, visceral memory it unearthed. His body is present, but his mind has been dragged back into places where hands claimed, used, and discarded. He swears he still feels it—phantom touches pricking along his skin, invisible fingers pawing at him, groping at his waist, his arms, wherever they could stake a claim.

He closes his eyes, but that only intensifies the memory: coarse fingers seizing his chin, breath hot and acrid against his ear, murmurs of desire that were nothing more than knives.

How is it that even with Cazador rotting in some forgotten pit, he remains haunted, every soft whisper of the past ready to drag him back to that hell? A deep shame burns through his chest. He’s stronger now, isn’t he? He should be past this.

But the hands don’t stop, and the breath doesn’t fade, and all he can do is stand there, fighting a war inside his head against ghosts who have never truly let him go.

“Hey,” Kamena’s voice is soft, a flickering candle in the dark, coaxing him back. “Astarion?”

He forces himself to focus, but it’s like trying to pull free of tar. He blinks, realizing he’s still standing in the manor’s foyer, Shadowheart long gone.

“Astarion?” Kamena tries again, worry threading through her words. “Where are you?”

He swallows, finding his voice and hating how fragile it sounds. “I’m… here,” he answers. “Sorry, darling. Lost in thought. Nothing to worry about.”

Kamena knows him too well, sees through every crack and flaw he tries to hide. Her eyes search his face, reading the pain he can’t disguise. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She turns, using her body to guide him toward the staircase, never touching him directly. Instead, she hovers close, her movements careful and deliberate, a hand gesturing to show him the way, an arm raised slightly to ensure he follows.

Astarion’s steps feel heavy, each one an effort as they ascend. He clings to her presence, attention trained forward, focusing on the sway of her movements, on the quiet grace that surrounds her.

As soon as the door clicks closed, Kamena’s fingers snap, and flames spring to life in the fireplace. She moves without hesitation, heading straight for the tub in the corner.

He stands, feeling unanchored, like a ghost in his own skin. His gaze darts to the flickering fire, but the warmth doesn’t touch him, doesn’t sink into the cold that’s burrowed beneath his bones. He walks aimlessly, every step a vain attempt to shake free from the invisible hands still clawing at him.

His eyes catch on the glint of his dagger lying on the side table. He grabs it, the cool steel settling into his hand with a familiar weight. He runs his fingers along the blade’s edge, feeling the whetted sharpness. He doesn’t notice the pressure building, the way his fingertips push into the edge of the blade, carving shallow lines into his skin.

Kamena’s voice floats through the haze, soft and steady, like an angel whispering down from the heavens. “Astarion. Give me the dagger, please.”

Her words tug at the deepest parts of him, the ones not quite lost in the tide of memories. He blinks, startled, as though waking from a dream. Astarion’s gaze drops to his hand, where thin, crimson lines well up across his fingertips. Blood beads and drips, painting streaks down his skin, but he feels oddly detached from the pain.

Kamena steps closer, her hand lifting instinctively as though to take his, but she catches herself. Her fingers hover in the space between them, trembling slightly, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“You’re safe. You’re here, in our room. No one can hurt you. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

Astarion’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt, the dagger feeling heavier with every passing second. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, the movement jagged, unnatural, as if his body is at odds with the instinct to surrender it.

Kamena’s hand reaches out and takes the dagger from him. He feels the absence of the blade in his hand like the absence of a limb.

"The bath is ready,” Kamena gestures toward the steaming tub.

Astarion shifts slightly, forcing his mind to settle as her voice touches him. "Are you trying to insinuate that I smell?"

Kamena hums, a small, amused sound, but she holds his gaze for a long beat, her smile there but tempered. "I’m not saying you smell, but the bath’s there if you want it."

She backs away slightly, giving him space, and in that moment, her gentleness, her patience, is almost more than he can bear.

He presses his fingertips together, the slick of his blood smearing beneath his thumb. The shallow cuts on his skin knit together as if nothing happened. It always heals—mending, sealing, returning to its cold, perfect stillness. A parody of life. Beneath the flesh, the raw, aching wounds of his soul remain open. Festering.

Why is it that his body—a cadaver dressed in silken skin—can stitch itself whole, while his spirit remains in tatters? Why does he carry these invisible gashes, these scars that pulse and throb? A single careless word, a fleeting glance, and the old wounds gape wide, spilling anguish like blood from a reopened vein.

He stares at the red streaks on his fingers, as if the answer lies there, hidden in the crimson swirl. But it doesn’t. It never does. His blood is lifeless, a mimicry of vitality. His soul, if it still exists, is no better. He feels trapped in this silent torment, a scream that no one can hear.

The healing is a cruel joke. His body pretends at recovery, as though that will make him whole, as though that will stitch together the fractured pieces of himself, but it’s a lie.

The promise of warmth, of something alive against his skin rather than that damnable ghost of touch, pulls him toward the tub. Without a word, he moves toward it, feeling the weight of his body dragging. His fingers trail the edge of the tub for a moment before he undresses, his clothes slipping from his body in careless movements. There’s no care, no thought—just the need to shed what feels too tight, too heavy.

Kamena watches him from the corner of her eye as she grabs a cloth and begins wiping the blood from his blade with meticulous care.

Astarion breathes out slowly, his chest tightening for a moment as he lowers himself into the warm water. He closes his eyes, letting the heat settle in his muscles, the soft splash of water against his skin distracting him. It feels different tonight, the comfort almost too much for his fractured mind to hold onto.

He’s lost in the warmth when he hears the soft swish of satin. Kamena’s presence fills the room, and for a brief moment, Astarion allows himself to simply look at her.

She’s wearing satin shorts and a tank top. Her hair, like a cascade of silk, tumbles over her shoulders before she tucks it behind her pointed ear with the grace of someone who doesn’t even need to think about it.

Kamena moves toward his discarded clothes, and without a word, she begins folding them. Her movements are careful and precise, as if she’s the one tidying up the remnants of his life, making order of the chaos. Each fold is deliberate, a small act of care, and it unsettles him in the best way possible.

His mouth opens before his brain catches up. “You’re stunning, Kamena.”

She pauses, and there’s no teasing smile on her lips, no quick retort. Instead, she simply sits down beside the tub. “Are you okay?”

Astarion stiffens slightly, the question landing like a blow he didn’t expect, and he tries to hide behind the banter that has always been his shield. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m positively glowing, as you can see.” His lips twitch, but the effort feels hollow, like something dying before it can be fully born.

Her eyes narrow slightly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the towel she’s holding. “Astarion… I saw what happened at the tavern.”

Astarion feels like a raw nerve exposed to the world. He wants to pull away, deflect, but he can’t. She sees through him, and he’s not sure if he hates it or needs it more than he can admit.

“Ah, that,” he starts, attempting once again to cover the tremor that has snuck into his voice. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of fawning. I’m used to it. Attention like that is... quite familiar, really. You know how it is. People just can’t resist.”

"I don’t think it’s nothing."

Her words sink in like a stone in water. He doesn’t want to show her how much it hurts—how close it is to the old scars, the ones that never really fade, the ones that still feel raw under his skin.

“I am fine,” he insists a little too forcefully, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m always fine. It is nothing.”

Kamena only nods, her eyes never leaving his. There’s no judgment there, no impatience. Just quiet understanding. She’s not asking for his confession. She’s waiting for him to offer it, in his own time.

Her fingertips skim the surface of the water, sending ripples across the stillness. Each movement is fluid and gentle, and Astarion watches her, the rhythm offering a strange kind of peace.

He realizes it then, like a sudden crack in the ice beneath his feet. He’s running too.

His chest tightens, something sharp and jagged biting at the edges of his ribs. Fuck. He’s been pretending, hiding, letting her think he’s fine when all he’s doing is locking himself behind walls she’s never meant to scale.

How could I be so foolish?

His voice is soft when he finally speaks, almost a whisper, like the words are fragile. “I have not felt like that in a long time,” he says, his gaze focused on the water. He clenches his fists, the memory still too fresh, too vivid. “That man at the tavern, he... he made me feel like I was nothing. Just a piece of meat, something to devour. I remember how it felt to be a toy, a tool, a thing that others could use as they pleased.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “That man wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last. All it takes is one touch, one moment of weakness, and I’m right back there. In their hands."

Kamena shifts closer to the tub, her hands resting lightly on the edge, though she doesn’t touch him.

Not yet. Not until he’s ready.

"I know what it’s like," she says, “to feel like you’re stuck, like every move you make could sink you deeper, and you have no idea if you can ever get back up to breathe."

The weight of her words hits Astarion harder than he expects. He can feel it—the echoes of the same fear, the same suffocating hesitation that creeps into his bones whenever he dares to move forward.

He knows she's talking about herself, the careful way she keeps herself distanced. It’s like she’s always half-reached, but never fully here. Her pain, her quiet self-protection—it’s all the same undercurrent that he’s been fighting for years, and it makes him ache in a way he can't quite explain.

Her fingers move over the water again, delicate, almost reluctant. There's a tremor in the motion, like the last fragile thread of a dream slipping away.

Without thinking, Astarion stretches out his hand, a slow, deliberate movement, and he touches her fingers. She freezes, her breath catching in her throat, but then her fingers curl around his.

There’s no grand gesture, no sudden shift. Just two souls, existing in the same fragile space.

The House of Healing stands like a crumbling tooth at the edge of the city, its façade streaked with grime and despair. The wooden shutters hang unevenly on rusted hinges. The smell hits you first—a rank cocktail of sweat, sickness, and something sour that clings to the back of your throat. It’s a place meant for those who have nothing left: no coin, no hope, no other options.

Inside, beds, if you can call them that, line the walls in uneven rows. Most are little more than pallets of straw covered in thin, stained sheets. Patients lie there like abandoned dolls, their faces hollow, their skin sallow. A woman coughs into a rag, the sound wet and deep, while another murmurs feverishly, her voice breaking into fractured words no one listens to.

The healers move through the room like wraiths, their robes smeared with grime and their expressions blank. They look as unwell as the people they tend to.

One of them, a man with a crooked nose and hands trembling from overwork, dabs at a patient’s brow with a damp cloth, his movements slow and mechanical. Another stands over a woman whose breaths come in rattling gasps, muttering a prayer under her breath as if words alone could stave off death.

Gale looks at the scene, more troubled than disgusted. His lips press into a thin line as he steps forward, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. “No one deserves this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. His gaze drifts to a child curled on one of the pallets, his tiny frame too still, too pale. "Not even the poorest soul."

A healer shuffles past you, her face lined like old parchment, her steps dragging. You catch a glimpse of her hands, fingers gnarled and reddened, shaking as she tries to tie a bandage. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even seem to register your presence.

It’s easy to see how someone could disappear here, swallowed by the chaos and neglect. No one would question an empty bed, assuming death had taken its toll again.

Hecat steps closer to you. “So, where do we start?”

“Fan out,” you instruct.

Each step carries you further from the relative order of the main ward. You pass a cracked window, the glass fogged with grime. Outside, the faint sound of the city’s bustle feels worlds away, muffled as if even the streets refuse to acknowledge this place.

You move through the rows of creaking cots, where patients lie motionless or thrash weakly against stained sheets. You kneel by a frail woman whose limbs seem to have withered away like autumn leaves clinging to a branch. Her skin is sallow, her lips cracked, and when you ask her name, her response is little more than a garbled whisper. A sound that isn’t a sound.

“Can you hear me?” you ask louder.

Her head rolls to the side, but her vacant stare continues past you, into some abyss you cannot fathom.

Across the room, Gale’s deep voice carries briefly before faltering. You glance over to see him standing with a man whose head lolls forward, drool pooling at the corner of his slack mouth. Gale straightens, shaking his head at Hecat, who crouches beside another and mutters under her breath. Frustration twists her features, and her shoulders tense like a bowstring about to snap.

Rusted syringes are discarded like broken quills that have long since lost their ink. Dirty rags lie slumped in buckets of water so thick with grime it has the viscosity of tar, and the smell is indescribable—like rot left to fester under the sun.

You spot a healer briskly passing by, their robes torn and smudged. They move with single-minded focus, carrying a tray of empty vials that rattle softly with every step. You reach out, catching their arm.

“Wait,” you say firmly. “What’s happening here?”

The healer doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. They try to keep moving forward. Even as you hold them in place, their worn shoes slide against the floor with each useless step. You shake them vigorously, hoping for any response, but get none.

“Answer me!” you demand.

Heat flares at your palms as you channel the Weave, not enough to hurt but enough that any normal person would instinctively recoil. The healer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Their face remains eerily blank, their eyes as lifeless as the patients’ around you.

Your grip loosens, and they slip away again, disappearing into the haze of the ward. You glance at Hecat and Gale, who have stopped their own efforts to look at you. Gale’s brow furrows, his lips pressed thin. Hecat’s mouth twists, her sharp eyes darting between you and the retreating healer.

The world tilts on its axis as you pivot sharply. A wave of nausea crashes over you, and your stomach churns violently. Your knees weaken, and it feels as though the floor rushes up to meet you. The blood drains from your face, and your mouth floods with bitter saliva as you stagger forward. Before you can collapse, Hecat’s strong hands grip your shoulders, steadying you.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, but you can’t answer, your throat tightening as bile rises.

You double over and retch, the sound harsh and raw in the oppressive silence of the ward. Gale is at your side almost instantly, pressing a neatly folded handkerchief into your trembling hands. You wipe your mouth, head pounding with every unsteady heartbeat.

You wrench yourself free of Hecat’s hold, her concerned protest fading into the background, purpose driving you past the fog of illness and fear. Your gaze fixes on one of the patients, and you fall to your knees beside them, ignoring the wet squelch of the filthy floor beneath you. Your fingers work quickly, brushing aside the layers of grime-encrusted cloth covering their neck, searching for something—anything.

“Hey!” Gale calls from behind you, his voice sharp with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You can’t stop. The thought, the terrible possibility, grips you like a vice. You check their neck, their wrists, their arms—your movements frantic now. Your breath catches as you fling back the sheet covering their lower body, exposing legs marred with a lattice of puncture wounds. Fangs, puncturing flesh over and over like an unholy feast.

“They’re enthralled,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips with grim finality.

The three of you stare in collective horror at the grim tableau before you. Hecat’s jaw tightens, her sharp eyes narrowing, while Gale looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, his complexion pale and ashen.

“This isn’t a house of healing,” you continue, your voice hollow, almost breaking. “It’s a hunting ground.”

You see it now, in every detail—the desperate state of the patients, the apathetic healers who seem to be little more than empty vessels, the pervasive wrongness that saturates this place like a curse.

“They’re feeding on them,” you say, your gaze fixed on the patient’s legs, the bite marks overlapping in a grotesque pattern. “Draining them. Using them. Until there’s nothing left.”

“And then?” Hecat asks, though by the tremor in her voice, she already knows the answer.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. “Then, they’re turned.”

The truth weighs on you like a stone, each piece falling into place to form a picture too terrible to look at.

This isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a factory. A grotesque assembly line, churning out victims and killers in equal measure.

Gale stammers, his words tripping over one another in his urgency, his hands gesturing wildly as if pulling answers from the air. “We can’t just leave them like this. There has to be something we can do!”

You, however, are unmoved. Perhaps it’s cynicism. Perhaps it’s realism. Or perhaps the hollowness within you simply cannot stretch wide enough to encompass this many broken souls. You glance from one bed to another, your gaze sweeping over the withered faces, the slack jaws, the glassy stares that don’t even track your movement. Each figure is a ghost tethered to a failing shell, far beyond any salvation you could offer.

You shake your head, the motion small but resolute. “There’s nothing we can do,” you say flatly.

Gale reels back as if you’ve struck him. “Nothing?” he echoes, aghast. “You won’t even try?”

You meet his eyes, and they burn with the kind of indignation that only comes from belief in a better world—a belief you no longer share.

“Look at them.” You gesture sharply to the room around you. “Do you think they can be saved? Their bodies are ruined. Their minds are gone. They’re not even living, Gale. They’re... leftovers.”

His face contorts, a mix of anger and heartbreak warring in his expression. “How can you say that? They’re people, not scraps on a plate!”

You exhale sharply, the sound carrying more weariness than frustration. “People, once. Now? They’re feeding troughs. Thralls. Whatever they were, it’s gone.”

Hecat steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s right. Even if you pour magic into them, it won’t undo what’s been done. They’re too far gone.”

Gale doesn’t back down. “We don’t know that!” His voice rises, ringing through the grim stillness. “We owe it to them to try. To do something.”

You glance at Gale and Hecat, your voice sharp and decisive. "We should leave. Take a few days to regroup and plan, and then come back when it’s dark."

Gale narrows his eyes, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. "And why, exactly, should we wait?"

“Because this place isn’t for the living. It’s a hunting ground. Come nightfall, the ones we’re after will return to feed, and we’ll be waiting for them."

Hecat smirks faintly, her arms crossing as she leans against the grimy wall. "Using their own trap against them. Clever. A little cruel, but clever."

Gale shakes his head, disapproval radiating from him like a chill. "And in the meantime, what happens to these people? You just leave them here, like bait in a snare?"

You fix him with a cold stare, your voice unwavering. "That’s exactly what they are, Gale. Bait. Better to use it than to let it rot."

Gale’s anger flares, his voice trembling with outrage. “Bait? That’s what they are to you? These are people.” His words lash out like a whip, sharp enough to sting. He takes a step closer, his face set in a righteous fury you once might have admired. “How can you stand here, look at this suffering, and decide their best use is as tools for your goals?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching, unrepentant. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I enjoy it? The only way to help them is to rid Waterdeep of the parasite feeding on them, and using what’s left of these people is the fastest way.”

His eyes widen, disbelief flooding his expression. “What’s left of them?” he spits. “You’ve already written them off, haven’t you? You’ve decided their lives are worth nothing, so why not throw them into the fire?”

You scoff, your voice rising. “You’re godsdamned right I have. Look around, Gale. What do you see? I see empty husks barely clinging to what could generously be called life. I see people who won’t thank us for whatever salvation you think you can offer. I see us wasting time on them when the real enemy is out there, thriving.”

Gale’s hands curl into fists, trembling at his sides. “You sound no better than the monsters we’re hunting.”

That lands like a punch, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you take a step forward, closing the distance between you, your voice a growl. “And what would you have me do, then? Heal them? Bring them all back from the brink with a wave of my hand? The best thing I could do for them is—” Your voice breaks, sharp and bitter. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”

The words are barely out before the heat ignites in you, surging like a storm unbound. Flames curl over your skin, licking up your arms and dancing along your hair. They flicker gold and crimson, light that bends and writhes like living poetry. The air around you crackles, the smell of burning ozone sharp in your nose.

Gale steps back, his eyes widening as the heat pushes against him. “This isn’t justice,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “This is rage. Destruction.”

You laugh bitterly. “Don’t preach to me about justice. Justice won’t bring back the dead or save the next victim. Rage? Destruction? They get results.” The fire swirls higher, casting shadows that twist and shift across the room. “So tell me, Gale—what do you want to do? Save them? Heal them? You can’t even get them to open their eyes!”

Your words echo in the space, your flames their only answer. They reflect off the grimy walls, painting the room in molten light that only underscores the decay. Gale stands frozen, torn between his ideals and the grim truth of your argument. Somewhere, you think you hear Hecat chuckle, low and bitter, but you don’t look at her.

You don’t need her approval.

You don’t need Gale’s either.

All you need is an end to this madness—an end that might, just might, begin with flame.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Hi guys! It's been WAY too long. I'm really sorry. Work is crazy for the holiday months, and I've been told I may lose my job, so... it's been rough. Except spotty updates until at least the end of January (either work calms down or I get let go 🤣)

#astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion romance #astarion x mc #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #pallidmoon #shadows of the past #astarion x oc #astarion bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion spawn

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seiwas · 3 months ago

Note

Hi 🥺👉👈 I heard you wanted prompts for writing practice so I came to offer help 🤲🫡

It can be for any character (maybe whoever has the nearest birthday if you can't choose?), but the word is "salmon" 🎏💦

P.S. Do you pronounce it "sam-men" or "sayl-mon"?

hi there! thanks for sending in a prompt! 🥺 i'll do kiri! hehe and i pronounce it as 'sah-mon' 🥹

help me get back into the writing groove! send me a character + any word and i'll write a short blurb about it!

contains: food (salmon), brief mentions of cheating (of a diff couple)

kirishima + salmon

"mama, what does love mean?" you ask your mother, wide-eyed and full of wonder.

you were 10 when you first truly wondered what love meant. in your small town, it was hardly ever the grand things. handpicked flowers from the side of the road, sometimes fields if the seasons permitted; baked goods prepared in the early hours of the morning, its scent wafting down your neighbor's porch.

it was the soft goodbye kisses that your mother would give your father as he left for work, and his insistence that she makes the best damn pie this town has ever seen (even though he's allergic to blueberries). love was simple, and it was easy.

so when you moved out of your small town at 18 and faced the big city, you were shaken by the reality that that wasn't always the case.

"he said he still loves me," your first roommate cried to you, heartbroken as she held out the text on her screen. she had caught him with another girl just hours prior.

at 20, the consensus among your friends was that good sex was just as good as love itself.

"dating these days is fuuuucked," yuki plops down on your couch. at 23, the dating scene has proven to be a challenge for most of your friends.

it's either someone isn't enough or they're too much. sometimes, the truth comes later, months into a budding relationship, and the rest of the group has yet another name to add to the growing list of "people who deserve to eat uncooked rice and stale bread".

you agree, but also don't. because you've lucked out, it seems.

though kirishima believes it to be fate more than anything.

who would have thought that spraining your ankle in sophomore year would land you here, now, sharing an apartment with the cute, kind boy you so embarrassingly tripped in front of.

from across the room, you listen vaguely to yuki rant the third time about the girl who stood her up for the guy who was leading her on for months. you've already set out a plate for her to join you and kirishima whenever she's ready, but you know that it won't be until she's told the story the fifth time that she'll notice she's hungry.

the meal in front of you is miso glazed salmon, a favorite in your apartment. you don't make it so often because salmon is expensive, especially the good kind, but kirishima believes that life is all about the treats you let yourself have once in a while.

there's only one slice of salmon left on the serving plate and it's a given that it belongs to yuki. with how busy work was for you today though, it's hard to hide that you're still a little bit hungry.

and kirishima sees it, in the way you attempt to scoop up any remaining sauce on your plate with your spoon; in the way you go for a bit more rice, even when it has nothing to go with anymore.

so he takes one more bite and cuts off the rest of his slice, scooping it up to place it on your plate.

you look at him, confused, furrowing your brows at the fact that there is no way he's done eating; kirishima eats twice as much as you do, thrice even, on heavier gym days. but he only gives you a sweet smile, red eyes twinkling as he motions for you to go ahead and finish it.

warmth fills you in this moment, fuzzy flutter feelings swirling in your belly.

it reminds you of when you were 10, asking your mother what love meant, and she said, "sometimes, it's when they give you the rest of their food even when they aren't finished, and especially when it's their favorite."

#i hope you like it!! i reallly enjoyed this one hehe #kirishima x reader #bnha x reader #shotorus.workbook #wanted to play with the idea that kirishima is an absolute gem 🥺 nothing at all like the stress of modern dating!!!!!!#bc i do see him as a bit traditional 🥺 or maybe a bit conservative ? idk if thats the word 🥺 but just a sweet boy overall 🥺#no games whatsoever 🥺 just pure genuine feelings 🥺#ask #rep #starryknight565 #ask game answered

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trulybetty · 24 days ago

Text

secret santa.

pairing: tim x cagney (f!reader) word count: 2,108 warnings: none, just tim being tim - set in the tim x cagney universe, somewhere before they become a thing for the first time, but you don't have to read any of that to get this estimated reading time: 10 minutes summary: secret santa at the lapd, for the first time tim is participating. ao3: linked

A/N: forgot to add a little note yesterday in my rush to post! This is for @bluestar22x's Christmas Writing Challenge - I recommend you check it out! Also thank you as always to the lovely @gnpwdrandsnshine for providing feedback and ideas and for always being the best to shout about characters and ideas with! 😘

The LAPD precinct was hardly the kind of place to muster any kind of Christmas spirit. The walls were a dull beige, the air reeked faintly of stale, over-brewed coffee, and the fluorescent lights flickered in a way that might make you question your sanity. But that night, the detectives, officers and support staff had transformed it—twinkling lights hung precariously from any high enough hook, a tree stood proudly (if slightly lopsided) in the corner, and the air buzzed with a rare, warm cheer.

Tim leaned against his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the garish tinsel someone had brazenly strewn around his office while he was out. He didn’t do office parties. He didn’t do tinsel. And he certainly didn’t do Secret Santa.

Except this year, he did.

When the sign-up sheet had been passed around, Tim had ignored it. But when you had casually mentioned how excited you were to participate—how the fact that the precinct had invited the assistant DA to join meant so much to you—he’d swiftly hunted down Betty in Operations, who was arranging the whole thing, to scrawl his name down on the list.

However, he didn’t trust fate to do its job. He’d called in a small favour with Betty—an exchange of the kind of mundane paperwork no one wanted to touch—and suddenly he had the only name he cared about.

You wouldn’t know. He’d swear up and down it was destiny if found out.

Paper snowflakes clung to windows, and the smell of mulled cider filled the bullpen. You were standing next to a crowded, multicultural-filled table laden with an array of foods. The warmth of the party tugged a reluctant smile to your face. It wasn’t every day that the grim halls of the LAPD felt this festive.

Your name echoed from somewhere across the room, “Hey, Cagney, come take a look at this tree! I think it’s leaning more than you do after three drinks.”

Detective Rivera waved you over, you rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. The nickname had stuck after Tim—in irritation of course—had called you Cagney after the two of you had argued over a case. He’d meant it as a pointed opinion that you had overstepped your boundaries as ADA. You were too stubborn and very much relentless—it was why you were so good at your job. But it’d firmly stuck when it’d been overheard by Rivera—though he’d remarked that naming you 'Elizabeth' would be more apt given Tim’s last name. The reference had flown over your head at the time. Tim had shut Rivera down with a withering look that had caused Rivera to laugh even harder when you had asked what was so funny.

Regardless, the name stuck and caught on faster than wildfire across both the precinct and the courthouse. You’d leant into it, mostly in defiance of Tim, fully cementing it when you’d dressed up as the detective one Halloween, and then promptly pulled into court. And thanks to an amused Judge the name and outfit reference were recorded in the case transcript courtesy of the court's stenographer.

Still, you didn’t mind it. It made you feel like one of them—an honorary member of the squad, a role that the actual DA, Connor Wallace, struggled with.

“Hey, at least it’s standing up better than you do under cross-examination,” you countered back receiving a chorus of ‘Oooo’s’ from the pen and Rivera’s signature cackle. “Anyway,” you said as you inspected the artificial tree’s crooked branches, “it looks like someone threw a bunch of ornaments on and hoped for the best.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Rivera remarked, flicking a branch, no one knew how old it was but it had been determined it predated even the oldest of them, “I’d say Tim had been involved.”

You laughed as you looked around the room for the detective, “Speaking of, where is he? I thought he was supposed to be a part of this.”

Rivera took a sip of his cider as he nodded to the other side of the room behind you, “Speak of the devil.”

Tim strode into the bullpen, his mere presence demanding the attention and respect of the room. He had left his jacket behind, dressed in his standard uniform of dark slacks, a white pressed shirt with its sleeves carefully rolled up to his forearms. His signature holster over his shoulders, and as always, one of the three ties you knew he owned hung loose around his neck—a minor display of defiance of having to wear one.

Turning around you just caught the softening of his face as he saw the sight of the wide grin you threw him, “There he is, Mr. Christmas himself.”

For just a second, his shoulders seemed to relax, which made your smile a little brighter. But then, as if catching himself in the moment, he looked away, his expression smoothing back into something neutral.

The gift exchange started with the usual mix of chuckles and groans—cheap mugs, joke gifts, lottery tickets that might pay off someone’s bar tab if they were lucky. You perched on the edge of one of the desks, absently sipping cider, when your name was called.

Placing your cider down you stepped forward, catching a few good-natured jeers about ‘lawyers stealing all the good presents, taking all the credit’, and plucked the neatly wrapped package with your name scrawled on it. The wrapping paper was a deep navy blue, tiny gold stars adorned the thick luxury paper and topped off with a velvet red bow. It was too thoughtful for this crowd. You felt a twinge of curiosity and you looked around the crowd gathered trying to figure out who would have been so thoughtful. Carefully, you opened the present with a reverence that felt almost out of place in the boisterous atmosphere.

You swallowed the gasp, curiosity giving away to something else, something softer, when you pulled back the paper to reveal your gift.

It was perfect. Your kind of perfect.

Nestled in a second layer of delicate tissue paper was a cardboard box, its familiar blue red and white colours standing out to you already. You didn’t need to pull back the paper to know what this was. This was a 6 Transistor Tape Recorder made by North American. Your breath caught. This wasn’t a generic Secret Santa gift, not the kind of gift you’d get someone who didn’t know you. This was personal.

You lifted the box to look inside—it was pristine, in so much better condition than the one you had tried bidding on over the summer. There were maybe a handful of people—if that—you had told about listening to your grandfather dictate his case notes in his study. He had so many devices, but this one had been his favourite.

You turned it over in your hands, a warmth spreading from your chest spreading to your cheeks. “Okay,” you said, raising it slightly for everyone to see, “This is amazing. Whoever my Secret Santa is—you have some explaining to do.”

The room quickly erupted into good-natured whistles, laughter and the odd question of confusion, but quickly enough moved on to the next Secret Santa participant. But one person caught your attention.

Tim.

He was leaning against one of the desks, arms crossed casually sipping from a chipped LAPD coffee mug. He looked like he did most days—stoic, brooding, and completely uninterested in anything remotely festive. You couldn’t help but feel though that he’d been watching every nuance of your reaction to your gift. That was, except for the briefest flicker in his eyes when he caught you looking at him, he raised his mug in a silent cheers and you could feel an unspoken acknowledgement between the two of you.

The office party had thinned out, most of the partygoers had dispersed, off home or to late-night patrols. It left the precinct quieter but still glowing under the soft multicoloured lights strung everywhere.

You knew where to find him—Tim. Picking up your belongings, you headed towards the far end of the bullpen, pushing through the swinging gate and heading back into the warren of offices that served as detectives’ domains and interrogation rooms. You didn’t have to double-check; you’d probably spent more time in his office than he had.

He didn’t hear you approach, his office door wide open, he was sitting behind his desk, swirling whatever was left in his mug.

“Detective Rockford,” you said, announcing your presence as you leant against the door frame, “you really are not much for festivities are you?”

He cleared his throat, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place, “Not really my thing.”

As he spoke, his knuckles tightened slightly around the mug’s handle, and you caught the way his gaze flicked from your face to the gift under your arm before he forced himself to look away.

You pulled your gift out from under your arm, “This is something, though. Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think detective?”

He shrugged, a little too casually—for such a hardened detective, his poker face needed some work, “Could’ve been anyone.”

“Could it?” You asked, tilting your head, and narrowing your eyes. “Because I’m thinking…” you tapped your finger against your bottom lip, “it’s not a coincidence. There’s less than a handful of people I told about this, and only one of them is in this precinct.”

You saw him stiffen slightly, still not wanting to admit his part in the gift, “Don’t know what you’re talking about Cagney. There’s a handful of competent detectives around here and half of them were in on this too, they could have figured it out.”

“You sure?” you stepped closer, placing your gift down, you placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward lowering your voice, “because either you’re my Secret Santa, or you’ve been sharing my secrets with someone else.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air thickening. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, his eyes flick down to your hands on his desk. The idea of him gossiping was absurd, and you both knew it.

This is what finally cracked him, he pushed back in his chair and his lips twitched—barely, but enough for you to catch it.

He rounded his desk, avoiding the self-satisfying smirk on your lips. You opened your mouth to revel in your detective prowess, even if it was an open and shut case, when you glanced up. There, just above you and Tim was a small sprig of green tied with a neat red bow dangling from the ceiling.

“Huh,” you said, your voice full of mock innocence, “would you look at that? Mistletoe.”

His eyes followed yours, his posture stiffened and you could see a flush creeping up his neck, “That’s Rivera’s idea of a joke.”

“Sure,” you nodded, looking up at him, “but you know, the rules.”

“The rules?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Uh huh, and we all know how you’re a stickler for the rules.”

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he’d move. His jaw tightened, and his gaze locked on yours. The air between you crackled, growing heavier, warmer. He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

You were close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave, to see the tight line of his shoulders, as if he were deciding which way to move. Neither of you had mentioned the almost kiss in his car almost two months ago now—when you’d been taking part in the compulsory ride-along, he’d pulled strings then too. Then he had made the first move, this time it seemed like he was debating the value of the moment.

So you made the first move.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief, but enough to feel his breath catch against yours. It was shorter than you’d like, but if you were going to kiss this man, and kiss him properly, it wasn’t going to be in his office with half the department outside the door. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours, dark and unreadable, but his lips parted as if he wanted to say something.

You smiled, a genuinely warm one, feeling your heart pound against your ribs. “Merry Christmas, Tim.”

For the first time since you’d entered his office, his mask cracked, and he gave you the faintest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen, realization dawning on him. “Merry Christmas Cagney.”

#BlueChristmasWritingChallenge2024 #tim rockford #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford fanfic #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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wolf-tail · 4 months ago

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General Frustration With Helluva Boss

Sometimes, dealing with Vivziepop media is exhausting. One one hand, you have the violent irrational hateboner for anything and everything she's ever touched that a lot of people, especially on tumblr, have. It feels less born out of actual criticism and that weird flavor of "ouroboros snake eating it's own tail" cringe culture that a lot of people (mainly tumblr users) feel for anything that reminds them too much of their middle school selves. Like, ya'll picked Hazbin over South Park in the "worst cartoon ever" pole. South Park, the show that made antisemetism cool to hundreds of white tweens. That South Park. Yeah, that flavor of criticism is about as helpful or productive as bullying the kids in your local dead mall's Hot Topic.

On the other hand, you have the people who act like Viv and her team are incapable of wrongdoing and that any direction their projects going is the direct word of god and criticism of any aspect of either of her shows is a literal war crime.

I belong to neither camp because I enjoy my ability to critically think.

They're a long, LONG shot from perfect but there are things to like about both shows. Unfortunately, there's even more to criticize.

The Hazbin/Helluva fandom has a reputation for being childish, (often because a lot of them are actual children who have no business watching either show), whiny, and media illiterate. A creator can rarely if ever be blamed for the stupidity of certain members of their fanbase, though. Given the inane and frankly ridiculous misinterpretation of the character of Stolas by fans who are dead-set on viewing him through the most red-tinted "Ron the Death Eater" headass lenses, if I were a writer for Helluva I'd be tearing my damn hair out. But, sometimes, I wonder if Helluva's writing encourages the kind of dumbassery it's fans are prone to, mainly, with the latest short.

As soon as I saw the thumbnail, I knew what was coming. I tried to stay hopeful, I tried to think that Viv and her team wouldn't do this, but my expectations for this show are probably wayyyy higher than they should be.

The Helluva Shorts are Viv's little way of having her cake and eating it, too. With the plot of the full episodes being almost completely dedicated to more drawn-out character driven emotional beats, the shorts are allowed to maintain the monster-of-the-week mercenary assassination type plots, where I.M.P. has a target to kill and a specific goal to overcome for the episode. (Short 1 is an exception, and strangely the best out of all of them. It helps develop Millie's almost completely flat character and prioritizes her over the male characters she typically gets shafted for.) Short 3, Weeaboo-boo, is the weakest short by far, something even hardcore fans of the show would agree on.

To spare everyone the misfortune of having to watch it, let me summarize:

I.M.P.'s latest target is Emberlynn Pinkle, a twenty-something college student living at home with her parents. Her case file actually gave me some hope for this short, as the reason I.M.P.'s client wants her dead is over bullshit and inane shipping drama, something I sadly have experience with. I thought this short was going to critique the kind of nonsense the worst types of fans (like the ones outlined above) get up to, but instead, it just took one big look at fandom culture as a whole, and like a woman-hating redditor obsessed with powerscaling, decided to spit in it's face and call it a whore.

Emberlynn is portrayed as a sickeningly cliche charicature of female fandom, a horny loser burdening her parents, obsessed with sex, who writes dumb and lame fanfics about her dumb and lame self-insert oc. She feels like she was an attempt at a tounge-in-cheek little self-depreciating humor bit about fandom, but feels stale and mean-spirited.

She's a loser weirdo for being a monsterfucker, despite half the jokes in the show being about weird kinky sex. She's a horned-up creep for getting exited about being hunted by a demon and thinking he's here to have sex with her, despite that being THE LITERAL FIRST THING STOLAS DOES WHEN BLITZ BREAKS INTO HIS HOUSE, the only difference between him and Emberlynn being that Stolas has a tragic backstory, and is a man. Blitz kills her and sends her to hell, where she gets a sickass demon form I might add,

and is nothing more than a stalky, obsessive fangirl.

...

Do you ever wonder why creators hate their female fans?

We've already done this same song and dance with Supernatural, but I expected Vivzie, a woman herself who's made jokes about the kind of misogyny women in her field of work experience, to not treat female fandom with the same "icky girls ruin everything with their stupid horny bullshit" sentiment that the Japanese incels on 2chan who came up with the word fujoshi. But I expected too much from her I guess. How the fuck did The Amazing World of Gumball handle fanfic culture in a genuinely funnier and kinder way than she did!?

Viv is just doing what she does best, creating a female character with interesting potential and the teeniest weeniest bit of something resembling body diversity in her cast of stick figures, making her annoying, and letting her rabidly misogynistic fanbase trample all over her. She did it to Mimzy, and funnily enough, Emberlynn kinda looks like her.

This short sucked complete ass, and is just more proof that Viv sucks at writing female characters. I'm disappointed, she did Emberlynn and Mimzy so damn dirty.

#hazbin critical #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critique #helluva boss #hazbin hotel #vivziepop #vivzieverse #vivzepop critical #vivzipop critical #emberlynn pinkle #helluva boss emberlynn #helluva shorts #hazbin mimzy #misogyny #fandom misogyny #fandoms hate women

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bonny-kookoo · 2 years ago

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Jungkook: Bloodlust 🔞 1

In which Jungkook's poor choice in women gives him a big fat serving of reality- and leads him to you at the same time.

Tags/Warnings: Vampire!Jungkook, human!Reader, strangers/Enemies to lovers, jk kind of a dick at first sorry, sexual tension, corruption kink, size & strength kink, blood drinking, biting, more TBA in future chapters

Additional Chapter Warnings: JK is kind of a royal ass, he a hoe, but he's also kind of hot pls send help

A/N: attempt 987 of trying to get this out. Tumblr, your mobile editor is ass. Shorter chapters because anything over 1~2k crashes the app for me.

<- Previous | Next ->

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You're kind of pretty like this, even when stained in blood. It's hilarious how he has to focus on the way your collarbone looks, delicate necklace swinging from your neck while you push down on his shoulder. You're talking. He can't hear.

How did he get here?

Well, poor choice in women, first and foremost. It's no secret that he's a lover with a body count guessed like lottery numbers by everyone who knows him even just a little. He's blunt. He swears a lot, and he's covered in piercings and ink. He plays his video games and music too loud, the only interaction you yourself really know being your weekly requests for him to turn it down, which is always responded by a smirk and a 'what you wanna do about it, princess?'.

He's even opened the door shirtless before, boner still clearly visible when you'd disturbed his private time.

He thinks you're a walking joke, a punchline waiting to happen, and you're aware of this. He never takes you seriously, in no way, shape, or form. But you also can't just let him die on the ground like this, not when it's technically not even his fault.

Wait, how did we end up here?

Oh right, sex with a whore.

Now, Jungkook fucks around. He doesn't make a secret of it, not by a long shot, but there's still rather traditional values he still holds highly- one of them being faithfulness. Never even once had the girl even mentioned a potential partner, let alone a fiance who ended up finding her with Jungkook's cock down her throat in the bedroom. He scoffs to himself. The blowjob wasn't even worth the rabid attacks that followed.

He'd met her online- on a dating app he has to basically hook up whenever he's up for it, and when she told him she lived in the same apartment building, he'd agreed to meet up. Who could've thought that she was cheating on her soon to be husband with him? Or, at the very least, who could've thought she'd be so fucking stupid in hiding it, not even remembering when the guy would come home from work?

Vampires are violent creatures.

He knows it first hand from himself how easy they're riled up. Aggression is a key part of every vampire's character- a curse, so to say, making them too dangerous to ever really fit in. It's why apartment complexes like these have been funded by the government; places for them to live amongst one another, to keep the rest of humanity safe.

Which makes it even more ridiculous that you're helping him right now.

You're painfully human, hands so warm they feel almost hot, no red found in your eyes. You look like a rabbit, waiting to become the wolf's next meal.

And you basically chose to live in a whole zoo full of starving beasts, ready to snatch a taste.

He can't deny the appeal you have. He usually doesn't go for something like you- typically chooses older girls, dominant one's or those who seem like they wanna prove something. They do all the work, while he can just enjoy the show. It's easy, simple, and a quick and comfortable way to quench his thirst. Though vampire blood tastes rather stale, he takes it without complaint.

Human blood is taboo, after all, if it's not from a blood bank.

"Over here!" You call out, and he can barely really hear it, sense of hearing dulled out to the max almost. You explain something to the paramedics who instantly work on him, and he finally let's himself slip into unconsciousness at that, now that he's in professional hands.

And he swears, he's gonna quit that online dating shit for a while after this.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #vampire jungkook imagine #vampire jungkook #vampire imagine

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envy-of-the-apple · 5 months ago

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if you have a rules post where this is answered, sorry, i totally could not find one, but.

how do you feel about yandere!reader? you typically write them with a bleeding heart even though they're all very realistic, which is awesome for immersion. but i have kinda a soft spot for reader who gets so sick of everything they start Partaking Of The Insanity sdkhfjgdg

eldritch gojo though... Not Normal Gojo who is 100x more developmentally stunted/twisted than he appears... gojo who sees so much about the world that he legit thinks he's on a higher level of existence, because "in a world where all men are blind, the man with one eye is king".

soooo much of my attraction to gojo at first was wanting to eat that man for breakfast and force him back down to reality. when i saw hidden inventory and learned he LITERALLY GOT MURDERED and that made him MORE FULL OF HIMSELF instead of less,,, god it takes a special kind of crazy to take away what he did from a near death experience. but god do i love him.

ughhh you dont understand i read this amazing fic where gojo was an eldritch horror and it was the best thing i ever read and i wanted to eat it and i now am in love with this interpretation of gojo. eldritch gojo is THE best version of gojo i said what i said.

but there are just so many different facets of gojo and i think thats a huge reason why ppl love him so so much! like ive never read a gojo fic where i feel like hes ooc.

hes just such a mystery, right? i rlly hope gege never confirms gojo's childhood, or his personality, or anything like that because part of gojo's character is that you're never gonna understand him.........ugh he's such a tragedy omgejergjrij-

ngl i HATE yandere!readers with a burning passion. im sorry i just never got it. like irl im obsessed with gojo why would i wanna write about real life????? also, it has a lot to do with the fact that i try to make my reader-inserts as blank and stale as possible. as little as personality, no description of looks, just so more ppl can relate. if i wrote a yandere!reader im gonna have to make them an active character, rather than a passive one and it'll be hard to do that to keep them a blank slate.

#asks #more talks about gojo!!!!#ahhhhh love him love him

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warpedpuppeteer · 7 months ago

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I ask where? Are these scenes not on my tv? Also blaming buck for the date? REALYYYYYYY

Hi there! Thanks for sending this ask. The only explanation I have is that they're all mass hallucinating. Suffering some kind of delusional disease. Let's pray for their health 🙏🏽 Also, hope you don't mind but I'm about to rip these losers a new one.

He was so kind when he left Buck on their first date just because Buck was still new to queer dating and said something stupid in a panic which btw shouldn't have even offended him because he KNEW Buck was new to this.

He was so perceptive when he made the lame ass kink joke when Buck had been worried about his father figure DYING and shared a bit of his trauma with him.

He was so considerate when he took into account how excited and stressed Buck was about Chim's bachelor party and decided to *check notes* not to dress up because *squints at smudged writing* he was on duty even though he still could have made some kind of effort.

"Man looks intimidating" meanwhile him 🗿. He looks dumb as rocks. That's an insult to rocks. Rocks have personality.

"He's huge" yeah a huge waste of time.

Again, these weirdos have twisted Buck's character into some kind of damsel in distress and the other one as his white stale bread knight. Also reeks of heteronormative nonsense.

BUCK is huge and capable and gentle! Stop stealing other character's traits just to paste it onto your white bland plot device character!

"Always making sure Buck meets him halfway" oh you mean like the time he kissed Buck without asking first? Or the time he didn't tell Buck he was leaving until his uber came and didn't even have the decency to order one for Buck?

"giving him assurance" oh you mean like the time he said enjoy it while it lasts when Buck was happy about something?

Should I go on because I can and will dismantle every single delusional thought these mfs have.

Next.

You know what's not healthy for the beginning of a relationship? Walking out of your first date because your newly queer partner didn't want to come out of the closet to their best friend (and not to mention the best friend's gf was there).

You can be upset if you already expected your partner to be open about their queerness but Buck didn't say jack shit to him. He just wanted to try going out because he was attracted to him! Thumbtack didn't't say jack shit to Buck either.

As an older queer person, he should be more than aware that coming out to people you love can be terrifying! Even if they are good people. Sure you can expect to date someone who's only out but how tf was Buck supposed to know that when this is literally their first date?! Also this mf was so deep in the closet when he was working he had a fake girlfriend and everything so this is really fucking rich coming from him. Like, the audacity?

And not to mention he didn't say anything and just walked out, letting Buck chase after him in confusion and then left him on the sidewalk letting Buck feel BAD FOR NOT COMING OUT. You know how fucking insane that is??! So get the fuck out of my face with this nonsense.

I'm absolutely convinced Trolldemort stans are the kind of people who would absolutely create or join a racist, homophobic, misogynistic cult. Same creepy vibes.

#sorry for going off in your ask #but a man is pissed #that man is me #dagger answers asks #answered ask #evan buckley #evan buck buckley #anti bucktommy #anti tommy kinard #hang in there buck we're getting you outta there!

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amostimprobabledream · 10 months ago

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Smash or Pass the Bleach Captains?

I've always wanted to answer this question! (Going with the TYBW roster of captains here.)

Shunsui Kyoraku

Normally I don't like hairy men, but he's a Smash. You get the feeling he knows what he's doing, he could teach you a lot. Plus the fact he becomes head captain means fucking him is like an instant boost of clout.

Soi Fon Pass. She's pretty and has a great character design, but she ain't my type. Not to mention she seems to have some unresolved Yoruichi issues to sort out.

Rose Otoribayashi

Who? Anyway, Pass. There's nothing about Rose I find particularly interesting as a character and Bleach has much sexier blondes than him.

Retsu Unohana

Pass. I've never really cared much about Unohana as a character because I always found her "soft-spoken but terrifies everyone" gimmick kind of stale, especially since I thought the reveal of her being the First Kenpachi was so obvious. Her design is fine but not my personal tastes.

Shinji Hirako

I love Shinji as a character, but I think I'd prefer to hang out with him than fuck him. Though, I can't help but feel he'd be great with his tongue...but...realistically, Pass.

Byakuya Kuchiki

Byakuya's personality is kind of dull for my personal tastes, but that face card of his doesn't decline, so Smash.

Saijin Komamura

I'm not a furry, so Pass. I'd hang with him, though.

Lisa Yadomaru

Pass. I like Lisa but the glasses and braids look isn't my thing. Also she's so deadpan I'd fine it hard to tell if she was being serious or not.

Kensei Muguruma SMASH SMASH SMASH. He is SO fine and so mean. I love the punk aesthetic, I love his voice and THEM ARMS. God. Kensei's one of my personal hottest Bleach men, I've loved him ever since he was first revealed with the piercings and the crew cut. When his TBTP haircut was shown I went mental. (I like his current look but Kensei with bangs was elite.) Also his surly attitude is very attractive to me. What can I say, I like 'em mean.

Toshiro Hitsugaya

Pass. Like 90% of time he looks like a middle-schooler, and even in his adult form, his personality isn't really attractive to me, it's that stick-in-the-mud attitude for other more bombastic characters like Rangiku to bounce off. I don't find Hitsugaya especially interesting on his own. His eyes are pretty, though.

Kenpachi Zaraki

Smash. Yeah, I'd fuck Kenpachi, he'd maul you like a bear but in a good way. Also I find his laid-back cockiness kind of refreshing. And his mouth is enormous, if you know what I mean. And the MUSCLES. You'd definitely come multiple times.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi

Smash. I've always liked Mayuri and under all his facepaint he is SMOKING hot. Is he evil? Yes. Does he have a nice voice, cool af fight scenes and is consistently one of the smartest, most interesting characters? Also yes. I love intelligent men.

Jushiro Ukitake

Pass. Firstly my friend is in love with him so I don't want to lewd her husband. Secondly, he's just so not my type - objectively he's a very pretty man but I find his personality extremely boring. Nice guys just don't float my boat, and I generally don't go for men with long hair. (Sorry, fam. XD)

#Bleach #Blogging #shunsui kyoraku #soi fon #rose otoribashi #byakuya kuchiki #shinji hirako #retsu unohana #kenpachi zaraki #mayuri kurotsuchi #jushiro ukitake #toshiro hitsugaya #kensei muguruma #sajin komamura #lisa yadomaru

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sinsandsweetness · 2 years ago

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Irrevocable (sex and zombies- chapter 4)

pairing- {Rick x fem!reader)

summary- Reader finally gets what she's been longing for. Well... almost anyway.

warnings- 18+ content, MDNI, angry Rick Grimes, he is kinda mean for a moment, mentions of character death, typical twd violence I suppose.

notes- time jump to after the farm is overran.

An arrow missed your face by an inch, piercing the skull of a dead one behind you.

You gave Daryl a quick glare but continued on, putting another one down with your knife. You and a few others were clearing a grocery store. Seeing if there was anything left. Anything still edible.

Lori, Carl, Beth, Hershel, and T-dog, had stayed back at the house you were all staying in. Back where it was at least cleared out and locked up. Not a permanent residence, but for a week it would do.

You were all hungry. Practically starving. You had noticed your hip bones in the mirror of the bathroom that morning. More prominent than you’d remembered a few months ago.

“Clear!” You heard Rick call from the back of the store. It was a small town grocery store. Nothing special. And a lot had been taken. But there was some dried goods, a few cans left too.

All of you sat in your respective aisles, eating stale chips and resting your legs. You had no vehicle. Not anymore.

You sat across from Rick, and watched him lick the salt off his fingers. You had to look down at your own bag for a moment to collect your wandering thoughts.

He tapped his boot against your leg though, inviting your gaze back to his face. Beard a little long, and face a little dirty. But still just as handsome.

He smiled and grabbed your boot to pull you forward, earning a little laugh as you got dragged closer to him and fell on to your back. He then grabbed your hand pulling you towards him. Forcing you to fall forward in between his legs. For a moment you stayed there. Smiling big at his playfulness. But you decided to move, and shifted so that you were sitting down again. Both of were now facing the same empty shelves. You in between his legs.

Trying not to think about the fact that you were in between his legs. Practically in his lap. You leaned back into him, like he was your own personal couch cushion.

He snaked his arms around you and nuzzled into your shoulder, air warming your t-shirt when he let out a big sigh.

He knew you wanted him like this. But you also knew boundaries. And when not to cross the line. The two of you had done a decent job at keeping things tame. Overstepping once or twice, but never enough to feel any guilt. Kind of like this. Playful flirting, long glances from across the table, touches that lasted a few seconds too long. You’d even kissed him. You’d made your move but respected his rejection. Partly because you knew that he was married. The other part because you were holding on to the hope that he wanted you too. What you had been hoping for since Rick arrived at your camp in Atlanta. Something pulled you to him like a magnet.

And now, he had been the one to pull you. He was the one practically cuddling you on the floor of the supermarket right now.

Turning your neck you look back at him, eyes quickly shifting to his lips. But he shook his head and smirked. Not that you were going to. You rolled your eyes. Leaned your head back and stayed pressed up against him for the few more minutes you’d have left until the group wanted to go back.

Eventually, Maggie and Glenn called out for you on their way back to the front door. They saw the two of you on the ground but their eyes didn’t linger.

“Coming,” Rick's voice answered next to your ear. You went to get up, turned around and reached a hand out to help Rick up.

Everyone sat in a circle around a low fire that night. Eating their portion from the finds earlier. Cans mostly. Beans and corn. You gave extra to Lori. And then plopped down next to Daryl. He was scowling at first but as soon as you draped your blanket over the two of you he softened up a little. His shoulders relaxed and he even leaned in closer. It was cold in the house. And having to keep the fire as low as possible meant that there was very little heat anyway.

When the fire went out you shifted even closer to Daryl. Snaking your arm around his waist and tucking your face into his neck. You would have earlier but didn’t really care to make Rick watch. Not that it was a secret.

Daryl didn’t move. He never cuddled. Not since you two had started and he probably never would. But you were touch starved and needed it. And right now at least, he didn’t seem to mind being little spoon.

------------------------

A few painful weeks went by. And then Daryl and Rick found the prison.

It was nice. More than nice. It was perfect. As soon as the cells were cleaned out at least. And there was privacy. Beds. Blankets.

Then there was even lots of food, at least after Rick found those prisoners.

But lots had happened while you were all settling in. Hershel’s leg. The inmates. Walkers. It was a lot.

And then things went south. Lori's death was unexpected. That one hurt.

Rick was hurt.

Initially you all gave him space as he went off to clear a cell block all alone. People need time. Time to heal. To be ok. And he would be. Eventually.

And no one blamed him. He’d been through hell. Killed his best friend. Had a baby and lost his wife within the span of a few months.

You made the mistake of trying to talk to him. Thinking that your previous friendship would roll on even after his wife’s death. But for whatever reason, likely just grief, he lost it on you.

He rushed out of the cell block and you couldn’t help but follow after him. Even through the couple of comments from Hershel and Glenn to “just give him some space”.

You jogged to catch up to his face paced getaway. His hatchet held loosely in his hand.

“Are you serious?!” You were shocked. He hadn’t acknowledged her. His baby girl. He didn’t even look at her. Just checked on Carl and left to kill more walkers.

He came to a stop and stood still. Not facing you.

“What, you don’t wanna hold her? Feed her?” You continued.

“Don’t.” He spoke firmly.

“Don’t what? Don’t bring up the fact that there is a newborn baby in the other room that you haven’t even acknowledged?!” You were offended. For her. For Lori. I mean of course he was allowed to grieve but come in man. Suck it up. It’s his kid for Christ sake.

He didn't answer,

"At first I got it Rick, you needed a minute to blow off some steam. But we're safe in here. She- you haven't even held her. Lori- she- she would have wan-"

He turned around and approached you fast, hatched swiftly piercing into the wall beside you. The air from his swing was cold on your face.

“Drop it.”

You were stunned. Back against the wall and his arm up near your face. His hand was still gripping the hatchet. Your heartbeat was going insane.

“You have no idea what’s going on in my head. You don’t have the right to judge me for how I’m dealing with this,” his tone was angry. Furious even.

“She’s your daughter-“ your voice cracked.

His free hand came up to grab your face. Hard. Aggressively pulling you close. To hear him perfectly. Crystal clear.

“Shut your fucking mouth-”

You did. Cheeks hurting from his grasp.

“-and drop it.” He let you go with a slight push. Dislodged his hatchet from the wall and stormed off.

You walked back to your cell, fighting off tears.

You avoided him the rest of the day. The entire next week actually. Avoiding eye contact. Not speaking.

You did what came natural to you and distracted yourself with something familiar and… well, easy.

-------------------------

“Fuck.” Daryl groaned a little louder then you’d prefer.

“Shut up man.” you whispered, rolling your hips onto him. His fingers digging into your ass. Pulling you back down on to him.

“Keep doin that.” he looked up at you through his heavy eyelids and thick eyelashes.

You circled your hips again. And again. And again.

Finally he flipped you both over and finished you off.

“Gonna need more of these.” He said while rolling off the condom and tossing it in the trash.

You rolled your eyes and searched for your clothes, hidden in the blankets. It was first thing in the morning. New day. Same routine. Though usually it didn’t start quite this way. Waking up to Daryls face between your legs, doing that thing with his tongue. You knew the one.

The knock at your cell door was abrupt and you only had enough time to cover yourself with the sheets before Rick opened the curtain. He started saying something but paused when he saw you holding the white sheet to your chest. And then his eyes went to Daryl who was standing next to you and doing up his belt.

Rick's jaw clenched. “Breakfast is ready.” He informed you both.

Shit.

After avoiding Rick’s glare at breakfast you were ready to go check traps with Daryl. Instead, Rick pulled you aside.

“I was hoping you could help me clear some of the other cell blocks today.” His hand on his hatchet. No emotion on his face.

“Oh,” Definitely surprised but you tried not to show it. “Sure.”

You grabbed a machete and followed him to the cell block. The hallways were dark. Just a tiny flashlight to lead the way. It was relatively easy. Most of the bodies were already dealt with. Just had to be moved to the yard.

The next cell block however, was a little more difficult. More walkers than the last. Not that it was an issue.

Rick's hatchet came up and made you flinch. Piercing the corpse right behind you. You swallowed. The body thunked to the floor. Rick's face was so close to yours you could feel his breath.

“Pay attention,“

You nodded. You'd glanced at his lips. So quickly. Maybe he didn’t notice.

The two of you helped clear the rest of the block. Walker blood spraying both of you with every swing of your weapons.

Covered in blood, you made your way back to the main cell. It was dark out now. You’d been working the whole day. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t taken a break at all. You passed the courtyard and headed for the water barrel, scooping a handful and slurping it into your mouth. Rick was right behind you. Maggie and Glenn were on watch in the tower above. But they weren’t paying attention to the two of you.

Rubbing your wet hands on your face you could feel the blood. The grime. You needed a shower. Desperately.

“What?” You asked Rick who seemed to be staring at you. For a little too long.

“Nothin,” he licked his lips and cracked his neck. “You should uh… go wash up though,” he pointed to the blood all over your clothes. As if he was any less covered. You nodded and walked past him. Feeling his stare continue as walked back towards the cells.

Your shower felt glorious. And your pyjamas felt even better.

Back in your cell, Rick was already sitting on your bed. Showered as well. His damp hair combed back, waves and curls forming behind his ears.

“Good job today,” he moved over, inviting you to sit down.

“Thanks…” you weren’t sure what he was doing.

“I’m grateful,” he started. Looking down at his hands.

“You’ve done so much for us, for me,” he went on. It wasn’t a lie. You’d been a major help with the initial taking over of the prison. And even more while you were on the road those months in the winter you’d given everything to Lori, to Carl. To anyone but you.

“Least I could do,” you were confused. He’d seemed mad at you for a week and then when he caught you and Daryl this morning he seemed even less impressed. Now he was... back to his usual self.

“I didn’t mean to scare you…” you knew what he was talking about. He didn’t have to explain.

“It’s ok.” You didn’t really wanna talk about that.

“No it’s not. I lost it on you and that wasn’t okay.”

“Yeah, I mean it wasn’t cool.” You nod and clasp your hands in your lap.

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh. And I- I just… I acted out. And I’m sorry.”

“You lost your wife. And now there’s a newborn. I don’t really blame you for being on edge.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you .”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t have.” You agreed.

His hand went to your thigh, rubbing up and down

“So you and Daryl…” he changed the topic.

You wanted to suffocate yourself into the pillow.

“I didn't realize that was still..."

"Happening?" you finished his sentence. Avoiding his eye contact, and instead focused on your hands.

"Yeah. I mean I'd heard that you guys...well...I never really knew for sure."

“Yeah well...” Your voice was quiet. You weren’t gonna lie. But it was a little awkward.

"Since the farm?" He asked.

"Atlanta..."

He nodded slightly. Realization hitting him slowly. All that time you had been pining over him, you’d also been fucking Daryl. There was a hint of what you could only assume was disappointment in his eyes.

“You were married so…” you told him like it was an excuse. Well it was an excuse. You couldn’t very well have had him at the time.

“Well I’m not anymore.” He looked up at you. A mix of sadness and suggestiveness on his face. It was true though. There wasn’t anything holding him back from you anymore. Just grief.

His pupils were dilated and his hand was still on your leg. He brought his other hand up to the back of your neck, pulling you into him.

“Rick-“ you protested. He was obviously not well.

“Shh” he presses your foreheads together. You couldn’t help but let your eyes close. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Broken hearted. Looking for something to fill a void. But some part of you didn’t care. Anything he’d do in the next moment was ok with you.

“God you're so soft...” his thumb rubbed your cheek gently. Finally his lips met yours and you though hesitant, you found yourself pulling him down on top of you. Gently. His hands roamed up and down, under and over your shirt. Mouths moved against each-other, exploring all over. His damp hair tickled your neck when he dipped down to kiss your collarbone.

“You’re not thinking right,” You say to him softly.

“Just be quiet,” he whispered into your skin, hand reaching beneath your waist band, finding its way to your panties. Your heart skipped a beat. There was no way this was actually happening. You couldn’t help the moan that left you when his fingers found your clit, rubbing soft circles over your underwear.

“Rick we shouldn’t-“

“Shh,” he cut you off and went back to kissing you. Tongue tracing your lips. Inviting you in even more. Closer. His other hand found it's way up your shirt, and you arched as far into his touch as you could.

You both shot up at the sound of Rick's name being called. Beth was looking for him. Probably to hand Judith off.

The blush was still apparent on your face as Beth peeled around the curtain. Even though Rick was now standing. She seemed oblivious though.

“You want me to put her to bed or did you wanna take her?” She asked Rick. He took Judith from the girl and bounced her in his arms, rocking back and forth. Sleepy. She didn’t make a sound. He looked over at you and chewed at his bottom lip.

“We should get some sleep,” you tell him.

He nodded a quick “Goodnight” and hesitantly left your cell.

You touched yourself the second the curtain closed.

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