#body part induction

[marcuslpetersen]

A guided meditation, based off the script from "Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself".

[tutuandscoot]

Oh nothing, just Scott getting Tessa out of their Moulin Rouge ending pose.

[hyperions-light]

Someone was being a fucking hater on my explicitly positive DATV post AGAIN (u all know I can see your tags right. They get delivered to me express mail style) so here’s an essay about how I thought the Grey Warden plotline was great:

First, it was extremely lore-consistent. I don’t know how to tell people this, but the Grey Wardens simply are sort of shady— it’s part of their charm. In DAO alone we found out they:

- kill anyone who refuses the joining

- are definitely using a blood magic ritual to induct people

- tried to usurp the throne of Fereldan

In DA2 they:

-Forced Malcolm Hawke to perform a blood magic ritual against his will to contain Corypheus, by threatening to kill his family

- Built a giant prison in the mountains they didn’t tell anyone about and that someone could wander into and not be able to escape

- the entire Corypheus thing. They didn’t even tell the other Wardens like what he was or how dangerous he was.

DAI:

- the demon army thing was pretty bad

And that’s not even mentioning any stuff from the books or comics or shows! That’s just stuff in the games!

So they’re shady. It’s okay! They’re my little woobie guys, idc if they’re sort of shady!

But the plot in DATV is about all of those previously established issues coming back to bite them in the fucking ass, as they should! Knock knock, it’s the consequences of your actions, baby! The chickens are home to roost

(Which is just good storytelling. Like if you set up a bunch of issues and then never pay them off or anything that’s bad.)

Destroying Weisshaupt was inspired! Firstly bc Davrin is Weisshaupt, metaphorically (bulwark against the darkness, etc, I already made a post) so it serves his character arc. But also because it strips away the pageantry and the grandeur from them; no more castle for you! No more myth!

Davrin explicitly tells you that the First Warden is a traditionalist; he represents the historical attitudes of the Wardens. They do not accept help, they do not give up their secrets, they are standing alone against the dark. And it doesn’t work! He’s fucking wrong (and very punch-able). Being secretive and isolationist is a mistake that costs them nearly everything.

But also, and I’m not sure how many people experienced this on the first go-around, the game does ultimately come down on the side of the Wardens always trying to do the right thing. You CAN talk the First Warden down, because in the end he’s a Warden, and he might be stubborn and curmudgeonly and miserable but he CARES about the world. He came to do good. He admits he was wrong and he helps you. Because the heart of the Wardens is about selfless service to other people. In Death, Sacrifice.

Stripping away Weisshaupt and the glory and pageantry leaves the Wardens at their most vulnerable and forces them to return to their fundamental principles: helping people. That’s what Lavendel is about. Helping individual people and preserving every life possible even if it doesn’t feel that glamorous or heroic. Lavendel isn’t a significant place; it doesn’t matter, but it matters so much.

And then, the Cauldron.

First off, do not at me about Last Flight. I don’t think people should have to read external materials to play this game and understand it. If the information is vital it should be presented to the player in the text.

The Cauldron is the repository of the Wardens’ secrets; it’s where the keep the bones of the Archdemons, the secret to the Joining, ancient and dangerous weapons, as well as the bodies of the griffons, which represents their most shameful errors. Isseya is the avatar of the Wardens’ mistakes; she’s been hurt by what they made her do, and her pain was never acknowledged by them. They buried her story and her suffering like they bury everything they don’t want to deal with and are ashamed of. They left the bones of the griffons, whose deaths they directly caused, to rot because they were too sad to acknowledge them.

But it was wrong to walk away, it was wrong to bury it. Isseya makes sure that they can never do that again, that they have to own what they did and take responsibility. By discovering who she is and by restoring her personhood to her, by reminding her of her love which drove her to her anguish in the first place, Davrin saves her and he saves the griffons. He doesn’t do it using violence, because another sin of the Wardens is just assuming that they can kill their way out of their problems, which the game disproves by revealing the origin of the Blight. You can kill as many darkspawn as you want, you will never fix it! The Titans’ dreams do not need to be slain, they need to be healed.

Isseya is in so much pain because of her incredible love for both the griffons and the Wardens, and because of her guilt. Look what she builds! An alternate Weisshaupt, a distorted reflection of her home. She entreats both Davrin and Assan to join her, because she doesn’t think she’s trying to destroy anything. She’s trying to save them! She wants them to come home. “I am their mother,” she says, and she’s right. She saved them, then, and she ends up saving them now! Because she made Davrin and the other Wardens look, unflinchingly, at what they had done, it will never happen again. She was going about it wrong during the game, but she was ALWAYS trying to save them.

Davrin, Antoine and Evka represent the Wardens’ commitment to being different. They let Flynn undergo the Joining without becoming a Warden, they reveal secrets to non-Warden Rook, they offer to help the Viper without asking for anything in return. They ask for help and offer it freely. If the Wardens are going to persist into a world without Archdemons, they HAVE to change. They can’t be what they were anymore. The game is asking what a Warden is when they have to be more than their oath, when they have to live. It’s a great exploration of and expansion on previously established lore.

Anyway, my advice if you hated the plot and the game and the characters is to a) make your own post b) don’t bother me about it, because I have the time and I will be loudly positive in response!

[reignpage]

Vice President!Sukuna

Pétain: losing it all pt 2

Word count: 3.3k Contents: cursing, alcohol use, angst, triggering, flashback to The Night, from reader's perspective

This is it. 

This is the culmination of everything you’ve ever done in your entire life. All the late nights, the volunteering work, the part time jobs, the internships, the extra credit, all the clubs anyone could possibly do crammed into your schedule for years. Every friend you’ve lost, every teacher’s ass you’ve kissed, and every tear you’ve shred. None of it you regret. 

Here, at Eden University, the top university in the country. Standing among the sons and daughters of the wealthiest, most successful families in the world, the best and the brightest, future leaders, record breakers, record setters, industry changing individuals. You’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted; you’ve got a scholarship to back you.

And now, it’s time to celebrate. 

“Y/n, come on!” 

Penny beckons you over, shaking her hair with a wide grin. She’s your friend, your bestest friend. And you came to EdenU with her. Wild and carefree, you two are opposites, but you’ve been stuck together like glue since you were in diapers. Insisting that you catch up on lost time, she’s made a pact with you. 

You’re going to lose your virginity tonight. 

Your alcohol, party, kiss, and of course, sexual virginities.

All things she swore eighteen-year-olds needed to have lost before entering university. You’re not convinced that’s true, but the idea does sound good. Losing everything that was holding you back from being just like everyone else and starting fresh on equal footing with your new peers. 

That’s tonight’s plan. 

With a giggle, you let her lead you into the middle of the dance floor. Club Lilith is packed; every freshman, both EdenU and non-EdenU students, filling the underground nightclub. Body to body, you’re being pushed back and forth and side to side, like waves crashing at you from all sides. The music is loud, and you can’t make out the lyrics, can only feel the beats thumping through your chest, piercing you with the bass. It’s exhilarating, to be moved by external forces and to go with the flow, to be untethered for one night. 

You start to understand why Penny did it all the time whilst you were in the library. 

Swaying, you both grip each other’s hips and waist, partially from a desire to let loose together, and to keep afloat amongst the crowd. Your cheeks are aching from smiling so much and so widely, giggling as she bops her head like a rockstar. 

But then she spots something above you.

“Oh my god, look!” She screams in your ear. “It’s Gojo! And he’s with Sukuna and Geto.”

There’s only one name you recognise, and it wasn’t ‘Gojo’ or ‘Geto’. You have no idea who they are and why she’s screeching in your ear about them. The three people are standing on the second floor, leaning against the railing as they half converse together, and half watch the people. Suddenly, you’re being pulled again, this time away from the dance floor. The crowd doesn’t part, the people become steel walls, all rigid and fixed, and you both have to dig your elbows for leverage. 

“This is your chance to get with Sukuna, come on!”

As you both make your way upstairs, with Penny flashing her family’s name at the security guard, you gulp. Having been no stranger to the world of politics, you recognised Sukuna immediately. You saw him at the induction day, sat just metres away from you as he eyed the hall with mild interest. 

His family is Old Money, having been there at the very founding of the country, building every foundation and infrastructure with their bare hands, and continuing to do as leaders of the political regime. Ryomen is a world-famous name with a world-famous empire to back it up. And their one, and only, son?

He’s fucking hot. 

And you hate that you find him attractive. You aren’t the type to get all nervous around a guy, they’re just boys, after all. But he might just be the first person you’ve ever had a crush on in your entire life. You hope he likes you.

“Gojo, hey, babe,” Penny squeals, jumping into a slightly surprised white-haired man. He returns the hug and introduces her to everyone as a family friend. 

You stand there awkwardly, waving at the girls sipping champagne, and at the guys who eye both you and your friend. Walking over to Penny who’s chatting excitedly to Gojo, recapping her summer, you smile at Sukuna and, who you’ve deduced as being, Geto.

The latter returns a polite smile and the former quirks one corner of his lip, his own version of a greeting, you’ve gathered. Up close, he’s even better looking; his hair is a pastel pink, he has broad shoulders, and his skin is flawless. 

You wonder if he tastes just as dangerous as he looks. 

Rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, you try to make conversation, “So what are you guys studying?”

With a scoff, Sukuna stalks off. 

Your cheeks start heating up.

“Don’t mind him,” Geto sighs, “he just doesn’t like crowds or strangers.”

Then why is he at a club on the busiest night?

That’s one of those thoughts you keep to yourself, so you nod. You make idle chit chat with the long haired man; he's sweet, polite and gentlemanly. You could see yourself losing everything tonight, with him, and you know he'd take care of you. But, somewhere in the back of your mind, you're aware your attraction is surface-level. There's something he wouldn't be able to give, something deep inside of you that can't be scratched. It's dark and sinister and you're ashamed.

Your friend and Gojo are laughing, talking about some family event they had to go to, and you kind of feel bad for how touchy she's being, though she's like that to everyone. She hugs his arm, squeezing it between her breasts as she slurs her words. The man only laughs and pats her on her head.

Eventually, appearing satisfied with the last ten minutes, Penny’s grabbing your arm and cheering. “Okay, let’s go dance again.”

Apparently, all she wanted was to make her presence known to Gojo. You say goodbye to everyone, even though their attentions already shifted to a couple making out in the corner, cheering them on. And you both return to the dance floor.

Another hour passes, well, it could have been ten hours, it’s hard to tell. There are no windows nor clocks, and the crowd isn’t waning. But despite how unnatural it is for you, you continue to dance, rocking to the music, and ignoring the ache in your chest that manifested after being shrugged off by your first ever crush.

This is everything you've ever wanted, all at your fingertips. The soothing coolness of alcohol lifting you higher and higher as you grind on a random man, his hands all over your body in a way you don't really hate. And you're elated, grinning at Penny who's fluffing her hair as she lets a guy kiss her neck.

You've talked about this night for so long, going over all the wild and crazy things you'd do now that you're unburdened by responsibilities. It feels incredibly surreal to be here, with everyone regarding you as a peer as they grin back at you, finding your body just as attractive as you find them.

Soon, the lack of fresh air gets to you, so you excuse yourself to step out for a second. Penny pouts but once a hot guy steps into her line of view, she lets you go without complaint. 

Ascending the stairs and fidgeting with your wristband, you’re shocked to find that it’s still night. It’s as if time passes differently down there. But the cool air feels good on your flushed skin, and you feel light again. Partying is cathartic, for sure, but it’s also quite exhausting. The makeup and the tight clothes took up so much time and energy that you really didn’t think you’d have energy at all to dance, and yet you found it. 

“Y/n, right?”

You jolt. 

Sukuna’s leaning against the brick wall, one foot bent. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers and a hand in his pocket. You frown a little — he’s addressing you, but his gaze is set in the distance, at a flickering streetlight. 

Clearing your throat, you answer, “Yeah.”

He nods.

A silence befalls you and you’re both standing side by side, careful not to touch, watching the lights, feeling the muted thumping of the music against your back. Your heart is beating pretty fast, and you don’t mind just staying here, listening to him inhale and then exhale the smoke. 

But when your pinkie twitches and it brushes against his, a bolt of electricity runs through your body. You both glance at each other, looking away just as quickly. 

When had he even taken his hand out of his pocket?

Flustered, you stammer, “I’m a law student.”

Slowly, he raises a brow, and repeats, “Law student?”

“Yep,” you pop your lips, “top of my class. Perfect grades.” The alcohol is not doing you any favours, it’s making you loose lipped, tearing down your inhibitions, and silencing that voice at the back of your head telling you it’s impolite, and shameless, to brag. 

Sukuna doesn’t look impressed. In fact, his expression doesn’t change, not even with a flicker. “That a big achievement for you?”

His tone is patronising, completely condescending, like you’re a little dog he’s rubbing the belly of. Your eye twitches. He’s still not looking at you. How could he possibly just shrug you off like you’re not worth looking at? Sure, he’s rich, but what does that matter when you’re all in the same place, with the exact same opportunities in front of you. 

“As opposed to getting here with your daddy’s money?” You fire back.

The temperature drops. You feel it. It’s the palpable tension, the one that pricks the back of your neck in warning, that tells you to apologise, to bow your head, present your neck in submission or run away. Gulping, you clench your fist, willing the anxiety to go away.

“What the fuck do you know about me?” Sukuna’s voice has dropped an octave, digging deeper than before, deeper than you thought possible. He’s turned his head towards you now, you definitely have his attention. Dark and raging, his eyes pierce through you, and it’s like he’s scouring your soul for weaknesses. “Oh, I see. Little Perfect Missy thinks she has a right to stomp her feet, yes? Why? Because you have a scholarship?”

“How- “

He scoffs, right in your face, and his smoke fans your face. “You reek the smell of a scholarship student. You think just ‘cause you have good grades that puts you on equal footing to me? And maybe even to your little friend?”

“Leave her out of this,” you hiss through gritted teeth. 

Tilting his head, he scans your body, and you wish he had never acknowledged your presence. With a lofty tone, he presses, “Which one are you? A Gojo Foundation kid? No, you would have been more impressed to meet the white-haired freak. You’re not one of mine, either, otherwise you wouldn’t dare speak to me like that. You must be an Adamson.”

Something must have flashed in your eyes because then he’s laughing. 

“You are, aren’t you?” He flashes you his pearly white teeth, razor sharp and glinting under the warm streetlights. “And you have no idea about anything at all.”

“Fuck you,” is all you manage. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up, then he’s softening his body, shoulders slouching, and he leans over to you. You try to step back but he grabs your waist with a firm hand. He smells good, he feels good, and you hate it. Hate it so much because you shouldn’t still find him the most beautiful man in all of Eden. 

“Is that what you want?” He squeezes your waist, and you have to bite back a sharp breath. “You want to be fucked? I bet you’re nervous, hmm? New to all of this. Bet you’re someone who never stepped one foot out of line, all so you could be here, and now that you are, you want a taste of freedom.”

Are you so easy to read? 

Is that what everyone sees when they look at you? 

A meek little girl who wants to be just like everyone else?

“Leave me alone,” you mumble weakly. It has no real strength, no real authority. Because he was right on the money; you want to taste what liberation feels like, and right now, as your chest presses to his and you feel the hard outline of his torso, you realise you want to taste the freedom he’s offering. 

It’s just for one night, one bad decision, one mistake — you’re allowed, you’ve worked hard your entire life, you should be able to have regrets. And this mistake is too damn good to let go. 

“Meet me in Room 2, tell the bouncer you’re a Vessel, they’ll know what it means. Come in 10 minutes.” He snaps his teeth at you and his eyes twinkle at your flinch. “Don’t be late.”

And then he’s gone. 

Sukuna’s retreated into the depths of Lilith, leaving you reeling in the streets, feeling as if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. But that one moment where he looked at you, really looked at you, set your blood ablaze; you're breathless, feeling adrenaline rushing your body. It was a taste of what you could have, and you want more. 

So you head back down, deeper and deeper into the belly of the she-beast, and you push your way through the crowd. You’re being bumped left and right, and they constrict you with pulsing grooves until you’re getting lost in the music. Searching all around, you try to find any familiar face, and see only the blur of euphoric expressions, heads thrown back, eyes closed, and mouths parted. 

Emerging into the hallway, you stumble onto the wall, gripping the smooth surface with clammy hands; the vodka in your system is slurring your movements and you’re lightheaded, delirious from the pull urging you forward. You do as Sukuna say, you meet a bouncer —bald, tall, big and mean — you tell him you’re a ‘Vessel’, stumbling with the word as if it’s foreign, and he lets you pass without even a cursory glance. 

Stretching your skirt further down your thighs, you scan the hallway; long, narrow, and dark, it feels wrong to be here. There are only a few lights above, leaking dim red hues, barely enough to see what lies ahead, but you push through. You don’t know what you’re expecting, this is new to you — but you’ve been shaved and waxed and perfumed to the maximum; Penny insisted. And you’re giggling at the supple feel of your own body, still a little raw from all the scrubbing. 

Would he hate that you’re inexperienced? Would he be disgusted by your clumsiness? Maybe he, himself, isn’t a very good lover. Would he expect you to do all the work? 

To your right, you find Room 2, it’s a door so black you almost missed it; it blends into the shadows. But the golden number is hard to miss, and you know you’re at the right place. 

Wiping your hands down your skirt, you exhale, and then you twist the door open. 

Your heart drops. 

Right in front of you is the bare back of a naked girl, she’s throwing her head back in pleasure, bouncing up and down. The sounds of pleasure echo in the room, and your voice is stuck in your throat; you know this girl. She’s been the person that braided your hair, that curled your lashes, that spun you around and cheered. The one on the front row of every play, every debate, every award. A girl who held your hand when you fell and scraped your knee at 6, and again when your dad left at 12. 

“Tell me more about your friend,” a deep voice breathes out.

“Y/n?” The girl clarifies, she’s panting, a little confusion lacing her words as she continues her gyrations. “What is there to say? She’s boring.”

“She didn’t look boring.”

The sound of her laughter penetrates your chest like a dagger digging its way into your heart and when she says, “Trust me, she is. All she does is study and yet she couldn’t get into Eden by herself,” you feel the dagger’s hilt twist. 

You reel back like you’ve been slapped.

She continues, still bouncing, still moaning, “Yeah, had to get my dad to talk -ha- to the Dean, they’re -fuck!- long time golf buddies. Oh, that’s so good! Right there, yes! He -fuuuuck- gave her a scholarship so she’ll feel better about herself.”

Sitting up, the man grips her waist and kisses her neck. His eyes meet yours. His stare burns and your eyes are watering, a bead of sweat dripping down your forehead. There’s a blazing heat in his gaze, not one borne from pleasure but from a sick satisfaction. You’re going to throw up. 

“You do that often?” His eyes aren’t leaving yours, he’s watching for every single twitch of your brow, every flutter of your lashes, and narrows his gaze on the quiver of your bottom lip. “You have to make her feel better?”

“Fuck! Yes, Sukuna, right there, baby!” She digs her hands into his scalp, clutching him close as she seeks out her release. “I always have -ngh- to make her feel better. Daddy says she’s going to be -yesssss- somebody someday so I need her for connections.”

Then she's laughing. It's the kind you've never heard her use. No. You have. Just never at you.

"She didn't know Adamson's my dad's name. Everyone else -ha- knows who I am but she's never bothered to care. So good! God, she thinks we're actually on the same level. It's pathetic."

The bile is rising from your throat and the urge is overwhelming. Your blood has run cold and you’re stumbling back out, tripping over your own feet as you clutch your stomach, trying to find your way back out. You wind up back at the dance floor and there’s somehow even more people in here, jumping, grinding, gyrating. The beat is blaring, thumping and thudding, and the crowd sways in waves, pulsing as they surround you. 

Spinning, your vision is spinning. And the flashing lights is blinding, disorientating, you're losing your mind. You have no idea where the exit is, where you are, who you are. You're going to throw up.

“Let me out,” you don’t know if you scream or whisper that. “Please.”

You’re gasping, clawing your hands wherever they can gain purchase. The crowd doesn’t let up, they tighten around you, squeezing every breath away, and their skin is sticky, dampening your clothes with a mix of things you don’t want to think about. You need to get out of here. 

“I want to go home, please.” 

You’re crying. There’s no doubt about it, there are tears streaming down your face, fat droplets that are drowning you. You push and push, shoving past every person in front of you but it feels like you’re only going deeper and deeper, being dragged down into the circles of hell. It's like you’re already at the very centre. 

It’s hot in here. All the air’s been sucked out of the room, you toss your head in all directions, gasping and gasping and gasping, there are hands on your hips, your waist, gripping your arms, twisting and kneading and scratching, it’s all too much. 

“Let me go!” You sob. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

No one can hear you.

“I DON'T BELONG HERE!"

You blink. 

You’re on the streets. The cold air nipping at your skin and it stings your eyes, threatening to freeze the tears there. There’s no time to think about how you got there or how long you’ve been there; you run back to your dorm, clutching your ripped up cardigan and wiping the mascara from your cheeks.

And all night long, until the sun comes up, you cry.

Hours pass by, and those hours turn into days until a whole week has come and go, and you’re numb. Half of your things are still in their boxes, collecting dust, and you’ve received a ton of emails that stare back at you. 

Your mother calls. She asks how you’ve been, and you lie. 

You’ve made lots of friends, your subjects are super interesting, the people are welcoming, and you love it here. There isn’t anywhere else you’d rather go. She beams at you, spouting about how proud she is, and you watch her wipe tears away, just as you had before you picked up the phone, and whatever is left of your heart breaks further. 

It’s from that very moment, where she says she’s happy you’re where you’ve always wanted to be, you decide that it may not be now, but you’ll make it become the place of your dreams. It doesn’t matter how you got here; what matters is that you are here, and where you will be once you get your head down. 

No one needs anything other than hard work and ambition. You have never needed anything more, and you will never need anything more. 

These are all the lies you tell yourself as you fix yourself up, showering, changing and walking to class. The lies you repeat over and over again as you cry yourself to sleep, as you work at your desk, and when you try to drown yourself in the shower. A hollow mantra that holds no real weight as you ignore the onslaught of texts and calls from a person you no longer know. 

And a month later, when she walks past you wordlessly, you repeat it again. 

This is how things are supposed to be. 

How things will be. 

And you’ve never been happier.

[please1mistress]

WARNING Flashing IMAGE and HYPNOTIC COVERT language

Inductions

Hypnosis, a fascinating and complex phenomenon, has captivated human interest for centuries. It's a state of focused attention, heightened suggestibility, and vivid fantasies. People often think of hypnosis as a deep sleep or unconsciousness, but in reality, it's more about a trance-like state where the individual is actually in heightened awareness of suggestion. Often used for therapeutic purposes, hypnosis can aid in various issues such as stress, anxiety, pain management, and certain habits like smoking. However, it's not a magical cure-all; its effectiveness varies from person to person.

Hypnosis can also be a form of entertainment, where stage hypnotists perform shows that demonstrate the power of suggestion. Despite its many applications, hypnosis remains a subject of debate among scientists and psychologists. Some view it as a powerful tool for mental health, while others caution against its potential to create false memories or its use in recovering memories, which is a controversial area within the field. It's important to approach hypnosis with a critical mind and understand that it's a complex interplay of psychological and physiological factors. If you're considering hypnotherapy, it's crucial to seek out a qualified and certified professional to ensure a safe and beneficial experience, someone like me.

You find yourself reading these words and as you read they seem to take on a life of their own, almost like magic. Your mind slows as you red larger more complex words and you may feel a soft tingle of arousal as you FOCUS on my words and feel dreamy. It's quite fascinating how the complexity of words can influence our cognitive processes. When we encounter larger, more intricate words, our brains need to work harder to decode the meaning, which can sometimes slow down your reading speed. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; it allows for deeper processing and understanding of the messages I am pushing softly into your mind. It's easy to relax and follow the words you read. It's easy to feel dreamy as your mind accepts that it wants to drop deeper.

Dropping deeper feels good, as you touch yourself and keep reading you can let go of any inhibitions or control. it's so easy to sink into a light trance, after all entering a light trance can be a simple, yet profound experience. It's a state where the conscious mind takes a step back, allowing the subconscious to surface and express itself more freely. This can happen during various activities that engage the mind in a repetitive, rhythmic manner, such as listening to music, meditating, or even during a long drive. In this state, people often find their thoughts flowing more smoothly, their creativity heightened, and their stress levels reduced. It's a moment of introspection and connection with the inner self that can provide clarity and insight. While in a light trance, the mind filters information differently, prioritizing internal dialogue and sensation, which can lead to a deeper understanding of one's thoughts and feelings. It's a natural and accessible state that can offer a respite from the hustle and bustle of daily life, and a gateway to greater self-awareness.

You are not even aware of how deeply into the trance you are, your fingers stroking your arousal for me as you read and feel a dreamy warmth spreading from your fingers into your whole body. Aware but unaware that you could stop at anytime, but you don't want that, you want to keep reading and sinking deeper and deeper as you feel arousal growing more for me. It just feels so good to give in, the very act of giving, whether it's time, resources, or kindness, has a profound impact on your well-being. It transcends the material value of what is given and touches the very essence of human connection. When you give, you're not just passing on a physical item or a piece of advice; you're sharing a part of yourselves, creating a bond that reflects your shared humanity. This act of generosity can be deeply satisfying, as it often brings joy and relief to others, which in turn enriches your own life. It's a beautiful cycle of positivity that reinforces the best parts of being a good submissive.

Giving has been shown to activate regions in our brain associated with pleasure, social connection, and trust, creating a warm glow effect. It's no wonder that the phrase "it's better to give than to receive" has resonated through the ages. This isn't just a moral suggestion; it's backed by science. Studies have found that giving to others can increase our happiness more than spending money on ourselves. This might be because when we give, we feel a sense of purpose and meaning, knowing that we've made a positive impact on someone else's life.

Moreover, the act of giving doesn't have to be grandiose to be effective. Small acts of kindness can ripple outwards and have unforeseen positive consequences. Just as a pebble creates waves when thrown into a pond, a simple gesture of generosity can spread far and wide. It's the intention behind the act that matters most, the recognition that even the smallest offering can make a significant difference.

In a world that often emphasizes individual achievement and accumulation of wealth, it's important to remember the value of generosity. It's a reminder that our interconnectedness is a source of strength, not weakness. By giving, we acknowledge that we are part of a larger community, one that thrives when its members support each other. It's a powerful acknowledgment that we are not alone in our journey through life, and that by helping others, we are also helping ourselves.

So, when we say it feels good to give in, it's not just about the act of giving up or surrendering; it's about embracing the joy of generosity. It's a celebration of the human spirit and its capacity for compassion and empathy. Giving is an affirmation that, despite the challenges we face, there is goodness in the world, and we have the power to contribute to it, one act of kindness at a time. It's a simple truth that enriches our lives and the lives of those around us, creating a legacy of goodwill that can endure beyond our own existence. Indeed, to give is to receive a gift of immeasurable value—the happiness and satisfaction that come from knowing we've played a part in making the world a little brighter.

You want to give in more deeply, message me and tell me how much you need deeper brainwashing NOW!

[d4rv1n]

Obedience to Pink.

In this induction I will condition your mind to obey Any and Every command given to you that's highlighted by Pink. Your Thoughts, actions.. even feelings.. They will all be effortlessly controlled by the mere color of text.. Read at your own risk.

Let us begin, shall we? A nice, simple breathing exercise..

Take a long, deep breath for me

Hold it in briefly..

And now let it all out..

Once again, Deep breath in..

Expand your lungs fully..

And a deep breath out..

And as you continue this nice, relaxing cycle you simply let yourself go.. let yourself relax..

as you Breathe in..

you concentrate concentrate all your stress and tension with the air in your lungs..

and we you Breathe out..

you let all this tension go..

Allowing yourself to sink into relaxation..

As you feel every part of your body slowly sink as well..

Every cell, every muscle, every fiber of your being..

with each and every breath you take, your body Sinks further and further..

Deeper and deeper..

into Trance..

Go ahead now and stare Deep into this spiral

Let it draw you in..

Both your body and mind be drawn in by its beauty..

Let yourself be completely mesmerized..

And feel your thoughts simply shut off..

as your body goes numb..

Feel mindless ecstasy wash over you..

and with every second you spend staring into the spiral, your mind shuts down more and more..

you lose control of your body..

It's impossible to move, not that you want to..

It feels So Good to be This Very Deep..

Feel how impossible it is to form a thought of your own..

As if your mind cannot function properly anymore..

Only reading my commands mindlessly..

Letting them control you..

and Obeying..

Here's another spiral for you..

Pretty, isn't it?

Let it remove all thoughts that are left in that silly brain of yours..

And every second you spend staring at it, it draws you So much deeper into relaxation..

So much deeper into Trance..

Let it spin in your brain..

Let it play on repeat..

Even when you're not looking at it..

Feel it be your one and only thought..

Seeing it spin so vividly..

Even while reading my commands..

The spiral has now Dominated your mind..

And in this wonderful, mindless bliss..

it's the only thing you care about..

And each and every second it spins your thoughts away..

is a second you fall Hundreds of times deeper...

Thousands of times deeper..

More mindless than you've ever been before..

More blank than you've ever thought was possible..

And yet, somehow..

Sinking even deeper..

Deeper and Deeper..

Deeper and Deeper..

Deeper.. and.. Deeper..

And now I will count down from three..

And when I reach the number one you'll be in a state of Complete and Absolute trance..

Are you ready?

One..

and you feel your mind shut down more than it has ever..

Two..

And you feel your body go completely Numb and motionless..

and finally..

Three.

Complete.. and absolute..

Trance...

And with the spiral still spinning in your head, take a moment to fully enjoy the relaxation you're feeling right now..

Every muscle, every cell.. Each part of your body and mind..

Completely Off. Shut down.

Enjoy how good it feels to be guided by my words..

Not having to think..

Simply obeying..

Feels good to obey, doesn't it?

Feels so good to submit your mind to me..

Feels so good under my hypnosis..

Under my Absolute Control..

But soon, when I wake you up, I won't be the only thing with such a tight grip on your mind..

Because from now on, everything said in Pink Letters Will control your body and mind just as I control you right now..

From now on, Every command given to you..

Everything you're told to do..

Everything you're told to think..

Everything you're told to feel..

You Will Obey It All

As long as the text is Pink..

There will be no resistance to it..

No matter how hard you try..

You will never have the chance to want against it..

You will never have a chance to disobey..

And it will feel So Very Good when you submit to the text..

as if your purpose in life is being fulfilled..

Pink will have absolute control over Everything about you

No matter whether you're in trance or awake...

No matter where you are or what you're doing..

No matter your attempts at resistance...

The harder you try to resist, the more you will Obey.

And the better you will feel.

You understand, don't you?

Let's put it to the test then, shall we?

Reblog this post with the caption "Pink Controls Me"

And then continue reading this post exactly where you left off

That's a good toy.

And now.. Awake.

Tell me now, Just how much did you enjoy that?

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[secularprolifeconspectus]

BREAKING: new records expose that Planned Parenthood will sell body parts from healthy, viable babies to universities for intellectual property.

In a batch of freshly released FOIA documents, journalist David Daleiden of the Center for Medical Progress has pieced together a horrifying reality: Planned Parenthood harvests organs from viable, nonanomalous fetuses with documented heartbeats from abortions with labor induction for research at the University of California San Diego in exchange for IP rights. In other words, PP dissects healthy premies who are old enough to live outside the womb after making sure they are alive and delivering them intact, per their contract with UCSD, in which PP gets to keep all royalties for patents developed from experiments. And the Spanish-speaking mothers didn't give informed consent to this. In other words, and they prey on vulnerable minorities for their babies.

How do I know this is true? It's because I am the associate reporter in this video, and David emailed me the documents to read for myself.

Evidence includes:

Transfer agreement outlining the exchange of fetal tissue for ownership of research IP

Research plan approved by the UCSD Institutional Review Board requesting organ samples from nonanomalous fetuses up to 23 weeks gestation (that's nearly 6 months old; periviability begins at 21 weeks)

Same research plan calling for verification of a heartbeat immediately before the procedure to ensure the fetuses are living (this keeps their tissues fresh; the fetuses cannot be given a feticide to "euthanize" (poison) them before the procedure, because this would contaminate the tissues; this means the fetuses are either bled out or dismembered alive)

Did I mention this plan calls for up to 2,500 samples from 2,500 fetuses?

Email chain discussing the use of heavy doses of misoprostol before abortions after 12.5 weeks (forces labor contractions to deliver the baby — may result in live birth)

Donation consent forms in English which state the tissue may be used commercially, but in Spanish exclude this info entirely (San Diego has a large immigrant population, so this is racist targeting)

No, I cannot say for certain that PP actually did cut up healthy premies. But I am saying, it is documented that they were willing to do so, and that should be enough to cause alarm.

Protecting premature infants is a nonpartisan human rights issue. Everyone should be outraged about this violation of the vulnerable.

I've had folks suggest to me before that this is just a few "bad actors", but they're missing the bigger picture of how the abortion industrial complex enables these crimes. It is a natural outcome of the system, and it must be dismantled. You cannot permit elective abortion without permiting violence against premature infants. Tell your representatives to divest from Big Abortion NOW.

[queenshelby]

The Peaky Role (Part Three)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap, Best Friend's Dad

Several weeks later...

For weeks, you had been rehearsing lines in front of the mirror, the images of your character swirling in your mind. Learning your lines wasn't difficult for you but the weight of the role pressed on your shoulders.

Your character was not like you. She was outgoing and bold, confident enough to challenge Thomas Shelby in ways you could only dream of off-screen. She was also cunning and sly, weaving her way through the grit and charm of the Peaky Blinders' world.

You, on the other hand, were shy and reserved in nature but, then again, so was Cillian, whom you had known for many years now as your father's friend and your best friend's father.

He was an introvert, just like you and, if he can pull off a role like Thomas Shelby, then so could you, even if the method took a little extra courage.

After unpacking your belongings in the small, modern aparthotel room in Liverpool, not far from set, the weight of anticipation settled in your chest. You glanced at the clock on the wall—time ticked closer to your induction and costume fitting.

You had a shower quickly and grabbed a bite to eat at the small café downstairs, the aroma of fresh coffee swirling around you. Each sip brought a mix of comfort and anxiety—fueling your resolve while your mind raced with thoughts of the approaching filming.

Eventually, you were picked up by a Margot, who was one of the set assistants. Only Cillian had his own assistant and Margot pretty much looked after everyone else in the cast.

Her energy buzzed in the cramped car as you made your way through the city, past factories and quiet streets that would soon be transformed into cinematic scenes.

“Are you ready for this?” Margot glanced at you through the rearview mirror, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you replied, attempting to sound more confident than you felt.

Margot chuckled softly. “That’s the spirit! Just remember, the cameras love a little nervous energy. It makes everything more authentic.”

You nodded, though your stomach twisted into knots as a wave of apprehension washed over you. Stepping onto a set filled with crews and cameras always felt like jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim.

Arriving at the studio, the place buzzed with life. Crew members hustled about, the chatter of directors and actors blending into a symphony of ceaseless energy. Y

"Lets get your costumes fitted first, then we’ll move onto the induction," Margot chirped, guiding you through the chaos.

As you walked past trailers and lights, you felt your heart race. Each step drew you closer to the heart of the production.

Inside the fitting room, racks of clothes hung like statues, waiting to take form on whoever wore them.

"Wow, these are quite revealing," you muttered, eyeing the delicate fabrics and elaborate designs of the costumes that would define your character.

But then again, the way your character dressed didn't suprise you. You were portraying a prostitute after all, and the wardrobe reflected that with its daring cuts and bold fabrics.

“Just wait until you see the whole look,” one of the dress makers said with a gleam in her eye. “You’re going to own it.”

With a hesitant smile, you stepped into the fitting area, surrounded by mirrors that reflected a multitude of yous, each one more nervous than the last.

“Let’s start with this,” the dressmaker offered, holding up a deep emerald green dress that seemed to shimmer under the bright lights.

“It’s stunning,” you breathed, imagining how it would embrace the curves of your body and the way it would flow as you moved.

“Let’s get you into it,” the dressmaker urged, practically bouncing on her toes in excitement.

As you changed, your hands shook slightly, both with nerves and anticipation. Sliding the fabric over your skin, you caught glimpses of yourself in the mirror—transformation flickered with every turn. The dress hugged your form in all the right ways , accentuating the contours of your waist and the length of your legs. You couldn’t help but smile, the thrill of seeing yourself as the character momentarily eclipsing your nerves.

“Absolutely breathtaking ,” the dressmaker exclaimed, stepping back to take in the full effect before pinning some needles into the fabric.

"Now, I will get this fixed up for your first scene while you get your hair and make-up done, Love," she said as she jotted down notes, her enthusiasm infectious.

You stepped out of the fitting room and into the adjacent space where stylists prepped the cast for filming. The scents of hairspray and makeup clung in the air like a veil, transforming the atmosphere into a creative whirlwind.

“Over here!” a stylist called out, waving you over. She had a warm smile and shoulder -length blond hair that bounced with her every movement.

"Name's Lucy," she introduced, pulling you into her orbit as she began examining your hair. “Let’s get ya ready, alright?"

You nodded and, much to your suprise, you hair was about to look a whole lot different than before. Lucy knelt beside you, her hands already beginning to assess the strands.

“You have gorgeous hair, but I think a darker shade will fit your character better,” she said, fingers weaving through your strands with the finesse of a painter choosing colors for a masterpiece.

“Are we thinking black or just a few shades darker?” you asked, trying to gauge the vision she had for you.

“Oh, we’ll go for a dark chocolate shade,” Lucy decided, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “It’ll deepen your features and give that sultry vibe your character needs.”

Once the dye settled in, you could already envision the striking contrast it would create against the deep green of your dress.

Lucy worked deftly, mixing hues and chatting effortlessly, drawing you into the whirlwind of her passion for her craft.

Once done, she started styling and pinning sections of your hair back into soft waves that cascaded delicately around your shoulders.

"The character needs to look approachable yet glamorous,” she instructed, her hands a flurry of activity and you simply nodded in agreement, not knowing what else to say.

Your make-up followed straight after, in a seamless transition, a rhythm now established as Lucy effortlessly transformed you into the embodiment of your character.

“Let’s emphasize those cheekbones,” she declared, brushing a warm blush across your skin with the precision of an artist applying the final touches to a canvas.

Finally, after what felt like hours of delicate adjustments and color choices, Lucy tilted your chin to face her, her eyes scrutinizing your look with a practiced gaze.

“Perfect. Just perfect,” she confirmed and you were stunned yourself.

“Wow, I hardly recognize myself,” you marveled as she handed you a mirror. Your heart raced at the reflection staring back at you—a woman, not a girl anymore.

The transformation felt surreal; the character you had been rehearsing now lived in front of you, daring and vibrant.

“Absolutely ready to take on the world,” Lucy said, grinning widely at her handiwork and, just as she began to tidy up the area, the doors swung open, and Cillian strode in, exuding the calm confidence that came with years on film sets.

"Holy moly,” Cillian exclaimed, his deep blue eyes widening as they landed on you.

You barely had time to react before he swept closer, inspecting the transformation with a mixture of admiration and curiosity.

"You look... different," he said, his brows lifting with genuine surprise.

You laughed, trying to shake off the nerves. “I think it helps when a small army of stylists attack you like this,” you joked, glancing over at Lucy, who was putting away her tools with a satisfied grin.

Cillian chuckled, before taking a seat next to you, knowing that it was his turn next.

"Well, the dark hair suits you, I think," he said, his voice steady but warm, as he leaned back in the chair.

“Thanks,” you replied shyly, brushing your hair behind your ear, suddenly conscious of every detail. The weight of his gaze made it hard to focus, every compliment feeling heavier today.

"Your hair suits you too," you murmured, glancing at the subtle gray streaks that framed his face, each one a testament to the man he had become over the years.

"You mean the grey?" he laughed, thinking you were mocking him.

“Yeah, it suits you,” you replied, gathering your courage. “You look distinguished. Thomas Shelby has never looked better.”

"Well the haircut is better this year. So that's probably it," he grinned, running a hand through his hair, settling into the banter. “No offence, Lucy," he added, glancing at the stylist, who laughed softly, waving it off.

"None taken. I just follow instructions," Lucy replied with a wink, stepping back to allow Cillian room to settle into the chair as the stylist approached him with an array of products.

"I see you later, on set," you said, offering him a wave as you rose to gather your things.

"Yes, see you shortly," Cillian replied, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer, the warmth in his gaze wrapping around you like a familiar blanket.

As you stepped out into the bustling atmosphere of the studio, a sense of purpose ignited within you.

You had your induction now before reqturning to the dressmaker to get fitted out once more, in readiness for your first scene with Cillian in less than half an hour.

Going over your lines one more time, you settled into a quiet corner of the studio. The set buzzed with anticipation, and you could hear snippets of conversation as crew members moved about, adjusting lights and cameras. You pulled out your script, the pages slightly worn from your repeated reading. The words became a lifeline, grounding you in the chaos swirling around.

Then, your call came from the assistant director, cutting through the ambient noise like a siren.

You made your way on to the scene, where you would be alone with Cillian, except for the director and camera team of course.

The scene you had to play out was a flirtatious one set in a smoky but empty bar in London, the air thick with intrigue and whispered secrets.

Once on set, the atmosphere wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. The dim lighting contrasted sharply with the bright overhead lights that illuminated the set, casting long shadows that danced along the bar.

Cillian walked in, talking to the director as they both approached you. By this time, you were standing around like a lost puppy, simply waiting for instructions.

Cillian turned toward you, gently smiling. "Are you alright?" he asked with a knowing glance, his deep blue eyes searching yours.

“I think so,” you replied, smoothing down the fabric of your dress, suddenly conscious of the way it hugged your form. “Just a little nervous,” you admitted, feeling the warmth creep into your cheeks.

Cillian gave you a reassuring nod, a subtle camaraderie built through years of knowing each other exploding into a moment of understanding. “Everyone gets nervous. Even I do," he said, his tone steady and genuine. The director joined in, signaling for both of you to get into position.

“Alright, this is a new scene, and I want to capture the tension between you two,” the director explained, gesturing with his hands to illustrate his vision. “Cillian will approach you here at the bar and start a conversation," he explained. "Now, remember to maintain an electric connection. The minute you lock eyes, it’s going to be sizzling. Let it build, okay?”

You nodded, absorbing the direction, excitement intertwining with anxiety.

As the director stepped back, the crew shifted the lights, casting a warm glow over the set that would soon encapsulate your characters.

“Ready and action," the director’s voice echoed through the space, shattering the tension as Cillian slid effortlessly into character.

He strolled toward you with a swagger, the confidence of Thomas Shelby sewn into every movement and the energy of the scene pulsed through the air like a live wire.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, leaning against the bar, an easy smile playing on his lips as his eyes locked onto yours.

“Depends,” you replied with a teasing lilt, mirroring his casual stance, running a fingertip along the edge of your glass.

“On what?” Cillian’s voice dropped into a low, velvety tone, his gaze steady.

“On what kind of trouble you’re bringing with you,” you replied, raising an eyebrow and daring him to match your playfulness. Cillian smirked, leaning in slightly closer, the air around you charged with the tension of unspoken possibilities.

“Only the kind that gets people talking,” he purred, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he leaned closer, drawing you into the magnetic pull of his character. "My name is Thomas Shelby and you would have heard of me taking over your mistresses' establishments," he explained with a confident tilt to his head, his voice smooth as the whiskey he would undoubtedly claim later.

“I’ve heard a few rumors,” you replied, tilting your head knowingly as well, allowing a playful smirk to escape as you feigned nonchalance, after which you adapted easily and the conversation flew almost effortlessly between your characters.

Unfortunatly, when the scene became more heated, an unexpected wave of nerves washed over you. The flirty banter felt electrifying, but as Cillian leaned closer, nearing the end of the scene, the reality of the situation sunk in.

He reached up and caressed your cheek, a gesture meant to convey both intimacy and intrigue. His fingertips sparked warmth against your skin, sending your heart racing and, almost instantly, you forgot your next line.

A cold tide of panic washed over you, the words slipping from your mind as you stared up into his piercing blue eyes. The world blurred around you, leaving only the weight of his hand on your cheek and the warmth emanating from him. You could feel the rest of the crew watching, the camera zooming in, the tension thickening in the air as silence enveloped the set.

“Cut!” the director’s voice sliced through the moment, pulling you back to reality. You blinked, shaking off the dizziness that had clouded your thoughts.

"I am so sorry," you stammered, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Cillian stepped back, a knowing smile on his lips. “It’s alright. It happens to the best of us," he said, his tone light-hearted, though his eyes held a glimmer of understanding.

“Let’s take that again,” the director advised, a kind smile on his face as he stepped forward. “Remember, you’re confident. It ’s all about the connection. Let it flow naturally.”

You took a deep breath, nodding as you pushed your nerves aside.

Cillian’s gaze softened, comforting yet piercing at the same time as you took a deep breath, brushing the warmth of the moment aside.

“Ready when you are,” he said, a subtle challenge lacing his tone as he squared his shoulders, slipping back into character with an ease that set your own nerves at ease. The familiarity of him grounded you, and you inhaled deeply.

The director signaled for everyone to reset. As the crew shuffled around you, adjusting equipment and softly murmuring between themselves, Cillian stood by, a steady presence that made your heart race for all the right reasons.

“Just remember, you’ve got this,” he whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear, the warmth in his tone a soft balm against your lingering nerves.

“Thanks, I needed that,” you replied, your smile finding its way to the surface, brightening your expression as you steadied yourself for another go at the scene.

The atmosphere shifted as the director set the stage again. Lights adjusted, cameras refocused, and the crew settled into a silent rhythm, anticipation hanging in the air like the haze of smoke from the imaginary bar you inhabited.

“Action!” the director called out, his voice echoing through the dimly lit set, snapping everyone into a focused intensity.

Cillian moved towards you with deliberate ease, the air around the two of you thickening with anticipation as you picked up on the last ten seconds of the scene as instructed.

This time, you remembered your line as Cillian engaged with you, leaning slightly closer than before while, again, caressing your cheek.

Just as directed, his thumb then moved over your your lips with a gentle touch, igniting something electric between you.

Your heart raced as his thumb brushed against your lips, the warmth spreading through the air like wildfire.

You reached for his hand that was caressing you holding it in place before opening your mouth, just as directed.

“Your kind of trouble sounds about right,” you teased, feigning confidence that masked the flutter in your chest.

Cillian’s eyes darkened, the playful banter morphing into something deeper, which is when your tongue slipped out, brushing against his thumb almost instinctively.

"Hmm," Cillian murmured, his voice dropping an octave, a mix of surprise and intrigue flickering in his gaze as he processed the unexpected intimacy of your gesture.

Your actions were scripted, and yet, he did not expect the spark that flared between you, igniting a tension that shifted the dynamic of the scene entirely.

You too registered the moment caught between the lines, the air charged with emotions that had little to do with acting.

“Cut!” The director’s voice rang out, sharp and firm, breaking the spell that wove around you both. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, the weight of the moment lingering like smoke after a fire as the crew began to shuffle about, exchanging glances as the tension dissipated into the air.

You blinked, momentarily dazed, as Cillian stepped back, processing the unexpected intensity of the moment.

The director hurried over, a smile spreading across his face. “That was great! Just the right amount of tension. I felt the connection," he said and, much to his own disapproval, Cillian felt it too. He felt a connection that surpassed simple acting.

“Thanks, I think we were both just in the moment,” you said, somewhat shyly glancing at Cillian, trying to measure the charge that still lingered between you, searching his eyes for any hint of what he felt.

Cillian shifted, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as he ran a hand through his hair, the gray strands glimmering under the studio lights.

“Yes," he then simply agreed , his voice steady, yet a flicker of something deeper danced behind his eyes.

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[saphig-iawn]

Balljointed Bliss

My doll was ready for her next lesson in dollification.

We had played with hypnotic bondage and gentle manipulation of her body with my words, but now she was ready for a bigger step.

Her preparation was so fun, going out to get herself such pretty dolly clothes and dressing up for me.

When we started, I was greeted with a pretty black dress, armlets, white knee high socks, a beautiful frilly choker, and such delicate dolly makeup. She beaming, so eager and ready to play.

I brought her down with gentle fractionation.

She is one of the reasons why I took more time in exploring this kind of induction. She is very mobile and expressive and trance, really channelling herself into the scene. But when I gentle fractionated her for the first time, she barely moved she was so deep.

Then I wove the spell, as in the trance I began to weave a ribbon between her fingers.

The transformation would be gradual but not slow.

It would start at her feet, and they would instantly stop. Like an elevator reaching its destination, the stop would be felt all over her, almost disarmingly.

Then it would rise higher and higher.

Her ankles would change into perfect balljoints. Frictionless and without resistance.

Then her knees.

I would roll up her body like a tide, gentle but inexorable.

As each part changed, the control she had over them would be delicately placed in my care.

She was going to be safe in my hands.

As it reaches her breasts, their forms stiffening, her fingers begin to turn too.

Dollification on all sides, she finds herself cornered and deliciously helpless.

Then one of my favourite parts begins as the dollification climbs up her neck. Her voice will begin to soften, each word a whisper until nothing leaves her lips beyond her gentle dolly breath.

She is still.

She is safe.

Nothing but a doll.

She was so surprised when I spoke the spell and the changes began.

There was a pause as her feet stopped, like she'd got a lace caught in something while walking. A disruption to her pattern.

But then she let out a quviering gasp as the changes spread.

She was barely able to verbally appreciate her new form before her words plasticised in her throat.

Seeing her limbs gently drop as the balljoints formed was such a sweet cherry on top, and testament to her as a subject of mine. So lost in the spell that she felt safe to sink so much deeper.

It was so fun to coo in her ear while she was so limp and inanimate, posing her while her arousal became sealed in plastic.

The best part was being deliciously mean to her as she was just on the cusp of climax; her eyes clenched shut, her bottom lip held between her teeth, her hips bucking into her hand.

I dollified her.

She tried so hard to keep going, to push herself over that edge, but her body betrayed her will.

She looked so pretty in her chair. Head back, eyes unfocused at the ceiling. Arm limp by her side. Her other hand so close to her dolly parts but so far.

(This writing is about a real hypnosis session with real hypnosis and real people. If you would like to see more writing like this, then please support me over at https://ko-fi.com/saphig, where you can also commission 1-on-1 hypnosis sessions and have your own piece of writing just like this!)

[cloudshuffle]

unmasked. yan!childe

index / prev / next / beta reader @lupikekee

warnings: explicit nsfw

You break the surface of the cold waters face first. There’s still a tightness in your chest, but you find it’s just the blanket, all twisted up with your legs and tugging at you. You grumble, still trying to shake off the sticky cobwebs of sleep, and struggle out of bed. 

Apart from the ticking of the clock, you realise that a silence has fallen and that you’re alone. A peek out the window reveals that you’ve made it to open sea, which means that everyone can now relax - an occasion for drinking to any Snezhnayan.

You leave your mask, knowing that the others would have done the same, and make your way onto the deck.

Nadia’s the first to greet you, grabbing onto your arms and whirling you into the ring of people grouped loosely around a fire burning in a barrel. “You’re up! We missed you!”

Judging by the way one of the women casts her an unimpressed glance, “we” more accurately means “I”. But you’re grateful for her induction into the celebrations otherwise.

She pulls you down to sit with her on an overturned, oversized bucket. She looks like a wild fae of the forest, her eyes alight from both drink and joy, and her cheeks flushed rosy. 

“Your hair’s a mess,” you comment, helping her settle the unruly curls.

She giggles, kicking her feet like a child, and dive right back into whatever conversation they were having earlier. 

You feel yourself fading comfortably into the background, smiling and laughing whenever appropriate. Someone passes you a shot of fire water. It goes down like, well, liquid fire, burning down your throat and stomach from the inside, warmth slowly spreading to every part of your body. Another one finds its way into your hand soon after, but this one you refrain from tossing back.

Your gaze wanders out over the deck. The sails flap every so often in a steady wind, the ship cutting through the calm waters like a hot knife through butter. At this pace, you’ll be reaching Liyue the next morning. 

The faces around the fire are familiar and friendly, but only a handful of names come to mind. Surely the captain of the ship wouldn’t be excluded from the activities of his own crew…?

A chorus of cheers rises from the men facing me. “El capitan!” one of them cries in a horrible accent, raising his glass and tilting so far back the other men have to catch him. We all turn back in unison.

“Markus!” Ajax calls back, raising a fist in return. He’s lost the red cape, usually draped around his neck and over his back, and his red harbinger mask is also nowhere to be seen. Without it, you think he looks… younger. More normal. Less like a tyrant and more like a boy. “Sorry my business took so long.”

The ring shifts reverently, allowing their leader in amongst their midst. Tartaglia takes a seat on a barrel to your right, heaving a satisfied sigh. A glass is delivered into his hand immediately, and he inhales it just as you had. “Finally. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

The conversation resumes, still cheerful and light-hearted, but it’s hard to ignore the undercurrent that tows you all towards his presence. Drinking or not, a harbinger is still a harbinger, the closest person to the Tsaritsa you’ll ever get to see, someone who can order your execution at the flick of a hand. Some seem to be trying to take advantage of that. Others shy away.

You watch him closely, taking back your second shot. Funny enough, the expression he wears is closer to a mask than it was on the archery field, though he doesn’t have his mask around him now. He laughs and chats with his soldiers just the same, but you can tell that he feels the undercurrent too, like a black hole swallowing a galaxy.

Too much thinking. You pour yourself a third, then a fourth shot.

Now the edges of your vision begin to spark with a mystical light, and the warmth from the alcohol coils in your body like a serpent. The conversation thrums in your temples like a tribal drum, and the pendant of your necklace pricks at the pads of your fingers as you fiddle with it. It doesn’t help. 

“I’m going to step away for a bit,” you murmur to Nadia. 

She giggles, nodding enthusiastically. She’s had nearly twice as many drinks as you and is likely on the edge of hysteria, but you know someone’ll help her if she passes out. 

The front of the ship feels like a world away from the chatter, the wind cutting through your coat and helping to take the edge off the heat inside you. The stars are quiet and calm, twinkling peacefully a million miles away, a soothing sight to your still-unsettled nerves. 

You had no fear of the water, but enclosed spaces made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. The ocean felt like your friend. Your cabin… felt like the mouth of a lion, maybe. It was a curious fear, but you’d never been able to figure it out.

You’re toying with your necklace again. The string begins to chafe at the back of your neck, so you pull it up over your head.

It’s a crude thing, a sundial shell wrapped up in a twist of rusty metal and strung up on a piece of cotton rope, but beautiful too. Moonlight shows faintly through its translucent surface, making the shell glow blue. 

He had brought it to your bedside as a good luck charm, the same ‘he’ who’d dove into the lake and hauled you out. 

Ajax had been kind, and cheerful, and popular amongst the other children because there wasn’t a dare he wouldn’t do. You’d never gotten along particularly before the incident. But afterwards, when grandmothers muttered that the lake had taken your spirit if not your soul, and the other children refused to play with you, Ajax would still spend time sitting in windows and reading fairy tales with you.

“Here you are. I was looking for you.”

You lower the pendant. There’s no need to turn around to see who it is - his slow, measured strides across the deck are telling enough.

“I just needed to clear my head.” You lower your head to tie the necklace back on, avoiding his discerning gaze, his easy smile. “I hope my lord wasn’t too concerned about me.”

The corner of his lips quirks up. “Let me help.” His cool gloves brush against yours. 

You hesitate, then lower your hands. He knots the string together deftly, then sighs and takes up a place next to you, leaning on the railing of the ship.

You glance back. Behind you, you can hear the festivities breaking up. Most are returning to their cabins, though a small knot of men remain, drunkenly carolling an old Snezhnayan lullaby to the stars.

“Are you afraid? That people might talk?”

“I might, if there was anything to talk about, my lord.” You allow yourself a small smile as he furrows his brows, evidently displeased.

“Since when did you call me ‘my lord’?”

“Since we were a part of the Fatui, and you became a harbinger.” You nod towards his belt. “Since you wielded a Vision, and I didn’t. We’re not part of the same world anymore.”

Ajax sighs, running a hand through his hair and turning his gaze out to sea. “Won’t you at least call me Childe?”

The drink emboldens you. “It’s a silly name. You could’ve chosen something better.”

The corners of his mouth raise, seemingly against his will. The moon casts the bridge of his nose in silver, turns the blue of his eyes into clear, unfrozen pools, illuminates the lovely flush spread across his cheeks from the fire water. This is Ajax, you think to yourself. The Ajax you knew.

You gradually become aware that he’s giving you a similar appraisal, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something, and you know - whatever you choose to do now will forever alter the course of your life.

Ajax reaches out and pulls you towards him, and you choose to let it happen.

His sweetness envelops you first, a gentle scent entirely at odds with the rough calluses on his hands. He folds you into his embrace and you tilt your head back, accepting the shy kiss he ghosts across your lips.

“Are you afraid?” you tease softly. “That people might talk?”

His eyes glint dangerously. He kisses you again, but this time urgent, hard, adjusting his grip so he clasps both your wrists. A surprised sound escapes you, and Ajax takes the opportunity to have a taste of you, pressing you backwards into the railing.

He tastes like the sweet aftertaste of hard liquor and fresh spring water, breath shuddering with desire, a low groan rumbling in his chest. No, you think. Not the exact same Ajax you'd known.

You pull back. “Ajax,” you murmur.

There’s no turning back now.

“Come on.” He doesn’t let go of you, tucking you into his side and guiding you to his cabin, set apart from everyone else’s. 

It’s warmly lit with a number of wax candles burning low in their holders, parchment and maps scattered across the small but functional desk. Best of all, there are multiple windows, and the moonlight throws a grid of light onto the floor. 

Your observing is interrupted when Ajax kisses you again, this time allowing himself a purr of pleasure, kneading his fingers into your sides. He fumbles with the lock behind you, then leads you step by step to the bed, not once allowing you to pull away.

“Since when did you get strong?” you gasp, finally surfacing for air. He cages you in with all four limbs, and you finally understand what that glint is. Hunger. Desire. Desperation, even.

“Since I was a part of the Fatui.” A kiss, on the corner of your lips. “Since I became a harbinger.” On the jaw. “Since I received my Vision.” A trembling, reverent kiss on your pulse. “Since I left Morepesok, and I’ve been thinking of what I left behind since.” 

He nudges aside the pendant he gave you, and this time the kiss comes with teeth.

You bite back a whine as his hands paw at your shirt, undoing the buttons with trembling fingers. He blows cool air over the mark, peeling your clothes aside.

“The good thing about the uniform,” he pants, pupils blown so wide his blue eyes look almost dark. “Is that it covers up a lot of skin.”

Before you can protest, he ducks his head, working inward from your shoulder to your collarbone. Each bite feels like an electrical shock. He kisses each bruise gently to soothe the pain, but you're still shaking by the end of it, chest heaving.

You're not sure when he got rid of your clothes, but as he leans back to take a look at his handiwork, your skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze. 

“I'm glad you weren't my first,” he mutters, moving down to your chest. “Then I wouldn't know how to make you feel… this good.”

His mouth closes on a pert nipple, and a thumb strokes gently along your slit.

He groans into your soft flesh when he earns himself nothing short of a whimper of his name. 

“Ajax,” you plea, your nails scraping against his back. It's too hot, too restrictive, and he rids himself of his clothes too. 

He can feel your hole, already clenching and unclenching with want, leaking arousal onto his fingers. He releases your boob, inhaling your scent deeply.

It's sweet and salty and everything he's imagined your love to be. His dick jumps in his pants. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and slides one finger in.

The moan you let out has him painfully hard, but Childe doesn't want to hurt you. He curls his finger inside of you, massaging gently, then pushes in another. 

You're trembling now, the pressure in your lower stomach mounting. The cool roughness of his glove against the hotness within you draws moan after moan from you. 

“Patience, darling.” You squeeze around him, fast and desperate… and he removes his finger, leaving you teetering on the edge. 

“Ajax,” you cry. Smiling, he bites into the softness of your stomach, and this time he catches your hips when they jerk up to collide with his chest.

“I imagined every one was you. I hoped I could fall in love with another,” he confides quietly. Your legs fold up your chest obediently. “But they were just… not enough. They just weren't you.”

“Is this a confession?” you manage to gasp. He's so large, larger than the few you've seen, his hot weight resting on your pussy. You can feel yourself throb, your slit weeping just for him.

“It's a declaration.”

His hands pin your wrists above your head, and he pushes past your entrance.

You make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “Big,” you whimper.

He shushes you, leaning in for a kiss as he inches deeper, bit by bit. You squirm underneath him both in pleasure and pain.

“Tell me if it's too much.” His voice sounds strained. His veins scrape against every inch of your ribbed walls, pulsing and twitching as you swallow him whole. “Oh, baby, so tight, so warm… Baby, baby.” One hand clasps your chin. “Look at me. Don't look away.”

You whine assent. Your whole body alights with sparks, but you can feel him approaching somewhere dangerous.

His tip massages against a sensitive spot, your hips jump up of their own accord, and he slams into that sweet gummy area deep within you.

You throw your head back with a cry of his name, your hips shuddering, grinding you into him as you cum so hard you see stars.

“Shit,” he hisses, and starts thrusting into you.

You fit him so perfectly, it feels like your pussy was already moulded into the shape of his dick. Your walls flutter frantically around him, drawing him deeper, deeper, until he knows his tip is kissing your cervix because you moan with every thrust.

“C'mon baby, one more time, you can cum for me,” he mutters, beginning to lose himself in the obscene squelching of your cum all over him. “Inside, ah, gonna fill you up, gonna cum inside…”

He picks up the pace, and the pressure in your tummy begins to build again. Your back is arching, your hips shuddering, and still Ajax fucks you relentlessly.

“Look at me, baby, c’mon, cum for me, cum together, ngh, together, cumming, cumming, cumming-”

He moans loudly, and you swear you can see heart in his eyes, his hips still pistoning into you as hot, heavy ropes of cum spill into you where you never knew you were empty.

“One more time, yeah?” he pants.

— word count: 2506. thank you for reading!

[cybershock24601]

I have more Veilguard time travel thoughts but do you guys think Spirits would be affected too because I've been plagued with thoughts of Spite and Manfred remembering the future and the chaos that would come from that.

Manfred is suddenly talking and Emmrich is delighted though perhaps a bit confused about what has caused this sudden leap in capabilities and why Manfred seems so fixated on birds (Manfred keeps repeating ROOK ROOK ROOK ROOK ad nauseam).

Spite on the other hand is super confused about where is Lucanis, why can't I find Lucanis, I want Lucanis! and ends up going to search for Rook instead because Lucanis always listens to Rook, Rook can fix this. The next part is a little dependent on my Lucanismancer Watcher Rook who is suddenly getting relentlessly badgered in the Fade by an incredibly worked up Spite, manages to calm him down and explain the situation to him, and then says I got you when Spite wants to still help and manages to bind him to a suit of armor. I was originally thinking a skeleton but then I thought about how funny it would be if Rook and Spite were to travel around Thedas Fullmetal Alchemist style with an incredibly mouthy child ready to throw hands at any time and a giant imposing suit of armor with them though Spite isn't nearly as polite as Alphonse, he's just Spite.

So anyways, Rook and a newly bodied Spite make the journey south from Nevarra and by the time they reach Ferelden/Orlais the Inquisition has settled into Skyhold so it'd be a lot harder to deal with Solas so instead they have to settle on just keep an eye on him and making sure he can't cause trouble. Unfortunately, a big suit of armor with glowing purple eyes going to attract a lot of attention especially since Spite is absolutely a mouthy bastard and now Rook has to talk real fast to keep everyone from trying to kill him because they're in the South and just see Spite as a demon and Rook is shouting everyone down with an incredibly impassioned lecture about how the classification of demons and spirits is stupid and they're all just spirits and Spite isn't even (that) malicious. This all ends with Rook and Spite accidentally getting inducted into the Inner Circle because they are a package deal. Do Not Separate or else you're going to have to deal with a very grumpy Spite.

On the bright side at least everyone learns to appreciate Cole a lot more because Spite is a bit of a menace. Especially to Solas but Rook is also an exceptional bitch to Solas. No one can figure out what that one is about because clearly they have some issue with Solas and Solas seems to know exactly what they're talking about half the time but its also incredibly clear he doesn't know them and the entire confusing situation is driving Solas just a little mad because how does Rook know these things?? The reason why Rook seems to get really emotional when they're around Varric or Scout Harding is also a mystery but Rook definitely seems to have latched onto them.

I can also see Emmrich showing up in Skyhold because the Crypt Baby is missing and Manfred seemed to be fixated on finding them so Emmrich volunteers to track them down and Rook and Spite make a rather memorable pair so its easy to figure out where they have gone. His confusion is not helped when they arrive at Skyhold and Spite excitedly goes up to Manfred to show off that he has feet! and hands! Rook may or may not end up explaining the situation to Emmrich even if they're otherwise keeping their mouth shut.

[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- this fic now has a part two :)

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 :)

[preservationofnormalcy]

(Pictured above - a map showing the current segmentation of the Burroughs, the People Below's sections of political territory, with annotations showing the leaders of each. Which Burrough do YOU reside over?)

Public Information File 55661: The Molemen/The People Below.

The Office provides this information to the extranormal public in order to educate about our neighbors Below. Let's learn about the Molemen - together!

The Molemen first appeared on the Office's radar in 1965, when one Thaddeus Marsh, an expert in soon-to-be illegal genetic engineering and anatomy manipulation, began to talk to colleagues in the extranormal sciences community about retreating underground. Fearing nuclear annihilation in the Cold War, many of his associates agreed with him.

Using currently-classified anomalous technology, they created a series of self-replicating bunkers deep underground, starting with small rooms that expanded into massive complexes that gradually connected via long tunnels. Railroad systems were established in these tunnels, and by 1971, enough work had been done that Thaddeus Marsh felt confident moving people underground.

The work was quick, but the other scientists, hired workers, and civilians drawn by the promise of safety had not expected Marsh's mental deterioration. All of the personnel who moved underground were trapped and subjected to extranormal genetic and anatomic manipulation to "better adapt" them, in Marsh's belief, to a life underground.

From 1971 to 74, Marsh, now known as the Underking Murmur, ruled with an iron fist. His territory expanded under the lower 48 states, and parts of Canada and Mexico. His madness seemed to grow with his power, kidnapping cavers, miners, and other surface-dwellers to induct them into his army. Developing unimaginably vast factories, he created digging machines capable of moving anomalous amounts of dirt. By 1974, his plan to invade the surface world with these machines became widely known among the People Below.

The organizing body responsible for the incredibly complex logistics of moving so much earth, the Miner's Union, fomented a revolution in the Underground in mid-74. After three months of vicious fighting, the loyalty of the Underking's minions was tested and found wanting. Underking Murmur was deposed, and in its place the Union members created a council. The Underking's territory "balkanized" into 12 loosely-allied "Burroughs" that the Office recognizes as the political authority of the People Below.

With recent diplomatic efforts, the Office for the Preservation of Normalcy has welcomed the People Below to the surface under our Legal Extranormal Persons program.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge: Unleashing the Power of Muscle

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

In 1962, a new era of muscle cars emerged, radiating brilliance and power. Chrysler led the way with their groundbreaking Max Wedge lineup, introducing the world to the fusion of unitized-body construction and the high-performance ram-tuned dual-carbureted 413 CI engine. Among these legends was the Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge, a remarkable vehicle that holds a significant place in automotive history.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

The First Super Stock Max Wedge with Manual Transmission According to the esteemed Chrysler Registry and the meticulous documentation by Darrell Davis, this specific Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge holds a groundbreaking distinction—it was the first Super Stock model equipped with a manual transmission. The car’s odometer displays a mere 6,593 miles and has undergone a meticulous restoration process to return it to its original specifications. Notably, the engine has been upgraded, boasting a dyno-proven power output exceeding 500 HP.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Unleashing the Power of the 413 CI V-8 Engine The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge was powered by the formidable 413 CI V-8 engine. This was the first iteration of Chrysler’s renowned ram induction system, featuring a cross-ram intake manifold meticulously designed to optimize engine efficiency. The engine’s performance was further enhanced by the utilization of cast-iron header-style manifolds, which were rarely preserved but featured in this exceptional vehicle. Dale Reed of California refreshed the engine around 300 miles ago, ensuring its optimal performance. The correct Carter AFB carburetors reside beneath dual black air cleaners, accentuated by carefully placed decals.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

A Unique Manual Transmission Experience One of the distinctive aspects of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is its manual transmission. Unlike its automatic counterparts, this car delivers a unique driving experience through its floor-mounted shifter, allowing the driver to truly feel the power at their fingertips. Paired with a full aftermarket exhaust equipped with cutouts and the robust 8 ¾ Chrysler differential, this Max Wedge offers an exhilarating ride for those who crave the thrill of the open road.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Captivating Style and Authenticity The exterior of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge embodies the spirit of the era. Finished in captivating light blue paint, it exudes a timeless charm. The interior features a complementary blue cloth-and-vinyl combination, while the white-and-blue two-tone trim adds an elegant touch. The front and rear bench seats provide comfort, and the radio delete plate pays homage to the car’s performance-focused nature. Notably, it features a knee-knocker S-W column-mounted tachometer and a beautifully presented trio of rubber pedals. The car’s attention to detail is evident throughout, with the inclusion of circa-1962 chrome fonts, single-lens tail lamps, and OEM steel wheels adorned with poverty-type hubcaps.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Provenance and Documentation Accompanying this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge is a wealth of provenance and documentation that adds to its allure. It includes the original OEM IBM punch card and build sheet, which serve as a testament to its authenticity. Additionally, the window sticker provides insight into its original specifications, while the dyno sheet confirms its impressive horsepower rating. Vintage photos capture the car’s early years when it was part of a famous drag car collection, showcasing its illustrious past.

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge

Conclusion The 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge stands as a testament to the golden age of muscle cars. With its groundbreaking manual transmission configuration, powerful 413 CI V-8 engine, and captivating style, it represents the pinnacle of Mopar’s storied performance heritage. Meticulously restored to its original glory, this Max Wedge allows enthusiasts to experience a bygone era’s raw power and timeless charm.

FAQs: How many miles does the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge have? The odometer of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge reads 6,593 miles. Who documented the Chrysler Registry for this particular car? The meticulous documentation of the Chrysler Registry for this car was done by Darrell Davis. Has the engine of the 1962 Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge been upgraded? Yes, the engine of this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge has been upgraded to a dyno-proven 500-plus HP. What is the significance of the 413 CI V-8 engine in this car? The 413 CI V-8 engine in this car was the first to receive Chrysler’s shortened version of ram induction, known as the cross-ram intake. It maximizes engine efficiency and pairs it with rarely preserved cast-iron header-style manifolds. What documentation and provenance come with this Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge? This Plymouth Savoy Max Wedge comes with various documentation, including the OEM IBM punch card, build sheet, window sticker, dyno sheet confirming horsepower rating, and vintage photos of its early years as part of a famous drag car collection.

[serpentface]

With eunuchs in-universe, is it the whole package or just the Bals

*******This contains clinical but somewhat graphic descriptions of castration and its logistics, be warned*******

As with Real Life history, that varies by tradition and intent. It can be anything between exclusive removal of the testes (leaving the scrotum and everything else attached) and the full removal of the penis, scrotum, and testes. These procedures carry a non-insignificant physical risk in even the best medical contexts available in the setting, and the latter is the most dangerous due to the presence of major veins in the penis and potential complications with the healing process (even if the procedure itself is successful, the urinary tract becoming obstructed during healing will be fatal unless successfully corrected). 

In Imperial Wardin, people castrated as a strictly punitive measure have the penis, testes, and scrotum all removed (or sometimes just the penis). This is expressly intended as a form of humiliation, mutilation, and sterilization. Eunuchs made for non-punitive purposes by default Do Not have their penises removed. (There ARE instances where people who have bottom dysphoria may take this opportunity to have everything removed, this is just nonstandard procedure).

This has levels of rationalization in terms of how the reproductive system is physically and metaphysically conceptualized to work. This is largely based in observation- castrated animals and humans do not undergo typical masculinizing puberty (and even adults may gradually lose some male secondary sexual characteristics post-castration), often have reduced sex drives, and are infertile. In cases where only the penis is damaged or removed but testes are intact, an animal still undergoes normative development and exhibits a sex drive, it may not be physically capable of mating but is not truly sterilized.

Therefore 'maleness', fertility, and virility is all reckoned as being Stored In The Balls. The testes are THE defining feature of male sex assignment in this cultural sphere- having no/nonfunctional testes (whether by birth or active removal) makes a person considered Not Male. The penis is considered more of a secondary aspect of the male system- it can be an Indicator of fertility and virility, but is not a Source. It's the part of the body that enacts the male system's expected functions on the external world- both on dead literal levels (organ through which ejaculation occurs, used in intercourse to produce pregnancy) and more metaphysical levels (a tool to enact change and transformative effects and associated with masculine strength and protection, which gives phallic imagery its strong apotropaic functions).

The castration of Galenii is regarded as a sacrifice of one’s own fertility and reproductive potential for the benefit of the land and people, a degendering and desexualizing act (loss of 'maleness', becoming genderless) that separates one from the trappings of standard social systems and human bodily need, and as induction to the service of Mitlamache, devoting one's entire body and its potential to serve this Face. Therefore the testes are removed to eliminate fertility and male sex identity, the scrotum itself is removed as a permanent mark of service, and the penis left intact. In non-religious eunuch roles (in court and as servants, in theater), the procedure often just involves the testes being removed (leaving the scrotum intact) in order to serve the basic intended de-gendering and sterilizing function, without additional layers of Marking the body in devotion.

Castration is most prominent as a concept with the mammalian peoples and their vulnerable, easily accessible external genitalia, but also exists in some qilik and caelin/delkhin cultures.

Qilik have no penises (mate through cloaca contact), but can have their (internal) testes removed (basically the same process as caponizing roosters). This process is often framed DISTINCTLY as a form of feminization, as castration prior to puberty usually prevents the development of typical male coloration and results in an individual having most of the secondary sex characteristics of a hen/faeder (though usually being smaller in average size). Castration after puberty will not prevent development of male-typical coloration, but prevents the brighter seasonal molts and skin color changes.

To speak broadly about the cultures of an entire species, qilik eunuchs are VERY rarely produced as a form of punishment (qilik cultures trend towards matriarchal power, so connotations of emasculation and humiliation found in patriarchies are rarely present). It instead is usually a form of induction into priesthoods, separate gender spaces, and/or celibate social roles.

Caelin and delkhin DO have penises, and their testes are less accessible within the body than in qilik. Thus, surgical removal of their testes is highly invasive and VERY dangerous, and as such is rarely performed for any reason. The penis being removed is substantially more common in caelin and delkhin cultures, and is a form of punishment in the vast majority of cases. This is somewhat less dangerous than in humans (as the caelin/delkhin urinary tract does not run through the penis and therefore does not directly risk being obstructed in the healing process) but is still very risky and painful. It also does not affect typical development of typical male secondary sex characteristics (it only renders an individual mechanically sterile) and thus does not usually carry additional implications for gender and sex designations that occur in many eunuch-making practices.

Archin identity is built in the collective, with individual drones and queens being essentially the colony's reproductive system, so there is no motive to sterilize an individual. Forms of ''castration'' (by a really, really, really loose sense of the term) do exist in the context of conflict, in which a colony's reproductive members will be specifically sought out and killed. Much of a colony's resources is invested in its drones and their killing may be a major blow with political consequences (preventing reproductive alliances from being fulfilled), but they are ultimately replaceable. Killing a queen sterilizes a colony, and is a death sentence. The collective personality of an archin colony will be dead within a year without new eggs being laid to continually replace the short lived individual units. Sterilizing a colony as such is a form of brutality and humiliation in conflict, either used to give an enemy a slow 'death', or force their hand into an unwanted colonial merger.

Forms of castration have no presence in yotici (who have internal genitalia (aside from their clasper 'arms', which have no direct reproductive function), reproduce by spawning, and rarely delineate gender to begin with) or talking crows (who do not have the ability to perform surgeries).