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sunsburns · 16 days ago

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not you too (ii).

pairing: jason todd x ex vigilante!reader

summary: after spending days trying to crack a case that's starting to haunt gotham, you've reached nowhere but a dead end. now, all of a sudden jason todd wants to talk and nothing could've prepared you for what he's asking from you and in hours your life just flips.

or: you never would've thought that taking this case would've caused so much fucking trouble.

word count: 7.1k+

warnings: mentions of violence, gore, death, major character death, blood, angst, reader is super stubborn, jason is lowkey an asshole, damian being damian, you don't need to read part one to get this lol

The next few days passed in a haze as you threw yourself back into your routine, trying to shake off Jason’s visit. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, his voice still echoed in your mind, his figure leaving a dark red stain in your memories and on your carpet, reminding you of all the things you couldn’t forget. You told yourself you had to focus; you couldn’t afford any distractions, not when Gordon especially with the case Gordon had dropped on your desk that morning.

The file was thicker than usual, the weight of it unsettling. Gordon hadn’t said a word when he handed it to you, just a slight nod as he left the precinct floor.

Usually, a note scrawled in his familiar handwriting was tucked inside. "Would be a shame if this got in the wrong hands," it would read, a crude smiley face scrawled beneath the words.

You knew Gordon's system—files left just so in his office, waiting for the quiet turn of dusk so the Bat could collect them under the cover of night. But he was slipping these directly to you now, his trust implicit.

But there was no silly note this time.

And what made you pause was the material itself: crime scene photos, and not the kind you'd pass off to Batman with a nod and a handshake. No, these were disturbing, brutal enough that even in Gotham, they warranted concern.

No usual suspect, no familiar mugshot of some abuser that needed to get beat up by the Bat or his birds; instead, it held haunting images of bodies, each more graphic than the last.

You scanned through the pages, your stomach churning. Each victim had been carefully posed, twisted grotesquely, as though some sadistic artist had orchestrated each shot. Their eyes were gone, darkness where they once were, tears of blood coating their cheeks, mouths twisted in gasps or grimaces. The blood was still dark in the photos, pooling and splattered, smeared in a way that almost looked intentional.

The victim profiles had a disturbing similarity—they were known to have ties to the criminal underworld, men and women whose names you faintly recognized from past reports and even your past when you used to run rooftops at night alongside under another alias. But they’d never gone down like this.

This wasn’t an accident, nor the signature style of the usual Gotham criminals. This was personal, with an intensity that cut deep, a method to every violent stroke. As you turned the page, each new image seemed more deranged than the last, the brutality escalating in what felt like a sick crescendo.

This killer wanted attention.

Almost a week had passed since you first opened that file, and despite your best efforts, sleep had been elusive, as though every image from the case clung to the back of your eyelids. Each night, you’d lie awake in the dark, replaying the grainy, haunting crime scene photos in your mind, the details sharper each time you thought of them. The taste of coffee on your tongue had grown stale, and bitter, as you poured yourself another cup just to make it through.

It was Friday again, and the precinct was as chaotic as ever. Phones rang, the background chatter of detectives comparing notes, typing reports, and bantering.

It was Gotham’s white noise, but for you, it barely broke through the pressure building in your head. You sat at your desk, bent over a stack of notes from the latest case briefing, trying to pretend the room’s sounds didn’t grate on you. This killer had changed the routine, breaking through the monotony of cases that always felt solvable, if not predictable.

You wonder when Gordon will give you the green light to hand the papers over to Batman.

Just another Friday. That’s what you told yourself as you tapped your pen on the desk, skimming through yet another detail on the case. But your mind kept circling back to that first folder, Gordon’s barely there glance as he dropped it on your desk without explanation.

Across from you, your partner tossed you a knowing look. He was holding another file, new and thick like they always seemed to be lately. He gave you a little shrug, pushing the folder toward you with a smirk. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner today. Courtesy of Gordon. You’ve got yourself a special addition.”

You sighed, muttering, "Fuck off," but took the file anyway.

Flipping it open, you braced yourself for what you might find, already steeling yourself against the shock. Just as you suspected, another crime scene, another gruesome display, and yet another criminal with a dark past—a past that made them seem almost deserving of what had happened to them. This killer was doing his work publicly now, practically begging for the precinct’s attention. As you flipped through, the images seemed to scream at you, vivid, twisted displays of violence so calculated it felt sickeningly theatrical.

You’d seen it in person last night, called out to the scene when you and your partner happened to be nearby on patrol. It was a bakery in Old Gotham, the call coming in after midnight when the owner discovered the body dumped in the alley out back. The scent of old pastries mixed with the acrid bite of death, and you remembered the bile rising in your throat as you stepped closer, squinting under the harsh glow of police lights. Your instincts had told you to look away, but you forced yourself to examine the details. If you looked away, you’d miss something crucial: the jaggedness of the cuts, the wild angles of the wounds. They weren’t clean, but deliberate, like an artist who’d chosen chaos as his medium.

"Feels kinda like déjà vu, no?" Your partner’s voice cut through your thoughts, bringing you back to the bustling chaos of the precinct.

“Hm?” You glanced at him, distracted

He perked up as you met his gaze, leaning forward with a grim look. "The bodies—don’t they remind you of something?"

You stared, waiting. You felt sluggish, as if the endless coffees you’d downed had backfired, leaving you hollow and wired. Sleep had been a fleeting luxury.

Detective Andy leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "Red Hood."

A chill shot down your spine. “What?”

He pointed to a photo, tapping it thoughtfully. "The patterns. Big murder scenes, violent displays. Doesn’t it remind you of when Red Hood first came on the scene?"

You fumbled for a response, your mind stumbling. You hadn’t been in the GCPD during Red Hood’s first appearance; you hadn’t even joined the academy yet. It wasn’t so long ago, just a few years back, but it still felt like ages.

You do remember those days, though.

You’d been younger, wilder, and always running right along the edge of Gotham’s underworld. Back then, you’d worked for Selina Kyle, a phantom in leather with a knack for pretty gems and diamonds. Under her tutelage, you’d learned to break into penthouses, crack safes in under five minutes, and disappear without a trace. All the things Gordon had to turn a blind eye to when he personally hired you.

You remember one night, a supposed to be an easy job, just a simple heist in the wealthier parts of Gotham. Selina had given you explicit instructions: break in, grab the diamonds and get out before anyone was the wiser. But Gotham had a way of twisting “easy” jobs into something darker, something that left marks on you that never truly faded.

It had been just after midnight, the air was crisp and heavy with the city’s usual grit. You were supposed to head down Boulevard, make a left by the old brick post office, and hit the target—an art collector with more money than sense. But a wrong turn later, you found yourself in a different kind of darkness, somewhere off the beaten path, where street lamps flickered and silence took on.

You’d felt it before you’d seen him—a presence, sharp and cold, lingering like a predator waiting to pounce. At first, you thought it was just nerves after you realized you had just broken into the wrong apartment. All you could think was: shit.

You’d handled your share of tense moments, after all; but this was something else. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a warning you hadn’t felt in years. You were no stranger to danger, but this was a different kind of threat, something that felt personal.

Then you saw him.

At first, it was just the faint gleam of red in the darkness, like a shard of blood against the shadows. But as he stepped into the faint light, you saw him more clearly—a figure clad in leather, the infamous helmet covering his face, standing over a man slumped on his knees, visibly trembling. In the Red Hood’s hand was something you couldn’t immediately make out, but as he turned slightly, the dim light cast a glint off it, and you realized with a shock that he was holding a head—a severed head.

You froze.

The man was pleading, begging for his life in a low, trembling voice. But the Red Hood only tilted his head, silent. There was no rage in his stance, only a dark calm that made the scene feel disturbingly deliberate.

You could see his fingers flex around the hilt of a blade, the kind used to skin prey, and he held it with a confidence that said he’d done this before—and would do it again without a second thought.

You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away. The man’s pleas grew louder, more desperate, words spilling out in garbled, terrified sentences, but Red Hood was unmoved. Then, in one swift, final motion, he silenced him.

You weren’t sure what made you react then, but a sharp gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it. Red Hood’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto yours.

Your heart thundered as you ducked out the window, into the shadows, pressing yourself against the rough brick, willing yourself to become invisible. You knew better than to run; Selina had taught you that too. Quick movements drew attention, made you a target. And you weren’t exactly eager to test your skills against this fucking guy.

As you held your breath, you could hear his footsteps drawing closer, a slow, haunting rhythm that echoed down the narrow street.

For a second, it felt like he would find you. You could practically feel his gaze searching the darkness, his eyes tracking every inch of the alleyway. The fear was unlike anything you’d felt before.

And then he stopped. The footsteps paused, and there was a long silence. When he turned away and his steps faded back into the apartment, you felt your shoulders relax. It wasn’t relief, not fully. You’d seen something you weren’t supposed to, and you had a feeling Red Hood had let you walk away for a reason.

A part of you, distant but insistent, wondered if Jason could be behind these new killings. The thought twisted uncomfortably in your mind before you dismissed it. Jason was… different now. He had to be. He was reckless, sure, but this? Even if he wasn't currently on good terms with Bruce, he’d never return to those ways.

Right?

“Didn’t think of that,” you lied, the words tasting hollow as you struggled to find a convincing way to deflect Andy’s suspicion.

The last thing you needed was for anyone to start seriously considering Red Hood as a suspect. Wanted posters of that stupid red helmet already lined the precinct’s walls

Andy laughed a half-hearted chuckle. “Guess old habits die hard, huh?”

You could barely crack a smile, but you tried your best.

A voice behind you interrupted the uneasy silence. “Detective?” You turned to see a uniformed officer standing stiffly at the edge of your desk. “You have a visitor at the front desk.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. No one was supposed to come by today—maybe your mother had stopped by on one of her random check-ins. The officer’s expression, however, was tense, and you felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The precinct wasn’t exactly an open-door policy; even visitors to officers needed a reason. A visitor, especially unexpected, was rarely a good sign.

You nodded, swallowing the bitter taste in your mouth. Setting the file aside, you rose, your heart pounding faintly as you walked through the maze of desks and toward the elevator, half-convinced that this "visitor" was your mother showing up with her usual worried expression and a container of food because you’d forgotten to call her recently.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, your heart faltered.

Jason. Standing right there in the precinct lobby, dressed casually in a worn leather jacket, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting casually on the front counter as he flashed an ID—one that was definitely fake.

Of course, it wasn't real, because Jason Todd has been dead for who knows how many years.

You used to think that Jason wasn't stupid enough to walk into a police department swinging around a fake ID with a stupid name like Trevor Duncan.

It was that same old card he used to keep back when the two of you were together. He’d only ever had to use it a handful of times, mostly when he got pulled over for speeding on his bike, but he always had it ready, a smooth grin on his face, acting as if he had nothing to hide. But now? Now it looked out of place, almost surreal. Jason Todd standing here as if he were just anyone off the street.

As he looked up, his eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he offered a familiar, almost casual, “Hey.”

You took a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself. Words failed you, stuck somewhere between disbelief and frustration. Jason never showed up here. Not as the Red Hood, and certainly not as himself. Not after the way he left things a week ago.

Some fucking nerve he has.

You never wanted to strangle someone so badly.

Glancing over your shoulder, you moved closer to him, lowering your voice. “Jason,” you hissed, barely able to hide the shock. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re—”

“Wanted, yeah, I know,” he just shrugged, an almost defiant glint in his eyes, the same one that used to drive you mad. He lets you grip his arm and pull him toward a quiet corner of the lobby, away from prying eyes. “Technically, that’s Red Hood who’s wanted, not Jason—”

“Don’t. What the fuck is wrong with you?” you cut him off, voice barely a whisper but heated nonetheless.

His face hardened slightly, his voice dropping. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

Right, of course. Important. And yet, it was unnerving how familiar he looked like this, standing just close enough that the faint scent of leather and gunpowder hit you, reminders of nights spent together in places you weren’t supposed to be.

Your gaze flicked around the room, anxiety prickling your spine. “What do you want, Jason? If Gordon sees you…”

“I think I’m being set up,” he said abruptly.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What?”

“The murders,” he continued, voice steady but jaw clenched. “They’re not—it’s not me.”

“I know that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know—?”

“How do you know about—”

Jason scoffed, crossing his arms as his gaze bore into you. “C’mon. Don’t act like it’s some big secret behind closed doors. This shit is happening in my alley. Of course, I fucking know. And sooner or later, a lot more people are gonna know.” He paused, “And besides… Grayson might’ve filled me in on a few things I missed.”

Of course. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Dick had called you a few nights ago, asking for an extra set of eyes on a case he’d brought back from Blüdhaven. You’d tried to brush it off as usual, but there’d been something familiar about the weapon in the photos he’d sent, the way the scars on the victims matched the fresh crime scenes here in Gotham. You’d let it slip—against your better judgment—that those wounds looked eerily familiar.

You sighed, trying to push down the wave of frustration. Jason knowing more than you was one thing, but Dick going behind your back to clue him in? That threw you off.

“Right,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead. “Okay. So what is this? You just came here to make a statement? Give an alibi?”

“No.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Then what?”

He glanced down the hallway behind you, tense, as if he half-expected someone to overhear. Before you could turn to look, he grabbed your arm and pulled you aside, his expression unreadable.

“Listen—”

“I’m listening,” you replied, shrugging out of his grasp.

His voice dropped to a murmur, and you had to lean in to catch it. “I think you’re in danger.”

You scoffed, pulling back. “What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you noticed? The people turning up dead—this isn’t random.”

“I know that—”

“No, you don’t. Have you actually looked into their criminal records?”

“Yeah.” You spat it out, feeling a surge of defensiveness. Jason’s words were cold as if he was accusing you. This asshole, came in here, acting like he knows your job better than you do, acting like you haven’t pored over every detail, every link, every goddamn scrap of evidence that’s crossed your desk. “I looked into all of it. They’ve got some minor offences. A few of them were tied to Randolf, but they’re hardly worth anyone’s attention. I thought you took down Randolf Industries months ago.”

“I did.” His jaw tightened, and you know him well enough to recognize the anger in his clenched teeth. “But that doesn’t mean they’re done with us.”

You almost hate how much sense he makes.

“What does this have to do with me?”

Jason’s gaze shifted, softening just a fraction, and that subtle pity—pity for you—lit a fire in your chest. He’s looking at you like he’s sorry like he cares, like he still feels something. And for a split second, you wished he’d go back to hating you. “You worked under Randolf.” he said, reminding you of what you’d rather forget. “You were at their last event. A gala… an auction, remember?”

“Jason, I’ve worked dozens of events like that. Please stop wasting my time.”

He shook his head, frustration seeping into his voice. “Think, okay? It was an auction. You had a mission there. Probably to take some fucking diamonds or something. The night ended with a shootout in the south hall.”

The memory saw a slap in the face. You saw flashes of that night—the glittering, polished faces of Gotham’s elite, the diamonds, the weight of them, heavy in your hands. You remembered the gunfire, the chaos that tore through the hall. The blood. But to you, it had been just another job gone slightly wrong, another task to be done and forgotten. Sure, it may have been the end of Randolf but you never really liked the guy anyway.

Jason was still watching you, his expression dark. “Every person who’s turned up dead was there that night. And they all had ties to Randolf. And I know you used to do some of his dirty work with Silena. Whoever’s behind this isn’t stopping until they’ve crossed off everyone on their list… including Silena. Including you.”

Fuck.

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists. You kept your expression neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear. Jason Todd, standing in your precinct, coming into your life after months of silence—after shutting you out, after telling you to keep your nose out of his work—telling you now that you should listen to him, that you should be worried, that you were doing your job wrong. Who does he think he is?

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust his judgment, but you were sick of hearing it. He used to shame you for what you do for work, hated that you had turned against him.

“I’ll look into it, I guess. But I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.” Your voice shook, but you pressed on, words spilling out before you could hold them back. “You always hated what I do—if it was stealing or fighting crime or getting my badge. Now, what, you’re here to play saviour? To swoop in like none of that matters anymore?”

Your eyes met his, and there was a look there that almost made you falter. It’s that mix of distress and conviction, a look that carries the weight of all the things he never says. You recognize it immediately because it’s the look he used to give you—before everything turned sour. But now, it feels almost mocking. Desperate and pleading, like he’s here to convince you of something, to beg you to understand.

He doesn’t say anything though.

It just fueled the anger that’s simmering in your chest. The thought that he could come here, to your work, and act as though he’s still allowed to care as if he’s entitled to it—that he can swoop in and remind you of things you don’t want to feel.

But he must care, right?

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be here, right? If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be this close, standing right in front of you, risking everything to warn you about a threat he thinks exists. He could’ve just called, could’ve left a message when you purposely didn’t answer.

He could’ve sent a text and kept himself safe, kept himself out of your life. Holy shit, you knew him well enough to know he’s capable of watching from the shadows, lurking without getting involved. But he was standing there, in a police precinct of all the fucking places, surrounded by detectives who would do anything to bring the Red Hood to justice if they realized he was right in front of them.

He’s here, looking at you like he’d do anything to pull you out of this.

The thought wrapped itself around you, both comforting and infuriating. God, you wanted to kill this guy.

“I… I don’t know what you’re asking of me right now, Jason.”

He searched your face, frustration flickering across his expression like he was fighting the urge to shake you, to make you see something you just couldn’t. His mouth opened and closed as though he was running through every possible way to explain himself, to say whatever he came here to say, but the words... the words kind of just... died there. They died in his throat, stuck.

And now he looked… scattered, disarmed, like he hadn’t thought you’d put up this much of a fight.

“I…” he started, his voice dropping almost to a grumbled whisper. “I want you… you need to get out of town.”

You stared at him.

And you stared and stared and just kept staring.

And you probably stood there for a minute or two before biting back a bitter laugh.

Out of town?

He couldn’t be serious.

Your patience, already thin, was practically shredded at this point. You’d spent years building your career here—your life here, and he wanted you to drop everything because he said so? Because he had suddenly come back with some vague, half-assed—a fucking hunch—warning? Because he had a suspicion—with no real proof—that you could—possibly—might be in danger because of an old shady job you barely remember?

The words barely registered at first, almost as if they were so absurd that your brain refused to even process them. You blinked, your mind catching on his audacity—his audacity—to just show up out of nowhere and think he could tell you what to do. This man had left you, shut you out, made his choice to push you away, and now he thought he could waltz back in and tell you to pack up and leave the life you’d clawed your way into?

“What?”

“Go to Metropolis,” he urged, more insistent now as if saying the name of a different city was going to convince you. “Anywhere. Just… get out of Gotham until I’ve figured this all out.”

His words hit you wrong, each one stacking up like bricks in a wall between you. “Until you’ve figured it out?” you repeated, eyes narrowing, glaring.

“Yeah,” he muttered, the confidence slipping. He was realizing now, seeing just how badly this was going. “Just… just lay low until then.”

“Lay low?” you spat out, barely containing a scoff. “Jason, I can’t just drop everything and leave. I’m not some pawn you can just move around. Do you get that? This is my job. My case. My fucking case. I’ve earned every inch of ground I stand on here.”

He tried to say something else, tried to push back, but you didn’t give him the chance.

“You think I don’t know the risks?” you continued, stubbornly digging your heels in. “I knew the risks when I took it. I know what I’m fucking doing.” You paused, the words heavy and unyielding. “Do you have any idea how it would look if I just disappeared because things got tough?”

The frustration in his expression deepened, but there was something else there now, something almost pleading. He looked at you like he wanted to say more like he needed to make you see something he was too damn stubborn to say outright. You could tell he didn’t want to fight you on this, that he was wishing you’d just listen, but that only made you stand your ground harder, and dig your heels in deeper.

He was the same Jason he’d always been: relentless, unyielding, pushing at you even when he knew you wouldn’t budge. And you? You were no different—just as stubborn, just as unwilling to give an inch. It was one of the reasons things had fallen apart between you. Two forces constantly colliding, too similar in their defiance yet too different in their methods. Like opposite sides of a magnet, doomed to repel each other despite every effort to hold on.

“I don’t care how it looks,” he muttered, his voice rough and low, but there was a crack in his resolve. “You’re not getting it. This isn’t about the case—this is about you.”

“Me?” The word escaped before you could stop it, sharper than you intended. You squared your shoulders, leaning into the bite of your tone. “If this is about me, then you should know better than to think I’d just leave. I don’t care what you think. If Randolf’s involved or not, this is my case, Jason. My responsibility. And I’m going to solve it, no matter the risks—because that’s my job. And I’m really fucking good at it.”

“Good at it?” His laugh was low and bitter like he couldn’t believe you were still fighting him on this. “You’re not listening. You’re going to die, and you’re standing here talking about responsibility like that’s going to protect you.”

You squared your jaw, rolling your eyes and scoffing.

“You sound just like him.” The words left Jason's mouth before he could stop them, his voice raw with anger and something deeper, something almost… horrified. “You sound just like Bruce.”

The words landed heavier than you expected, and you felt them settle uncomfortably in your chest. He meant it. Jason wasn’t just being dramatic; he wasn’t here to stir up trouble or drag you into another one of his wild theories. He was scared. Scared for you in a way that made your stomach twist uncomfortably because he still cared—too much.

You could hear your own heartbeat in the silence, the weight of what he’d just said hanging between you like a physical thing.

Bruce Wayne. Batman.

You? Similar to him?

The was new.

You opened your mouth to respond, but a voice called your name from down the hallway. Jason turned, his body instinctively tensing like he was preparing for a fight, his broad shoulders blocking your view until you leaned to the side.

It was Andy, jogging toward you with a grin that faltered the second he saw Jason. His eyes narrowed, flicking between you and the man standing far too close, his hands gripping your arms like they belonged there. You don’t remember when he held you.

“Uh… bad time?” Andy asked.

Jason let go of you immediately, stepping back but not far enough. His glare hardened as he sized up Andy like he was trying to determine whether he was a threat—or maybe just because he didn’t like the way Andy had interrupted.

“Yes,” Jason muttered flatly, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“No,” you said firmly, “He was just leaving. Weren’t you, Trevor?”

Jason’s head snapped toward you, his jaw tightening at the fake name. “Right,” he bit out, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he turned on his heel. His broad shoulders stiffened as he stalked off.

Andy watched him go, raising an eyebrow as he turned back to you. “Trevor?” he asked, the question loaded with curiosity.

“Don’t ask,” you said quickly. But your hands trembled slightly as you stuffed them into your pockets, Jason’s words echoing in your mind: You’re going to die.

You cleared your throat, your voice much steadier than you felt. “What’s up, Andy?”

He smiled a warm, familiar thing that barely reached his eyes. “I thought we could pick up a call. Something small, just to ease your mind. I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been, so I figured something like a missing bike or a dog would help take your mind off things.”

You hesitated, the idea of a mundane, easy case almost too good to pass up. You’d been running on fumes for days, your mind still tangled in threads of murder, mystery, and now, whatever the hell Jason was trying to get across.

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed, a little too quickly, though a quiet relief followed your words. The idea of a short break, even a small distraction, felt like just the kind of thing you needed. Still, your instincts told you to keep pushing, to go back upstairs and keep raking through the case files, questioning witnesses, tweaking the map with the locations of the bodies. You couldn’t shake the sense that you were missing something—something crucial.

But Andy’s eyes were a little too glazed over like he’d stared at one too many corpses, and maybe he needed this as much as you did. You could tell by the way his shoulders sagged that he was running on empty.

Maybe a clearer mind would help, you thought.

You reached out and grabbed the thinner file from his hand, glancing over it briefly. “Okay, let’s go,” you said, a bit of your usual confidence slipping back into your voice, even as the anxiety from the case lingered.

Andy’s grin was wide, a flash of his usual spirit. He waved the keys in front of your face like a kid with a new toy. “Fuck yeah!” His excitement was enough to snap you out of your darker thoughts, at least for a moment.

You just hoped Gordon wouldn’t kill you for this detour.

---

The drive to the supposed “missing dog” case felt like it dragged on forever.

Andy hummed along to whatever random song played on the radio, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the case you had been working on. Your mind buzzed with the same unanswered questions that had been hanging over you all day.

What was Jason’s real point? And more pressing, what was really going on with the bodies? Randolf, the name haunted you. Have you been missing something this whole time?

The moment Andy stopped the car, your stomach dropped. The “case” turned out to be a dead end, no missing dog, no clues, just another pointless distraction. You both spent hours going over the same circle of leads that led nowhere, retracing your steps, looking at things from different angles, but it was all for nothing.

Andy finally threw his hands up in frustration. “Nothing,” he muttered, clearly over it. “This is a waste of time.”

You swallowed hard, trying to push the growing feeling of dread away. You were already getting that itchy, restless feeling again—the same one that told you you’d just wasted precious hours when you could have been moving forward on the real case. “I know,” you said quietly, nodding absently. “But maybe we missed something. I think I should—”

“No,” Andy cut you off, his voice blunt, but it wasn’t unkind. “It’s time to call it.”

You wanted to argue, to push on, but his tone made it clear that it wasn’t worth it anymore.

---

Andy had left you at your apartment, and by the time you reached the door, exhaustion was pulling you down like a weight. You fumbled with your keys, your thoughts disjointed, still tangled in the mess of the case that had led nowhere, hours wasted, your mind too worn to keep up.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you dropped your bag by your feet. The thought that had been haunting you all day echoed once again, a sharp, intrusive whisper. You’re going to die.

You’re going to die.

The words gnawed at you relentlessly, a constant hum that never stopped, lingering just beneath your conscious thoughts.

You sighed, trying to shake it off, but the dull ache in your chest remained. You slid off your shoes and left your jacket crumpled on the floor, not caring for the mess. Your apartment was quiet—too quiet. The stillness in the air felt wrong somehow, like something was out of place.

You reached for your phone in your pocket, the buzz startling you slightly. It wasn’t Gordon—who you expected to hear from—but a message from Silena.

Your fingers froze over the screen as you read: Are you in Gotham? We should get lunch or something.

The message didn’t make sense. You hadn’t heard from Silena in a few days, and the last time you checked, she was halfway across the country, doing who knows what. The timing of it unnerved you.

You shook your head, trying to push away the instinct to feel like something was wrong, and a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself. Silena was one of the few people you trusted, but the oddity of the message made you pause.

Yeah, I’m around. Let me know when you’re free.

You tossed your phone onto the counter and stepped into the living room. The space was dim, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight from the windows. The glow from the streetlights outside filtered in, casting long, strange shadows across the floor, and stretching the furniture in odd directions.

The silence was muggy. It felt like something was waiting for you, something just outside your perception, making the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You’re going to die.

You stepped deeper into the room, your senses sharpening as you instinctively reached under a chair where your gun was always kept. Your fingers brushed the cool metal, and your grip tightened. It wasn’t like you to jump to conclusions, but something about this moment made you feel like you needed the reassurance.

You paused, listening carefully, your breath steady. The shadows in the room shifted slightly—flickering, moving. The moonlight played tricks on your eyes, making the figures dance just beyond your sight. You narrowed your eyes, peering through the dark.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

The movement was subtle, but you saw it again. There were figures standing just beyond the edge of the light, still as statues. You couldn’t be sure, but something told you that they weren’t supposed to be there. You raised the gun instinctively, aiming it in the direction of the shadows, your finger lightly on the trigger.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

And then, as if on cue, they moved.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

Two figures stepped forward, emerging from the darkness.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to—

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze, staring into the dim light as the figures came into sharper focus. It wasn’t an intruder, wasn’t some random threat.

It was Robin, eyes cold and calculating as always, his posture rigid as he crossed his arms. Beside him, standing just out of the reach of the light, was Red Robin, his body language tight with tension. His mask didn’t hide the unease that flickered in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched slightly.

It wasn’t the first time the birds had slipped into your apartment unannounced—Jason had certainly made himself at home recently—but there was something different about this. Something formal, purposeful. The silence was heavy, the air thick with the weight of unspoken things. It wasn’t a casual visit, not even close.

They didn’t come to grab a snack from your fridge or hang around on your couch, not this time.

For the first time all day, the familiar tension in your chest felt like a vice, suffocating you. You lowered your gun slowly, the metal was cold and heavy in your hands.

Robin gave you a quick nod, his eyes darting to the weapon. He made a small, annoyed sound under his breath—TT—but said nothing as you deactivated the safety and set it back down where it belonged. The tension in the air didn’t fade, though. It only deepened.

“Our apologies if we startled you,” Robin said, his voice tight, almost mechanical, like he had rehearsed the words a hundred times before they came out. His tone lacked its usual sharpness, and something about that made you frown.

But the formality of it all—the serious way they stood, barely moving, as though waiting for something—made your gut twist.

“No worries...” you muttered.

You reached for the lamp on the side table, flipping it on. The room flooded with warm, yellow light, and you blinked against the sudden brightness. Robin’s face was still shadowed by the low light, but you could see his face better now, the sharp edges of his gaze unwavering. Red Robin stepped into the light fully, his jaw clenched, the skin on his lower lip raw from constant biting.

“Damian, Tim,” you greeted them, but the words felt hollow.

Damian didn’t say anything, his arms still crossed, his posture unwavering. He only tilted his head slightly, observing you.

Tim stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The air seemed to thicken with every passing second as he came closer, his expression unreadable beneath his mask. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Damian’s, but there was a finality to it.

“We need to talk,” he said, his tone low, heavy with meaning. “Maybe you should sit down.”

You stood frozen where you were. “What’s wrong?”

Tim hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly to Damian before he let out a slow breath. “We know about your past with Selina Kyle, we know what she meant to you,” he started, the words heavy, “and we thought you should be one of the first to know… She was found dead in her apartment less than an hour ago.”

Your world seemed to halt.

The words didn’t land right. They didn’t make sense. Selina Kyle? She was—she had been so alive in your messages, in your mind. You had just texted her, just now—how could she have been dead? How could this be real?

Your breath caught in your throat, and the room tilted for a second. “That’s… impossible,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. How could she be—?

Tim’s expression softened slightly, but his eyes stayed serious. “That’s what we thought too.”

His words felt distant, almost muffled like they were coming from the other end of a tunnel. You couldn’t process what he was saying. None of it made sense. Selina—dead? You had just texted her. She’d sent a message barely five minutes ago, her words still fresh on your screen, vivid proof of life. Your phone felt like it weighed a thousand pounds now, sitting on the counter where you had tossed it, mocking you with its silence.

Tim shifted uncomfortably, dragging your attention back to him. “The cops should be arriving at the scene about now. But, uh, B wants to see you. He was the one who…” Tim hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “He was the one who found her. He said—”

You stopped listening. The words faded into a hollow hum, and your mind spiralled. Selina was supposed to be untouchable. Smart, agile, always one step ahead of the chaos in Gotham. And now, she was just… gone? And you were just... supposed to live with that? The thought slammed into you like a train, impossible to reconcile with the image of her that lived in your memory: vibrant, sharp-tongued, alive.

Jason’s warning echoed in your head, louder now. You’re going to die.

Your stomach churned. Jason wasn’t exactly known for his optimism, but there was a pattern here, a thread you couldn’t ignore. The timing, the dread you’d been carrying all day—it all felt too calculated, too deliberate. As though the universe—or someone—was playing a sick game, tightening a noose you hadn’t even realized was there.

Your legs felt weak, and you sank into the armchair beside you, the cushions swallowing you whole. You stared at the floor, the edges of your vision blurring as you tried to process the words. Nothing added up. How could she be gone when she’d just messaged you? Had you imagined it? No, you couldn’t have. You’d replied.

Your hand twitched toward your phone, desperate for confirmation, but the thought of seeing her name on the screen—knowing it could never light up again—made your throat close up.

Tim’s voice broke through the haze, but you only caught the last thing he said. “You’re gonna have to come with us.”

It didn’t sound like a suggestion.

And Jason. Jason had warned you. You’d brushed it off as paranoia, his usual tendency to jump to the worst conclusions, but now… Now you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew something you didn’t. Something he hadn’t said.

You pushed yourself upright, your legs shaky beneath you. “I need to see it,” you said, your voice stronger now despite the storm raging inside you. “I need to see her apartment.”

Tim and Damian exchanged a look, and Damian had a wicked smirk on his face. He turned toward the open window, his cape swishing as he moved. “Try to keep up.”

182 notes · View notes

seafarersdream · 2 months ago

Text

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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seiwas · 1 month 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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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 🤣♥️

Tags! ♥️:

@vulnus-sanare @nympha-foresta @smilingformoney @sorryimdyingrn @liv2post @walkingdaddyissues @kitty-blades @blasiusramm @extra-venomous-tentacula @coco177 @jj-grm @dasnook13 @ironstrange1991 @decaffeinatedgrlie @mercuryacejonez @mm2022ll @puppi-sonnenschein @missgurlthang @bitchyikes @girlblog2003 @msfandom22 @megladon045 @hisleastfavbrit @icytrickster17 @c-kayp @kimmyp12 @nordengaard @hazedwords @wepannaholmes @marsswann @ominousminx @whats-that-puppet-boy @mija-novella @marisimps @letters4lucas @severelykinky @bibliosophie @chxelsxaa @architectofimagination @eyesinmymindinmay @gamoraaaaaa @kleinefeekaterina @georgiesgirl1223 @colorcrypt @lupinmoonlights @malfoyfanclub @my-cherie @thatweirdchristians @pxge394 @paperandlace

(Tumblr will only allow 50 tags and some people I wasn’t even able to tag at all ☹️ I’ll tag the remaining in the comments, and for those who I was unable to tag, please don’t take it personally because if I could have tagged you, I would 🥲🫶)

#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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wolf-tail · 3 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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lovecolibri · 2 months ago

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Am I a loser for fearing that this will be like BT 1.0 in that it is dragged out and remains stale and chemistry-less and harmful to Buck's character (for being with a not good person and not caring about said person's bad deeds) and the twist will be that it doesn't end 😭 Don't hate me for being negative...I was not negative until today, seeing that gremlin in the promotions and Tim showing favoritism to anti-Buddies yet again on FB.

And it's so funny that all my concern stems from social media activity and nothing about what I'm seeing on the show itself. Because the show has shown he is a non-entity - giving him and Buck no development, HIM no development, no evolution, no appeal, since last season. Yet maybe the writing and producing IS just that bad now.

Sorry to be a bit of a pessimist. I just feel like the vibe shifted dramatically over the past day and I'm in my feelings, I guess.

First of all, you're not a loser! There is a long history of TV shows NOT following through on things for fans of a popular fandom ship, including this one, back ins season 4, leading to that godawful BT 1.0 mess in the first place!

There is a lot of reasons this gets compared to the OG BT, because the show seems to be giving them no development and he's so clearly WRONG for Buck and seems to enjoy talking down to him and watching him deflate a little each time, and also it makes Buck look kinda shitty for dating someone who purposefully hurt, and delighted in hurting people Buck loves. I have said multiple times I wasn't ever worried about tay kay as a LI in s4 because she called him "needy" in that nasty voice on the heels of the audience seeing how absolutely shit his parents were and where all those issues came from, so I was sure that was the narrative telling us she wasn't going to work out. Only to get slapped in the face with an entire fucking season of Buck looking miserable with her, which was never addressed, him trying to talk about their issues and the firefam lecturing HIM about HIS failings instead of ever being allowed to talk about how they felt about her given their past (you can't tell me back in s4 Athena would EVER willingly let that woman in her and Bobby's home, much less feed her), and then watch her nearly get Chim and Hen killed and STILL get a fucking "amicable" breakup of the "oh no one was really to blame, it just didn't work out" variety. So like. Yeah, sometimes the writing is just That Bad 🤷🏻‍♀️

What I will say about all of that though, is we now have information we didn't back in s4. Information like, we weren't seeing things and there WAS a set up planned, and discussed with Oliver (at least, likely Ryan too since the shooting was Like That and what the fuck other bi realization was Buck gonna have, or gay realization was Eddie gonna have after his breakup with Ana was Like That), but the network forced the changes. Tim fucked off to go smash other dolls together (and lost his mind a little bit over on LS, probably because he leveraged that shit into getting to do whatever he wanted, plus the whole RL effect), and the story got changed and, as Tim pointed out, it made the show markedly worse. I'm not putting all my faith and trust in a network, but I will say ABC knows what kind of accolades, awards, and hype this kind of story will bring them and that is something I DO trust.

8x01 might be fluke like the handful of watchable episodes in s5-6, but it truly felt like the Buck we know and love was back, the focus was on the core four and on the emergencies, there was *heart* in the emergency, we got dispatch properly involved, and even the Athena stuff took a turn for a more rescue-focused adventure than the Con-Air prison transport plane mishap I was expecting. The bees sounded ridiculous and like they could be one emergency, like freeway shark my beloved, or *maybe* hold a whole episode, but I was NOT expecting much for a disaster opening and was fully prepared for s5 levels of zoo animals promotion vs actual 3 episodes of creeper being creepy cop storyline. But they actually...kinda pulled it off?? It's no tsunami or earthquake by a LONG shot, and I'm still reserving judgment until the arc is over (I enjoyed the cruise ship disaster but it needed more core four on sight helping with rescues which make it drag a little being so separate from everything else), but it felt like a season 2 or 3 episode at heart!

All this to say, *EYE*, notorious salt gremlin and hater (because trying for low expectations is what works for me!), am feeling more hopeful about the show as a whole than I have in awhile. And I'm going to hold your hand so gently when I give this advice, you can take it or not (for some people, needing to know everything is what works for them, so you do you!), but do not listen to that middle-aged white man and what he does on facebook. Or anywhere. Do not listen to that man! He is a shit-stirrer, and he is a liar! They all are in interviews! Him and Oliver both said "hardly any time skip" and then they did the exact same 3 month time skip they have ALWAYS done between the spring season ending and the fall premier! He lies! He interacts with shit he probably doesn't even read, just promotes his show! He does not care about upsetting us because people shouting over each other about the show just reads to him, and the people above him to let him do things, as the show having enough impact to be talked about! I personally have good feelings because he likes to get his way and ABC gave him something in 4 episodes he'd been trying to do since s4. And they originally green-lit it being another character so it feels like there were plans for both and timing just got switched.

DO NOT LET THAT MAN STEAL YOUR JOY!

I'm not going to tell you that of course it's all going to work out and be perfect and everything we wanted, but I WILL say, we all saw how fucking miserable Oliver was in s5 and 6, how checked out and disengaged he was (he was SO CLOSE and they TOOK IT from him! Fuck FOX forever!), and we saw how he was/is in interviews with or about that man, vs how happy and excited he was/is when talking about Ryan/Eddie/Buddie right now, how much he's engaging and sharing, and WHAT he is sharing. We saw the shift from filming episodes 5-6 to the back half of s7 for both him and Ryan. It's very loud, and while some kinda similar vibes have come through before, we have knowledge now we didn't before about why we kept getting those vibes and then having them pulled back. We know WHO was standing in the way and it wasn't Tim and it sure as fuck wasn't Oliver or Ryan, and that doesn't appear to be an issue anymore. 🤷🏻‍♀️

I hope my rambling incoherence was helpful, Nonnie!

#my sweet nonnie friends #911 #anti bucktommy #anti tommy kinard #to be safe #buddie #YES tim is a buddie warrior but he is also a troll and has an ego and does whatever the fuck he wants #like any other middle-aged white man #also like #we knew that man would be back because they told us he would be back #but they also told us there is something to tell there and if we're lucky it will tie into gerrard and the begins episodes #and make buck being the focus of that arc make some kind of actual fucking sense #unfortunately we will just have to wait and see which is always the worst part!#chin up nonnie! we made it through a whole fucking season of BT1.0 which should have ended before halloween #i don't think our suffering is going to be quite as long this time

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envy-of-the-apple · 4 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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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 ->

♥━━━━━━━━━━━♡━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

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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warpedpuppeteer · 6 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 · 9 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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