#politics au

[humanpurposes]

De Facto

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 :)

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #aemond x ofc #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond tagaryen fanfiction #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fanfic #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #politics au #modern!aemond #modern!au #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfiction #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond oneshot

[gardenofnineveh]

BREAKING NEWS Aemond Targaryen, Westeros Senate candidate (G-Riverlands) has been caught MONICA LEWINSKY’ing his nephew, who is also his campaign intern.

Mr. Targaryen has promised that he will “restore good, honest Seven values,” including “marriage as intended by the gods.”

On his Saturday night rally, Mr. Targaryen has specifically spoken out against “the depravity of homosex.”

Close sources have confirmed that Mr. Targaryen has been seen engaging in fellatio with his nephew by blood through his sister Senator Rhaenyra Targaryen (B-Dragonstone) and by marriage through his wife Ms. Alys Rivers.

It has long been speculated that the marriage between Mr. Targaryen and Ms. Rivers is purely transactional. Sources have now confirmed that indeed they “sleep in separate beds.”

We have reached out to Mr. Targaryen for commentary. So far, we have not received a response.

#lucemond #aemond targaryen #lucerys velaryon #politics au

[muensterfucker]

supplemental material for our fic (:

linked below! ↓

#stevebucky #stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #bucky barnes x steve rogers #steve rogers x bucky barnes #marvel au #werewolf steve rogers #politics au #werewolf au #stucky au #stevebucky au #stucky fanart #stevebucky fanart #blood moon #i drew up

[asingularshieldmaiden]

I study international relations at uni and was thinking about what if everyone worked in the government? This is aus government based because I am Australian but could be applied to foreign equivalents

Jiang Cheng works with/for dfat - minister for foreign affairs perhaps or minister of trade? Or a higher up in dfat (department of foreign affairs and trade) - a public facing role I think fits jc a lot and he would absolutely roast people during question time (jc is very theatrical and question time is about the theatrics)

Wwx works for defence - I’m thinking an international focused agency (Geospace for the science, or ASIO) or the military opposed to a domestic one like the federal police (leaks secrets/whistleblower?) - strictly stops working for the government after getting (resurrected? - disappears after being pursued by the government and reappears with different name and documents) - this makes it gnarlier when Jiang Cheng sees him because Jiang cheng is a government official who’s job is tied to what Wei Wuxian leaked and could ruin his reputation and job, which is why wwx distanced himself from him

Jin Guangyao prime minister: Jgy doesnt wear hats more than a regular person he just wore a silly hat once and now the papers have designated that to be a key feature of his caricature (a la Alex downer and fishnet stockings or Tony Abbot and budgie smugglers)

Lan Qiren: speaker of the house - has to rally everyone like kindergarteners and point out how when people successfully or unsuccessfully wave the rules at each other

Sect leader yao is the random independent: very public spectacle based and says a lot of words that don’t mean very much/are too crazy and people are like “thanks for your contribution” before moving on. Magically keeps his seat because his voters are as crazy as him, has become a permanent fixture of parliament and doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon

Nie Huaisang is appointed as the PM after Jgy is internally overthrown as the leader of the party. Meant to be one of those temporary appointments with the goal of crashing and burning until the next election however manages to stay on for 2 more terms by being elected in his own right. manages to actually do a good job

Jin Guangshan shat himself in McDonald’s

#the untamed #mdzs #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #jin guangyao #this is a super random au and it isn’t really fleshed out at all #I just think these kind of fit these characters #may add more in the future #super random assortment of characters as well lol #lan qiren #this is less about real world politics and more about how I think roles would match certain characters #or tidbits that are very minor features of politics #politics au #nie huaisang

[kjack89]

Sunday Spotted

For my bestie who remains strangely besotted with Deuxmoi.

E/R, modern AU.

“Congratulations,” Joly said, setting his phone down on the table next to Grantaire, who drained his coffee before leaning back and offering him a sardonic smile.

“Thanks,” he said, pausing before asking, “Though do I want to know why?”

Joly sat down across from him, his grim expression indicating that his congratulations had been sarcastic. “You made the Sunday Spotted,” he said, a little sourly.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “The…what?”

“Sunday Spotted,” Joly repeated, and when Grantaire just stared blankly at him, he sighed and added helpfully, “You know, on Deuxmoi?”

Grantaire blinked. “I know my French is a little rusty, but what in the hell is ‘Two Me’?”

“It’s not ‘two me’, it’s Deuxmoi,” Joly said impatiently. “It’s a gossip site on instagram. Like Page Six for zoomers and millennials. And one of their weekly features is called Sunday Spotted, and it’s where random people send in celebrity sightings.”

“Ok,” Grantaire said slowly. “But, uh, you know I’m not a celebrity, right?”

Joly’s scowl deepened. “You’re not,” he said shortly, swiping on his phone to find a screenshot before sliding his phone across the table to Grantaire. “He is.”

Grantaire glanced down at the screenshot, his bemused look slowly fading into something more like a wince when he saw the photo and the accompanying caption:

“Ah,” he managed, a little weakly.

Joly didn’t look surprised by his reaction. “Unless you want to tell me there’s a different anonymous dark-haired man that Enjolras could be canoodling with at your favorite brunch place…”

He trailed off, and Grantaire shrugged, conspicuously avoiding meeting his eyes. “Last I checked, he was single, so he can canoodle with whomever he wants to.”

“Yeah, but last I checked, the only person he’s ever wanted to canoodle with was you,” Joly said evenly.

Grantaire snorted. “He’s a congressman,” he said dismissively. “He’s probably got interns and lobbyists and closeted senators falling all over themselves to date him. And some of them are probably willing to schlep from DC to the best bottomless mimosa lunch in the West Village.”

“As willing as you are to make the schlep from Queens?” Joly asked archly. “Or are you really going to keep pretending it wasn’t you?”

Grantaire sighed. “If it was me – and I am not copping to that right now – why are you so worked up about it?”

Joly’s scowl returned. “Because this is different than when you and Enjolras were hooking up while he was working as a public defender. Enjolras is considered a rising star in Congress, and there’s bound to be media scrutiny on anyone he’s dating.”

“And you’re worried I would sully his good reputation.”

The sarcasm was practically dripping from every word, and Joly rolled his eyes, before starting, with a bite of impatience, “No, that’s not—”

“Because I don’t know if you realize, but Enjolras doesn’t need any help sullying his reputation, since he’s an independent somewhere to the left of Marx,” Grantaire snapped. “He’s literally the poster child of the liberal elite coming to take the Midwest’s assault weapons and Evangelical Christianity. He makes AOC look positively right-wing. So him having an illicit affair with some no-name bartender isn’t exactly going to do anything to sink his reputation any further.”

“And it’s not his reputation that I’m worried about,” Joly snapped, and when Grantaire blinked at him, he sighed and amended, “Or anyone’s reputation, for that matter.”

“So then what—”

“You really want to see your entire past dragged through the gossip pages?” Joly asked, his voice tight. “The arrests, the drug addiction, the rehab stint…?”

Grantaire swallowed heavily and shrugged, looking away again. “I mean, none of those are exactly a secret,” he mumbled.

Joly shook his head slowly. “But do you really want to read about it in the New York Post with your mugshot splashed next to a picture of Enjolras’s congressional portrait?” he asked quietly. “Is hooking up with Enjolras really worth all of that?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Maybe it is.”

Joly sighed. “Grantaire—”

Grantaire met his gaze squarely. “Because maybe it’s not just hooking up this time.”

Joly’s expression flickered. “Did Enjolras say that, or is this just wishful thinking?”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Or maybe a little bit of both?”

But Joly didn’t smile, just sighing again before telling Grantaire, as earnestly as he could manage, “Look, you know I love you, and I love Enjolras, and there is no one in the world who wants you two to be happy more than me.”

“I don’t know, Combeferre might’ve given you a run for your money, once upon a time at least,” Grantaire said.

Joly ignored him. “But like I said, you’re no longer sneaking around and hooking up when the worst thing that could happen was Enjolras getting a slap on the wrist for associating with an ex-felon.” He took a deep breath. “So if there is any chance of being something more, or, frankly, anything at all, you and Enjolras need to have a conversation about what that actually means. For both of you.”

Grantaire sighed heavily. “Yeah,” he said, a little sourly. “Because if there’s anything that Enjolras and I are good at, it’s talking about our feelings.”

— — — — —

“Are you familiar with Deuxmoi?” Grantaire asked as he let himself into his apartment.

Enjolras glanced up from where he was reading the New York Times on the couch. “Is that a Franglish term for ‘fuck me’?” he asked, tilting his head back automatically for Grantaire to drop a kiss on to his lips. “Because it’s not a particularly good one.”

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand as he sank down onto the couch next to him. “No, it’s an instagram thing.”

“Right, because you know me, I am particularly involved with social media,” Enjolras said, already returning to the newspaper.

But Grantaire tugged it out of his hands, tossing it down on the coffee table. “You should be,” he said. “Per Politico, you’re one of the most social media-savvy politicians.”

Enjolras barked a laugh. “I happen to have a very excellent team,” he said, shifting so that he was facing Grantaire. “Once I told Courfeyrac he could have free reign over my Twitter account, I haven’t had to give it a single thought.”

“Don’t forget instagram and TikTok,” Grantaire murmured, leaning in to kiss him. “You’re a viral sensation.”

But Enjolras stopped him with a light hand on his chest. “Is this conversation going somewhere, or…?”

Grantaire sighed, sitting back. “We were spotted.”

“Spotted?”

“At the Musain,” Grantaire said sourly. “Someone submitted a picture of us – or, well, you, and a blurry shot of the back of my head – to a gossip site.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I’m assuming this would be the ‘Deuxmoi’ in question?”

“Got it in one.”

Something darkened in Enjolras’s expression. “So, let me guess, Combeferre got to you? Gave you a stern talking-to about dragging me down and sullying my good reputation?”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Actually, no. It was Joly. And he wasn’t so much worried about your reputation as he was about, well, mine.” He shrugged in a way that seemed to be aiming for nonchalance. “Or lack thereof.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Neither do I, but unfortunately, this means we probably need to have a conversation that we’ve been putting off for, oh, ten or so years now.”

Grantaire said it heavily, and Enjolras went very still. “Let me guess, the ‘what are we’ conversation?”

“No,” Grantaire said firmly, reaching out for Enjolras’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “You and I know what we are. We’ve always known.”

Enjolras smiled slightly, lifting their entwined hands to kiss Grantaire’s knuckles. “Then what?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “Are we doing this thing for real?” Enjolras froze and Grantaire swallowed before barreling forward. “Because you know that I am happy to be your anonymous dark-haired man for as long as you’ll have me. But eventually, someone’s going to figure out who I am. And while we may know exactly who we are and what there is between us, it is long past time we decided if we want the entire world to know as well.”

Enjolras wet his lips before asking quietly, “Do you want the entire world to know?”

“That’s not really the point—”

“It is,” Enjolras said. “It’s exactly the point. Because if you think that I’m the one hesitating, that I’ve been hesitating at any point of this past decade, you’re out of your mind.”

Grantaire barked a laugh before scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “That’s awfully ableist of you, Congressman.”

Enjolras gave him a look. “It’d be more so if you weren’t the one who describes your mental illness as, and I quote, ‘Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs’ to anyone who will listen.”

“Fair enough.”

“But seriously, I was ready to sign a disclosure statement with New York County back when I was in the PD’s office, acknowledging my relationship with a known felon,” Enjolras said, “especially someone whose only felony was for stopping a police officer from beating me to death.”

Grantaire’s expression darkened. “I did a little more than stop him.”

Enjolras didn’t bother arguing that point. “And you’ve never been arrested for or implicated in a violent crime since then.”

Grantaire sighed. “Fine, but there’s also the misdemeanors—”

“A couple of possession charges and one very memorable public intoxication charge, if memory serves,” Enjolras said dismissively.

“—And the rehab and everything else,” Grantaire finished. “Joly may not be worried about your reputation, but I am. I always have been.” He hesitated before adding, “Because if even if you and I know who we are and what we are to each other, that doesn’t change the fact that you deserve better.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “Maybe. But I want you.”

Grantaire eyed him warily. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying fuck Deuxmoi,” Enjolras said, with the kind of savage fervor he normally only saved for political speeches. “Fuck Page Six. Fuck Perez Hilton, if that’s even still a thing.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hand. “Let’s do this.”

Grantaire stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“Sure. The central theme of my reelection campaign was going to be about funding for community support networks to prevent recidivism in violent offenders.” Enjolras leaned in and kissed his cheek. “What better excuse than to talk about my personal support for a formerly violent felon?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’m hardly the poster boy for this. My privilege—”

“—Is exactly what’s important to highlight,” Enjolras said simply. “You had the opportunities and support you needed because of your privilege, and it’s why it’s vital to extend those opportunities and support to those without your privilege.”

Shaking his head slowly, Grantaire bit his lip before saying hesitantly, “I don’t know…”

“I’m also happy not mentioning you at all publicly, and just going on with our lives, but I’d rather we got ahead of the inevitable attempts at scandal.” Enjolras shrugged. “But it’s up to you. Whatever you want to do. Just as long as we can still be us, that’s all I care about.”

Grantaire hesitated before asking, “Will I have to move to DC?”

Enjolras laughed. “Fuck no,” he said, kissing Grantaire before adding, “Let me have the excuse to leave that swamp as often as humanly possible.”

Grantaire smiled, cupping Enjolras’s cheek with his free hand and running his thumb across Enjolras’s cheek before saying simply, “Then ok. Let’s do it.”

Enjolras grinned. “Really?”

Grantaire nodded. “Really.”

Enjolras turned his head to kiss the palm of Grantaire’s hand before saying, “Then I’ll text Courf. Have him start working on a statement.

He grabbed his phone to do just that, and Grantaire waited patiently for him to finish before tugging Enjolras into his lap. “Great. And while he does that, you and I can do a little work of our own—” He was interrupted by Enjolras’s phone buzzing. “You can’t tell me that he’s drafted a statement already.”

Enjolras just laughed. “Knowing Courf, he’s had a dozen different drafts on file just for this moment, but…” He swiped his phone open, his brow furrowing. “Ah. We’re going in a different direction.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Courfeyrac says there’s some kind of trending meme on Twitter that’s perfect for this. “

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Enjolras murmured, leaning in to kiss Grantaire. “I’m just going to take his word for it.”

Grantaire kissed him back before asking, “Will you at least let me see?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but obediently handed his phone over. “Sure. He claims this’ll work.”

Grantaire frowned down at the picture on the phone before shrugging. “Well. Good luck with that.” He turned his attention back to Enjolras. “Now, where were we?”

He tossed Enjolras’s phone down without taking another look at the tweet that Courfeyrac had sent over.

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #joly #fanfiction #les miserables #modern au #politics au #sort of in a vague sense #developing relationship #social media #tomfoolery

[theprofessionalpromptmaker]

40 Hour Work Week Day & National Crazy Day & United Nations Day

Person A is from a place unforgotten by the gods, and their homeland is often the target of invasion due to having many desirable natural resources because of it. But Person A chose to leave their homeland to find a way to protect it, going into government and becoming an advocate for their country’s protection. Person B is the politician who works along with them as their closest ally, but is only in politics because their family historically has been but they just want to see the world burn for chaos’ sake. When Person A brings Person B to their homeland, the gods immediately reject Person B as a being of destruction and chaos, but Person B, upon hearing the news that their destined as the bringer of great mayhem, promises to at least help Person A protect their homeland - just not the rest of the world.

#mod poss #creative writing #writing prompt #writing #prompt #fanfic prompt #fanfiction prompt #story prompt #creative writing prompt #ficinsp #alternate universe #plots and prompts #obscure holiday prompt #supernatural au #harbinger au #politician au #politics au #fantasy au

[feraltuxedo]

The Tadfield Arms series

Still making fic covers, this time for my short series of also short and surprisingly political bartender AUs set in an old-fashioned pub in a small university town.

Recommended Reading M, 15261 words. Summary: Bartender Crowley has always had a thing for the posh boys from Tadfield University. So when one of them walks into his pub on a Tuesday afternoon looking for his book club, he’s ready to have his heart broken all over again. But there is something special about Aziraphale. Something he can’t quite put his finger on.

New Year's at the Tadfield Arms T, 3133 words. Summary: It’s New Year’s at the Tadfield Arms, and bartender Crowley is preparing for a very special night. Aziraphale’s first ever New Year’s party.

Party Policy M, 17359 words. Summary: Bartender Crowley has a lot on his plate. The Tadfield Arms is struggling to make ends meet, his boyfriend is about to graduate university, and the upcoming General Election is getting tempers high. The future has never looked quite so uncertain. But with Aziraphale by his side, he knows he can tackle anything.

Excerpt from Recommended Reading:

‘Good afternoon. I’m looking for tubs.’

Crowley placed the last pint glass upside down on the shelf and turned around. The Tadfield Arms had been entirely empty just a minute ago.

‘You what, mate?’

The bloke at the bar looked just like he sounded: soft, posh, nervous. Blond curls and tailored clothes. The unmistakeable look of a Tadfield University student, though the usual air of entitlement was missing. Instead, he looked terrified.

‘Um, I was told I would find tubs here, at this time. Six o’clock.’

Crowley blinked and placed his hands on the bar, leaning forward.

‘Tubs? Tubs of what? What the hell are you on about?’

The man looked like his flight-or-fight-response was about to kick in. Sea-glass-blue eyes widened. He took a rushed, shallow breath.

‘Sorry, I mean— not tubs. T-U-B-S. Tadfield University Book Society. I was told they meet here for their classics book club on Tuesdays at six? And as you’re the only one here, I thought you might—’

Crowley snorted.

‘Do I look like I run a book club?’

This seemed to give the stranger an invitation to look him up and down. Well, down to where the bar covered up the lower part of Crowley’s body. The man’s eyes roamed over the red hair tied messily into a bun, the unfortunate face tattoo, and — the biggest giveaway really — the black apron tied around his narrow waist.

‘I’m sorry, I thought… oh, bother!’

Crowley’s first instinct was to laugh. Oh, bother? Was he for real? But then the man deflated, slumping down into himself, which took a good two inches off his height. It was a sad picture, blond curls falling softly into the man’s forehead as he looked down at his toes.

‘Hey,’ Crowley said, surprising himself with the gentleness of his tone, ‘it’s only five to six. You’re probably just early. Can I get you anything while you wait?’

The man looked up, lips trembling. Crowley noticed just how young he was in the face, in complete juxtaposition to his whole history professor outfit. Twenty, tops. He’d definitely have to card him.

‘Do you, um, do you serve hot chocolate?’

‘Mate. This is a pub.’

‘Does that mean no?’

Was he taking the piss? Couldn’t be. This man looked too bloody sincere in his request.

‘I can make you a tea, if you like.’

The pub didn’t offer tea, either. Crowley shut his eyes in annoyance at his own stupid softness. Fucking hell. He didn’t want to disappoint the student. A nervous smile spread on his face, and it warmed Crowley like sunlight.

‘Oh,’ he said, in an indecently breathy voice, ‘that would be lovely. Thank you.’

#Good Omens #Goof Omens fanfic #Good Omens AU #pub AU #university AU #politics AU #three for one deal #my writing

[thinkatoryprocess]

any more thoughts on politics au? i think it could be sweet it roman was completely a virgin, maybe not even with girls

There are basically two versions of the politics AU at this point - one where Roman is dating Nate while running Jeryd's campaign and desperately trying to not have to break up with his boyfriend because his boss is so hot, and another where it's really just the two of them. Roman/Nate fascinates me, but also the idea of a version of Roman who has excused stress and sexual dysfunction with working so hard that he builds a huge professional reputation, remaining a virgin even while in a hardcore profession, and finding Jeryd as a candidate who just shatters all that armor with so much as the right look - that's nice too.

#asks #politics au #romencken

[mosylufanfic]

Chapters: 22/22 Fandom: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley, Elizabeth Bennet & Charlotte Lucas Characters: Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam (Pride and Prejudice), Mr. Gardiner (Pride and Prejudice), Jane Bennet, Charlotte Lucas, Caroline Bingley, Mary Bennet, Charles Bingley, Lord Tristan (OC), George Wickham, Georgiana Darcy Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Pride and Prejdice with a lot of swearing and a sprinkling of politics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, British Politics, I wanted to do Australian politics but that required way too much casual c-bombing, Eventual hints of citrus, Slight Canon Divergence, Also the occasional political scandal, hello lake scene Series: Part 1 of Politics and Profanity Summary:

A modern AU wherein Darcy has recently been elected to the House of Commons, Elizabeth is in the civil service, and unsusprisingly, there is conflict. Slight whiffs of both 'The Thick Of It' and 'Yes Minister'; and an eventual 'Darcy exiting the lake in a wet white shirt' scene, because let's be honest, that's all anyone is in this for.

Additional story and relationship tags as the story progresses. Rating due to a base level of swearing which could only be described as 'Australian'. Also because there might be some lemons later on.

Not on hiatus, I'm just really bad at updating.

-

from @cynicinafishbowl

#Elizabeth Bennet #Mr. Darcy #pride and prejudice #fanfiction #recs #CynicInAFishbowl #modern AU #politics AU #this fic is ENTIRELY responsible for me having to slap my hand over my mouth in a school library #extra embarassing because I was a visiting adult #and could be presumed to know how to behave myself #and not shriek with demented laughter #but here we are #jane austen #search your feelings you know it to be queue

[sbi-fic-rec]

Heyo-

I figured I would shoot my shot lol. It’s my fic boy division on ao3 by dragonofopal, and the link is below. Thanks for checking it out :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39373599/chapters/98535159

boy division

Gunfire continued overhead- a man two people down fell back, blood gushing from his shoulder. Another man was on him in an instant, staunching the bleeding with dirty hands. Wilbur blinked again.

Niki let go of him, and his head lolled to the side.

As Niki and Jack yelled back and forth to each other, Wilbur tipped his head to the sky.

Through the smoke and dirt, he could vaguely see white clouds drift northward.

They were moving pretty fast.

OR

Wilbur is drafted into a losing war between empires. Tommy is determined to never join it in the first place.

Word Count: 69,995

Status: Complete

Opinion: WOW. Holy shit, was that a ride. The writing and descriptions are phenomenal, the way Dream’s villain character is spun is so interesting and I love how all the characters can see it too. Watching Tommy and Wilbur’s relationship come together is both heart warming and heart wrenching, but I love how their weaknesses aren’t hidden away and are instead used to strengthen their bond. It doesn’t shy away from the politics or losses of war, and it’s fascinating to see unravel. This fic is very intense, from the beginning all the way to the end, but it’s a wonderful ride to go on and I HIGHLY recommend this fic. However, there are a lot of tw’s, so make sure to stay safe.

Always Check The Tags!

#sorry I didn’t get to this sooner! #multiple perspectives #wilbur soot centric #politics au #war au #sbi #sleepy bois inc #sleepy boys inc #fic rec #fanfic rec #major angst #WC 50k+

[queen-isabelle-writes]

Summary:  When Berthold Hawkeye decides to run for governor of the East, his daughter, Riza, is less than pleased, especially when he forces her to put her journalism career on hold to be his office manager. But when Roy Mustang, Berthold's old apprentice, signs on to be his campaign manager, bringing with him a whole cast of characters from his time in Central, Riza thinks that the next year and a half might be manageable. Working closely together, Riza and Roy do their best to run a smooth campaign for Berthold; unfortunately, the slope between friends and lovers is a treacherous one, and the fall might have scandalous consequences.

Chapter Summary: Politics and shooting ranges.

#queen isabelle writes #riza hawkeye is a badass #royai #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #roy mustang x riza hawkeye #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood #fma #fma:b #fullmetal alchemist manga #fma manga #modern au #politics au

[formula1ficrecs]

Crude generalizations and vulgar simplifications

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42208461

Ship: Galex

Author: crescentluce ( @janinaduszejko on here)

Rated: E

Summary: Alex remembers attending his first Cabinet meeting - he’d been awed by the imposant room, the history this place held, where wars had been declared, disasters averted and ensured, with its stately inner ring of ministers, surrounded by the bustling outer ring filled with their advisors and assistants. The gratitude he had felt in that moment, being a part of the centre of it all, the place where power housed. Almost six hours later, he’d stumbled out of the stuffy room with George at his side, eyes wide with commiseration as he’d led Alex through the narrow halls.

“These ministers.” Alex had said, a hollow look in his eyes. “Are they all-?”

“Afraid so.” George’s voice had been kind, but knowing, like he’d expected this and had grimly prepared himself.

“Halfwits.” Alex had moaned, as George had patted him on the back in sympathy. “Fools and idiots, every last one of them.”

Notes: Super fun political au featuring George using his narc energy for good, adorable and long suffering Alex, great dialogue, and all our fave drivers as other political advisors/team principals as ministers.  Who would have thought fic about fighting over unallocated budget funds could be this enjoyable?

Wordcount: 14,386

Major Tags: politics au, courting via law

#galex #george russell #alex albon #rated e #formula 1 fic rec #politics au

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 1: Dread on Arrival

(Part 2)

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #lan wangji #jiang fengmian #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #Yungmeng Jiang Training Arc AU #MDZS AU #The AU name for this idea is something I am 100% willing to change if someone has a better one. #There will be at least 2-3 more comics so *please*. Ideas and feedback welcome. #The core idea behind this AU is that LWJ goes to study with the Yunmeng Jiang sect instead of JC and WWX going to Cloud Recess #But why? Well I imagine Lan Xichen set it up to give LWJ a challenge (more social than skill based) and LWJ rose to it (begrudgingly) #Sort of a 'You've mastered so many Lan techniques but Other Sects have styles that are worth learning.' set up. #Lan Qiren agrees mostly on the basis that...well it's LWJ. Yunmeng Jiang is unruly but LWJ is beyond that riff-raff. He'll rise above it. #This is the story of a boy who thrives on routine and rules spending time in a place that is his apparent antithesis. #Also it is so warm there. He is used to it being cold and what do you MEAN just take off some of my layers? #I just want to see him struggle and flail in many situations. And get him in Jiang Purple. Is that so wrong of me? #(Soaking wet JC is part of my 'JC was born to swim; forced to hold a sword' agenda. Do not remove him from the water) #((Politeness notes: JFM would *not* call LWJ 'lan wangji' nor would LWJ be vocally impolite to a sect leader.))

[kjack89]

Play in Peoria

For @themiserablesmonth Day 30: Smile.

Modern E/R, US Politics AU.

Read on AO3.

“Congressman Enjolras!” the gaggle of reporters called, swarming him as soon as he stepped foot outside of the Capitol Building. “Congressman, can you answer a few questions?”

Enjolras hesitated. “My staff will probably kill me for stopping to talk to you,” he said, just a little ruefully, before shrugging, “but fire away.”

He wasn’t wrong – Combeferre would probably throttle him – but Enjolras liked to get a little bit of facetime with the press corps in hopes that they might just decide to slip some actual leftist ideas in among the regurgitated right-wing talking points. 

He nodded at one of the reporters, who held up his phone, clearly recording. “Congressman, you don’t have an election this November—”

“Everyone in the U.S. House of Representatives has an election this November,” Enjolras interrupted.

The reporter made a face. “Sorry, I meant, you don’t have an opponent this November, so your win is guaranteed.”

Enjolras shrugged. “That is correct, though as you may recall, I did manage to fend off a fairly well-funded establishment opponent during the primary.”

Not that almost any of their papers had chosen to cover it at the time. They’d written more than their fair share of think pieces about how one of the most socialist members of House of Representatives was being challenged from the right of his party, and how that clearly spelled the destruction of leftist policies, but not one single publication had printed anything about Enjolras’s win.

“Since you don’t have to worry about your own election,” the reporter continued, “have you been working to support any other candidates?”

Enjolras nodded. “Sure, I’ve endorsed some candidates who I support, though only when I thought my endorsement would help and not hurt.”

“So you think your endorsement might do more harm than good in some places?” a different reporter asked, jumping on Enjolras’s statement.

“With blatant gerrymandering throughout much of the country?” Enjolras asked wryly. “I recognize that some of my colleagues are in tight races.” He shrugged again. “Personally, I don’t think that moving to the middle accomplishes as much as they think it does, but their job is to represent their districts, just like mine is to represent my constituents to the best of my ability.”

A third reporter stepped in, and Enjolras vaguely recognized her as a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, not one of the more sympathetic outlets to his political views. “But Congressman,” she stared, “don’t you agree that what might be good for your constituents doesn’t play well in some of the more conservative-leaning districts in the country?”

Enjolras huffed a light laugh. “Doesn’t play in Peoria, in other words?”

“So to speak.”

Enjolras picked his words carefully as he responded. “What’s good for my constituents is this: respect and dignity for all people, regardless of race, color, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, and anything else that Republicans use to divide us; wages and workplace protections that allow everyone to earn enough to live a good life; and government that’s more focused on helping the least among us than on ensuring that the rich continue to get richer.” He looked directly at the reporter as if daring her to contradict him as he added, “If those values don’t play in Peoria, then I think it says a lot more about the fine people of Peoria than it does about the rest of the country.”

“Congressman, any thoughts on the Brazil runoff?” someone else asked.

“Just that I hope the people of Brazil elect the president that will work best for them,” Enjolras said. He’d been yelled at many times over for wading too far into politics in other countries, so hoped that response would suffice.

Judging by the follow-up, it hadn’t. “And do you think that’s Lula or Bolsanaro?”

Enjolras paused. “That’s for the people of Brazil to decide, but I don’t think anyone’s going to be surprised to find out I’m not Bolsonaro’s biggest fan, and I certainly hope the Brazilian people recognize that they have a better choice available.”

It seemed neutral enough to not cause an uproar, and luckily, the reporters moved on. “Congressman, what would you say to people who are discouraged by the ‘just vote’ or ‘vote blue no matter who’ messaging surrounding this election?” one asked. “To those who voted and feel like nothing has changed or that their vote doesn’t matter?”

“I would say I understand their sentiments,” Enjolras said honestly, not surprised when the reporters murmured amongst themselves in response. “When the Republican Party is increasingly willing to work outside of the democratic process and in some cases outright planning on throwing out any election results that they don’t like, it’s an extremely bleak situation. And the fact of the matter is that there are places in this country where some votes will not be counted, where some results will be dismissed or thrown out. Not to mention this election very well may only stave off the disintegration of our country, not stop it.”

“That’s a far cry from your usually more hopeful rhetoric,” the Wall Street Journal reporter said.

He just arched an eyebrow at her. “That’s because you didn’t let me finish. There are decisions happening now, still choices being made by those in power that can help stem the tide of fascism, that can bring about real change, and that can realign this country so that we are moving in a direction of liberty and justice for all. And the only way those decisions and choices do so is by electing people who will make the right choices. And the only way that happens is by voting.”

He surveyed the assembled reporters, hoping if they were going to take anything as a sound bite, it’d be this: “It’s not a perfect system by a long shot, and the time may be closer at hand than ever to figure out a better way. But until then, it’s what we’ve got, and the only thing sitting it out does is provide greater cover for the folks who want to destroy it altogether.”

The silence that met that was punctuated by someone from the very back of the scrum, who raised his voice to ask, “Congressman, one final question – can you give us a smile?”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, partially from the inanity of the question, and partially because he was pretty sure he knew that voice. “Excuse me?”

“Just, you know, flash us a quick glimpse of those pearly whites,” the voice said helpfully, and all the reporters turned to gawk at the questioner, who grinned at Enjolras.

It was a smile Enjolras couldn’t help but return, even as he rolled his eyes. “Ok, who decided to give my partner a press pass?” he asked, holding out his hand for Grantaire, who crossed over to him and took it.

“Don’t be mad at them,” he told Enjolras, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “They thought it would be funny, and they were right.”

Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Everyone, you know my better half, Grantaire.”

Grantaire gave the press corps a brief wave. “Salutations.”

“Mr., uh, Grantaire, can we ask you a few questions?” a reporter asked hopefully.

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, who just shrugged. “Sure but I don’t think your editors are going to be thrilled you wasted your footage on me.”

“They’ll probably just use it as b-roll,” Enjolras told him in an undertone.

Grantaire winked at him. “That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Enjolras laughed as the reporter doggedly continued with her question. “The Congressman on occasion has referred to you as the more cynical between the two of you, so I have to ask: have you already voted, and if not, do you plan on voting?”

"Ok, not to actually sound as cynical as I’ve been accused of being, but if you think there’s a world where the significant other of a congressperson is going to say they aren’t planning on voting…” Grantaire trailed off before continuing, “I have voted, yes. I voted early this past weekend. I am lucky enough to live in a county in a state that makes it very easy for me to cast my ballot and make my voice heard.”

“And do you agree with your, uh, I mean, um, with the Congressman—”

The reporter floundered and Grantaire gave him a look. “With my partner?”

“Yes, sorry,” the reporter said, flushing. “Do you agree with him on the importance of voting?”

Grantaire considered it for a moment, and Enjolras tried not to hold his breath as he waited for his answer. “Enjolras has two quotes, both likely apocryphal in whomever they’re credited to, that he loves to say,” Grantaire said finally. “The first is this: ‘history is made by those who show up’. In this country, under this system, we show up by voting. Like he said, it’s not perfect system, but it’s the one we got.”

“And what’s the second one?”

“That every two years, we have the opportunity to peacefully overthrow our government through elections. Maybe it’s time some more folks took advantage of that.” Grantaire squeezed Enjolras hand before telling the reporters, “Now if you’ll excuse us, the congressman owes me a date.”

Enjolras gave them a wave as he let Grantaire pull him towards the waiting car. “You know, Combeferre doesn’t like when I use words like ‘overthrow the government’.”

Grantaire smirked. “That’s why I used them for you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Great, so the headline will just be ‘Congressman’s Partner Advocates for Overthrow of Government’, rather than ‘Congressman Advocates for Overthrow of Government’.”

“Disappointed?” Grantaire asked, opening the car door for him.

“Couldn’t be prouder,” Enjolras said, kissing his cheek before sliding into the car. “What was with asking me to smile?”

Grantaire slid in next to him. “You looked stressed, and very serious,” he said with a shrug. “And I figured it might make you smile for real once you realized it was me asking.”

“Well,” Enjolras said, feeling unexpectedly touched by that. “You weren’t wrong.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, a little smugly. “I so very rarely am.”

Enjolras just shook his head, but he still couldn’t stop his smile as he wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and tugged him close to his side.

#enjolras x grantaire #exr #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les miserables #fanfiction #modern au #politics au #us politics au #congressman!Enjolras #did some canvassing and tbh it was very very bleak #so I wrote this to make myself feel better #as one does!! #also the Brazil election was called as I was finishing this up #but i decided to just leave it as it was #the miserables month 2022

[theprofessionalpromptmaker]

International Rabbit Day & Dogs in Politics Day & National Singles’ Day

In a world where people have animalistic traits, there is biases and hierarchy, and most dog traited people, due to their charisma and positive opinions on dogs, go into politics. Person A is one such dog traited candidate, who has Person B working as their secretary/errand person, and who is rabbit traited. Person A can’t do anything to tarnish their reputation while in the running, but is struggling with their feelings for the efficient and dedicated Person B.

#mod poss #creative writing #writing prompt #writing #prompt #fanfic prompt #fanfiction prompt #story prompt #creative writing prompt #ficinsp #alternate universe #plots and prompts #obscure holiday prompt #fantasy au #forbidden romance #romance au #politics au #politician au #secretary au #boss and employee au #animal human au