three shots in trying to figure out what bradley was planning on doing with his poli sci degree if getting in the navy didn’t pan out
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Listening to the V7 director commentary for the first time and I almost dropped my jaw when I heard Luna call the racist drunkards the "faces of Mantle" like??
You want these two assholes to represent all of Mantle yet expect the audience to give a shit when it's threatened? Fuck em and fuck Mantle!
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every now and then i get hit with the idea of what might happen if Joyce found out about the sins of s1&2 jonathan
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Reasons why I motivate myself to work on my Good Omens fanfictions:
So I can take a certain hyper popular ship everyone loves, but I despise, and tear it apart, smash it with a hammer, and set it on fire for my own entertainment. 😊 It's not like someone will do it for me.
I would say because Lady!Crowley deserves more love, but horrific things happen to her, so, I'd be a hypocrite (spoiler alert, she's fine in the end).
Anathema and Newt's family keep a raccoon named Shovels, that they dye black, and pretend is a cat.
I have four ideas put down, so far. One's an actual detective story. Two of them are crossovers with... Legion, of all things (one came to me in a dream). All involve my Antichrist OC, who wasn't supposed to have anything to do with the GO universe, until I had that damn dream.
Another motivatior - so I can work with Maxine (the Antichrist OC) more. After a long consideration, I decided to pair her up with War (in non-crossovers, in those she's with Michael), which is problematic because they're cousins (War's mother is Satan's sister)... You know, whatever. Nobody from Earth knows. It isn't anything uncommon for royalty, either. 🤣 Besides, they're both women (offspring from donors, so no biological threats), and they didn't grow up together. I just... I adore my Antichrists. They're everything to me. Max, forgive me for getting you involved in this madness of an universe, the fanfiction gods compelled me.
Honestly, my other OCs, too. Max's best friend, Cthylla (daughter of Dagon, and... You can guess. He has a habit of oversleeping), her cat Squid, Madonna Maria (a literal jackal with vile temper and a fondness for whiskey, Maxine's biological mother;), Titan the Hellhound, Agnes Device-Pulsifer, Francisco Rossi (the Second Beast, who loathes Aziraphale even more than I do, for absollutely no reason)...
Off with Pollution, Pestilence is being reinstated to his rightful place.
I'm eager to work with canon characters like War, Michael (Legion and GO version), and Hastur - all of who, I adore
I am kind of a hater in this fandom. In the end, I've realized, fanfiction must be written for oneself, not the fandom. I will not apologize for doing what I want, with characters (and their genders) in a fic. Nor for heavily focusing on my OCs (even making them the main focus - it's something that I love doing).
The only thing I do feel some guilt for? I remember Neil Gaiman saying he likes stories where women saves themselves, which I completely agree with, yet Lady Crowley gets saved by others, most of the times... I guess, she's just in situations nobody could save themselves from. Now, her healing is another can of worms maybe that could be counted as her saving herself).
Oh... I hope no one who reads this took it as me attacking them, or mocking them, for liking what I don't. I kind of sounded like someone's evil grandma, threatening to throw their favorite toys in the trash can. 🤣 I'm just writing down my thoughts in an edgy manner. Think of this as a literal angsty, but hopeful diary page.
When I said I'm a "hater", I meant I personally have a very odd, unconventional relationship with Good Omens and it's characters. It's a... "I don't like how you're portraying biblical mythology, but I will always love you". I love Neil Gaiman. I don't know anyone im the fandom anymore, but I all the hearts to them, too. I'm just the designated class contrarian. My stories, like all fanfiction, are seperate universes from canon (and I mean no disrespect to it; the fanfiction wouldn't be here if canon wasn't).
Why do I keep hurting Crowley? I don't know, my relationship with the character is very complicated also. I find him annoying, but I named my stuffed snake after him. 🐍
Why did I write this down and post it? Because I've noticed I'm more likely to get something done after I get on a barrel, and anounce I will. These stories are so fun to write... Fine, that was kind of a lie. I'm picking at Ch. 1 of the dream storyline, and it makes me want to cry.
P.S. - I didn't see season 2, and I have no intention to (though my mom is badgering me to watch it; she's also scolding me for hurting Crowley).
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Anyone else have beef with random historical figures for no good reason. Had to make a presentation about Augustine of Hippo once for a shitty college class but I hated the book we were learning from (see tags) so I associated the two together and now everytime I see his name I furrow my eyebrows and say "Augustine..." like he's my nemesis
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Look elocution is not everything but I really feel that if you’re running to be Tory leader, you should *probably* make sure that you pronounce the letter ‘d’ at the end of words.
Otherwise you might end up like Liz Truss, who just inadvertently said that you could trust her to “help squeeze families”.
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i really like making my ttrpg characters open books and having little to no backstory secrets, especially if they’re naturally kinda manipulative people, makes them more trustworthy to the party. plus, it gives me such opportunity to make secrets along the way <3
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"half the people in this room hate me and the other half only voted for me because they think i pushed someone in front of a bus" literally lula after winning the 2022 general elections.
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postcanon fics where they go on about political minutiae are truly so boring but it is really funny when lwj also expresses that. like 'fulfilling my bureaucratic duties in the wake of a catastrophic blow to the cultivation world is my second priority, my first priority is fucking my husband so hard he can't walk the next day ALWAYS'
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please tell us more about your mad theory about the tories getting rid of Sunak?
So the Tories currently have two (2) major problems.
Problem the first: they are about to lose power as soon as the GE rolls around, which it must do by January 2025 at the absolute latest. And the country is baying for one sooner.
This is very much preoccupying their minds at the minute. The rich and powerful will never willingly let you vote away their wealth and power, and to put this into perspective, the Tory party has ruled this country either jointly or alone for over a decade at this point. One of David Cameron's strategies as leader was to focus on recruitment of young and exciting diverse Tories into the party, which is how we got such stellar entries as Liz Truss and Priti Patel and Suella Braverman. These are MPs, therefore, who have never known political life outside of being on the winning side. They are seeing the end of the gravy train in sight, and they are taking it as well as you'd expect.
This is why the infighting is so rife (partly; bear with). The main thing they care about right now is making the party electable again, and fast.
But...
Problem the second: like all good fascist dictators, when Boris Johnson came to power, he fired everyone who said anything bad about him for disloyalty, and promoted all his personal friends. This is how we got such stellar entries as Nadine Dorries and Jacob Rees Mogg and Michael Fabricant. But THAT'S an issue because saying bad things about BJ is basically what intelligent people did, because the man was a useless blundering oaf who killed horrifying numbers of his own electorate via the world's second worst mismanagement of a global pandemic. So removing anyone who criticised him meant, in very real terms, removing the only Tories with half a brain who were even a fraction capable of doing joined up thinking required to run a country. Like, fuck every Tory with a cactus, obviously, but they did at least used to have competent, high calibre politicians, however evil and grotesque they were. David Cameron should die in a cesspit, but he was capable of remembering to put the bins out (before wage cutting the refuse collectors).
And therein lies the real problem: okay, BJ is gone, the party is in ruin, they're staring down the barrel of the most humiliating election defeat in history. They need someone competent that they all like who can take the reins and make people like them again.
But who's left?
There's no one. There's no one left. Not just because the remaining Tories are too low calibre to lead; they're too low calibre to even be able to pick someone without shrieking like cliquey little harridans on the playground about how the wrong in-group got in. Half of them are still BJ loyalists who hate anyone who criticise The Great Brexit Leader. The other half hate BJ for managing to make everyone hate the Tories so much that they're in this mess. Both halves are willing to sabotage the chosen leader of the other, locked in a battle of mutually assured destruction.
So how does Sunak fit into this?
He's unpopular in the party to a truly staggering degree, and not much better in the eyes of the public. He's tried to take a centrist stance on BJ, but that's actually just pissed off both sides. He did manage to stabilise the economy somewhat after the appalling mess Liz Truss threw it into, but he hasn't actually fixed it - we're still mid-cost of living crisis, we're still inexplicably not rich after Brexit like Boris prommied, inflation is still at an all time high as public services crash. The public hates him.
And he hasn't made the public stop hating the Tories. That petition calling for a GE is great, because it won't happen - BUT, it does force the issue to be debated in Parliament with opposition parties getting to stick the boot in, which means the humiliation continues. The Tories are starting to get desperate again.
And because this lot of Tories are, as mentioned, utterly terrible low-calibre political idiots, their response to this pressure has for the last four years been to oust the leader and get another.
And the first letters of no confidence have been sent into the 1922 Committee already. The devil moves fast, but knuckle dragging Tories with a fifth of a braincell each move faster.
And thanks to the absolute fucking state of them all... I cannot believe I'm saying these words, but genuinely the best person they have left who could possibly do the job is, of all fucking people, Michael Fucking Gove, and it won't even be him because he was mean to Boris once.
So yeah. I reckon Sunak may be out in six months. Fuck knows who we get instead. Probably Penny Mordaunt.
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Omg please more Bimbo!reader x Mafia!Konig!!! I AM FERAL FOR IT! Your writing is so good! Can you maybe do some fluff with them! If not it’s totally fine! Thank you so so so much!<3
Konig smiles tiredly as you dance around in your bikini, showing it off to him. He doesn't understand how two tiny pieces of fabric and some jewels joining them could cost this much, but he will buy anything for his princess - as long as it means she will be happy and content with him. Throwing money at the problem is the only way he knows - either this or shooting the problem, which is clearly not an option here. He just tilts his head to the side as you laugh and ask for more pina coladas - it's a good thing he hired a new bartender for this property. The last one made the mistake of trying to get the lady of the house something cheap and artificial - you were still drinking it like a part girl you are, but Konig prefers you spend his money on something good. Something shiny and expensive - like a golden necklace with little diamonds incrusted into some magic ornament.
He had a rough week - a rough month, most likely, with the new, almost uncorrupted politician rising in Vienna and promising to get the criminals away from the city. It was a problem he was solving currently - getting the secretaries, getting the bodyguards, surrounding the new guy with old ones, trying to get back into the warm underbelly. Konig just needs a bit of a pick-him-up, someone who won't be questioning his every move. Someone who has no idea how hard his work is.
He slaps your butt as you stroll around, and you giggle. A godlike image - you lean down to him and ask if it would be too weird if you get on his lap and make out with him. You're a bit shy in the open air, a bit self-conscious about the servants he has running around - but he grabs you by your hip and pulls you down. You smell like expensive perfume and a bit of a water-cleaning chemical from the pool, and you laugh when he kisses you. You don't ask him about the gang wars, about drugs - you don't even take those unless he gives you something fun and non-dangerous, and your latest concerns include a new dress and a massage that you wanted to try on him because you saw it on insta.
Konig loves you because he can finger you on the little pool seat while you squirm and moan while his other hand is busy texting his crooks on what to do with the most recent secretary the new politician got. Poor guy is going to get tortured for information and killed in the best-case scenario, but Konig doesn't feel remotely bad. He has his pretty wife meowing and moaning on his lap as he buries two of his large fingers into her cunt, and he has the informant on his phone. Life is good.
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Of Sea Foam and Iron [1]
general masterlist | series masterlist | taglist
Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap
your beauty was meant to be a blessing, not a curse. the only way your father can keep you safe is by marrying you off to an ugly, scarred blacksmith. at first, it seems like your new husband wants nothing to do with you. you eventually learn that's not the case at all.
wc: 4.8k
warnings: historical au with lots of inaccuracies, blood/gore/violence, minor self-harm ideation (no sh happens), arranged marriage, reader is a virgin, reader is very shallow, nudity, fear of sex, ancient standards of women (the characters aren't actually gods, but rather god-coded. they're mortal, but still fit the symbolism of said gods)
When you were a child, people often told you that your beauty was a gift from the gods, and for the longest time you believed them.
Certainly, it was only by Aphrodite’s grace that you were able to hold yourself with such elegance and outshine even the most precious of gems and metals. Even as a young girl your father adorned you with flashy jewelry as if to prove to anyone who laid eyes on you that you were the only creature in the world that could make gold appear dull. You enjoyed every moment your father spent parading you around because that’s what love was supposed to be; the unconditional admiration of all those that were so far beneath you.
It wasn’t until you became of courting age that you learned better. Gifts of fine silk and flashy jewelry were commonly sent to your father by countless suitors, and while they were beautiful, he sent every single one of them back. Simple gifts of cloth and metal were not good enough for your fathers beautiful daughter. If a man were to wed you, he would have to offer up something that your father could not provide for you himself.
Countless suitors visited your abode where they would drink wine with your father and eat the freshest fruit while they attempted to gain his favor. Sometimes, you were permitted to sit in on their discussion, though you were not allowed to speak and no one was allowed to speak to you. You sat silent and unwavering like a transformed tree nymph, capable of only observing the events that unraveled around you as you stared at the man who sat in front of your father.
His name was unremarkable, something you didn’t think you could remember even if it had been carved into your skin. He was not handsome nor ugly, but you could tell by the vibrant color of his chiton that he was of nobility. A philosopher's son, or even a politician. Personally, you guessed a politician due to his sharp tongue and even sharper gaze. Every instance in which his eyes landed on you, you felt as if you needed to check your skin for cuts.
All the silver in the world couldn’t gild his tongue enough to grant him the ability to convince your father to let him take your hand in marriage. There was no amount of cattle or coin that your father seemed content in trading you for, and you watched in silent horror as the man stood from the table with his finger pointed in accusation. A finger turned into a blade all too fast, and it wouldn’t take long for blood to stain the stone floor of your home.
In either anger, frustration, or arrogance, your suitor had dared to pull a blade on the man that raised you. His blade was well made, built for killing men, but even in his old age your father picked up the very same knife he used to cut up fruit to carve into the man's stomach. The odor of his offals was putrid and you covered your mouth as you watched the man attempt to keep his organs within the confines of his skin. He failed miserably, and his body joined his insides as he collapsed on the floor as a bloody and gasping mess.
It was then that you learned love was not at all something gentle and sweet. Love was the spilling of blood in a brash act of violence and the decaying scent of rotting intestines. Love was what started the war of the Trojans where countless men lost their lives in gruesome battles. Helen of Troy brought the end of an empire simply by existing. You had brought the death of a man for that same crime.
As your father turned to face you with red and sticky hands, he finally realized what a suitor could provide to you that he could not; protection. Because despite his reflexes, and the body that laid on the floor in front of him to cool, his age would soon catch up to him. There would be a day where you would be alive and he would not, and should that day come before you were to find a husband, he was certain no one would live to tell the tale. Your beauty was not a gift from the gods, but a curse that could damn a nation to ruin, and it was his responsibility to ensure you were protected no matter the cost.
After that day, your father would not accept any more suitors into his home. No matter how much they groveled at the door, or begged to see even the faintest glimpse of you, they were all cast away back into the streets in which they came. For months, your father combed the city himself in search of a man who came even anywhere close to being worthy of your hand. During that time, you only ever set foot outside if you were in the enclosed courtyard of your fathers estate, otherwise you spent most of your time hidden away on the second floor where no visitors, man or woman, was allowed to see you.
Trapped in your own home, your mind began to wander to places even darker and more morbid than the Underworld itself. If you didn’t walk with such grace and have an air of beauty about you, then you would have never found yourself in that predicament in the first place. Some frustrated and upset part of you was tempted to disfigure yourself. Maim your face with a knife and become something no one could bear to behold. Maybe then at least you’d be able to pick your own husband. But if your beauty truly was a gift from the gods, and not at all a curse like it felt, you wouldn’t dare to cast their grace aside, lest you face the consequences.
Eventually, your father found a suitable man for you to marry. You had begun to think that he would never be able to find anyone that would meet his standards, and yet one day he returned home with the triumphant news. Your soon-to-be-husband’s name was Simon Riley, and you were to be wedded to him before Apollo drew his chariot across the sky the next day.
You knew nothing about this man besides the very few things your father would tell you over your last meal together. Simon Riley was an artisan, a blacksmith to be more specific. He often spent his days slaving over a fire as he bent iron and bronze to his will. In your mind you could already see his hands darkened from burns and skin wet with sweat from the heat. A man who could shape something as cold and unforgiving as metal certainly was a man to be reckoned with, yet plenty of artisans before him had asked to wed you.
What made him so different?
That question plagued your mind in the early hours of the morning as you washed yourself in the cooling water of your bath. Usually a nuptial bath would be given under much brighter circumstances, both literally and emotionally. As a young girl you always imagined that the sun would stream through the window and light up the water in the same way ocean waves sparkled at sunset. Instead, you bathed by candlelight as you purified yourself for your marriage, because marrying off a soiled daughter was unforgivable, no matter how beautiful you were.
Once you were clean and smothered in as many fragrant oils as your skin could hold, you donned your peplos and veil for the ceremony. Beautiful garments, the white fabric hung off your body and cascaded down your legs like foam, and the veil was as red as a blazing fire to ward off any ill spirits. If this was any normal wedding, people from leagues around would come to see you in your attire, to get a chance to attempt to bask in your beauty, yet it was no normal wedding. The only people who would see you dressed like that would be your father and your new husband.
“It’s safer this way,” your father attempted to soothe you. The night air was cool against your anxious skin as the two of you snuck through abandoned streets. It had felt like an eternity since you were able to travel along the worn stone, and it was only because you were to be transferred off to the care of another man. “There will be time for proper celebration later. No one will dare lay a hand on you under the care of your husband.”
An odd tingling sensation plagued your skin the closer you got to Simon Riley’s home, and the moment you laid eyes on the structure, you knew it was his. It felt like it was prophesied in a dream. Approaching the steps to the door felt strangely like coming home, yet it was wrong. This abode would not be a home, but a prison in which to keep you safe.
As if he sensed your presence, the man who you assumed to be Simon Riley stepped through the door and into the dim street. Darkness shrouded his figure, making it difficult to discern specific features through your veil, but his height was easily noticeable. He towered well above both you and your father as if he were a titan, and he was just as broad as an ox. Power and confidence exuded from him, and the only weakness he showed was a limp as he walked down the steps to the street.
“Quickly,” your father prompted as the man approached, “lift the veil and she is yours. Yours to cherish. To protect.”
Simon stopped in front of you and stood still for so long you feared he second guessed the whole arrangement. As much as you didn’t really want to get married, not like that in the darkness of a street in front of a stranger's home, you knew it was necessary. You would not be the reason more blood was spilled over pathetic jealousy. A part of you just wished that everything was as glamorous as was once promised to you.
Eventually you watched as his fingers pinched the sheer fabric of your veil and he peeled back your disguise with so much care it was as if he was afraid to harm you. There in the dim glow of the impending dawn, you saw your husband for the first time. He stood as tall as a warhorse and just as scarred as one. His nose was large and crooked and adorned with puffy, raised tissue that threatened the thin skin of his eye and tender rose of his lips. Dull eyes scanned the features of your face as he let the veil fall along your back. Despite your beauty, he almost seemed uninterested in you, and you weren’t sure if you should have been grateful for that.
“It is done,” your father concluded. He held out the leather pack that he had gathered a handful of your items in. Clothes, a few necklaces and bracelets, and a hairbrush was all you had to your name. Should you need anything else, your new husband would provide for you. “Hurry, inside. She is yours, now. Keep her safe.”
Without hesitation, Simon took your pack from your fathers hands before he rested his hand on your low back. Even through the fabric of your dress you could feel the coarseness of his palm as he urged you up the stone steps towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder and took in the view of your fathers features. For all you knew, it was the last time you would ever get to see him.
“You have my word,” Simon promised. Those were the first words you had heard him speak, and they were an oath.
Pale candlelight consumed you as Simon closed the door behind the two of you, locking you in your new home. It was only then that the true panic began to rattle its cry within your ribcage. You had been given away to a man you had never met before in the name of protecting you, and yet you had still been wedded all the same. There were certain expectations given to a new wife, one that you knew a man would be stupid to not take advantage of with a woman of your blessing. The very idea made your hands clammy, and you found yourself running your palms along your peplos in an attempt to rid yourself of the moisture.
“Come,” Simon urged as he crossed through the entryway.
Obeying him, you followed close behind him with careful and light feet as he led you through your new home. There was a vague scent of sweet fruit and warm bread that trailed behind you as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor. Though you tried to ignore it, your eyes couldn’t look away from the obvious limp in his step. His short chiton revealed several gnarly scars on his left leg even more fierce than the ones on his face. It was as if someone attempted to hack his knee off with a dull blade and pitifully failed. Was this man, this battered and ugly man, truly supposed to be your protector?
Simon brought you to a room that was obviously his bed chambers, and had you not felt slight terror about the events that might unfold in that room, you would have been utterly stunned. Never before had you seen a bed so large. Sure, the man himself nearly scraped the ceiling with the top of his head, and so it only made sense that his bed matched his size, but it was near ridiculous. Its width spanned nearly from wall to wall, wide enough to fit three grown men comfortably, and the length had a good foot on Simon, if not more. There was hardly enough room for anything else in the area because the object took up the entire space of the chamber.
“Rest. You look exhausted,” he said as he sat your pack on the end of the bed.
Confused, you looked up at him with narrow eyes as he gestured to the bed. You had the strange feeling that he would not be sated until you were at least seated on the bed, so you followed his outstretched hand and sat on the edge of the bed next to your pack. It was strangely comfortable, and dipped in low enough to swallow you whole. You wondered how much wool was used to create such a plush mattress.
Instead of joining you in bed, your husband took a step toward the doorway before he turned to face you once more. Early dawn light bled through the closed wooden shutters on the window, which illuminated his face but didn’t make his features any less dull.
“Help yourself to anything. What’s mine is yours. Plenty of food in the kitchen when you get hungry. If you can’t find something you need, ask,” he explained simply.
He spoke to you as if you were some lowly slave, and not his wife. His wife who had caused the death of a man just by beauty alone, a woman who had men lining up for miles for the chance of laying eyes on you, and he spoke to you like that?
“Where will you be?” you questioned.
“Working,” he answered gruffly. “My forge is in the courtyard. Don’t walk out there barefoot.”
He didn’t give you the chance to ask any other questions before he limped out the doorway where his footsteps fell heavy against the wooden floor like thunder. There you sat, at the edge of the bed, still in your wedding clothes, abandoned by your husband. Still, an odd relief washed over you at the realization that you were alone. He had not stripped you bare before him and fucked you into that ungodly large bed like you had expected him to. Grateful that you had not yet had your virginity taken from you, you did as Simon had instructed. It had been over a day since you had last properly slept as you spent the entire night getting ready for your rather depressing wedding ceremony, and that weight bore down on you relentlessly.
Removing your peplos, you donned a much lighter chiton before you stood at the side of the bed. Wool and animal skin blankets laid across the bed in layers and you peeled them back to crawl underneath. As you sunk down into the mattress, you were enveloped by a scent of musk and fragrant oils that was oddly intoxicating. The weight of the blankets on top of you held you in place, willing your eyes to close. Simon Riley was a strange man, but at least his bed was nice.
There were many things you learned about your husband that day, none of which he told you himself. He was a very quiet man who truly spent most of his time working at the forge. On the first day you had been wed, you snuck a glance out of one of the windows to watch him work over sweltering coals and steaming air. Though his legs seemed lame, his arms had no such problem. Thick muscles flexed and went taut as he brought his hammer down upon white hot metal to bend it into shape. Sweat lined his brow, which he would wipe at with his forearm every now and then, and though his face was a right mess, you realized the rest of him wasn’t too bad to look at. He knew how to make a variety of things, from tongs to signs to swords, and he was paid handsomely for his work, judging by the large pile of coins and bartering items you would find on the table at the end of the work day.
He never sat down for proper meals, but while he worked he ate enough to feed two grown men, which only made sense given his size. Lamb seemed to be his favorite, and there was plenty of it. Dried and seasoned jerky, a leg he would roast on a spit to then shred and add to bread, or even some he would fry in a pan. Your help with anything was unnecessary. He never asked you to cook, or clean, or assist in selling his products; Simon was completely self sufficient.
The thing that caught you most off guard about him was the fact that he slept naked. Your first night together, while you were already in bed, he shamelessly stripped his dusty chiton off and tossed it on the floor, baring himself completely to you. It was your first time ever seeing a man naked, and even in the darkness you could make out the silvery scars that tore through his skin. He was completely covered in them, and you couldn’t help but wonder which of the gods had cursed him with such a body; something that could have been strong, beautiful, and powerful, only to be covered with errors.
When he climbed into bed next to you, your eyes couldn’t help but glance further down to where his cock hung heavy between his legs. He wasn’t even hard, yet the size of it matched that of the rest of him, and you could feel your heart jump in your throat. Yet that night he still did not take you. Instead, the two of you slept on opposite sides of the bed facing away from one another with nothing but empty space between your bodies. He would not fuck you, and that confused you. Something must have been wrong with his body, littered with scars and abnormalities. Or maybe he was the only man in the entire world who was immune to your gift from Aphrodite.
If you remained a virgin for much longer, perhaps you could escape and become an acolyte.
The next month went by like this. He would speak a few words to you, spend his entire day working, and then sleep naked next to you in a bed large enough for a bear. He was not cruel, at least, in fact he was quite the opposite. There was always enough food for you that he would set aside on a special plate, and he bought you a new chiton when you had accidentally torn your old one, but no matter what, he did not seem interested in you. It was as if you were something for him to take care of, rather than something for him to love.
But that was what your father had wanted for you, wasn’t it?
Like a caged dove, you spent most of your days peering out of the second story windows to gaze at the city. Busy streets bustled with traders and artisans alike, and you would watch them mingle as they weaved between buildings like ants. On windy days you could smell the salt of the ocean, and you would long for the days when you were a young girl, collecting shells along the shoreline as sea foam gathered around your ankles. Things seemed more colorful back then. As a married woman, everything in your world seemed to only be the shade of stone.
One day after a heavy rain, some excitement had been brought back into your life. It started with the sound of triumphant horns followed quickly by cheering. Deep, bass drums echoed throughout the streets, drawing you to your window once more where you saw countless men in a march spanning further than you could see. Their red chitons and leather armor branded them as soldiers, and you watched in awe as they paraded through the streets after what was obviously another successful campaign.
But there was one soldier above all others who towered over them upon a warhorse adorned with armor and a mighty spear. Even from a distance you knew that this man was John MacTavish. He was a soldier bred and born for war as if the only thing he knew how to do was kill. People often said he was bestowed his gifts of war by the God of War himself, Ares, and it was a tough speculation to deny. Countless lives had been taken by his hands alone, and no matter the odds of the battle, he always came home victorious and smiling. You had seen his face only once before in the last victory parade he marched in, but you could never quite get his grin out of your mind.
“I’m heading into the city,” Simon said behind you.
Despite his sheer size and thunderous footsteps, your husband had managed to sneak up behind you, startling you half to death. You spun so that your back was to the window to face that goliath of a man with a racing heart.
“Will you be alright on your own?” he asked.
Still trying to calm your racing heart, you nodded.
“Good,” he concluded as he began to walk away. “There is a sword in the kitchen. If anyone attempts to harm you while I’m gone, use it.”
He didn’t give you any time to explain that you had no idea how to wield a sword, let alone kill a man, before he vanished down the stairs. Moments later you heard the doors to the courtyard open and close, and Simon’s body melted into all the other figures in the streets below you. It wasn’t his first time leaving you alone, after all, he had to get materials for his work somehow, but it was his first time instructing you to use a sword to protect yourself. You figured the countless soldiers that flooded the city had him on edge.
But if that was the case, why would he leave in the first place?
As you waited for him to return, you couldn’t help but meander down to the kitchen in search of this sword he instructed you to seek out. It didn’t take you long to find it, as he had left it right in the middle of the table next to your lunch. Beautiful iron extended strongly a good foot or so in what was the most well crafted shortsword you had ever seen. Dark wood formed the grip, and there was a flared base made of gleaming brass for the pommel. This looked different than his other works. There was more flair to it, like it was more of a gift than something he would sell for coin.
With tender fingers, you reached for the grip and took it in hand. Its weight was heavy, more so than you had anticipated. Holding it was awkward as it felt like it wanted to fall forward no matter how high up you held it, and you huffed as you attempted an amateur swing. Unsteady, your strike would have hardly broken the skin of any intruder. When you set the blade back on the table, the memories of your dead suitor bubbled up in your mind. The sheen of his blade as he drew it on your father, the blood and offal that spilled on the floor shortly after, and the reeking stench of death that followed. You weren’t sure if you could ever do such a thing.
Simon was gone for only half an hour before you heard the sound of the courtyard doors swing open with a creak. You gazed down at your half empty plate where you had snacked on fresh fruits and cheeses while you waited for his return. Sticky juices coated your fingers which you quickly cleaned with your mouth before you stood from your seat and left to greet your husband.
He wasn’t alone. Another man accompanied him clad in light armor and a sword strapped to his hip; a soldier, likely one of the men who had just returned home. This man’s chin bore a hefty scar, and still despite it he was one of the most handsome men you had ever laid eyes on. Battle hardened muscles bulged out of his uniform, and your gaze couldn’t help but fall to his powerful thighs as he took a few steps into the courtyard. It wasn’t until you saw him smile that you realized who this man was; this was John MacTavish. The hailed hero of your city, its greatest defender, a man who could cut down hundreds and come back smiling through the blood.
Simon hardly had the time to shut and lock the courtyard doors behind him before John’s hands gripped the fabric of his chiton. Words escaped you but your mouth opened in a silent plea. Were they about to fight? Was this soldier, Ares’s wild dog, about to slaughter your husband right in front of your very eyes? Your hands flew to the doorframe to steady yourself as you watched Simon stumble forward while John yanked him closer. You could already smell the gore, imagine the pink intestines and organs that would spew from your husband’s body and all you could do was stand there and watch in horror as John… kissed him?
This man, this near mythical being who had won countless battles in the name of your city, pressed his lips against your husband’s with such passion it left you stunned. And it was not at all unwelcomed, it seemed, as Simon’s hands rested on the man’s waist and returned the notion, curving his spine enough to meet the man's height more comfortably. As they embraced one another in front of you, the horror on your face quickly melted into confusion.
“I missed you,” John muttered as his lips separated from Simon’s.
“I’ve dreamt of this day ever since you left,” Simon countered, his voice more tender than it ever had been with you.
But John would not be the highly acclaimed soldier that he was if he hadn’t felt the prying eyes staring at their intimate moment. Eyes as blue as the ocean turned to land on you, and your jaw slammed shut underneath his inquisitive gaze. He was not secretive in the way he looked over all your features, scanning first your face and then lower, over the curve of your hips and the hidden flesh of your thighs. While he nearly licked his lips at the sight of you, his obvious attraction did little to cover the confusion hidden in his eyes.
“I didn’t realize we had a visitor,” John admitted humorously as he glanced at Simon.
As you waited for your husband's response, you glanced at him in hope to receive an answer to the storm of questions that raged in your mind. But there was something different about his gaze. Rather than contentment, something else ignited in the darkness of his eyes that blazed just as bright as the forge he slaved over day and night. Whatever flat expression he normally gave you transformed into something so shining it almost looked like love.
“She is no visitor,” he claimed with pride. “She is our wife.”
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"Revolution" - Modern Politician!Aemond Targaryen x Reader (AHS Cult AU)
Summary: Getting a job working Aemond Targaryen's presidential campaign is a dream come true. Or is it?
Word Count: 3,650
Rating: 18+, Minors DNI
TW: DUBIOUS CONSENT DUE TO POWER IMBALANCE, afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, high heel kink, tiddy succin, oral f receiving, p in v sex, unprotected sex, daddy kink, spanking, office sex, aemond perving idk, aemond being weird
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Fire & Blood/House of the Dragon characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
When you received the email confirming you were accepted as an intern for Aemond Targaryen’s presidential campaign, you’re not ashamed to say you shrieked into your pillow for a good five minutes before calling and bragging to the rest of your friends. Working on the campaign trail is every poli sci major’s wet dream, let alone on the campaign trail for the one and only Aemond Targaryen. Young, handsome, charismatic - he’s the entire package one wants in a presidential candidate. The man practically has a cult following of loyal supporters, lobbyists, and fellow politicians, all of whom believe he’ll make an excellent president like his father Viserys before him. Some try to cry nepotism when it comes to how he managed to become the Socialist Party of Westeros’ candidate, but as far as you’re concerned? The man has more than earned his place in the political world.
You still remember the day Professor Otto Hightower, your thesis advisor, suggested you apply for the internship. He said you had one of the brightest, sharpest minds he’d seen in his many years teaching at Citadel University, and that he believed you’d be a perfect addition to his grandson’s campaign. He wrote you a stellar letter of recommendation, as did Professor Lannister, both of whom truly believed you’d be perfect for the internship.
You walk into his campaign office, a spring in your step, wearing a black pencil skirt with an emerald green blouse and green high heels. Are you being a bit of a kiss ass and wearing the boss’s favorite color? Yes, yes you are. And you don’t regret it, especially when he passes by the desk where you’re doing your outreach phone calls and gives you the tiniest of smiles as he eyes you up and down. He even compliments your work, something your fellow intern, Floris, tells you is completely unheard of. Aemond usually delegates his older brother, Aegon, to deal with interns. But after you arrive? He’s always stopping by for a quick chat, asking what sort of projects you’re working on.
It isn’t long before he promotes you to the position of his personal assistant, promptly firing your predecessor, one Alys Rivers, who gives you the cuntiest look you’ve ever seen another person ever give your way as she carries her box full of personal effects out of the office.
You fall into a rhythm of arranging Aemond’s speeches, meetings, running his lunch, his drycleaning, making his coffee, everything. Floris jokes that the man is completely dependent on you. And you enjoy the attention. After all, you believe in the ideals Aemond stands for. His looks don’t hurt either, though you’re careful not to come across like a blushing schoolgirl. You’re in your final year at the best university in the country working on your thesis, after all. You’re here to be taken seriously.
But it’s hard to keep your resolve when he looks at you like he does, like a starved predator seeing its next meal. As you enter his office, bright and early as usual, his gaze moves to your legs, taking in your exposed calves, down to your feet in those pretty emerald green heels. His lips turn up in the slightest hint of a smirk as he nods at you, accepting his coffee, beginning to drink it.
“Your 9AM is here, sir. Should I send him in?” you ask, glancing at your tablet, stylus poised to check in Aemond’s guest if he so wishes.
Aemond gives you a short nod, his good eye never once leaving you, standing up and adjusting his tie. You watch as his large hands move, unable to stop yourself from admiring the prominent veins on them, thinking to yourself that he must work out quite a bit to look like that. You shake yourself out of it when he tells you to show them in and nod with a “yes, sir” and turn away. As you walk away, Aemond’s eye runs over your body, taking in just how fucking delicious you look in that pencil skirt, the way it clings to your ass and thighs like a second skin. He lets out a low hum of contentment before running a hand through his hair, waiting patiently for you to return.
When you come back, you lead in none other than the most prominent lobbyist from the Riverlands, Larys Strong, owner of Harrenhal Enterprises. Aemond doesn’t have any fondness for the man, but knows he needs to win over some of the big corporations to get adequate funding for the campaign. Larys is quite rodent-like, if not in appearance then in mannerisms, he notes. Larys tries to speak to him about his mother, mentioning cryptically that they go way back. Aemond resists the urge to punch Larys in the face as you pour the rat a cup of coffee. Larys’s eyes travel along your calves to your feet, sitting pretty in those high heels. Aemond frowns at the way Larys licks his lips at the sight of your feet, quickly dismissing you. You give your boss a grateful smile and hastily make your way back to your desk outside.
Well after the meeting is over and Aemond has secured the support of Harrenhal enterprises, you knock on his door, poking your head in, “Can I get your lunch order, sir? It’s nearly half eleven.”
He looks up, meeting your eyes and nods, “Just a salad with grilled chicken like the one you got me yesterday, thank you.”
You enter his order, tapping away at your tablet. Aemond chances it and lets his good eye roam your cleavage, admiring the Seven Pointed Star pendant that’s nestled between your breasts. So you’re a nice, sept-attending girl, he muses.
“You’ve got it, sir, anything to drink?” you ask before handing him a file, “And here are the polling numbers after your speech last night.”
When you lean over to hand him said file, it’s like he can hear the whole hallelujah chorus at the view of your tits that you give him. He drags his gaze up to your face and clears his throat.
“Just a coffee. You know how I like it.”
Aemond watches the sway of your hips as you walk away, listening to the tell-tale clacking of your stiletto heels. He feels uncomfortably hard in the Armani trousers he’s wearing and thinks to himself how nice it would be if his pretty little assistant helped him out with the problem as he looks over the documents you’ve given him to review. Polling numbers are at an all-time high, he observes. He also appreciates the little flags and notes you’ve put into the document to optimize his next speech, giving an amused smile. An overachiever, desperate to please. Oh, he can definitely work with that.
He decides to take a second look at your personnel file. Political science major from Citadel University, top of your class. Young. Eager. Hungry. A big supporter of his policies. A slight smirk plays across his lips. You’re just perfect for him, and for what he needs from you. Having you on his side is certainly a bonus, and he’s considering letting you in on everything, especially if it involves getting you and that cute little ass of yours into his bed.
Around twenty or so minutes later, you return with his lunch, a bright cheery smile on your face as you place the bag on his desk, “Here you are, sir. Straight from the Neiman Marcus restaurant as requested.”
He nods, taking it from you and murmuring his thanks, glancing at your breasts again before requesting, “Can you close the blinds? The sun is giving me a bit of a headache.”
“Oh, of course,” you acquiesce, moving behind him to close the blinds, bending over slightly to grab the remote for them.
Aemond’s gaze trails down your back, admiring the curve of your ass as you bend over, thinking how he could just grab you and have his way with you right now. And you’d probably thank him, sweet little ingénue that you are. He takes a bite of his lunch, still keeping an eye on you.
“Your dry cleaning is going to be delivered around 2PM,” you inform him, checking your notes, “And you still need to sign off on the speechwriter’s paycheck. I have it here.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he watches as you preen at the term of endearment, signing the check and handing it back to you, letting his fingers linger over yours.
Gods, your hand is so soft. It would feel so perfect wrapped around his cock, touching him-
He struggles to remove the image from his head, instead asking, “I was wondering,” his voice is low, almost a seductive purr as he stares at you intently, “Do you think you’d be able to stay back for a little bit longer today? There are a couple of things I could really use your help with.”
And, of course, eager little thing that you are, you nod vehemently, “Of course. I’d be more than happy to help with whatever you need.”
What he needs, Aemond muses, is that pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock.
“Great,” he smiles at you before leaning back in his chair slightly, “Time for you to put those political science skills of yours to use and help me write something. Have a seat.”
You take a seat beside him as he instructs you, trying not to let your nerves get to you, “I’d be honored. What do you need me to do exactly, sir?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to draft a speech for tomorrow’s event,” he tells you, gaze trailing down to the exposed skin of your thigh as you cross your legs, “But I’ve found that I get distracted when I try to write it by myself.”
“Don’t you pay speechwriters for that?” you ask, a bit confused.
He chuckles, “Well, yes, usually. They’ve sent me several drafts of the speech, but,” Aemond pauses for a moment, leaning in to you as though he’s telling you a secret, “I haven’t been entirely happy with any of them. They’re just not… Passionate enough.”
You’re silent for a moment before speaking, “If I may, sir? I always thought your improvised speeches were the best. You’re so, as you said, passionate when you give them and it really shows that you genuinely care what you’re talking about.”
Aemond nods emphatically, “You see? That’s what I keep telling the speechwriters! They insist that they know what they’re doing but,” he trails off, “I just feel like those speeches are so clinical. They lack that raw emotion,” Aemond stares at you for a long moment before leaning in even closer to you and murmuring, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind seeing some of your impassioned words.”
You laugh nervously, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m not that great at speechwriting. I’m more of an analysis and logistics type girl.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he replies, his voice low and smooth, eye moving along your legs as he looks you up and down, “So, can you help me with the speech? I’m desperate here, sweetheart.”
You take a shaky breath and nod, meeting his gaze, “Anything you need, sir.”
Aemond leans back in his chair again and gives you a little smirk, “Great.” He prints out something and hands it to you, his voice a low rasp as he explains, “I want you to read this and tell me what you think.”
As you read over the document, Aemond takes his time to admire you, watching as you bite your lip in thought. Gods, those lips of yours are fucking divine, especially when they’re painted red like that. Your lips would look so fucking perfect wrapped around him, eyes full of tears as you gaze up at him, choking on his cock as he fucks your mouth.
“This is for the steelworkers’ union speech?” you look up at him after a while, confused, “It’s so… Polished. No working class person will be able to relate to this. What were the speechwriters thinking?”
“I know,” Aemond nods in agreement, “It’s not real enough. I need something that people can understand. That they can feel.” You swallow thickly as he rolls up the sleeves of his Valentino dress shirt ever so slightly, allowing you a generous view of those damned forearms of his, “Can you help me with this, sweetheart?” Aemond asks, pulling your chair toward him.
Your heart thumps against your ribcage like a jackrabbit and you nod, “Well, we need to scrap all this political jargon. No one at the factory will give a shit about which big corporation is endorsing you or about lobbying overall.”
“You know your stuff,” he hums looking at the fabric of your blouse, how it clings to your curves in a way he finds entirely irresistible, making it hard to look you in the eye, “Make this something that will really speak to the hearts of the everyday man. That’s who I want to care for.”
He watches you as you work on the speech, your perfectly manicured red nails tapping away at the keyboard as you question him about the major points he wishes to address. He watches you work, the whole scene only making him want you more. And when he stands up to lean over you, caging you in, his chest against your back, he knows you want him, if that little shiver you let out is anything to go by.
Aemond steps back and takes a seat in his chair, watching you print the speech out and hand it to him, beaming proudly.
“My best work yet, if I do say so myself.”
“I’d say so too,” he gives you a lazy, sexy smile that has you weak in the knees. He puts on his glasses and reads over the speech, running a hand through his hair, looking over it with a critical eye, “I like what you’ve done with it, love. The language is clearer and the wording is so much more impactful.”
He practices the speech with you as his only audience member, and you are amazed at his eloquence and the delivery of the speech itself, so much so that you can’t help clapping as he finishes and telling him, “You’re an incredible orator, sir. Just as charismatic as Obama, if I’m being completely honest.”
Aemond smirks, the way you look at him with earnest admiration making him feel more aroused than ever, “You’re just stroking my ego, sweetheart.”
“Westeros needs someone like you,” you insist, “Someone not afraid of making tough choices.”
He chuckles, eyeing you up and down once more before questioning, “Do you think I can count on your vote then?”
“Of course,” you grin brightly, “I already mailed in.”
“Good girl.”
You shiver slightly at his words. Why did that excite you so much? And then? He reaches toward you, tucking that errant strand of hair that keeps getting loose behind your ear, allowing his fingertips to graze your cheek.
“You know,” he lowers his voice, “Practicing that speech got me all riled up. And I was wondering,” he whispers in your ear, “Can my good girl help me out with that?”
Your breath catches in your throat as you look at the handsome, almost godlike man before you and nod silently. You gasp as he pulls you to your feet, and in one fluid movement, shoves everything off of his desk. That’s going to be a bitch to clean up later, but you can’t bring yourself to care as he manhandles you onto the desk so that you’re facing him.
“My good girl,” he coos as he presses a kiss to your ankle, up along your leg to your thigh, “Taste so sweet. Is that for me, love?”
You nod, watching with wide eyes as he hikes your skirt up to your waist and admires the pretty white lace panties you have on. He slides them down your legs, bringing them up to his nose and inhaling deeply, a sight which should not turn you on as much as it does, before putting them in his pocket. You let out a yelp of surprises as he pushes you to lay down on your back and buries his face between your thighs, hiking your legs up over his shoulder as his tongue delves into your pussy, moving in and out at a near furious pace. You whine pathetically as your hand wraps itself in his hair, tugging slightly, keeping him close to you, not that he has any intention of pulling away until you come all over his tongue. Aemond lets out a low moan at the way your stilettos poke his shoulders, his large hands groping and squeezing the flesh of your thighs as he alternates between suckling at your clit and lapping at your folds, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the muscles of your abdomen getting tighter and tighter the closer you get, hips rolling against him as he rubs his nose against your clit, tongue moving in and out of you, tasting every part of you over and over and over until suddenly, you’re crying out his name and spilling yourself against his tongue.
Aemond pulls away to practically rip open your blouse, kissing your lower stomach, your navel, up to your breasts over the flimsy lace fabric of your bra. He makes quick work of that too, unclasping it and tossing it aside, cupping one of your tits while he takes the other in his mouth, rolling the pert bud between his lips, tongue ravishing it with attention, teeth grazing against it until it pebbles at his touch. You grab onto the desk desperately for support, letting out a sharp breath of relief as he backs away only to throw your head back against the wood as he sheathes himself inside you.
Aemond’s cock is long and thick and so veiny as he lets it drag against your walls, pulling out only to slap your clit with his cockhead. You let out a whimper that just makes him want to hear it again, so he repeats his action again, then again, laughing at how pliant and desperate you are under him.
“Such a good girl for me,” he purrs, “Desperate for my cock, hm?”
“Yes, sir,” you nearly sob as he pushes inside you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”
You let out a cry as he lets a light slap land against your clit, “Watch your language, pretty girl. Want you to keep being a good girl and let Daddy fuck you.”
You nod breathlessly, back arching up off the desk as Aemond fucks into you with an intensity that’s almost too much to handle. He watches as your breasts bounce with every thrust of his hips against yours, admiring the way his cock disappears in your folds, the noises of lust that escape your lips.
“Come on, beg Daddy to fuck you,” he growls, increasing his pace, thumb pressing down on your clit, rubbing slightly.
“Please, Daddy, fuck me,” you mewl, legs wrapped around his waist as he snaps his hips against yours, the tip of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you and making you let out a wanton sob of, “Yes, fuck! Right there, Daddy, please!”
He increases his efforts, admiring the way you stare up at him, eyes glassy with tears as he fucks you, mascara and eyeliner running down your face in a way that shows he’s completely ruined you. He chuckles, leaning in to press his lips to yours, tongue massaging yours before moving to nip at your jaw, then your neck, then down to your tits again. You feel yourself getting closer and closer until suddenly, you spill yourself for the second time.
Aemond gives you no time to bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, instead, pulling out and flipping you over on the desk so that you’re bent over it and he begins fucking you from behind. You moan “Daddy, please” over and over as he hits you from this new angle, letting those large hands of his fly against your ass, admiring the way your flesh jiggles against his touch. He spanks your ass over and over, smirking at the way you moan at his touch, squeezing around him tight, bringing him closer and closer to his peak until he spills himself inside you, your own climax following soon after.
He stands up and adjusts his pants, helping you to your feet and smirking at the fact that your shirt, your hair, your makeup are all ruined.
“Well, now that you’re mine,” Aemond says, running a hand through your hair, placing one of his spare around your shoulders, buttoning it up for you, “You get to learn all about what’s really going on here.”
Aemond beckons you to follow him and pulls a book from his bookshelf, a secret passageway opening that he pulls you along into, the bookshelf closing behind you. You follow Aemond on shaky legs, still unsure of what’s happening until you get to a dark room, lit only by candles. There are hundreds, no, thousands of people down here, all dressed in black robes, their faces covered, as they wait for Aemond to stand at the podium before them, you by his side. They applaud fervently at his arrival and Aemond just smirks, gesturing for them to quiet down before grabbing the microphone and speaking.
“Thank you, my loyal followers, for coming. The time for our revolution is almost at hand. I am about to win the election and it’s all thanks to this girl,” he takes you by the hand, “I introduce to you the goddess of your new Westeros, my future queen.”
Oh. Shit.
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Okay so on Coruscant there are very few people that don’t actually go out into the streets (I’m thinking politicians and Jedi might be some of the few who don’t have to go outside very often if at all because the senate and the temple are both the size of a small city) which means that 1: they NEED to have vitamin D lights on the streets of Coruscant because otherwise everyone would be depressed like in the deepest winter at all times. And 2: that means I think the Jedi temple and the senate themselves also are just full of Vitamin D lights.
Also y’all need to stop writing fics where kids are afraid of ‘getting caught sneaking around after dark’ or something because the temple is literally so full of species that you have no idea of that kid is nocturnal or whatever. They very well could be. Tbh I wanna write a fic where someone catches Obi-Wan sneaking around at night to play a prank with Quin or something and he’s all ‘bruh my eyes glow in the dark I’m obviously meant to be awake at this hour’ and no one can argue with him. Stuff like that.
Also I think the temple neeeeeeeds multiple healing halls (once more. It is the size of a small city) one in the aquatic center of the temple (which canonically exists) one in the temple main (which should span over like four levels and act as it’s own building okay) and one in the creche. This is the MINIMUM amount of healing halls I think they should have.
A tram system should be inside the walls. Places in the temple that act as sideways lifts and also a subway system because believe it or not, there are species in the temple as small as one foot tall, and I’m not just talking about Grogu, I’m talking about others like Kushiban and others similar. Once more. It is the size of a small city. They should have both subway type stations (that take you certain places like the main healing halls or the biggest canteen or the supply sector of the temple things like that) because oh my god imagine how many hours the commute to your workstation could take if you didn’t have that shit. Annoying af.
They gotta have names for all the different canteens okay. Like ‘meet me in the cafeteria’ in a temple the size of a small city is bullshit cause even in the books they have multiple cafeterias.
A… let’s call it a Mall Section of the temple. A place where you can pick up groceries (the temple makes their own food and I assume most of it is cooked in careens but also not letting people cook their own food is a recipe for a Jedi starving to death on a mission lmao) but they also have a salon (skin care and hair care are very important and if you let all these babies cut their own hair they gonna turn out like me no one wants that) and a clothing ‘store’ where you can get certain size clothes and robes from, or even undercover mission clothes. There need to be Jedi in these places too!!! Imagine going to the salon with your master and having a gossip talk about your new lineage member!!! It’s important to society!!!
A Jedi movie theater where the masters send their kiddos on the weekend so they can enjoy a glass of wine and not be sneezed on for three hours.
I’ve actually seen a few mentions in fics and posts about tea salons so that is def also a thing. It’s the Jedi version of a cafe. I think people who like baking take turns working there and everyone chips in for tea selections and stuff.
Droid Ubers. They need to get somewhere but feel sick as heck and it’s not near any good lifts or the subway trams??? Call a droid Uber lmao. It shouldn’t be unusual either lol just grandmaster on his way to bother his kid while not aggravating his hip after hip surgery.
Remember that Jedi who are like 10 foot tall also exist so remember there ARE apartments in the temple that could fit Kenobi’s Dino-Horse girl Boga.
There should also be apartments with like 10 bedrooms and bathrooms (or even one giant communal bathroom) around a singular living/cooking space!!! Let Jedi live in communes!!!!
The aquatic levels of the creche are def the cutest place in the temple you can’t argue with me on the idea of water babies swimming and cuddling under water.
On another note to the fact that species like Kushiban exist???? Imagine tiny doors and corridors that used to be used by mouse droids but they became so useful to tiny Jedi so they got taken over. Just imagine that.
Bartering markets where Jedi trade things, mostly things they get on missions or are given to them as gifts, nothing goes to waste so they find a proper place for all gifts and extras here.
Cooking classes. Obi-Wan has been kicked out of all of them his cooking is so bad. Anakin claims bullshit he loves Master’s cooking! But then, he also eats worms…
Anyways. Y’all too single minded with this shit. It just be all ‘cafeteria, living quarters, healing halls and archives’ with you guys. Where is the culture. Where is the acknowledgment of multiple species all living in the same area taking place in a culture of peace and galactic exploration???? Give them a liquor store idgaf.
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Guilty pleasure.
Starring: Muzan x f!reader; Douma, Akaza and Kokushibo.
General warnings for the next chapters: nsfw (minors do not interact), modern au, age gap, dom!muzan, sub!reader, sugar daddy dynamics, choking, semi-public sex, car sex, spanking, vaginal sex, virgin reader, business agreement, murder, death, torture, trauma.
Warning for this part: none! Just Muzan sending Douma and Kokushibo to stalk you.
Plot: Kibutsuji Muzan, the ambitious, high-flying politician the world needed, knew that in order to resemble the incarnation of the perfect man, ready to lead the Country, he would have needed a beautiful, young girl by his side. He did not care if it was real love, or just a façade. All he cared about was to make a certain impression. Meeting you was literally a manna from heaven. You signed the agreement, he treated you like a goddess. This was the beginning of a twisted fairytale, but you knew better than falling for him and, surely, he was not going to lose his mind for you. Or so you thought.
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX
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THE AGREEMENT.
Muzan stared at the pictures scattered on his desk. He had made up his mind. You were truly a delicacy, indeed. It appeared like Douma had done a pretty decent job in searching the city for a woman whose appearence whetted Muzan’s appetites.
You were young, cheerful, working at a local restaurant to pay for your studies: the perfect candidate for being the future First Lady.
He knew everything about you. Your address, your friends’s names, your zodiac sign, your favorite ice-cream flavor and even your ex’s identity. Tracking you down and spying on you was easy. How could you, a sweet, lovely girl, imagine that the soon to be President had his plum red eyes on you? Your naivety intrigued him. He could play you like a doll, spoil you like a child and treat you like a princess. He did not care if your heart was going to belong to someone else. All you had to do was smiling for the pictures, being his future wife, show the world you were head over heels for him and, naturally, tell the medias you were his property.
He was confident about the outcome of your first, fateful encounter. He was a good-looking man, persuasive and pretty intimidating even. You would have probably fallen for his charm and forgotten about the terms of the contract anyway.
A knock on the door was the signal that you had arrived. Sending Douma to pick you up would have probably been detrimental to the mission and he knew better than letting you slip from his fingers. Kokushibo, on the other hand, was the best choice he could have ever made. Prefessional, authoritative and precise, he had apparently fulfilled his mission.
“Come in” Muzan said, flicking his gaze up to the door.
A second later, the door creaked open to reveal Kokushibo. He took a step forward, taking his sunglasses off and bowing his head to his boss as a sign of respect “She’s waiting for you in the dining room” he announced flatly, causing a smirk to cross Muzan’s face.
What an obedient girl you were. He was almost taken aback by the way you had decided to follow a stranger in a Maserati and trust what he had said. Either you were smart, or far too easy to play with.
“Thanks, Kokushibo. – Muzan stated, straightening his tie and grabbing the contract from the messy desk behind him – You are dismissed” he added shortly, walking past the tall dark-haired man and making his way to you, the new branded attraction of his house.
You were sitting on a black-leather chair, the goblet of red wine, a Chianti, that the dapper bodyguard had poured for you was settled on the crystal table, inviting you to take a sip. You resisted the tempation, it would have probably offended Mr. Kibutsuji, if you had not waited for him.
Yes, you knew who was requiring your presence. You had a really good photographic memory and you had recognized the shiny car of the politician’s bodyguards. You had watched it on the tv’s reports, you had seen it parked nearby your house for the past six months. He had probably sent his dogs to stalk you.
What truly puzzled you was why he wanted to see you. Kokushibo did not answer your questions. You had not told him you knew who he was working for, or that you had figured out who was asking for you. You had just followed him to the car without making a scene. He was a kind man, after all, just a bit frosty.
To snap you out of your stream of consciousness was the deep, velvet voice that kept you company during your lunch breaks, when you turned the tv on in a pathetic attempt to catch up with the daily news.
“Y/N L/N, welcome to my residence” Muzan said, a small smile curling his lips.
He was handsome, tall, elegant, standoffish and filthy rich. You were not used to interact with people coming from the upper class, let alone trying not to embarrass yourself in the presence of the man of the hour, the man that people loved and loathed at the same time.
“Good evening, Mr. Kibutsuji. – you said, standing up quickly from your seat and walking up to him – How may I help our soon to be President?” you quizzically asked him, eyes downcast not to falter under his piercing gaze.
You had stopped three, or four strides away from him not to invade his personal space, but your breath hitched in your throat when he met you midway. The alluring perfume he was wearing intoxicated you and, when he gently grabbed your hand, you were forced to shift your attention on him again. You were paralyzed, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were focused on him and him alone. He brought your hand to his lips, letting them brush over the back of your hand in a drammatically slow and intimate demeanor.
Shivers ran down your spine and you released a breath you did not know you were still holding, when he flashed you a sly grin, the same he directed to the camera, when he made his glorious appearences on the most popular talk-shows of the Country.
“Please, darling, call me Muzan. – he cooed, gesturing for you to take a seat and hesitantly letting go of your hand – I’m so glad you’ve accepted my anonymous invitation. You’re brave” he commented, walking over to the table and filling his own goblet of wine.
You softly smiled and made your way to your seat “Just observant. I thought I had recognized the car and your bodyguard” you admitted, reaching your hand out to grab your own glass.
The dark-haired man hummed, as he swirled the reddish drink into the cup “I should have known you were smart, a quality I absolutely adore finding in a woman. – he purred, sliding some papers towards you on the polished surface of the table – To answer your question, the reason why you are here lays within the lines of this contract”.
A contract?
You forrowed your brows, your eyes settling on the neat pile of papers under your nose. Did he want to hire you for something? You thought he already had a secretary and you clearly were not suited to be his bodyguard. What did Kibutsuji Muzan want from you, a mere student, then?
“I’ve personally drew up the contract. We can discuss some terms, if you are not comfortable with them” he explained, taking a sip of his drink and walking towards the stained glass windows of the large dining room. The landscape was breathtaking. The city lights, the skyscrapers dominating the industrialized area of the city and the yellowish lights of the cars rushing down the avenues were the spectacular view you were beholding.
Reading the whole contract would have probably taken you hours. There was no way in Hell you would have signed it without pondering each and every clause, but you gave it a quick reading and some words were now permeating your brain.
‘Wife, payment, tv, affectio maritalis, sexual performances, moving, money’.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your shaking fingers fidgeting with the charm of your necklace, a small, silver crescent moon, as you blurted out your question “What do you exactly want me to do?”.
Muzan did not turn to face you, he kept his intense gaze trailed on the city line instead “Be my wife” he simply said, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m sorry, what?” you breathed out.
“Adore me in public, love whoever you want privetely. Just a yes and I will shower you in money, gifts, respect and a life you could only dream of for the rest of your life… Are you in, my sweet Y/N?” he taunted you, turning towards you with the most dazzling and wicked smile you had ever seen in your whole existence.
You did not know what crossed your mind in that very instant and the following moments were fuzzy and fragmented, but all you knew on your way back to your small flat was that you had agreed and, when Kokushibo told you that he would have come to pick you up in the weekend, you were ready to start this new life as Kibutsuji’s ‘babygirl’ , as he had called you before you left.
You slumped onto your bed, droopy eyes and tipsy, unaware that a pair of golden and rainbow-colored eyes were watching you slipping into a well-deserved slumber.
AUTHOR NOTE.
Hi, there!
It’s my first post on this platform and I still need to understand a few basic things about Tumblr. Hopefully, I’ll be able to give you weekly updates, but I make no promises. This is going to be a small fan fiction and my main project for a little while. However, don’t worry, I’ll try to update some other one-shots & scenarios about other characters. Likes, comments and reposts are really appreciated!
X O X O
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Inherited Driving
A/N: Credits also to @escelia 💖 Thanks for helping flash out this idea even more!!
Bruce Wayne was going crazy about Gotham's newest rogue. He stared at the open case file, the reports were laid out all over the table. On the Batcomputer various images were displayed. Images from bent light posts, street sights that were found three blocks from their original position, buildings that were missing chunks of their walls, and even buildings that had distinct car-shaped holes.
Next to that various reports were open about hit-and-run cases. None appeared to be connected. All the victims appeared to be chosen at random, good or bad didn't matter. No connections. Mugger, Politicians, other rogues, or even his children when on patrol. And then there were also reports of apparently people going insane claiming they had seen a silver car come right at them but never hit them.
He looked at the reports of his children.
Jason complains about a drug deal busted by a car bursting in and nearly ruined it for him by knocking out the main targets before crashing through the opposite wall.
Tim claimed that the corrupted CEO he had been investigating both as Red Robin as well as Tim Drake-Wayne got run over on the open streets and was now hospitalized.
But the most absurd reports came from Dick and Duke.
Dick one night reported that a silver car barely missed him while out on patrol. Nothing strange so far. If his son hadn't reported that he was jumping over roofs when it happened.
And Duke? He just reported that he felt like he had a near-death experience and saw his life flashing before his eyes. The cause? A glowing car came straight at him.
Bruce gripped his hair in frustration. This new rogue didn't make sense. They went for bad guys but also good guys? What was their pattern? The connection? Their goal? Was he lucky that none of his other children had so far encountered them on patrol?
They appeared at night as well as during the day.
Who was going to be the next target? Would it be one of his kids or possibly another corrupted politician or maybe even a mugger again next?
Tim had specifically created software to keep track of this rogue in the news or any online posts. Barbara was not able to get any video feeds or photos of this rogue for some reason. All images or videos found for the areas of his appearance were either entirely static or corrupted to the point of unrecognizability. He didn't even have the damned silver car's license plate!
Then there was the car driver's description from witnesses, which also varied from person to person. One stated him to be black-haired and blue-eyed looking like a tired College Student, another stated the man had white hair and green glowing eyes and lastly a more crazy person stated it was like an Eldritch being possessing the car.
The software peeped and Bruce turned to click on it, a news article appeared and the man groaned at what he read.
Breaking news: Scarecrow in custody after getting hit by car through Starbucks!
Witnesses say that during what was shaping up to be a fear gas attack, the driver hit the man before swerving through the front window of a Starbucks.After confirming everyone was okay, the baristas on shift gave the driver an iced coffee and a croissant while waiting for the police to arrive on scene. One employee even insisted this reckless driver saved their lives. [...]
Bruce closed the news, not reading any further and ready to slam his head onto the table. Who was this rogue?
Danny blinked at the newspaper in his hand, sipping his coffee and wondering who that driver was. He would have to be more careful now on the streets with a driver like that, that's fine. Jazz wouldn't probably call him soon again to nag about these crazy drivers Gotham appeared to have. She had been naggingly worried ever since he started going to college here. He just had to assure her that he would be even more careful to not get involved. Though his parents had already reinforced his car as a stay-safe-son measure. So he would just have to get in the car, drive from point A to point B and not hit anyone or anything like his parents.
He glanced at his kitchen clock and spat out his morning coffee.
"Shit! I am going to be late for my classes!"
In a rush he grabed his keys and ran to his car. He needed to hurry if he wanted to be there in time without upsetting his professor. Good that he learned about some pretty neat short cuts from his classmates.
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