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humanpurposes · 8 months

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She can't afford to fantasize over Aemond Targaryen, he's her boss and the Prime Minister... but stopping is easier said than done // Main Masterlist

PM!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of SA, questionable power dynamics, politics (putting my degree to good use), unnecessary world building

Words: 7700

A/n: Thanks for the inspo @ewanmitchellcrumbs, sorry it's not Dishy Rishi tho :(

Throughout the whole train journey into Central King’s Landing, she’s sure she’s dreaming. Her body feels strangely light, her hands are restless and her heart is beating steadily in her chest.

She flows effortlessly with the stream of commuters, along the platform, through the station’s glass atrium, then left towards Conquest Street. She knows her way around this part of the city already, and though she’s never been inside, she’s walked past Hightower House countless times.

This time is different. Now she walks up to the iron gates, pressing her thumbnail into her index finger, because the armed guards are making her nervous.

She tells them her name and one of them mutters into a radio.

Her eyes run along the gold crest that marks the gate, a shield divided into seven, a sun for Dorne, a rose for The Reach, a stag for The Stormlands, a Trout for The Riverlands, a Falcon for The Vale, a Kraken for The Iron Islands, a wolf for The North, and at its heart is the symbol that unites them, the three headed dragon (although strictly speaking, Westeros abolished its monarchy centuries ago).

Suddenly one of the guards catches her attention. He opens the gate for her, and says she’ll be given a security pass and instructions to use the staff entrance following her official induction.

Hightower House stands proudly before her, an ornate facade of balustrades and columns, order and symmetry, an obvious juxtaposition of the medieval majesty of the Red Keep, just down the road.

It all feels very daunting, but the last five years have led her to this moment, the entirety of her adult life. She keeps telling herself that she deserves to be here, after all, she was the one who made it through the first round of applications, who made it to the shortlist and the final interviews, and she was the only one of hundreds of applicants who received the phone call, offering her a position as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister.

The contract only lasts two years, but it is the most effective stepping stone into a career in politics that she could ever ask for.

The entire morning is spent working out formalities. First she meets the deputy chief of staff, a handsome man named Criston Cole, who she’ll directly report to. He shows her through mountains of paperwork and gives her a brief overview of her role. Essentially, she is to assist the Prime Minister on whatever he deems necessary, policy aims, speeches, media coverage, political rhetoric, public image.

“You’re a glorified assistant,” Cole says as she reads and signs page after page of her employment contract, “but with a salary to reflect it, so don’t feel discouraged. There will be some admin work which can get tedious, but you’ve been selected for your expertise and your passion for the party.”

That’s the crucial part of the job. Everything she does will be to benefit Mr Targayren as head of the Green Party, still running off the high of their victory at the last general election, just under a year ago.

She signs her last signature triumphantly, despite the ache in her wrist, and hands the pen back to Cole with a smile. “All done?” she asks hopefully.

Cole grimaces sympathetically. “Not quite.”

There are four people to meet before she’s officially in. She takes a deep breath to soothe herself. It’s all just more formalities, which she can understand, given the weight of this job.

The first is the Prime Minister's private secretary, a glamorous woman with black hair and piercing green eyes, named Alys Rivers. She greets her warmly, having already spoken over the phone with her several times. She also knows her CV off by heart. It’s a little strange having someone know almost everything about her education and employment history when her face is unfamiliar.

The next is a young woman named Maris, the other of Mr Targaryen’s personal advisors. She has dark hair and a look of determination in her grey eyes. She explains that there are always two personal advisors, but hired on alternating years. She was hired at the start of Mr Targaryen’s premiership, and has a year left of her contract.

There are a thousand questions she wants to ask Maris, but before she can even scratch the surface, Cole’s checking his watch and dragging her off to another office.

Otto Hightower is the chief of staff. He’s thin and wiry, but incredibly intimidating. He has tired, sunken eyes that seem to glare right through her, and a passive but severe expression on his face, as though he’s scrutinising, having already decided she’s a waste of his time.

It’s not a great feeling, being looked at like that by a man she’s idolised for years. She knows his career timeline by heart. He earned his bachelors in Politics and Economics from Oldtown, before doing a masters in International Relations at King’s Landing, where he met and befriended Viserys Targaryen. He worked his way to becoming an MP and soon into Viserys’ cabinet when be became Prime Minister.

But things changed when Otto’s daughter married Viserys. No one really knows the whole truth, but Otto resigned from the Black Party, and took over from his own brother as leader of the opposition.

Now he works in the background, the mastermind behind his grandson’s remarkable successes.

Cole explains that Mr Hightower had the final say in the shortlist and determining which applicant would be given the final job offer.

“You had an impressive application,” he says, briefly looking up from a document. “I’m sure you’ll do well with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Hightower,” she says through the slight tremble in her jaw.

Other than that, the interaction is brief, and soon Cole is ushering her out of the room, back to Alys’ office, as richly decorated as the rest of the building. Maris is sitting at another desk, typing away furiously on a laptop.

“Tea? Coffee? Water?” Cole offers her, gesturing for her to take a seat on a green leather sofa.

“Water would be lovely,” she says.

“Maris,” he calls.

She glares up from her laptop. “That’s not my job.”

“No, but it’s courtesy,” he says.

Alys’ slight smirk doesn’t escape her attention.

Maris purses her lips, but she closes her laptop, pointedly slams her hands against the arms of her chair, and marches out of the room, her shiny black heels clicking against the dark wood floor.

“She’s nice really,” Cole says, “just a bit… direct at times.”

“Direct,” Alys groans to herself.

She feels her brow flicker into a frown but stops herself.

“She’s good at her job,” Criston says like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

When Maris returns, she seems a little less on edge.

She takes the glass of water with a cautious hand, Maris’ eyes lingering on her maroon painted nails.

“I like your top,” Maris says.

She glances down. It’s nothing special, black and long-sleeved, to go with her long blue and green patterned skirt.

“Thank you,” she says.

Maris hums to herself before she goes back to her desk.

“Do you often work in here?” she asks.

Maris shrugs. “It depends.” She doesn’t care to explain further.

Alys is smirking again.

“Mr Targaryen was in a meeting with the cabinet this morning,” Cole says, then checks his watch. “He has a few phone calls to make, but he should be ready to see you at about 4pm. Maris?”

“Yes?”

“Will you show her in around then?”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly, “of course.”

Cole shakes her hand before he leaves. “Alys will show you out when you leave. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

She continues to wait on the sofa, restless in the silence that follows once the door has shut. Alys and Maris are both typing, their nails clicking against their keyboards. She starts to bounce her leg and stops herself.

Her mind is racing. The day seems to have gone well so far, but what if she meets Mr Targaryen and it all falls apart? What if he decides he doesn’t like her and sends her packing?

She’s too lost in her own head to notice the flash of Alys’ emerald green dress as she stands in front of her. That is, until she’s leaning down and waving a bar of chocolate in front of her. “Get a bit of sugar in you,” she says, “and breathe slowly.”

She smiles as she takes the bar and places a single cube on her tongue. She lets it melt, savouring the sweetness and the slight bitterness of its taste.

You can do this, she thinks to herself with every inhale. And then she exhales. You are here for a reason.

The phone on Alys’ desk rings. She checks her own phone. It’s exactly 3:59.

“Yes, sir, Maris will show her in now.”

Aemond Targaryen is on the other end of the line. Her heart drops at the thought.

As the second son of Viserys, it seems like he was always destined for the family business. He differs from his father and grandfather in that he did Politics and Philosophy at Sunspear, before going on to do his masters in History at Oldtown, and then another masters in International Relations at King’s Landing. By all accounts, he is fiercely intelligent, mature beyond his years, with the right balance of intimidating and charismatic to command the support he needed to get in as MP for Rosby, then as party leader.

In fact, it had been his first campaign that inspired her to apply for a degree in politics in the first place. She loved how he spoke, how he managed to strike a balance between grace and passion, and how deeply he cared for his policies. He was poised and perfect, but driven by a genuine want for improvement.

He perfected his craft within a matter of years. With the mess Rhaenyra Targaryen had made of the country, it was all too easy for him to win a majority with a few winning speeches, a hand running through his silver hair, that lazy half-smirk and the intense look in his eyes that just made you want to fall at his feet. And people do. The press adore him, his party worships him, foreign dignitaries often remark on his charm but also his capabilities as a negotiator and a leader.

Maris leads her out of the office, along a quiet corridor. She stops outside a door with gold lettering: Office of A. Targaryen, Prime Minister

Seeing it in front of her, strangely, seems to subdue her nerves. Her chest flutters, but the anxiety is more manageable than before.

Maris taps her knuckles against the door three times.

From the other side of the door she hears a gentle but chilling voice. “Enter.”

She follows Maris inside.

He’s perched against his desk, his long, silver hair falling around his shoulders as he looks over a few pieces of paper. He wears a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks and brown leather shoes.

He looks up slowly, the light of the early Autumn evening beaming through the windows, over the sharp features of his face, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

His eyes find hers, unashamed and curious.

Suddenly she can feel her heart in her throat.

Maris introduces her. “I’m sure Alys already debriefed you, but she’s here for her induction. Cole said you wanted to meet her as a formality and–”

It feels awfully like she’s talking for the sake of it.

“That will be all, Maris,” Mr Targaryen says softly. She can’t help but watch the way his lips move when he speaks.

“Oh, are you sure, sir?” she asks. Her face is twisted into a slight frown but her eyes are wide. “I just thought, for her sake, it might be useful if I’m here to explain everything.”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her skirt as she listens to Maris’ footsteps move towards the door. It opens and closes, and now all she can hear are her own breaths, gently flowing through her nose.

She doesn’t know where to look. At the patterned carpet on the floor? No, it would be rude of her to hang her head. At the portraits that line the wall? At the bookshelves? At the desk? No, that all seems too intrusive. Out the window? No, that might seem like she’s not paying attention.

So her eyes settle on him.

He hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s placed the paper on the desk behind him, leaning with his palms at the edge. His eyes glance over her once, up and down.

Fuck, he’s so much better looking in person.

Then he stands to his full height, and picks up a clipboard from the desk. He flicks through a few of the pages and hums softly to himself.

“You had an impressive application,” he says.

She swallows through the slightly dry feeling in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“And an excellently written cover letter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did your masters in Comparative Politics at Sunspear. Oberyen Martell is still head of faculty there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He taught one of my modules, Security Studies.”

“He’s an interesting character,” he muses, smiling to himself. “He was my supervisor for my undergrad dissertation.”

She already knew that. Dr Martell loved to go on about his star student. She would too if she taught the future Prime Minister.

He flicks to another page. She watches as his eyes skim over the words in front of him. “And you came with glowing reviews from Tyland Lannister.”

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond to that– it makes her sound more like a product than a person– so she just smiles, as delicately as she can, making sure not to squint her eyes too much.

She had spent the last year as Mr Lannister’s Parliamentary Assistant, at his office in the Red Keep, starting just as he had been appointed as Foreign Secretary.

“How was he as a boss?” Mr Targayren asks.

Straightforward, she thinks. He took his job seriously and was decidedly not a fan of smalltalk. His office often worked in silence, and even when he was stressed he was efficient.

“No complaints,” she says.

“I’m sure you were all kept busy, cleaning up Corlys Velaryon’s mess after the Stepstones.”

A minor military excursion to defend a few key trading routes, or at least that’s how it had started. Within a matter of months the Stepstones had spiralled beyond control, costing Corlys Velaryon his seat and the Blacks their majority in Parliament.

“If I remember right, it was Daemon Targaryen pushing that particular policy,” she says.

The corner of his mouth curls upward. It could be a smile but she’s not entirely sure.

“Sir,” she adds, hoping to soften the blow of her unintentional insult; what idiot tries to correct the Prime Minister on their first day on the job? She does, clearly.

He doesn’t seem irritated or angry, more amused. A cryptic “hmm” sounds in his throat as he flicks back to the first document. “And before that you were a campaign manager for the party, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, grateful for the change of subject. “I was working in the Stormlands in the lead up to the general election.” The region was formerly a Black stronghold, but turned Green thanks in part to her efforts.

“Excellent work,” he says.

The smooth, seductive tone of his voice seems to come so naturally to him. She bites her tongue at the image it prompts in her head, of his lips brushing over her ear, his hands resting on her waist, she can almost feel it–

No. That’s wrong. So wrong.

Fantasising about the Prime Minister of Westeros is not a habit she can afford to keep up, not when she’s supposed to be working with him in such close proximity.

But that’s easier said than done.

Cole enters his office, bright and early on Monday morning, before the rest of Hightower House is awake.

Aemond’s routine is the same every day. Up at 5am, run a few laps of the expansive gardens or spend an hour going through his meticulously planned gym routine. He showers, shaves, applies his skincare and haircare products, dabs some perfume on his wrists, dresses, and takes breakfast and a black coffee in his office. By 7:30am he’s ready to work.

He needs the routines and the outlets. They help keep him sane.

He’d seen how this position twisted his father into a tired, irritable and irrational man, how it got to Rhaenyra’s head until she became a liability to herself. He won’t be like them. He has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to claim.

Cole places a folder on his desk. “The background check you ordered, sir.”

He thanks him, quietly and sincerely, and waits until he’s left the room to open the folder.

His new personal advisor intrigues him. He’d made the request for the background check as soon as their meeting had ended on Friday.

She has no criminal record, which is unsurprising, that definitely would have come up sooner if she had one.

He browses through her education history, a star student at Storm’s End Grammar School, a bachelor’s in history from Rainwood, a masters from Suspear, where she was head of Debate Soc and Amnesty International, while working various internships and retail jobs in between.

The next page is full of articles from student publications, The Importance of Integrity in Politics for the Rainwood Student Journal, Sovereignty in the Stepstones for Red Sun Rising. He reads through them both. Her writing is immaculate, concise and convincing.

The final page is more personal, social media profiles. It’s nothing scandalous, but she clearly has a certain image she wants to project. Her Instagram is full of art and history museums, coffee shops and preppy outfits. She has a few pictures on her LinkedIn of her at the Green Party conference last year, pictured with a group of girls her age and a caption that talks about the importance of representation in politics, with links to various charities and initiatives. In the photo she’s wearing a white silk shirt, open just enough to show off a dainty gold necklace and a hint of the swell of her chest.

She seems perfect. Too perfect for his own good.

The first months go smoothly enough.

Maris is a practical person. She’s good with numbers, good for bouncing off ideas for economic policies and analysing data for him, even if she is a little overbearing at times.

But she fills the gaps perfectly. He secretly looks forward to their meetings and debriefings, when he asks her to write or edit speeches for him, or run through questions with him before a press conference. Politics is never easy, but she has a remarkable talent for keeping a level head. He likes that she’s always calm and composed. He likes her soft, reassuring smiles and the sharp look in her eyes.

They just click. She’s always switched on, always knows the right things to say and do, always knows what he needs.

Every moment they are alone feels monumental; the settled quiet of his office when she first walks in and takes a seat on the other side of his desk; when they make an exchange, debriefing papers for an empty coffee cup, and their fingers will brush over each other; when he stands over her shoulder to read the document she’s working on, close enough to smell her perfume and feel a heat simmering under his skin. It’s starting to become unbearable, and yet he craves that feeling.

And then, one morning, he gets a phone call from the Crownlands Messenger. They’re about to publish a story. His brother has been accused of inappropriate conduct by no less than three women.

Fucking Aegon.

The entire country is in an uproar. How can anyone trust their Parliamentary representatives when they do shit like this? Is Aegon an outlier or is this just scratching the surface? What will his punishment be? What else are the Greens hiding?

There are hundreds of emergency meetings with his grandfather, tense phone calls, bearating headlines, and onslaughts of outrage online. There’s no question about it, Aegon has to resign as an MP, but the damage is done. The polls are turning Black instead of Green. People don’t trust the ruling party, or its leader.

It’s late. Aemond paces his office while a headache pulses in his head. He’s long ditched the coffee for whisky, swirling it about in his glass. He sent Maris home hours ago. He doesn’t have the patience for anyone at the moment. Except for the woman leaning against his desk, flicking through news articles and the pages of notes she’s prepared for him.

Tomorrow is PMQs. No doubt there’s only one topic the Blacks will be asking about. He can already see Rhaenyra and Daemon’s smug faces, the delight they’ll take in watching him fall apart. There’s just no way he’s getting out of this easily.

He feels so restless. His hands are trembling and his lips won’t seem to stop moving, so he places himself against the wall, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes another generous sip.

From the desk he hears a heavy sigh that hums slightly in her throat. “Is there anything else you want to go over, sir?” she asks.

“No, I think we’ve exhausted the hypotheticals,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. He resists the urge to pull at the roots, to take his frustration out on something. “It’s just– fuck’s sake, I’ve been saying Aegon’s a liability for years. But no, Otto always wanted to keep pushing for him. Said it was good for the family’s image.”

She places her phone and the document behind her, and takes a few steps towards him.

He glances down at her, at the way the low light of the lamps and the fireplace glows against her skin, the contented sort of look in her eyes.

Her eyes flicker down at his now empty glass. “Refill, sir?” Her lips stay slightly parted once she stops speaking.

Then he realises he’s staring.

“No, thank you,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the glass. “I should probably stop now.”

She takes the glass from him with her middle finger and thumb, avoiding touching his hand before she takes it away. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to his head but his heart sinks at the lack of contact.

What is he doing? It must be after 9pm now and he’s still keeping her here without a real reason.

She’s standing by the drinks cabinet, carefully placing the crystal bottle of whisky away and setting the empty glass out for housekeeping to clean up in the morning.

Instead of thinking about her, the way her hair looks, the way her skirt hugs her waist and the curve of her backside and thighs, he tries to think about how much he hates Aegon. This only makes him more agitated.

He closes his eyes and throws his head against the wall. His heart is racing and there’s a hollow feeling in his chest. He’s craving something, not another drink, not a smoke (he quit once he was first elected as an MP). He wants something else, something dangerous and damning.

The heels of her shoes tap softly against the floor, until she’s standing in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

She frowns slightly before lifting her hand and delicately placing it on his shoulder. “You need to relax, sir,” she says.

He lets out a low “hmm,” as he weighs out his options. This seems like a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

“That’s not going to happen with you here,” he says.

Her calm, somewhat smug expression falls. She looks so innocent now, so sweet. “What does that mean?” she says.

He leans in closer to her, until the tip of his nose barely brushes against hers. “I think you know what it means, darling.”

She hesitates, before her mouth spreads into an eager smile that shows off her teeth.

Her hands find his, ensnaring him under a soft but commanding grip. She leads him away from the wall, to the sofa by the fireplace.

He settles on it, leaning against the arm as she comes to her knees before him, spreading his legs apart to make room for herself.

She palms her hand over the hardness that’s been straining painfully against his trousers for hours now. She feels along his clothed cock, pressing her cheek against it and gazing up at him with a look of teasing innocence.

Aemond knows he is done for, jaw slack, chest rising and falling as he breathes. He would have never presumed he would find himself in this kind of position, not after all the work’s he’s had to do cleaning up the mess of Aegon’s fuck ups, not after working this hard to get where he is, and least of all because he believes himself to be a decent man.

But he doesn’t stop her as her fingers undo the button and the zip on his trousers, and he doesn’t make any kind of protest as she takes his freed cock in her hand and teasingly strokes along it.

He keeps his hands firmly on the sofa, digging his fingertips and his nails into the leather, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of having her like this for weeks, as if he hasn’t fucked his own hand countless times pretending it was her.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He looks down, his jaw slack, barely containing his strained breaths, and there she is, doe-eyed and eager as she places a delicate kiss to his flushed tip. Her lips barely brush against him before she pulls away, keeping a hold at the base.

His arousal stains her mouth and she fucking grins.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she says, sweetly, earnestly.

He runs his hand against her hair, gently, as if trying to soothe her. It seems to take her by surprise which only serves to excite him further.

She leans into his touch, lips parting, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Until he grips his fist and pulls. He tilts her head up. It shouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to bring her attention back to him.

He decides he won’t tell her what to do, not directly, but she’s a smart girl, she knows what he wants.

With her eyes wide again, she opens her mouth and inches his cock past her lips. The tightness in his gut starts to burn as she works up and down his length, slowly– excruciatingly slowly. It’s not in anyway relaxing, he thinks, but it’s a nice kind of torture.

He loses himself to the warmth and the wetness of her mouth, her tongue running over the underside of his cock, her lips teasing over the tip before she moves back down, using her hands where her mouth can’t reach.

He chokes out a throaty “fuck,” knowing there’s a security guard outside the door, and probably a few of the staff still lingering about.

But she looks so beautiful like this, her brow furrowed in determination as she tries to take him deeper and deeper, desperate to please him, happy to make him suffer for it. And the little noises she makes, the gags and the moans. He imagines that she likes this, that she’s been wanting this for as long as he has, and if he pulled her onto his lap and slid his fingers under her skirt, he’d find her drenched.

She starts to up the pace until he brings his hand to the side of her face again, his hand large enough that he can rest his palm against her cheek and tease his fingers through her hair. Her eyes dart up to his, wide and teary.

“Good girl,” he whispers, “nice and slow, just like that.”

She whimpers around him, breathing desperately through her nose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coos, “you started this, didn’t you? Wanted to taste me? Wanted to feel my cock in your mouth?”

She hums in agreement.

“Just fucking take it then,” he says with a clenched jaw, gripping her hair to bob her head up and down, keeping that torturous pace.

The pleasure builds slowly, running hotly through his body, but he fights the urge to clamp both hands around her head and buck his hips up to fuck her throat.

He comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, keeping himself sheathed within her as he paints the inside of her mouth, and pulls her head away to see the last few drops spill against her lips.

She gazes up at him with dazed and glassy eyes. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath. Her forehead glistens with sweat, mascara runs down her face and his spend drips over her chin.

He wipes some of the mess away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “Swallow,” he orders.

Her mouth closes and her throat bobs. He can already feel the tension in his gut tightening again.

If only he could keep her like this forever.

She makes it to Hightower House at the usual time of 8am, despite leaving work so late last night. Despite the hours she spent consumed by thoughts of Aemond Targaryen as she rode the train and dragged herself into her bed. Despite the aching arousal that went unfulfilled. Despite the marks on her knees and the stiffness in her jaw.

When she walks into Alys’ office to sign in, she’s already there, perfectly poised and typing away on her laptop.

“Morning,” she says brightly.

Alys looks up from the screen. The white light shining from below makes her face look a little eerie. “Morning,” she says with a smug look on her face.

She ignores it, scrawling down the time and her signature beside her name.

“You were working rather late last night,” Alys says.

“Yeah, I was,” she mutters, placing the pen down and straightening her spine.

Alys is staring at her. Her eyes are unnervingly bright. “He never asks Maris to work late.”

Her heart drops.

It’s like she can feel the weight of him in her mouth, the taste of him on her tongue.

“I bet he’s just realised I’m more of a people pleaser,” she says.

Alys hums and smiles. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t have time for this. She hangs up her coat and her bag, and picks up two black coffees from the coffee machine in the kitchenette down the hall.

Aemond is in his office, leaning back in his chair with his mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t react much when he sees her, he just watches her as she sets one of the cups in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in thanks and brings it to his lips.

She imagines the person on the other end of the call is starting to bore him.

“Yeah… yeah… I know… well there’s not much to be done now but get it over with.”

She takes a few sips from her own cup, wiping the corners of her mouth. Aemond follows her fingers as she does.

“I’ll speak to you after. Yes, thank you, grandfather.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto a stack of papers on the desk. “Seven fucking Hells.”

“How did that go?” she asks.

Aemond rolls his eyes and huffs a tired laugh. “He wants to talk through candidates for the by-election in Duskendale. I said I’ll think about it if I survive PMQs.”

She sets her coffee cup down. “What are you most worried about? You’ve prepared for this. What’s worrying you?”

Aemond taps his fingers against the desk. She tries not to ignore the thrill it sends through her belly.

“I’ve never had to deal with something like this. I’ve never been this worried about the party’s image, but that’s usually because I do everything right.”

The whole Aegon situation is beyond his control, and yet he’ll be getting the scrutiny for it.

“People need to be able to trust you,” she says.

Aemond looks up at her expectantly.

“Is Aegon still a party member?” she asks.

Aemond’s expression darkens. “That was discussed. Otto wants him to remain an official member.”

“You’re the Prime Minister. Put your foot down.”

“I can’t,” he says, standing and fixing the rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on his shirt before he reaches for his tie.

“You can’t afford not to. If you go easy on Aegon, Rhaenyra’s going to play to some kind of ‘the Greens are anti woman card.’ Your voters need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“And throw my own brother under the bus?” he says, sternly.

But she can tell he’s still nervous. His hands are shaking as he ties the tie around his neck.

She pauses, wondering where the line is here. Aegon Targaryen will be fine. He’ll be put under investigation and keep getting bad press for a while, but he can live off daddy’s money in the meantime, and in a few years the whole scandal will be forgotten.

She takes a few steps towards him and comes close enough to smell the dark, boozy smell of his perfume, and shoos his hands away.

“What would be better for the country,” she asks, tilting her head and keeping her eyes focused as she fastens his tie, “presenting yourself as a leader who is committed to integrity and respect, or leaving yourself open to further criticism?”

She pushes the knot up tightly against his collar for emphasis.

Aemond just smirks. “You’re very persuasive,” he says.

“That’s my job, sir.”

She gasps as his hand grabs her hip and pulls her against him. His breath runs hotly over her face as he tilts her chin up to look at him. His throat hums as he breathes.

She could fall apart then and there.

Until a knock on the door has her practically shoving him away.

Aemond chuckles and shrugs on his suit jacket. “Enter,” he calls.

She turns her back to the door to hide the flustered look on her face, pretending to look through a bookshelf that she’s never really looked at properly before.

“Car for you, sir,” Alys says from the doorway.

Aemond calls for her by her surname. Fuck– she was supposed to pack his briefcase before he left. She takes a breath and goes about collecting all the pages of notes and briefings he’ll need.

She brings it to him, and notices Maris standing in the hallway behind Alys. Maris usually goes with him to the Red Keep for PMQs, but today he requests that she accompany him. She supposes it makes sense, she’s been the one helping him prepare after all.

Maris’ face is a storm. Alys looks down at her feet and tries to stifle a giggle.

The next few hours are a blur. She trails after Aemond through the ornate corridors, keeping her eyes on his silver hair, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. Somewhere along the way, Cole and the head of security, a man Aemond greets as “Mr Westerling”, joins them.

They leave through the front entrance, into the sharp September air and into a black car. The hum of the engine and the smell of leather makes her nauseous, but they’re only in the car for a matter of minutes before the door swings open and she’s been ushered towards the Red Keep.

Once a seat of Kings, now the red stone castle seems a little out of place with the rest of the city. This is where Parliament gathers.

As they walk through its halls, Aemond tells her to throw a few questions at him. She has them all memorised in her head, able to recite a few without really thinking about it. Aemond mutters the answers they’ve rehearsed under his breath, smiling politely and waving as they pass by civil servants, MPs, Green and Black party members alike. They even pass Cregan Stark, leader of the Northern Independence party. He whispers all of their names in her ear.

There’s a small room where Aemond waits in before he enters the Great Hall. She can hear the noise and the chatter on the other side of the double doors, engraved with the same crest that marks the gates to Hightower House.

He won’t stop moving, adjusting his tie and his cuffs, tutting and pursing his lips.

She makes sure Cole and Westerling are muttering to each other before she leans into Aemond, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers, “don’t see it as a chance for them to criticise you, see it as an opportunity for you to reassure everyone else of how brilliant you are.”

Aemond turns his head towards her. He’s not touching her but she feels the proximity.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s all perspective.”

Before Aemond is called into the hall, Cole directs her to the gallery, above the benches where the MPs sit.

She and Aemond meet eyes before she leaves. She stops herself from reaching for him, not wanting to leave his side.

“Good luck,” she says.

As if he needs it. She watches everything unfold from the gallery, the MPs sat below her like she’s watching a play in a theatre.

Aemond starts off with an amazing opening speech which, at her recommendation, doesn’t shy away from the issue of the whole Aegon scandal. He affirms his commitment to ensuring that central government is a safe and inclusive working environment, which is when he announces Aegon’s resignation as an MP, as well as his removal from the Green Party.

The chamber in an uproar. A few members of the Green Party make a bit of a fuss, but mostly Aemond’s announcement is applauded, even by a good number of Black Party members.

Rhaenyra, Aemond’s sister and predecessor, is at a loss for words, as is her deputy, Daemon.

Aemond seems to get a boost of confidence from this and takes every question in his stride, using elements from the answers she had rehearsed with him and even throwing in a few one liners which has half the room cheering him.

And he’s fucking hot when he’s cocky.

While he speaks all she can think of is how he sounded while she was between his legs. “Good girl… just fucking take it…” she has to clench her fists and her jaw at the wave of arousal that rises within her.

Afterwards she walks with him to the car. A whole host of Green Party members crowd him as they walk through the hallways, praising him, commending him. He smiles graciously, looking over his shoulder every so often to look at her, to make sure she’s not fallen behind.

The silence of the car is unbearable with Cole and Westerling in the front, and Aemond beside her, drumming his fingers against his thigh and running his other hand through his hair.

She presses her thighs at the obvious arousal pooling at her centre.

Seven hells, she’s acting like she’s in heat.

She follows Aemond back through Hightower House, past Alys’ office, to his own office. When he closes the door behind them, he locks it.

She leans against the desk, keeping her hands on the wood behind her.

Aemond turns back to her with a ravenous look in his pale blue eyes. He reaches into his pocket, effortlessly pulling his hair into a low bun, as he usually does in informal company.

She can’t take her eye off him as he tosses his jacket over the sofa, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he stalks towards her, his chin tilted down and his lips in a tight line, until he’s close enough to paw at her waist.

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands as they tease over the fabric of the red mini skirt she had picked out this morning, the way she squirms underneath him.

“Oh,” she breathes. One of his hands trails up, untucking her blouse from her skirt and brushing his fingertips against the bare skin underneath. “Just… doing my job, sir.”

He hums to himself as his hand works its way round to her backside, squeezing gently. “Do you like calling me ‘sir’?”

She can’t help but nod, dazed at the feeling of his hands tracing the shape of her body.

“Yeah, I think you do,” he says, leaning in to press a slow, firm kiss to her neck.

Her resolve is shattered. She throws her hands around his neck, pulling herself into him, desperate to feel him against her, to stay close to him.

She almost whines when he moves away, much to his amusement, feeling her mouth fall into a pout.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got a brat,” he says, taking her chin in his hand. “Are you going to be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” she utters.

“See? You don’t even need to be told,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to turn around and lean over the desk.”

She follows his instructions without missing a beat, bracing herself on her forearms, against the surface. She feels her skirt being pushed up over her hips, her tights and panties pulled down in one go, fingertips trailing over her thighs. Then she feels his breath against the wetness of her bare pussy.

She can’t help but let out a quiet moan, pressing her nails into the wood in anticipation.

“Haven’t even fucking touched you yet, are you that desperate for me?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, trying to look over her shoulder.

Aemond’s hand finds its way against her head, pressing her down. And he doesn’t let go.

His fingers drag through her folds, teasing her entrance and her clit before he slides in a single digit. It feels so different from her own, longer and thicker, pressing into her at an unfamiliar angle. She feels utterly weightless, the obscene sound of him moving in and out of her only adding to her arousal.

Aemond’s voice is dark and husky, as it was last night. “Good girl,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t reply, he withdraws and lands a stinging slap against her cheek, before he pushes into her again. “Answer me,” he says, clearly and firmly.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frantically trying to nod against his hold of her head. “Feels so fucking good.”

He increases his speed, pumping in and out of her until her climax washes over her. It happens gradually, building and building before a pleasant numbness washes through her, to every corner of her body.

While she comes down from her high, her attention is caught by the sound of a belt buckle and rustling fabric.

The tip of his cock presses into her without warning. He inches further and further in until he bottoms out, the material of his trousers pressing against her skin– the cunt hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes.

He finally relents his hold of her head, grabbing at her waist as he ruts into her. It’s fast and primal, adrenaline pumping through her blood, Aemond’s fingers digging into her flesh, her breath coming out in moans, his belt buckle hitting the desk with every harsh thrust.

“Knew you were a little slut,” he grits out, grabbing at her cheeks and spreading them out to watch his cock moving in and out of her. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back the wanton noises threatening to slip past her lips.

Suddenly a hand comes to her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. One hand kneads at her breasts through her blouse and her bra, while the other slips between her legs, tracing quick circles over her clit.

“I wanna feel you come,” he rasps into her ear, “wanna feel my good girl clench around my cock.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She clings to his arms and digs her teeth into her bottom lip. She can feel herself hurtling towards her climax, if only he would move his fingers a little faster.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What was that, pet?” Aemond asks, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come!” she whines. “Fuck– please… please, I just want to come, sir.”

She feels him smiling against her as his fingers rub faster over her clit. She can feel how deep he is inside her, how his cock bullies against that sensitive spot, over and over again, until her orgasm tears through her.

She tries to keep her mouth shut but she can’t help the pleading groan that hums in her throat. Aemond holds her as she falls apart, fucking her thoroughly through it all.

Until finally, he reaches his end, hissing through his teeth and pulling out to spill himself onto her pussy. She feels the warmth, how it drips through her folds, for now uncaring of the mess they’ve surely made.

Aemond keeps holding her against his chest. His forehead falls against the back of her head and his hot breath echoes over her neck. “I really appreciate the work you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly. “I think you and I make quite a pair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she mewls, letting her head fall against his arm.

Aemond hums a laugh to himself, it rumbles in his chest and against her back. “So pretty and polite,” he coos, “how did I ever manage without you until now, pet?”

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

A/n: I might do a part 2 to this so let me know if you would liked to be tagged :)

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snivyartjpeg · 6 days

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Yuma Month Day 26 - Role Swap

god i was excited for this one. it first started off as a joke, but the more i thought about it, the more interesting this swap became. so here's my massive lore dump of changes that'd happen in the story beneath the cut (spoiler warning):

i think, fundamentally, yuma and yakou are very similar characters. they're both very protective and kindhearted, with a strong sense of justice and a penchant for attracting terrible luck. because of this, some things would remain the same, such as the NDA's dynamics with their doormat chief as well amnesia!yakou's massive unpaid intern energy. i think yakou would be pretty similar to how he behaved in the light novel- a bit more optimistic and naive, like yuma. but there are two key differences between them that'd make this a different story, especially in ch 4: yuma has a forte, and yakou is very selfish. so here's some changes:

yakou's wife is his shinigami now, as you can see, while shinigami is yuma's dead wife. i think mrs furio would act cooler than shinigami. she'd still be playful, but she takes her job more seriously. also she hands yakou the solution keys normally without throwing up. they still have to do the dance and mouth sword thing tho. and the other stuff. that's just death god protocol

shinigami (or in this case the unnamed Mrs. Kokohead but i will still be calling her shinigami for convenience sake) was a scientist at amaterasu who studied forensics and thanatology instead of regenerative medicine. this also means that the pill she gives zombie yuma is not going to bring him back, but instead grant the zombie homunculi a peaceful, painless, but permanent death

speaking of zombie yuma, he's the homunculus now! yakou is 100% human and also doesnt have a forte. he's still number one, but instead of having a forte he's just that good at solving mysteries

yes this means makoto looks like yakou now. sorry makotoheads. i think he'd have really long, shaggy hair dyed to be like. idk. black or something. also he's more clean shaven bc stubble with a mask on is a sensory nightmare

yuma still cant cook. he subsists entirely on takeout, meat buns, black coffee, and beer. he's still in a lot of debt and under a lot of stress and his personality is essentially "what if canon number one just gave up"

he doesn't smoke though. he tried once and got into the worst coughing fit

imma say it right now. kurumi is not a love interest. yakou likely disguises himself as a faculty member instead (also i think one of the teachers gets a crush on fem yakou bc i just know she'd be hot)

ANYWAY what about chapter 4? im SO glad you asked! because here's where things get spicy!

so, lets start with the dead wife. shinigami catches onto huesca's inhumane research and she's just as adamant about bringing the truth to light as she always is. she blows the whistle, so he blows her up. yuma investigates, but they dont let him look any further, yada yada, yuma stews in his misery for five years

yomi sends in the evidence to motivate yuma to kill huesca, and makoto lets it happen because a dead huesca would be convenient. he even introduces the hitman, fully expecting yuma to make use of him

yuma doesnt. in fact, he wants to kill huesca with his own hands. and now that these detectives are here, he can do it and even return alive. the thing is, he doesn't want to put them in danger, so he chooses to do almost everything alone (sound familiar?)

his plan is simple:

ask desuhiko for a peacekeeper uniform. desuhiko trusts him enough to take "i want to investigate kanai ward's ultimate secret by infiltrating their ranks" as an answer. he does, however, let yakou know about this as an offhand comment before the mystery ever begins

hold fubuki's hand. it doesnt really matter how. she'll gladly allow it because she's fubuki. he stores her time powers and heads out the sub. yakou also learns this as an offhand comment played off as a joke (maybe fubuki affectionately comments about how she never expected the chief's hands to be so soft... idk. there has to be some way for yakou to have this as a future clue)

use his peacekeeper status to sneak into amaterasu HQ and demand a functioning ama-pal from that one creepy researcher

use ama-pal + fubuki's borrowed powers to bypass huesca's security. sneak the bot past the hard-of-hearing doctor and press the button to shut off security

this would probably alert huesca, but since the doctor never received a warning, yuma has enough time to rush in and stab him before he realizes what's going on

leave HQ while still in uniform, dispose of the disguise once he's safe, and return to the NDA like nothing happened. success!

soooo.... yakou, on that same day, decides to investigate amaterasu HQ with makoto

all the while, vivia has his suspicions about yuma's actions and keeps an eye on him in spectral mode. he... basically witnessed the whole thing, so he gets up off his ass and decides to follow yakou to the lab because he has a Very Bad Feeling about this

just like canon, he senses the death god and deduces that our protag has been killing off murderers, and so he wants to protect his chief as well as his peace and quiet (his dynamic with yuma would be the same as his dynamic with yakou, since it's entirely believable for yuma to treat vivia with the same kindness yakou did)

yakou tries to speak to huesca, but surprise! security is disabled and he's dead in the lab! no one else at amaterasu liked huesca enough to check on him, so yakou and makoto are the first ones at the scene of the crime. yakou, of course, decides to start investigating this murder

vivia somehow sneaks into the lab (dont ask me how) and confronts yakou, threatening him with his boxcutter and adamantly imploring him to stop pursuing this particular mystery in the same way he did yuma in canon. unfortunately, this attracts attention, and now they're in trouble (maybe even yomi's there to fetch his files). at this point, yakou has enough solution keys, so he panics and goes right into the labyrinth (and maybe others can enter for another reason that isnt coalescence idk)

so... they go in the labyrinth... vivia tries to stop him every step of the way, until the answer is right in front of them

yakou kills yuma with his own hands. there's no stab wounds or toxic gas to leave any doubt. yakou begins to question what good his justice really does. it doesnt even save them from their predicament, just like the other deaths. instead, makoto ex machina comes in to save them, and hands yakou a small black box

when they return to the agency, everyone is heartbroken over their chief, who seemingly died out of nowhere. fubuki tried rewinding time, but to no avail. halara tried everything to wake him up, knowing it's futile. desuhiko stood aside, feeling completely helpless. and yakou and vivia return looking like they just came back from hell

they barely get the chance for a funeral before the knockout gas trap activates... you know the rest

AAAAND SCENE! so that's my extremely long winded lore dump about this au. i thought about it Way Too Much but god it's so interesting to me. i love these characters and swapping them was immensely fun

#rain code #mdarc #raincode #master detectives archives: rain code #yuma kokohead #yakou furio #desuhiko thunderbolt #shinigami #yumagami #kokogami #yakou's wife #rain code spoilers #mdarc spoilers #raincode spoilers

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ygozexalarchive · 7 months

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Official Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal art done by Ebina Hidekazu (蛯名秀和) (Twitter)

(Part 2)

Trivia under the cut:

Hidekazu (Sometimes referred to as the unnamed "junior animator" by director Takahiro Kagami, a senior animator whose work Hidekazu apparently took inspiration from or based theirs off of) was a prominent Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal animator (chief animation director), also known for working on the Beyblade anime, and in the Yu-Gi-Oh space for lots of ARC-V illustrations - another Yu-Gi-Oh! spinoff they worked on in addition to Dark Side of Dimensions before leaving near the beginning of Vrains

They are responsible for visualizing scenes in the Yuma/Kaito vs Thomas/Michael duel, Shark approached/corrupted by Shark Drake, Michael vs Yuma, Vector vs Yuma (the reveal duel), Yuma vs No. 96, Yuma vs Eliphas, Shark vs Vector, ED3, ED6 and more

The 1st drawing at the top was drawn at the request of director Kagami as memorabilia

The 2nd drawing was drawn in celebration of Zexal's final episode on March 23rd, 2014

the 3rd drawing was drawn in reference to the manga in which Kaito is said to have a good singing voice when Yuma claims that they are karaoke partners

The 4th portrays Shark giving the card "Aqua Jet" to Ayu, a character from the ARC-V anime who also used an aqua deck

#zexal #yuma tsukumo #kaito tenjo #ryoga kamishiro #astral #kotori mizuki #rio kamishiro #zexal form #rio kastle #reginald kastle #kite tenjo #official art

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adventure-showdown · 6 months

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What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

TOURNAMENT MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

The War Games

Synopsis

The Doctor, Jamie and Zoe arrive on an unnamed planet. At first believing themselves to be in the midst of World War I, they realise it is one of many War Zones overseen by the War Lords, who have kidnapped large numbers of human soldiers in order to create an army to conquer the galaxy. Infiltrating the control base, the Doctor discovers that the War Chief is also a member of his own race. The creeping realisation sets in that the Doctor cannot solve this problem alone, and that his days of wandering may be at an end...

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Fires of Pompeii

Synopsis

The Tenth Doctor tries taking Donna Noble to ancient Rome for her first trip in the TARDIS, but seems to have miscalculated. Instead of seven hills, they find a single mountain billowing smoke — Vesuvius. They're in Pompeii, 23 August 79 AD: the day before "Volcano Day". However, something else is horribly wrong. The Soothsayers' predictions seem to always be correct... so why can't they see tomorrow's disastrous events, the eruption of Vesuvius, the death of their city? What is blocking their perception, and will the TARDIS team be able to walk away from a fixed point in time, saving no one from certain doom? Well, Donna has something to say about that!

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

#round 6 #come on war games #please #please please please #please please please please please

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riboism · 1 year

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seni oilai

♔ pairing: servent! j.wy x queen! reader

♔ genre: smut, angst

♔ wc: 2.5k

♔ content: royalty au, sexual servitude, fingering, nipple play, penetration, lots of teasing, unsaid feelings, secret established relationship

♔ a/n: no read more tab because tumblr hates me :/

The bathroom ceiling was decorated with beautiful and intricate designs, all handpainted by the Royal family’s personal painter. You’ve been told that the painter had spent days lying on his back to make the scenery that currently overlooked your bathtub. The inspiration came from the first spring after the long, brutal, and deadly winter your Kingdom endured many years ago. Your eyes followed the swells of white clouds that stretched over the light blue paint and the flocks of birds that stretched their wings and embraced the rebirth of warmth and beauty. Of course, that was just what the painter pictured it to be. But to you, the painting was nothing but a cruel reminder of what you could never have. You stared up at this grand ceiling from your bathtub every night, growing sick from the constant reminder that you were stuck. You felt like a bird being held prisoner in its cage, forced to look at everyone else flap their wings and fly away from this godforsaken place.

After the untimely death of your parents, and there being no male heirs to the throne, the Court decided with great hesitation to pass the crown down to you. No one wanted a girl Queen. Just the thought of you as a ruler gave the Kingdom great anxiety. A girl Queen meant a vulnerable Kingdom, and no one was equipped to handle an invasion. Understanding this sentiment at such a young age, you made it your duty to prove everyone wrong. You wanted to show them that you were capable, if not more capable than your father, of being a leader. Even with your accomplishments at peace and prosperity during your years of reign, that sentiment remained unchanged. You learned that no matter what you did, no one would take you seriously as Queen. And with that, your efforts faltered and you went on autopilot.

There were whispers in the court about an unnamed Prince who was interested in her Royal Highness. The lone Prince was said to have been planning to propose to you and merge both Kingdoms under one rule. The Court took a likeness to the idea. You were bombarded by them, along with the Chief Minister to at least consider marrying him. There were too many reasons not to say no: More land, financial security, and of course, more respect and stability with a man by your side. It amazed you just how much they trusted and respected someone they barely knew all because he had a dick.

You sunk yourself lower into the bath, resting your achy neck on the edge of the tub. You were under a lot of stress tonight after the Chief Minister announced to you that he invited this bachelor for you to meet tomorrow. You were angry, of course, but you were used to him doing things behind your back like this. He was a good friend to your father and looked to advise you as best as he could. But sometimes, he made you feel like you had no say in anything you did. You were just the face of the Kingdom, a puppet for him to puppeteer. As much as you wanted to fight it, you knew that at the end of the day, he would get his way and you will have to walk down that aisle sooner or later.

Honestly, there was no reason to be bothered by this in the first place. Being Queen was a difficult task. To have someone else take the wheel would be a godsend, and could finally take some stress off your shoulders. So why were you so upset?

Your thoughts were interrupted as you heard the bathroom doors open and shut from behind you, followed by a hesitant few steps forward. You knew exactly who it was from his timid footsteps.

“You’re late.” You sighed in exasperation. Shutting your eyes, you sunk yourself even deeper into the water, sending some bubbles to splash out from the tub.

“I know. I apologize, Your Majesty.” After a beat of silence, Wooyoung walked over to the bathtub. Your eyes were still shut but you knew he was hovering over you now, most likely with a playful grin, with his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he obediently awaited his next order. However, when you fluttered your eyes open, you were met with the sight of your humble servant gazing down at you with a look of concern. It always amazed you just how beautiful he looked wearing any emotion- anger, sadness, contentment- it was worth more to look at than the eyesore that took over your bathroom ceiling. But of course, your favorite look on him was the look of lust. His half-lidded eyes, rosy cheeks, and parted lips while you sank down his length- that was a sight worth looking at.

“I won’t be needing you tonight. I’ll be retiring to my chambers soon. You should do the same.” You closed your eyes again and waited to hear his footsteps trail away. But he didn’t move.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

You wished he’d just obey and leave you alone. When you two first started, it was supposed to be just a physical relationship. But now it was intimate in a way that you never intended. And you worried if maybe he was too emotionally attached to you. Or maybe it was you that was attached to him.

“Everything’s fine.” You prayed that was sufficient, but to your dismay, Wooyoung wasn’t satisfied and he took it upon himself to sit on the edge of the tub and quietly wait for you to tell him what was really wrong.

“Wooyoung,” you whined, “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you calling your Queen a liar? I’m pretty sure that’s treason.”

Your quick-witted reply earned you a chuckle and you were relieved to see him soften his expression for once that night. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” Wooyoung dipped his hand into the warm bath water and traced his fingertips up your thigh. You bit back a moan as his hand inched closer to your bare heat. “But at least let me help you relieve some stress.”

Wooyoung rubbed your inner thigh and waited for you to part your legs. Hesitating at first, you eventually obliged and spread yourself open for him. He made an experimental swipe over your slit which already had you rolling your eyes back. He spread your lips apart, pouting when he saw your aching clit.

“You spend all day taking care of this Kingdom, but who takes care of you?” He poked. It drove you mad when he spoke to you like this, a soft and barely audible whisper like he didn’t want to talk over your moans. After massaging over your clit, he slid his fingers down to your entrance and pushed two fingers inside of you, smiling to himself as he watched you struggle to hold in your gasps.

“Wooyoung!” You gripped his forearm tightly as he pumped his digits in and out of you. His pace was unforgiving and you tried desperately to hold on and control his movements. But Wooyoung was pissed and there was no way to tame him when he was like this. He didn’t like when you kept things from him. He knew you were hiding something and he doesn’t particularly like being out of the loop.

“Shh..” he cooed, “just relax and let me take care of you.”

He began curling his fingers inside of you, and this time you weren’t able to hold in your moans. You were usually good at keeping quiet, afraid of nosy servants hearing what you were up to and spreading rumors that you took a lowborn as a lover. But Wooyoung thought if he couldn’t get you to talk about what’s bothering you, then he deserved to hear your loud and delicious moans as a replacement.

“Too fast…gonna cum” you squealed, sending more water out from the bathtub as you jolted your hips up and down.

“Already?” He grinned. “I barely even started.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to stop teasing, but the feeling of his thumb pressing over your needy clit took the words right out of your mouth. One hand gripped the bathtub, while the other was still holding onto his chiseled arm. Heat pooled in your lower stomach and Wooyoung could tell that it would only take another couple of pumps before you came undone for him. As much as you loved his skilled fingers swirling over your clit, you didn’t want to finish so quickly and go back to another night of sleepless worry. You grabbed onto his hand to stop him from going any further.

“Not like this” you breathed. Wooyoung smirked, his fingers still deep inside of you.

“No? Then how would you like me, My Queen?”

“You know your place.” You pulled your legs up to your chest, hinting at him to get in with you. Nothing else was said as he quickly unclothed himself before slipping into the bath. Before you could climb over him, you took some time to admire how heavenly he looked right now: Wet hair slicked back with a few strands kissing at his forehead, and the way his collarbones glistened from being in the bubbly water. Wooyoung was second to none, incomparable to even the richest of Kings. You never admitted it to him, but sometimes you imagined him in a crown sitting beside you on the throne. Anyone who saw him wouldn’t second guess that he belonged up there with you.

You straddled over him now, taking him into your hands to help him get ready for you. He kissed down your neck before making home on your breast, rubbing his lips gently over your nipples. They were more sensitive and raised now from being in the water for so long, and Wooyoung took advantage of that. He took your bud into his mouth as you stroked his stiff cock, the vibrations from his moans sending goosebumps all over your skin.

Wooyoung took his cock from you and lined himself up with your core. You let out a string of low and shaky moans, waiting for the moment that he’d finally enter and fuck all the useless thoughts out of your head. But Wooyoung had no intention of giving you what you wanted. Instead, he rubbed his tip along your slit in an agonizingly slow tempo, carefully brushing over your clit as he did so.

“Woo…please, can’t wait any longer.”

He looked up at you with hazy eyes, waiting for you to make eye contact with him. But you couldn’t get yourself to look him in the eye. “First tell me what’s on your mind.”He demanded.

You sighed, unhappy when you understood that he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted unless you confessed. But the truth was, you yourself weren’t sure what was bothering you. You just knew that you wanted to see him tonight and have him close. Part of you worried it would be the last time.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He sprayed your chest with soft kisses, speaking into your skin in a low voice. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong.” He was circling his tip over your clit now. He knew it drove you crazy, all this stimulation when all you wanted was to feel full from his cock.

“Wooyoung.” You hated begging. You hated that he wouldn’t give you what you wanted, but you were too under his spell to do anything about it other than whine pathetically as he toyed with you like this.

Wooyoung only hummed in response, lips still nipping at your sore breasts. At first, you thought he finally gave up when you felt him push his tip into your entrance. You held onto his shoulders and anticipated the stretch but the anticipation soon turned to frustration once he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty again.

Defeated, your face fell to the crook of his neck and you groaned in annoyance. “I should just have you beheaded.”

He chuckled into your ear. “Then who’ll make you cum?”

Wooyoung continued on with his game, pushing just the tip into you before pulling himself back out. So many thoughts raced over your head, some making sense, some not, but one thing was for sure and that was that you couldn’t bare to go on like this anymore.

“It’s you!” You admitted. “You’re always on my mind and I’m so tired of it! I hate you for making me feel this way, if I could go back in time I would stop myself from ever getting involved with you! Now will you just shut up and obey me for once?!”

Wooyoung was utterly dumbfounded. Although he understood that the true nature of your relationship was purely sexual servitude, he couldn’t deny that he’d often wondered if you, like him, felt something more. After thinking it over, he understood your frustrations. He had heard the rumors about the proposal. He tried not to take it personally. He knew where he stood in this relationship. Being a Royal was stressful as it was, and it was his job to offer some much needed stress relief to the Queen. Even so, he couldn’t help but feel a little depressed after hearing of your coming marriage.

Now that he knew your true feelings, Wooyoung thought about asking you to run away with him and finally free yourselves from this cage. But he also knew where your loyalties lie, and they were tightly knotted within this Kingdom. He wished you knew that his loyalties laid with you. If he told you, would it make a difference? He wondered.

He had so much he wanted to say. But he knew in the end that nothing could be done in your situation. In an effort to make things easier, he decided to finally do as he was asked and help you forget about your troubles- as well as his. Giving you that boyish smirk of his, he lined himself up with your core once again.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

With your slit covered in anticipation, and with the bath water around you, he slipped into you with ease. Both of you moaned once he bottomed out. You stayed still, connecting your lips with his, sharing the same hunger he had for you with him. His hands fell to your hips and he guided you over his shaft. The pace was slow but perfect. You didn’t want to finish so quickly, wishing to savor every bit of him for as long as you could. But all the moaning, kissing, touching, as well as having your bud being rubbed against his abs every time you came up and down his length made it impossible to stall your release.

When you were both done you remained as you were in the bathtub with your head laying against his chest whine he traced his fingers up and down your spine. He let you play with his other fingers as you both came down from your highs. You thought his fingers were still pretty even though they were all pruny from the extended time in the water. “In another life, I would’ve.” You broke the silence. You said it so quietly that you worried if he heard you or not. You didn’t think you had it in you to say it again.

Wooyoung sighed, taking a break from tracing your back to just stay still and hold you. He wondered what awful thing he did in his past life to be born as a servant. But there was nothing either of you could do about it now, other than to enjoy the night before you two went back to being strangers in the morning.

“In another life.” He agreed.

�� seni oilai- ALPHA

#wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung scenarios #ateez smut #ateez x reader #jung wooyoung smut #wooyoung angst #ateez angst #choi san smut #san smut #seonghwa smu #jongho smut #yunho smut #hongjoong smut #yeosang smut

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krinsbez · 10 months

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A Watership Down Meta/Headcanon/Rant

So, both @jaybutnotthebird and @stavarosthearcane have stated that, to their knowledge, I've not posted this on tumblr, and indicated that they would like to hear it, I'm posting it now!

So I don't recall if it was stated explicitly or was, like, a rumor, but everything about Gen. Woundwort makes so much more sense when you realize he's a hutch rabbit.

Why is he so enormous? Cuz he was bred to be big and fluffy, was fed flayrah everyday, and was taken to the vet if he got sick.

Why is he so afraid of humans? Because they were the first elil he ever encountered.

Why is everything he does in complete opposition to proper lapine culture and behavior? Because he grew up not knowing anything about it.

Efrafa is, in essence, an attempt to make a warren into a hutch.

OK got that? So, here's another thing to think about. Cowslip's Warren, or Strawberry's Warren, or the Warden of the Shining Wire, or whatever you want to call it...they also completely disregard traditional Lapine culture and behavior; they don't tell stories of El-ahrairah, they make weird poetry about the inevitability of death, they keep babbling about dignity, they make ART, etc. This, by the way, is why it and Efrafa come off as so viscerally wrong, because Mr. Adams went to the trouble of putting us in a rabbit headspace, so we can understand the full horror; it's not just Woundwort's tyranny or the farmer's snares, it's that they're unnatural and rabbits aren't meant to live that way.

Now, I know what you're thinking when I say that word, "unnatural", but put down the pitchfork.

Because Hazel and Co. do a LOT of things that is outside the realm of typical rabbit behavior:

Despite being Chief Rabbit, Hazel let's the others argue with and talk back to him.

They made friends with mice and a bird.

He adopted Cowslip's Warren's idea of using tree roots to create a big central chamber

Tales (the sequel short story collection) has them adopt a (obvs. less aggro) version of the Efrafan practice of having the Owsla run patrols

They busted out hutch rabbits.

They used a boat

Meanwhile, Sandleford, the Warren that our heroes fled, was apparently the epitome of a traditional Warren and of course they all died horribly.

So, what's the difference?

It goes back to the last lines of the first myth, part of which was used as the first animated film adaptation's tagline:

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.”

(I bolded the important part)

Sandleford's Chief Rabbit (EDIT: The Threarah) decided he liked things as they were and refused to change, and his people died. Cowslip and Co. allow themselves to be farmed and treat death as an inevitability, and they're slowly going mad and dying one by one. Gen. Woundwort teaches his Owsla to respond to every situation by fighting, and they break and flee when the unexpected happens. The ordinary rabbits of Efrafa are forced to live like hutch rabbits and they're miserable and not having babies.

Hazel does weird stuff…but he does so because he's in a weird situation and has to adapt. He listens to the other's concerns and ideas, he keeps an open mind, he figures out what resources are available to him, and then figures out how he can use them to protect his people.

In short? Unlike Woundwort, Cowslip & Co., or the unnamed Chief Rabbit of Sandleford EDIT: The Threarah, he is cunning and full of tricks.

(I think one of the reasons the BBC miniseries from a few years back didn't hit right is that they failed to get this)

Anyways, thanks for coming to my TED Talk

#Watership Down #Random Thoughts #Headcanons

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littlesparklight · 2 months

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A (not exhaustive) inventory of Astyanax's death and survival.

In the Little Iliad, Neoptolemos is the killer. In the Iliou Persis, Odysseus is the killer.

In the Trojan Women we don't actually know who does the deed, "merely" that Odysseus is singled out as the (major) voice who argued for his death. As Andrew Erskine in Troy Between Greece and Rome points out (referencing another academic as well), given the lack of detail in what's left to us, Odysseus might well have been involved in Astyanax's death in the Little Iliad as well, in the same role he has in here in the Trojan Women.

Seneca (Troades) follows Euripides in the public deliberation and has Odysseus being present for Astyanax's death, but he has Astyanax leap voluntarily. (Excuse me, WTF.)

Quintus of Smyrna, in his Posthomerica, has the killing be done by "the Greeks". Not just the deliberation like in the Trojan Women, but "they" seized him and tossed him from the wall. Whether intended or not, it makes it read a little like a mob scene. (edited to add this, because I'd forgotten to check.)

Tryphiodoros, in the Taking of Ilios, has it again be Odysseus.

So what we get is that even when Odysseus isn't actively the hand that commits the deed, he's the (first? major? leading?) voice in claiming it "needs" to be done. For the ~safety of Greece~, of course.

So, now we come to myths and stories of Astyanax's survival. It's mostly here the "not exhaustive" disclaimer applies. For a lot of the Medieval sources (where this idea flourishes) I can't double check if they say anything about who/how Astyanax survives.

With that said; the Medieval manuscripts aren't the earliest ideas of Astyanax's survival!

One is late Classical or earlier; Dionysios of Halikarnassos reports of the Ilians (that is, the Anatolian Greeks of the "modern" Ilion/Troy, built somewhere after ~1000 BC) had a founding legend that involved Astyanax and Askanios. Given that Astyanax can approach his cousin after being released by Neoptolemos, presumably Neoptolemos didn't kill Astyanax but rather take him along into slavery with his mother and Helenos.

I'll just include this screencap from Troy Between Greece and Rome for the next bit since it's easier:

On to the Medieval sources; the absolute earliest appearances of Astyanax here is as the founder of the Franks, now named Francion/Francus. French Wikipedia has a note to an author that says that Astyanax's survival was effected by (unnamed in the text and note) Medieval authors by the Greeks softening up and ending up not killing Asyanax because of his beauty.

Next is the "Andromache swaps Astyanax for another child and the Greeks (more like Odysseus) is tricked and kills the substitute". It has several appearances/uses, but the earliest (at least by the list in Wikipedia) seems to be Boiardo's Orlando Innamorato (1495).

While being unable to, like, check if anyone is named as the rescuer in some of these (Wiki also has an unsourced mention of Talthybios), in general we seem to land on either Neoptolemos or, in later stories, Andromache herself. I wouldn't think Neoptolemos ends up not killing Astyanax out of the goodness of his heart, more as a way to control Andromache, but there it is either way. Odysseus is only ever an obstacle to be worked around, which isn't odd given how often he is either the killer, or, maybe far more important, the voice to argue that Astyanax need to die. Not so odd he'd then be construed in later stories as the character to be specifically tricked by the child-swap.

I'll put the sources under the cut!

(For the Little Iliad) Scholiast on Lycophr. Alex., 1268: "Then the bright son of bold Achilles led the wife of Hector to the hollow ships; but her son he snatched from the bosom of his rich-haired nurse and seized him by the foot and cast him from a tower. So when he had fallen bloody death and hard fate seized on Astyanax. And Neoptolemus chose out Andromache, Hector's well-girded wife, and the chiefs of all the Achaeans gave her to him to hold requiting him with a welcome prize. And he put Aeneas, the famous son of horse-taming Anchises, on board his sea-faring ships, a prize surpassing those of all the Danaans."

(For the Sack of Ilion/Ilioupersis) The Greeks, after burning the city, sacrifice Polyxena at the tomb of Achilles: Odysseus murders Astyanax; Neoptolemus takes Andromache as his prize, and the remaining spoils are divided.

(Note 136 to Apllodorus' Library, trans. Frazer) Compare Arctinus, Ilii Persis, summarized by Proclus, in Epicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, ed. G. Kinkel, p. 50; Eur. Tro. 719-739, Eur. Tro. 1133-1135; Eur. And. 8-11; Paus. 10.26.9; Quintus Smyrnaeus, Posthomerica xiii.251-257; Tryphiodorus, Excidium Ilii 644-646; Tzetzes, Scholiast on Lycophron 1263; Scholiast on Eur. Andr. 10; Ov. Met. 13.415-417; Hyginus, Fab. 109; Seneca, Troades 524ff., 1063ff. While ancient writers generally agree that Astyanax was killed by being thrown from a tower at or after the sack of Troy, they differ as to the agent of his death. Arctinus, as reported by Proclus, says merely that he was killed by Ulysses. Tryphiodorus reports that he was hurled by Ulysses from a high tower. On the other hand, Lesches in the Little Iliad said that it was Neoptolemus who snatched Astyanax from his mother's lap and cast him down from the battlements (Tzetzes and Paus. 10.26.9). According to Euripides and Seneca, the murder of the child was not perpetrated in hot blood during the sack of Troy but was deliberately executed after the capture of the city in pursuance of a decree passed by the Greeks in a regular assembly. This seems to have been the version followed by Apollodorus, who apparently regarded the death of Astyanax as a sacrifice, like the slaughter of Polyxena on the grave of Achilles. But the killing of Astyanax was not thus viewed by our other ancient authorities, unless we except Seneca, who describes how Astyanax leaped voluntarily from the wall while Ulysses was reciting the words of the soothsayer Calchas and invoking the cruel gods to attend the rite.

(Trojan Women, Euripides) Talthybius You that once were the wife of Hector, bravest of the Phrygians, [710] do not hate me, for I am not a willing messenger. The Danaids and sons of Pelops both command—

Andromache What is it? your prelude bodes evil news.

[…]

Talthybius They mean to slay your son; there is my hateful message to you.

Andromache [720] Oh me! this is worse tidings than my forced marriage.

Talthybius So spoke Odysseus to the assembled Hellenes, and his word prevails.

Andromache Oh, once again alas! there is no measure in the woes I bear.

Talthybius He said they should not rear so brave a father's son.

(Dionysios of Halikarnassos; Ant. Rom. 1. 47. 5–6) Aineias . . . sent Askanios, the eldest of his sons, with some of the allies, mainly Phrygians, to the land called Daskylitis, where the Askanian lake is, since his son had been invited by the inhabitants to rule over them. Askanios did not dwell there for long. When Skamandrios and the other descendants of Hektor approached him after Neoptolemos had released them from Greece, he went to Troy and restored them to their ancestral kingdom.

#the iliad #trojan war #astyanax #odysseus #andromache of troy #neoptolemus #greek myth thoughts

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mj2606k · 10 months

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Jealousy, Jealousy…

Pairing: Neteyam Sully x fem!omaticaya!reader

Character: Neteyam, fem!reader, Aonung, Aonung’s unnamed friends

Warnings: jealousy obv, some arguing, a small amount of yelling, Neteyam’s a little possessive

Background Info: Months after the Battle of Three Brothers Rock, the oldest Sully son finds jealousy budding in him when he sees the chief's son and his friends getting a bit too close for his liking with Y/N, his lifelong best friend that came with him and his family when they left the forest.

Neteyam rode back to the village on the back of his ilu (large plesiosaurlike sea creature) with Lo'ak and Tsireya, the three of them had left earlier that day shortly after dawn to catch fish. They went over to where all hunters would drop off their catches and dropped them off before Neteyam waved his goodbyes to the pair and swam away from them with his ilu, headed toward the beach.

He had promised you the night before that he would meet you on the beach after he went hunting, pleased when he saw you sat in the sand a bit of a ways away from him, waiting. As Neteyam got closer on his ilu he noticed Aonung and two other Metkayina boys that he recognized but didn't know the names of, standing next to you and Aonung was speaking to you, his arms crossed across his chest and a smirk on his face. Neteyam dismounted his ilu and detached his queue, allowing it to swim off before he swam over to shore, walking out of the water and shaking the water out of his braids before walking towards you and the boys.

As he neared you, he heard the end of the conversation you and Aonung were having, "Don't hesitate to ask to accompany us on a swim, Forest Girl. You'll be welcomed with open arms, anytime." Neteyam's tail flicked angrily as he picked up on the implication of Aonung's words as the boys behind him smirked and snickered, though you just blinked innocently up at the three of them and smiled a bit, not used to Aonung's kindness. "Thanks, I guess." As you responded you heard footsteps and turned to look, smiling as your best friend came into view and accepting the hand he offered to help you up when he reached you.

He returned your smile and gently rested a hand on the small of your back, missing the blush that appeared on your face at his touch as you brushed off the bit of sand on your legs. When you stood back up straight Neteyam was staring Aonung down, his ears pressed back against the sides of his head while his tail lashed around behind him, "If you don't mind, I've got plans with Y/N. See ya later fish lips." Neteyam spit the words out with venom, you looked at him a bit surprised as he never said that to Aonung’s face, and exclaimed quietly, "Nete!" as he rudely walked off, though you willingly stayed by his side and walked with him, waving goodbye to the Metkayina boys behind you. The two of you walked in silence for a bit, his hand slowly slipping down from your back until he dropped it to his side completely, ears still pressed back against his head and tail still lashing around angrily behind him as he walked.

You picked up on his sour mood and frowned a bit, gently grabbing his hand and stopping in your tracks, forcing him to stop as well and he turned to face you. "What's wrong Nete? Why are you so upset all of a sudden?" You pressed him, sighing quietly when he didn't answer and instead moved his gaze from your eyes to beside your head to avoid eye contact. You almost immediately moved your head to the side to force eye contact, both of you knowing he couldn't lie to your face as you continued speaking, "Why were you so rude to them? They have done nothing!" He scoffed quietly and the noise made your brow furrow, your own tail starting to flick against your leg in annoyance.

Neteyam once again refused to speak, though his mood seemed to calm a bit as you stared at each other. Still pressing for an answer you began to speak again, voice coming out firmer now, "Neteyam—" he growled quietly and finally spoke, cutting you off, "I don't like how they looked at you!" You looked at him, slightly confused but remained quiet to let him continue, gently squeezing his hand in yours before he turned to face you completely, standing right in front of you and gently taking your other hand in his own. "I didn't.. I hate how they spoke to you. They were definitely not only talking about going for a swim with you, though yes I am aware that that's all they were actually talking about. You are my—” He paused, eyes focused on your conjoined hands before he gently squeezed yours, eyes flicking up to meet your own, “my best friend.." He finished, your eyebrows lifting slightly as you caught on to what he almost said, though from the look in his eye you knew it was not to be said aloud just yet.

You sighed quietly, dropping his hands from your own before gently cupping his face with both your hands, eyes closing as you leaned in and gently pressed your forehead to his. You did not need him to say the word in order to understand what he had wanted to say. After a moment, he also let out a deep sigh and brought his hands up to gently hold yours against his face, your tail wrapping loosely around his calf, then you smiled when you felt his tail wrap around your thigh in return.

"Ma Neteyam.. you do not need to worry about those boys. They may be nice, but I am yours. Friend or.. otherwise." You spoke, leaning back and opening your eyes to look into his own, smiling softly as his ears perked up, thumb rubbing lightly over your hand that still cupped his cheek before he turned his head slightly and pressed a soft kiss to your palm, eyes remaining locked on yours as he did so.

"There's my Nete." You nearly whispered as he smiled down at you, the two of you just watching each other until you both noticed it had begun to get darker as eclipse set in, both of you looking up to see the sun disappearing before you looked to Neteyam again, his smile wider now "I just remembered what I wanted to show you!" With that he gently took your hands off his face but kept hold of one as he turned and started running towards where you both and the rest of his family had left their ikran (banshee) to rest, you easily kept up with him as you two went.

You reached the ikran and he let go of your hand to put on his eye guard before handing you yours, you put yours on with a smile before you both mounted your ikran and flew off together. As Neteyam flew up towards the mountain of the island, you followed him, smiling as the stars began to come out around you. It only took a few short minutes for the two of you to reach the mountain, flying into a large cave after Neteyam before you both landed your ikran, hopping off and lifting your eye guard before storing it in the small satchel that you had connected to your ikran's saddle.

Looking over to see Neteyam already watching you with a small smile on his face, you returned the smile before walking over to him, ears flicking happily as he gently took one of your hands before beginning to lead you deeper into the cave. He lead you into a tunnel and you both walked for a few minutes in the darkness, your eyes tracing over the bioluminescent dots littered across his back as he walked partially ahead of you. Eventually you made it into a different, much bigger cave and you had to momentarily cover your eyes as you had adjusted to the darkness of the tunnel.

Once your eyes adjusted to the unexpected brightness, you opened them and gasped quietly at the sight of all the large, bioluminescent plants littering every corner of the cave. Neteyam let go of your hand and smiled down at you when you looked up at him, "Found this place and thought of you immediately. Go look around, pretty girl." You smiled brightly at his words and slowly walked forward, smiling wide as you noticed that the moss on the ground of the cave glowed with every step you took, then you looked up at the ceiling and sighed happily at the sight of tons of atokirina (seeds of the great tree) flying around.

You looked behind you to see Neteyam following you with a soft smile on his face, so you walked back to him and leaned in to whisper in his ear, gently tapping his shoulder as you did so, "Tag, you're it." With that you turned and took off before he could fully process what you said, then the two of you were running through the cave, your hands brushing against the glowing leaves as you went. It didn't take long before Neteyam caught up and tackled you, turning the two of you as you fell so he would be the one to hit the ground, making a quiet "oof!" noise as he did. The two of you were laughing quietly, you rolled over to face him and curled up against his side, the dry mossy floor of the cave reminding you a lot of the forest.

Eventually you both calmed down, one of his hands playing with your hair while you traced the glowing dots across Neteyam's torso, his breath hitching quietly and hand momentarily stopping in your hair whenever your hand brushed over his abdomen though you never went further, both of you silently agreeing that it was much too early for anything of that sort between the two of you. You sighed quietly in content as you lifted your head to look at him, blushing slightly to find he was once again already watching you, a soft look in his eyes. "Thank you for bringing me here, it is beautiful." You spoke softly, noting how the dots on your own skin reflected in his eyes.

Neteyam smiled softly down at you, leaning down slightly to press a light kiss to your forehead, "Not as beautiful as you, ma yawne (my beloved)."

#mj2606k #mj2606kwrites #neteyam #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x reader #aonung #metkayina #fluff #jealousy #Neteyam is whipped #reader is whipped #female reader #he’s a little possessive

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elhokar-kholin · 2 years

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#the skateboarders i was complaining about were the skateboarders on my campus who go 1000 mph between classes #ok gen go #my posts #unnamed discord tag #stupid in chief #the hero #bros

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emporium · 1 year

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Brick Whartley: Escape From Clawland

After his short-lived stint as Chief Officer of Viral Marketing and Exponential Growth in April, Brick Whartley spent the last nine months banished relaxing on a remote, unnamed desert island 🏝️.

But one thing about Brick, a career Businessman, is that he found it difficult to relax for long. His brain bubbled over with concepts and pitches and decks and strategies for Maximizing Engagement: he just couldn’t help it! He had ants in his pants and they were saying CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

So he gave in to the call of the business plan.

First it started with a branding exercise: the island needed a name, didn’t it? He called it Carcinopolis, and, with the help of his crab buddies, began designing a brand identity. Unfortunately this brand identity was a total failure as people thought going to the island would give you cancer. But a nimble pivot to an alternative name—Clawland—saw the island make a big impact in the tourism industry, with people coming from all over to dance and party with the energetic inhabitants.

Tanned and trustable, Brick’s cachet soared, and he moved quickly onto his next project. The problem was that the tourists coming to visit the crabs left when the sun rose, having danced themselves tired. Sure, they had already paid the fare to get onto the island, but as Brick saw them shuffle exhausted down the dock to the boat, his intuition said that there was another Engagement opportunity he was missing in the morning light.

Then he saw a tourist scoop up a shell from the shore and put it in his pocket as he staggered away. Hey! Brick thought. You should be paying for that!

And thus, Brick’s Crab Emporium was born. Crab and beach-themed merch for every taste: crab earrings, shell ties, palm tree tees. His operation, staffed entirely by diligent crabs 🦀, began churning out products by the hundred.

Brick efficiently trained his employees to act as product managers, printers, and salescrabs. The Emporium was so successful that at a certain point it began running itself, and Brick once again grew bored. He wanted to expand once more beyond the bounds of his island.

True, every time he had tried, he had failed… but as he gazed out over the horizon, he felt the call of Tumblr once more. The dashboard would never truly leave him.

He took out his shellphone 🐚 and speed-dialed his secret but loyal connection on the inside. “Hey, buddy!” he said. “Listen, I’ve got a business proposal for you. Have you ever thought about taking your merch operation to the big-time? My man, I’ll cut you a deal: you bring me on as Chief Officer of Merchandising and Physical Object Engineering, and I’ll ship out a fleet of my elite craftscrabs and mailcrabs to help cut and glue and ship it all out 📦. At no additional cost! Now whaddya say to that??????”

#brick whartley #escape from clawland #tumblr merch

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writeforfandoms · 9 months

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Warrior Song 12

Find the series masterlist

The plot comes out to play. Things go poorly.

Warnings: Violence, blood, mention of death, unnamed minor character death, Plot, we're going beyond canon now, playing fast and loose with the universe rules

Word count: 1.5k

Master Chief/John-117 x f!reader

Your thigh ached worse after your impromptu nap (more like passing out for hours), but you grimaced through it as you made your way to the mess. Food would help.

The mess was almost eerily quiet. A few other people were there, despite the late hour, but nobody was talking. The soldiers all had their weapons with them, all of them visibly on alert. Far from making you feel better, it just wound your anxiety higher.

You hadn’t realized how hard the waiting would be.

You poked at your food, disinterested but knowing you needed it. Even though you couldn’t really do much to help.

Because, really, what was there? You couldn’t get in contact with Fernando. You had no ride out to him. Medbay had been fine without you, and unless there was an actual battle you’d still be more of a hindrance than a help with your thigh.

So what could you do?

Not much came to mind. You were an awful shot, and didn’t want to waste ammo by practicing. You couldn’t offer to run messages, for obvious reasons. You didn’t have the mechanical knowledge necessary to offer to help with repairs.

In short, you were more or less useless.

Unbidden, the memory of John’s voice, calm and impeccable, came back to you.

“You’re critical, as well. You’re not just a medic. You’re not replaceable.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you swallowed hard. It was impossible not to believe him. Even when you didn’t believe yourself, you believed him.

“Dammit John,” you whispered, angrily brushing a couple tears from your cheeks. You stood unsteadily and scraped your leftover food off the tray before hobbling back outside.

You just needed a minute. Just a minute.

Susurrations behind you made you stiffen, and you slowly turned around. Mess was near the center of camp, so everything in the immediate area was lit.

But further back was open territory. Sure, there were guard posts between you and there, but.

You couldn’t get over the feeling that you were being watched.

Moving carefully, you started back towards your quarters. The camp suddenly felt too quiet, too empty. Where was everyone?

More susurrations, to your left. The quiet portion of camp. Near medbay, actually.

Only the thought of Lindsay and Carter potentially in trouble had you moving towards the sound. It was perhaps not a smart thing to do, but, well… If there was trouble, you’d start screaming. And if there wasn’t trouble, you’d be able to laugh it off as your nerves getting the better of you.

There was still a light on inside. Just one.

“Carter?” you called cautiously, stepping inside and looking around. “Lindsay?” It was probably long after their shifts, but you honestly couldn’t remember the names of the other techs.

But all was silent inside.

Using the wall to help you along, you moved slowly from the entry into the hallway, looking down towards the labs. Nothing. No lights. You swallowed, heart rabbiting in your chest, some long-dormant instinct screaming about danger.

You looked the other way, towards the two treatment rooms. The one at the end of the hall had a light on, spilling out the open doorway into the hallway. But all was silent that way, too.

Maybe someone had fallen asleep? Hadn’t heard you?

You took two steps forward. On the third, you very nearly slipped in something wet on the floor, grabbing the wall for support and clenching your teeth tight against the white-hot pain that lanced up from your thigh. Breathing out hard to get a grip on the pain, you looked down to see what the hell you’d slipped in.

And froze.

Red puddled against the floor, smeared now by your careless step. More red caught your eye closer to the open doorway and the light, a splatter of it on the floor. A bit on the doorframe. Now that you were looking, you could see drips of blood leading into the room. Your blood went cold, keeping you frozen and still, shocked.

You sucked in a breath to start screaming, to summon aid, when something moved behind you. But you didn’t move in time, rough fabric going over your mouth while… something floated out of the lit room. One of the Endless, at a guess. It looked nothing like any alien species you recognized.

It also didn’t say a word as it tied your wrists together. Whatever was behind you tied the gag sturdily, muffling your shouting enough to be as good as useless.

One of them picked you up, its thrusters whining at the additional weight. When you started struggling, fighting, trying to kick, its companion grabbed you by the hair.

“If you do not cooperate, we will simply find another.” Its voice was higher than you expected and odd, with a mechanical tint to it.

But you did value your life. So you stopped struggling. Panic threatened to take your breath, but you had to stay aware. You had to stay sane. In case you could find a way to contact someone.

You were under no illusions that you’d be able to get away from two Endless on your own. Especially in your current condition. You’d maybe been downgraded to the first most harmless person on the Halo, with your damn thigh.

The Endless carried you out of medbay, going out through the lab and out the back. You spotted five dead soldiers on the way out and blinked tears out of your eyes. They hadn’t done anything to deserve this, hadn’t done anything wrong.

And there was nothing you could do to help them.

The Endless didn’t take you far. Just to a meeting point outside of base camp. The one dropped you, letting you crumple to the ground with a muffled squeak.

“This is what you bring?” Two big feet stopped in front of your gaze. But not human feet. No, these were Sangheili. You swallowed hard, shaking a little.

“He requires a human,” the Endless who had spoken before responded, sounding careless. “This one is live and unarmed.”

The Sangheili growled but a moment later picked you up, slinging you over his shoulder like a sack. The movement knocked most of the wind out of you, and you spent the next several seconds trying to breathe, not aided by the gag.

But you did feel it when the Sangheili started to run.

Well. This was it. You were going to die.

Although maybe not immediately. Someone (and you had a terrible sinking feeling you knew who) needed a human. A live one. Unarmed, you suspected, was just a bonus.

Alright. So you’d get to wherever these three were taking you, probably for some nefarious purpose. Then you’d be dead.

You closed your eyes, unable to entirely hold back the weight of your pain and despair at that. But you stayed absolutely silent, well aware that your three “escorts” likely had very, very short tempers.

The discomfort of armor digging into your middle kept you from sleeping, but you did hit a sort of fugue state, not totally aware but not actually asleep. The running was jostling, yes, but also repetitive, and the group was silent. No banter. It barely seemed like they were even cooperating, which was… interesting.

Well. It would have been more interesting if you’d had any brain power leftover to consider the implications.

The Sangheili finally slowed, and you lifted your head a little to look around. The group was just entering a cave, another entrance to the inner workings of the Halo undoubtedly. The Sangheili went first, the two Endless following.

That same blue light illuminated the way as the Sangheili traveled down and inside, following corridors. Whether there were signs that pointed the way or he just knew, you didn’t know. But you were certainly feeling turned around. (Although the amount of time you’d spend slung over the Sangheili’s shoulder certainly wasn’t helping you any.)

You couldn’t help the low groan when you were dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Well. That hurt. But you were also kind of relieved to no longer be dangling off the shoulder of the Sangheili, so…

“This is what you brought me?”

You froze. You knew that voice. You swallowed hard, heart thudding against your chest. No no no. This wasn’t happening. There was no way your luck was so abysmal that you’d been grabbed and brought down here just to die at the hands of–

“Well. You’ll do.” One hand, much too large to be human, reached down and grabbed the front of your shirt, hauling you upright as easily as if you were an errant kitten. You didn’t even fight, too caught between shock and terror.

Atriox sneered down at you. “I have work to do,” he growled, pulling you closer and closer until you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheeks, until your eyes watered, until everything else was eclipsed by the threat in front of you. “And you will help me.”

#warrior song #master chief x reader #john-117 x reader #f!reader

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