#the kraken takes the north

[retrieve-the-kraken]

GUESS WHO’S GOING TO SWEDEN!!!

(It’s not until May, though, but still… practicing min svenska hard until then).

Hit me up for recommendations of places where I must go, and especially if you want to meet. That would be FANTASTISKT.

For example anyone know what’s the easiest way to get to Kaggeholm Slott? Does anyone know what I can do for fun on my birthday in Stockholm?

I’m also going to Norway and Denmark, and if I have enough time, Finland. So I would love recommendations for places in each country too.

Does anyone know of any events happening between the 10th and the 26th of May?

Tack!

[winterreigned]

@krakened 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗳 : we both know i'm worth waiting for . / modern

𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗹𝘀 𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵 𝗶𝗻 , though how long does it take before one considers this pointless? how long until she's ever the fool for waiting? it seems more and more likely that sansa would die in this place , in this purgatory of whatever they were. all that they were , all that they weren't. everything and nothing. longing and regret. it is a heavy contradiction that weighs down on her , and she is growing tired of it. the secrecy , the unknown. there are two painstaking truths that glare her in the face , pin her down and force her to revel in them.

one , she was falling for theon greyjoy. sansa longed for him , longed for him to say she was his and he was hers. wanted this more than anything. two , she cannot and could not claim him in public. she wants to be his , but mostly in the shadows. for sansa cannot handle the scrutiny , cannot handle the whispers and rumors. could not listen to the taunting from her family , shock from her brother , disapproval from her mother. sansa never claimed to be rational about this whole situation , for if she was , they never would've ended up between sheets to begin with. for now , she wears the title of walking contradiction with both shame and honor.

❝ are you? ❞ there's an amusement in her question , though she doesn't let it settle long in the air. there's a clawing at her chest , a sort of ferocious beast that is torn between lunging towards him in need , but resentment all the same. why is she not good enough for him to claim? they practically were together , in every way but title. this was the first time she had brought it up to him , and she regrets it now. for he is truly incapable of not making it a joke , a sarcastic taunt in favor of his ego.

❝ in my exeprience , men who are worth the wait know what they want. ❞ she brushes past him , shoulder slightly making contact with him as she goes to leave. there's a pause , auburn hair twirls behind her as she tries to make one last attempt at this all. is this how she wishes to leave it? does this even earn her the upper hand? that's what all of this had started as , in truth. who could hold the power over who. well , theon won. arrogant little shit got under her skin , made her heart beat for him , dreams repeat scenes of their encounters each night. she wanted him , though not in the bedroom , in every way she had to offer. yet , he was too immature , he couldn't see this for what it was , and she foolishly allowed herself to get hurt. sansa was smart , she should've known better.

❝ i don't need the world to see it , but i do need you to see it , theon. ❞ she looks down , a frustrated sigh released. her annoyance lies with herself more than him , for allowing herself to get to this point with him. theon stayed true to himself , she will give him that , but it doesn't make this heart ache and realization any easier. ❝ men worth the wait know women like me don't wait around forever. ❞ and yet , she has surrendered. in truth , if he found her a lifetime from now , finally ready to make her his own , she would give in. this world , the next , and the one after. that is how hopelessly gone she is.

[cdragons]

❄️ Imagine Being Luwin's Apprentice & Childhood Friends with Robb, Jon, and Theon ❄️

-> This will include headcanons about all Starks, but focus on these three dorks towards the end.

A/N: There's an utter lack of for our Kings of the North and Kraken, so this is my attempt to add to it. These might be a bit lengthy.

Here's the general dynamic of you, Robb, Jon, and Theon. I put in Hogwarts House Terms, but I in no way support JK Rowling.

Robb - Gryffindor

Jon - Hufflepuff

Theon - Slytherin

You - Ravenclaw

In the simplest terms, you hold the only brain cell.

-> Let's say you were a low-born girl on a trek to Winterfell so you could learn under Maester Luwin. You were a rare kind of low-born who knew how to read, and you wanted to learn more. Your parents didn't approve and tried to sell you off, so you ran away with a small travel sack of your journal, clothes, and some food. You cut your hair and wore breeches to look like a boy.

-> It took many days and nights, but you eventually made it to Winterfell and refused to leave until you met with Lord Eddard Stark. Needless to say, ol' Ned Stark was shocked to find the person demanding his presence was a four-foot-tall dirty child with feet caked in mud and steely eyes. He asked if something happened to your family and you immediately deeply bowed and asked if you could learn under Maester Luwin before fainting from a high fever.

-> While treating you and finding out that you were a girl, Luwin looked through your tiny journal and was shocked to find you knew your letters and could write better than his lord's children and ward. He read the passages you wrote while traveling. You drew pictures of different plants and animals and wrote your observations of them. Luwin decided right then and there that he would take you in as an apprentice. When you woke up, he told you the good news, and you were so happy you jumped in the air with a loud "WHOOP" before tackling the old man down with a hug.

-> Ned was a bit unsure, but he trusted Luwin's judgment. If his oldest advisor told him that he believed that you had great potential as a scholar, he believed him. When you were brought over to meet Lord and Lady Stark, you were shocked at how tall and imposing Ned looked. "ARE YOU A GIANT? DO YOU OWN THIS CASTLE?" were your first words to the man as a huge smile spread across your face. After being shocked for a few moments, Ned threw his head back and laughed harder than he had in ages. He patted your head and ruffled your hair. "No child, I'm no giant. But I am the lord of this castle, and your lord, too."

-> Catelyn was much more skeptical because what kind of low-born child learned how to read? When she led you to your new chambers, she asked you this, and you proudly answered her. "I taught myself! There was a traveler passing through my village one day, and I nicked his books and charcoal!" At her horrified expression, you made sure to clarify that he was already dead and you didn't take his money. That didn't really calm her down, but her husband already decided to let Luwin take you in as an apprentice, so you might as well learn how to dress and speak like a lady.

-> Jon was the first Stark child you befriended. Luwin ordered you to take a break from your lessons since you've been holed up reading and writing nonstop. You found him practicing alone in the courtyard, hitting a training dummy with a wooden sword. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" you shouted to him. Your voice startled him so much that he dropped his sword to the ground and jumped like three feet into the air. "I'm training," he answered, and when you asked if you could stay and watch, he agreed. He was shy at first, but you and he built a quick and strong friendship after a couple more times you watched him train. There would be times you convinced him to take a break from his training, and you two would explore Winterfell's nooks and crannies. Jon didn't expect to like you so quickly, but you made it too easy.

-> Strangely enough, Theon was the second boy of the trio you would meet and befriend. It didn't go as smoothly as you meeting Jon. Theon thought you were one of the new maids-in-training and decided to tease you by tugging your hair and trying to scare you with stories about his Ironborn family coming to raid and burn keeps and steal rude pretty little girls. You just shrugged and told him, "I'll just cut my hair and pretend to be a boy. I'll even not bathe to smell like one - not the first time I did that." You then asked him if he knew more stories about mermaids and if Nagga's bones really made up the Grey King's Hall on Old Wyk. From there on, it became very noticeable to everyone that although Theon was Robb's shadow, he was only really soft with you.

-> Robb was the last to meet you. His mother didn't like the idea of her son meeting and befriending a low-born girl. But one day, he got hurt and went to visit Luwin. Imagine his surprise to see a girl his age sitting with Luwin as she read from books too hard for him to read. Luwin introduced the two of you, and you asked if you could help treat Robb this time since you felt ready. Very quickly, you treated his wounds. From then on, Robb would see you before seeing Luwin. He liked how close you got when you told him what you've learned under Luwin. He liked being close enough to you that he could smell your hair. It upset him to know that Theon and Jon knew about you before he did, but his ire quickly went away when you agreed to be his friend.

-> Ever since you began your lessons under Septa Mordane, you learned the benefits of knowing your stitches since you could use this skill to treat wounds and lower the risk of infection. You didn't care so much as the other stuff, but you quickly learned the most complicated and intricate stitches, which got the septa's approval. Whenever you had time to play with the boys again, you would always carry some needle and thread with you. You'd also carry boiled vinegar if you needed a disinfectant and a balm for wound care. This proved to be EXTREMELY useful as you four continued to play and grow older.

-> Because you were learning lessons under Luwin and the septa, you had to learn how to stitch, dress, act, and talk like a lady. Lady Stark grew very fond of you, as you were surprisingly complacent and took to acting more ladylike very quickly. This was not going unnoticed by the boys, and soon, it was very quickly becoming apparent to everyone but you that the three eldest boys of Winterfell were utterly besotted with you. At this point, Luwin thought you were like a daughter and his family. He loved you very much and warned you to be careful around your friends. He encouraged you to spend more time with Sansa, Arya, and other girls your age.

-> It frustrated you, but you still listened. You didn't know what the fuss was all about. Theon, Robb, Jon, and you were friends. Yep. Just friends. No hormonal teenage feelings emerging.

-> When Bran and Rickon were old enough, you quickly became as involved in their lessons as Luwin had been for the boys. You made their lessons fun and memorable for the young boys. Luwin looks at you with so much love and pride when the boys tell him about your lessons and how happy and excited they always act whenever you teach them something new. You've even made sums and history seem fun! You were also very involved with Sansa and Arya's education. They had Septa Morgane, but they also wanted to learn under you, and before you knew it, you were teaching four children - all younger than you.

-> Rickon and Arya absolutely worshiped you. You always had time to play with Rickon and never sent him away if you were busy like his mother and father had to sometimes. For Arya, she loved how you never thought her strange and weird for being so different from Sansa. These two followed you like ducklings whenever they had free time. The sight greatly amused Ned and Catelyn, as they thought it was the funniest thing to see how two young wolves are so dedicated to following you. And you being close doesn't go unnoticed by the boys.

-> Robb and Jon would stare at you with so much longing whenever you carried Rickon in your arms and sang him lullabies. They'd grow stupidly jealous that you could kiss Rickon and Bran's cheeks and foreheads to wish them goodnight or ease their pains if they tripped or fell. They would fantasize what their lives would be like if they could court you and take you as their wife. But it could never be.

-> Robb must marry a highborn noble lady as his father's heir to continue House Stark's legacy and ensure the North's safety. He knew this fact his whole life, but knowing that you couldn't be the one he took as a wife hurt him so much. To him, you embodied all the necessary qualities to be a Lady Stark: your kindness, beauty, wit, and intellect—just to name a few. Robb would try to impress you by escorting you to feasts held in the Great Hall and remaining by your side to joke and dance with you. After every dance, he'd take your hand and lay a gentle kiss on it as you would laugh and playfully shove him. Sometimes, when the feasts got too noisy and loud, he and you would sneak to just hang out in the kitchens. He would always get a stern talking-to with his mother for not talking with other ladies, but he only wanted you. Besides, how could he regret spending the entire feast beside you with your body pressed so close to his?

-> Growing up with Jon, you obviously knew about his bastard status. But you always told him that his name "Snow" didn't matter because he was among the most wonderful and sweetest people you've ever met. Sometimes, you'd successfully manage to take his mind off it, but there were days when it felt like the entire world was staring at him for it. Either Lady Catelyn said something very cruel and hurtful to him, or Theon poked too much fun at him. On these days, you'd take a few pastries or fruits from the kitchens that you stole, grab his hand, and hide away in the Godswoods. You would share your treats and talk about everything you've learned under Luwin. Sometimes, you'd have a book with you and read him your favorite stories about magic and dragons until the sun goes down. Jon won't really have much to say. He'll nod and smile and laugh, and sometimes he'll sneak glances and wonder how could someone look so beautiful and perfect in the sunset?

-> Theon decided it was better to go about the Ironborn way and "steal" you from whatever you were doing or whomever you were with. He'd go get you whenever you were with Septa Mordane and say that Luwin had called for you or if one of the younger Starks was asking about you. He'd get you out, and two seconds later, he and you were taking walks in Winter Town and goofing off. He'd also pull some dumb teenage boy pranks to get your attention. He'd tease you by asking you questions when you're off guard and make you say embarrassing answers. When you finally realize what you said, you would get insanely flustered and whack him while he laughs. But unlike with others, he'll actually apologize to you and make it up to you by showing you how to shoot an arrow. But honestly, it's just an excuse for him to get close to you. He likes to "help" by positioning your arm and standing extra close.

A/N: I got tons more planned but I didn't want to make it too long! But please comment or reblog to let me know what you think or if you have ideas you want to drop in my ask box!

[drakaripykiros130ac]

More and more I see people questioning how the Blacks didn’t outright win and destroy the Greens in one go with all the advantages they had.

The answer is simple: The Greens were protected by plot armor.

GRRM gave the Blacks almost everything they could ask for (thereby favoring them):

1. The best allies (the Winter Wolves, the Lads, Cregan Stark, Jeyne Arryn, etc.)

2. The most Houses supporting Rhaenyra’s cause (53)

3. The largest territories (the North, the Vale and the Riverlands)

4. The largest and best fleet (commanded by the Velaryons)

5. The Velaryon fortune

6. The most dragons

Normally, with all these advantages, they should have won the war with their hands tied behind their backs. The Greens only had home-field advantage (King’s Landing) and Vhagar. That’s pretty much it.

But of course, GRRM wanted it to be a more balanced war, and despite giving the Blacks plenty of advantages, he protected the Greens so the story can actually take place.

1. There is just no way that Aegon the Usurper could have survived everything he endured (Rook’s Rest, and then battling with Baela etc.) In my opinion, he was one greenie who was definitely protected by plot armor.

2. Daemon using B&C to only kill one of Aegon’s heirs instead of eliminating everyone in that tower is also kind of plot armor for the Greens. There is no way that he wouldn’t have taken advantage to have everyone in that tower killed. It would have weakened the Greens considerably (not to mention that Alicent was the “brains” behind the operation).

3. Then you have Rhaenyra sparing Alicent after she took King’s Landing (the woman who bullied her as a child and stole her throne) for some dumb reason like “My father loved you so I am doing this for him”. Yeah right…With how much Rhaenyra hated the woman, she wouldn’t have hesitated to chop her head off.

4. For some reason, Rhaenyra decides to go to Dragonstone after the storming of the Dragonpit, instead of the Vale. Another plot convenience for the Greens. The Vale was obviously the best place to go. The Greens wouldn’t have been able to touch Rhaenyra there. The Arryns would have protected her and her child, until Cregan Stark arrived and dethroned the usurper. Happy ending, the end. But yeah, it’s Asoiaf. There are no happy endings, and GRRM had to give Rhaenyra a tragic end.

All in all, the Greens survived as long as they did because of plot armor. No, they were not politically savvy (believe it or not, that’s Daemon. He managed to convince the Red Kraken to side with the Blacks and didn’t really offer him anything in return).

Otto was a terrible Hand who got fired twice, Criston Cole was another terrible Hand who was all muscle and had no political intelligence (or any kind of intelligence), Alicent was a manipulating and greedy shrew hiding behind her sons, Helaena was completely useless, Aegon didn’t know what the hell he was doing or why he was doing it, and Aemond was a brainless psycho on the biggest dragon in existance.

Oh, and there’s also Daeron the Forgotten, who after torching Bitterbridge, managed to get himself killed by a fallen tent.

[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 :)

[thoughtsfromlayla]

A Pirate Quest For Me - Chapter One

Moodboard created by: @dragon-kazansky

Summary: Despite the "Kraken incident" you're back on your feet for a new adventure and rare treasure. The inconspicuous map calls for three items: a mermaid's tear, a bottle of lightning, and a dream crystal.

Notes: ~4.5k words, not edited/beta-read *squints as I read the script* Why am I in this story? Wait is this play about us???

Warnings/Tags: Merman! Dream, chaotic bisexual disaster pirate reader, Dream's terrible at communicating (nothing's new), some angst, *squints as I read the script further* I did what?

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The thick jungles of the Caribbean make it hard for you to read your map. You turn the old parchment one way and then the other as you try to make heads and tails of it all. Pulling out your compass you watch the needle point north, but is this north on the map? You scratch at your head, your head is still captain-hat-less after the whole Kraken debacle last month. 

Ugh, why didn’t you bring your cartographer with you? Probably because she’d rather die than set foot in a jungle. And you respect that, at this point, you’re debating running for the high seas and never setting foot back in here again as well. 

There are rarely any stinging bugs on a ship after all. 

But the enticement of rare treasure is too much to ignore. The map was found in some empty barrel in Tortuga and promised the finder of treasure adventures for a lifetime. And, well, how can you pass up that?

The map calls for three items: a mermaid’s tear, a bottle of lightning, and a dream crystal. You have no idea which items you are currently hunting, but you follow the map loyally anyway. 

Your long knife cuts through the brushes easily as you determinedly continue on your journey. The sweat you’ve accumulated is slick on the back of your neck. Eventually, you find yourself standing on the shores of a lagoon. You release a sigh of relief and plunge your hands into the waters, cooling yourself as you splash it against your face and neck. 

A strong gust of wind blows your map into the water and you sigh. Why must nothing ever go to plan? You slowly wade into the waters, watching the fish dart away from your boots. Your map keeps drifting away as you make your way towards it.

When you finally get your hands on it, frowning at the smudging ink, a sound that’s not natural to the lagoon life around it catches your attention. The sound was definitely human: a soft humming of a lullaby came from somewhere in the lagoon. You looked around but there was nothing but blue waters and high mountains. 

You wade your way back out of the lagoon, following onshore towards the sound of the humming. Eventually, you make it to a secluded place with a small waterfall, and after pushing aside a few long leaves, your breath stills as you look at the creature before you. 

Her hair and tail were as blue as the lagoon, washing her hair in the cold waterfall that fed into the lagoon. Her ear fins shimmer in the low sun and twitch whenever water enters them. Her tail swings back and forth to the beat of her lullaby as she perches on the stone. The effervescent scales on her arms and torso give her a soft look as they reflect the fleeting sunlight. 

You take a step forward and accidentally step on a twig. The sound is enough for the mermaid to turn her head towards you with a surprised look. She finds you easily behind the tree and her humming stops. She stops as fear takes over her body and stays still in shock. 

“Hi, my name is Captain Fortune. I don’t want to harm you…” You start and slowly make your way towards her. Your hands are raised with the promise of peace. 

Her eyes dart around your body and after landing on the pistol that was secured to your hip, she hisses at you and dives back into the waters. You see her blue tail splash the water into your face as she swims deeper into the cave connected to the lagoon. A few fish friends followed her in her actions. 

You sigh and berate yourself for scaring her off. The sun dips behind the horizon and light leaves in the wake of night. You get to work, finding dry twigs to make a small campfire. It’s a miracle you were able to find a mermaid so soon, but it would be hard to get a tear from her no less. 

Under moonlight and crackling flames, you entertain yourself by slowly singing some shanties to yourself. A small fish you managed to catch was roasting slowly over the flame, the scales chars against the heat. You’ve shed down to your shirt and pants, even decided to take off your boots and discard them off to the side with the rest of your objects. 

“You… sing pretty,” A voice stops you. 

You squint as you look towards the voice, and surprise takes over your face as you see the mermaid listening to you at the edge of the lagoon. 

“Thank you,” You respond quietly in case she swims away again. “I’m sorry I scared you earlier.”

“It’s okay, I just don’t like… weapons.” She looks at you questioningly, eyes roaming your body for anything that may hurt her. “I am Layla,” She introduces herself to you as she rests her head over crossed arms. 

“Can you sing some more, Captain?” Layla asks as she swims closer to you, beaching herself across from your campfire. 

“My mother told me, someday I will buy…” You begin to sing as you examine her features. This was the first time you’ve ever seen a mermaid. “Galley with good oars, sail to distant shores.”

Her ear fins twitch as you continue to sing and she begins to harmonize with your song. Her arms had fins, and her fingers were webbed with sharp nails. It was hard to see in the low light, but you’re sure you made out gills across her ribs and on the sides of her neck. 

“Where are your sisters?” You ask the mermaid when you are done with your song. Mermaids always traveled in groups, it's what made them so dangerous. 

A forlorn look washes over Layla’s face. “I have left my sisters.”

You wait slowly for her to continue her story. She gathers herself with a deep breath, the gills opening and closing as she does so. 

“We were being pursued by hunters. They had these… things, made of something colder than stone, harsher than the afternoon sun, one hit and I see my sisters die before me.” She recalls her memory. “A man, dressed in black, granted me a wish, to be safe from the hunters, but I didn’t realize he would bring me here, swept up in a storm and dropped off.” 

A man dressed in black, she says. A certain Endless pops into your mind and it would not be something out of his power to do something like this.

You look around at the flickering shadows that dance due to the fire. You’re looking for a silhouette you’re all too familiar with. Is he fucking with you right now? You glare at a particular shadow that seems almost human but brush it off. “The man in black, what did he look like?”

“I’m not sure. He is pale, has black hair, and wears black clothes. The stars seem to be trapped in his eyes. I think I’ve seen him before, he is familiar, but each time I think of him the thoughts leave me like a dream.”

Yeah… that’s him alright. You think, sighing as a plan begins to form in your head. You lean back, resting your back on a smooth protruding rock. 

“How long have you been stuck here?” You ask, slowly inching your way closer to the mermaid. 

Layla looks towards the moon and thinks. “I have seen too many new moons to remember. Perhaps… 17?” Layla holds up all 10 of her webbed fingers and you raise a quizzical eyebrow. 

“I don’t think you know how to count,” You think to yourself. “Can I ask something of you?” 

Layla hums, a light, whimsical sound, and you continue. “Has anyone asked you for your tears before?” You ask slowly, unsure of how to proceed. You’ve only just met the mermaid a few hours ago, after all. 

“Do you need a tear?” She asks. 

You nod in response.

“Thank you for telling me the truth. I can give you my tears but it is difficult to procure one unless I feel like it. In which case, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have shed my tears long ago when I was imprisoned in this lagoon.” Layla gives you a shy smile and a shrug.

When she is met with your silence, she sighs and flops back into the water, her tail splashing water onto your fire. The water hisses as it comes in contact with the heat and adds steam to your face. 

You wait for a few hours, hoping that Layla would resurface but steadily the moon rises higher and higher in the sky and you start to lose hope. 

With one last look towards the lagoon cave, you redress yourself and extinguish the flames with sand. You retrace your steps back towards your ship, and dawn breaks when you see the beauty beached by the sea. 

“‘Mornin’, Captain,” Your first mate greets you when you scale back up the ship. 

“Good morning indeed. Wake up some of the crew and tell them to meet me on shore. We’ve got a mermaid to save,” You wave off your command as you make your way to the captain’s quarters.

“A mermaid?” The young sailor questions excitedly.

“Dear Theo, when I recruited you for my ship did I not guarantee you an adventure of a lifetime?” You look back at him with a smile. 

“Yes, Captain Fortune, you did.” 

“Then, by all means, get me the hands, and let’s save this mermaid!” You turn back around as you hear Theo’s skittering footsteps.

In your captain’s quarters you look around for something large enough to transport said mermaid. Your eyes land on a large glass display that has a miniature wooden model of your first ship, the one Dream’s Kraken so cheerfully destroyed. Carefully, you remove the model and place it gently on your desk instead. 

If you tie a few sticks to extend the frame then you and your crew can hammock her back to open waters. 

A small voice in the back of your head taps you on your shoulder. Should you be doing this? You know that Layla was sent to the lagoon by Dream and going against his doing is like sending yourself to the gallows with the noose already around your neck. 

You hesitate for a moment. Just a singular moment.

Ah, well, what’s the worst that could happen? He kills you? Boooring, he’s tried that already and failed‒several times. 

The sun is beating down on you and your selected crew when you return to land. You lead the way as they carry the sloshing glass crate full of seawater. You smack another bug away from your face with a huff of annoyance. 

Soon enough, the lagoon comes into view and you look around with a hand over your eyes for the familiar blue you’ve come to recognize. Your crew sets down the heavy cradle with a groan and stands in the shade as they watch you waddle into the lagoon water. 

“Layla?” You call out. Nothing. “Lady Layla of the Lagoon?” You sing out this time. The water ripples beneath you and you catch a glimpse of her tail. You follow it with your eyes until she pops up again. 

“I like the new title,” She smiles at you and her ear fins twitch with giddy. “Who are they?” She asks as soon as she sees your entourage behind you, her smile dropping. Layla was tense, ready to dive back into the waters. 

You stand between her and your crew, blocking her sight from them. “They’re with me, we didn’t bring weapons,” You say quickly. 

She visibly relaxes at your words but leans her body to the side to take another look at them. “Then why are they here?”

“We’re here to take you home,” You say with a low voice, in case any non-human entities were listening in on your conversation. You turn to your crew once more and motion to them to come closer with the glass cradle. “It’s seawater, can I put you in it?” You ask Layla as you explain the simple plan to her. 

She looks between you and the glass container, then back at you and nods. Words fail her as she reaches her arms towards you. She was heavier than you expected, the weight of her tail and the water that clung to her was not a part of your calculations. 

Layla wraps her arms around your neck as you hoist her out of the waters. Her squirming made it harder to carry her, but the smile she had on her face made it all worth it. Her tail was, well, slimy wouldn’t be the right word to use. It was certainly slippery, but it ran smoothly against your bare forearms like silk from the ports of China. 

When you get close enough to the glass tub, she leaps from your arms and settles in. Layla is still smiling and looks around with curiosity as the group begins to march towards the sea. Every now and then you would turn around and check on Layla. Her emotions were understandable, if you had to be landlocked for 17 months, you would go crazy as well. How you did so before your time as a pirate is still a mystery to you. 

Your thoughts briefly go to where you used to call home, in a large mansion far away from the port. It was full of stuffy dresses and strict manners. What you could say, or couldn’t say, how you should treat others based on their rank, and how they would affect your family. 

You think of your older brother who died serving the navy and how his death caused you to be the sole reason why your father ordered an arranged marriage for you. If not only to maintain your status as a noble lady of the state but also to secure you a future when he was no longer around. 

What would he think of you now? Plundering the seven seas, being chased by a deity older than the sea goddess herself? 

“What will you do first when you return to sea?” You ask Layla as a distraction. 

“Find my sisters, of course,” She says. “Or find what remains of them. Either way, I will be home, and severely have I missed it.” Layla tilts her head to the sky and takes in a deep breath. “Can you smell the sea? That salty brine?” She squeals, flicking her tail excitedly, ignoring how the water splashes out of the tub. 

The sun begins to dip by the time you’ve reached the beach, painting the water gold. You watch as the waves crash into each other, creating ripples and sparkles in the sea. The ocean looked like the surface of the rarest gem. 

“Ready?” You ask Layla, resting your arms on the edge of the glass tub. 

She nods once more and reaches out for you. You transport her into your arms once again, this time more prepared for the weight shift. Your footsteps grow heavy into the soft sand as you match towards the sea. 

Layla’s ear fins shimmy against your cheek, tickling you as the two of you get closer to the sea. You wade into the water, the salty spray of the ocean sticking to your clothes and hair the deeper you went. When you were chest deep you lowered the mermaid into the waters. 

Layla leaves your arms gracefully and sighs, taking a deep breath underwater as the salt filters through her gills. She does a few experimental circles around your feet, her colors grow into a deeper, more vibrant blue in her natural habitat. Layla resurfaces with a blue conch shell that was the same color as her fins. Her smile has yet to falter and only grows bigger by the minute. 

“Have this,” She says as she hands you the iridescent shell. “Blow into it when you need my help. Even in your most perilous circumstances, I will hear it no matter where I am.” Her words begin to tremble on her lips.

Cautiously she reaches for your waist, grabbing at the small glass vile you had hanging on your leather belt. She brings the vile to the edge of her eyes and when she blinks, a tear falls slowly into the vile. It shines in the dusk light before she re-corks it, keeping it safe.

“This is the happiest day of my life, so really I must thank you for what you have done, Captain Fortune,” She whispers slowly as she carefully turns the vile in her webbed fingers.

She watches as her tear rolls around in the long tube before she hands it back to you. Your fingers linger over hers when she gives it back and you pull yourself closer to her. 

“Thank you, Layla.” You bring your lips to her cheek and kiss her goodbye, tasting the salt on her skin. Layla hums at the warmth before she pulls away first. 

She stays quiet for a moment, the two of you enjoying the small moment of peace. "What are your thoughts, Layla?" You probe.

“Whatever you may use my tear for, do so without guilt. It was given lovingly. I will never forget you.” She doesn’t wait for a response before she dives deeper into the sea. It’s not long before you see her jump out of the water, her hair and tail flying in the wind with a spray of water as a final goodbye. 

The map changes a month after Layla’s departure, its scribbles and instructions mix and realign themselves for the next item. Though, you wished it didn’t considering the new instructions were nothing more than vague words and instructions. 

“When the storm brews and the heavens roar, prepare your vessel of wood and of glass, forged in the heart of a dying star will you find the sizzle of light.” You reread the instructions with a frown. Your eyes scan the words over and over until you think you’ve forgotten how to read. You close the map with a sigh and stick it back in your pants pocket. 

Despite the unforgiving temperature of the tropics, the tear never evaporates in your vile. Occasionally, like today, you would stare at the tear, watching it glimmer in the rising sun when the rest of the ship was asleep. Her lullaby haunts the back of your mind, the humming seeming to echo across the vastness of the calm ocean. The Dream King has yet to come for you for what you have done, something that you took as a good sign. 

A rumble in the distance shakes you from your thoughts. You refasten the vile to your belt, next to where Layla’s conch shell rested. The wind picks up and whips your hair around like crazy tentacles. Approaching fast on the horizon were gray and angry storm clouds. Thunder booms and lightning cracks across the dark blanket of doom. 

Your ship was ahead of it, for now. The smell of ozone and petrichor is strong in your nose as you turn and start ringing the bell to wake up your group of misfit miscreants. 

“Lower the sails, let’s outrun this storm, Mr. Theo,” You told your first mate as you took to the wheel. 

Theo repeats your orders to the awaiting crew below you and they begin to scramble about. The sails lower, their dark blue colors turning black in the absence of light. Doors were being shut and cannons tied to the ship. 

The storm grows fast, and even with the help of the northern wind full in your sails, rainwater begins to belt down on you. Your blouse did little to protect your skin from the harsh raindrops. Still, you steered with shielded eyes. A few of your crew decided to go below deck, only you, Theo, and a few more daring pirates decided to stay above and help maintain the ship.

A large wave crashes into your ship, jolting the vessel relentlessly. For a moment, your fingers slip from the prongs along the wheel, but you’re quick to regain your feet and hands. The winds and waves leave you at the whims of Mother Nature. Each time you try to recourse your ship, the wheel resists you. 

The storm was right above you now, ripping large gashes into your sails. It would be too dangerous to pull them up by now, you can only hope for the best. Lightning briefly cracks across the sky and gives light to your next issue. 

Your ship starts to circle in the open sea and you realize with a dry throat that you were stuck in a whirlpool. No matter how much you try to shift course, the will of the sea did not listen to your commands. 

“Shit! Fuck! Goddamn it!” You cuss all known cuss words under the sun and then some more. 

Your cussing grows louder as the wheel splits off its pole and the last bit of your resistance is lost. Screams were heard around you as the wooden vessel flung straight into the vortex. Each person on your crew flashes behind your eyes as your body slams into the ship's walls. You’re trying to regain your breath, instead inhaling rainwater and you’re met with a coughing fit. 

The prongs of Layla’s shell presses deeply into your back and a brief moment of clarity washes over you. Trying to keep your balance on waterlogged boots, you reach the rails of your ship. You pull off the blue shell and press it to your lips.

You blow, hard and long, feeling the low hum vibrating across the shell. You blow again, the thought of blue fins and a mother’s lullaby on your mind. You wish for the safe passage of you and your crew back into calm seas. You wish for Layla.

Another sharp jolt and your wet fingers drop the shell. You cuss again over the raging winds as you bend over to pick it up. One more blow into the shell wouldn’t hurt. Before your fingers could wrap around the shell, the ship tips and you fall into the open sea. 

“Theo!” You scream as your arms flail around you, trying to grab at anything and everything that could help you. 

Your fingers wrap around a stray rope, the twine burning through your skin as you continue to fall. The rain leaves you gripless and even your desperate cry isn’t enough to hold on. 

Falling into rough seas is as good as falling onto wooden floors. When you hit the waters, the air is knocked out of you once more. You’re barely grasping at the concept of consciousness as you’re submitted to the commands of the tides. 

A familiar flash of serene blue crosses your vision and hands grab at your arms. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Layla sobs out near your ear.

She takes a look over her shoulder, but in your losing war with consciousness, you don’t pay much attention. Her powerful tail swims you towards the surface where air fills your lungs immediately. 

Layla swims back underwater before you can thank her. You look around in the storm for your ship or a piece of it to cling onto but all you’re met with is another crashing wave. Sea water enters your nose, the sharpness hits you in the back of the head and you gasp at the intrusion. Water then enters your mouth and you accidentally gulp it down in a growing desperation to breathe. The relentless sea gives you no time to do so as another wave crashes into your body and back underwater you go. 

You brave your eyes open, feeling your body being tugged by the whirlpool. You search for her, for your mermaid, and only find her trying to swim along the currents of the ongoing storm. Something black streaks across your vision and you watch it as it catches up to to Layla. The two swim in circles, the whirlpool growing stronger as the two mercreatures chase each other. 

You squint in the low visibility of the water and a familiar pale body and slicked-back black hair meets you. He pauses his chase for a moment, sensing your stare at him and he looks back. Dream’s eyes are gone, and in its place a void of black. He frowns when he sees you, his tail flicking in annoyance at your interruption. 

Dream closes his eyes and you see his gills take in a deep breath before he returns to chasing after Layla. You watch helplessly as his arms ensnare around her waist. She fights back with the last of her strength, but having used most of it helping you and swimming away from your aforementioned “lover”, she loses the battle quickly. 

Dream keeps her in his arms as he dives deeper into the ocean, his black tail disappearing into the depths. The only indication was the small lights that decorated the fins, much like the bioluminescent light you would find on caught anglerfish. You stay for a second longer, your lungs screaming at you for air, but a part of you hopes that you may see the familiar blue come to you again. 

The whirlpool calms and with defeat you swim towards the surface. You’re about to break the surface when hands wrap themselves around you. You briefly feel the silkiness of scales against your skin before you’re launched into the air. The force behind the tail gives you enough air for the two of you to land on your ship.

You cough, water sloughing off your figure like raindrops. The sky had cleared and the sea was calm again, as if nothing just happened. 

“Layla?” You call out, coughing out the last remnants of seawater from your lungs.

“No.” Came your simple answer. 

You turn quickly and meet Dream’s eyes. He’s still in his merman form, sitting on the railing of your ship. Realizing comes to you too quickly and you pathetically search his face for any form of remorse for what he had done. 

“Where is she?” You ask. You feel rage starting to bubble to the surface. Your crew was nowhere to be seen, either hiding under deck or lost to the storm.

“Gone,” Dream answers simply. 

Dream watches as you look around the ship for something. In an attempt to prove his point, he moves his tail, revealing to you what you need to see. Not what you wanted, he knew what you wanted, but you needed to understand the truth, now. 

You’re searching for blue and when Dream moves his tail over, the bioluminescent lights along his fins dim in the sun. His tail was beautiful and a part of you would’ve loved to have admired it, but that familiar blue catches your eyes. 

There was so much blue, shattered and broken into pieces.

You fall to your knees as you scoop up the shattered pieces of Layla’s shell. Your hand curls into fists as you bring it closer to your chest. The pieces cut into your skin and blue mixes with bright red. 

Staring at the mosaic of colors, you're reluctant to let go. To let go of the shell is to let go of her. To let go of the pain is to accept the grief that is to come with her death.

“She’s gone.” It wasn’t a question, it was realization. 

You look at Dream with slightly teary eyes and he doesn’t bother with a response. He gives you one last look before falling backward, diving back into the depths of the ocean. 

♡ Goodbye, Layla

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[setokaibapetty]

5 + 1 Fic Friday Roundup: Surprise Relative

Some fics where a surpise blood relation pops up. Like, sometimes the guy who raised you was lying about being your dad, sometimes a Pit gives you a baby, etc.

Imprint (AO3) - "He screwed his eyes shut, held his breath, desperately wished that he was back in his safehouse, alone and blissfully unaware. But the weight in his hands remained, and when he opened his eyes, it was to the bean-shaped 'fuck you' the Lazarus Pit had kindly bestowed upon him, arms and legs folded up against his front beneath off-white muslin while tiny lips smacked softly.'

Red Blood, Blue Blood (AO3) - "Jason Todd was living a very ordinary life in Crime Alley before his mother gets sick. Then, suddenly, Jason and Catherine have to grapple with the secret everyone has known since Jason was born with black hair and blue eyes—Willis Todd wasn't his biological father. Bruce Wayne is, and not only is he the richest man in Gotham, he has three other children who may not be glad to have an interloper in their midst."

Going Off-Book (AO3) - "Dick winces. “Tim, meet Damian Wayne. Apparently, his mom told him who his dad was when he turned eighteen and the first thing he did after finding out was enroll in the nearest police academy. He served for a couple of years and just arranged a transfer here from Metropolis.” He directs a pleading gaze at Tim. “Like I said, Bruce had to go out of town for a while, but he asked me to show Damian the ropes. Tim, I’m sorry, but—"

when the dead tree flowers (AO3) - "It wasn't solely Jango Fett's DNA that went into making Domino Squad. Palpatine had other plans for them. Thankfully, so does their second genetic donor, and he has just as few qualms about murder as a Sith Lord."

Open Arms (AO3) - "The story starts when Quinlan get's a call from the hospital; an old girlfriend has given birth and named him the father, leaving the baby at the hospital. This triggers a series of events that bring Fox back into contact with his bio family, who he is not as distant from as he might like to think."

Bonus: welcome all your bastard actions home (AO3) - "Daenerys had arrived at Winterfell three days past, a great host of dragons and roses and suns and krakens, clearly expecting Jon -- the King in the North, as uneasy that title rests on his shoulders -- to bend the knee. Instead, he takes her to the crypts to speak of ancient history."

[evita-shelby]

Guest

Cold and sobriety do not mix well for Aeva Nymeros Martell. House Bolton will be glad the Dornish Princess is as likely to return to the Dreadfort as they are to visit Sunspear.

cw: withdrawal, fears of childbirth amd commitment, mentions of infertility, nightmares(the visions Aeva sees are mostly of the events in asoiaf)

Heavenerys and Amos belongs to @call-sign-shark , Lucy and her family belong to @mischievouslittlecreature , Lady Rose Tyrell belongs to @justrainandcoffee

got peaky au: @justrainandcoffee @mischievouslittlecreature @call-sign-shark @zablife @peakyswritings @hoodeddreams13 @cillmequick

Aeva does not recall a time when she wore that many layers of clothing. Sunspear hardly saw cold, winters were mild, and the last time it grew harsh, the princess had only been a babe in swaddling clothes.

The princess is covered from head to toe and yet feels the biting cold in her bones. It was not so much the climate but the unsettling visions of girls being hunted down like animals while a Bolton man laughed, Lady Lucilla covered in blood skinning a man with steady hands, and Amos setting beasts upon Heavenerys for reasons the Dornish Princess did not see.

Dragon Dreams were rare in the Targaryen family and Aeva had gotten them because her grandmother, Daenerys Targaryen, had been born to King Aegon’s first queen and sister, Naerys. The more diluted the blood became the less dragons were born and even rarer became the ability to dream. Aelizabeth used to have them and once her bastard son, Mikael Waters, was taken from her by King Daeron she lost the ability all together, Thomaryon had them very rarely, gets that haunted look she can recognize instantly even if it’s been a year since the last time they had been intimate.

House Bolton was not to be trusted; their cruelty was known even in Dorne and Aeva had known there was something was not right even before she had met any of them. Their names alone had felt like needles on her skin despite how unwell she’d been when her mother forced her to stop drinking.

She could do all she could to stop the matches from happening, force the lords to call a council and have the realm vote to instate Aerthurys the Younger as king in Heavenerys’ place citing the Dance of the Dragons as a reason.

But it would all be for naught.

House Targaryen was destined to fall and make way for other kings. The Crowned Stag would rise and fall divided, a Lioness would try and take its place, so would the Krakens and when the Dragons return so does the Long Night and the Night’s King. The Iron Throne would be worthless, the realm destroyed, and King’s Landing razed with green fire while the dead marched across the Broken Wall.

The Flayed Man would be killed by its own kin, its house reduced to nothing more than stories people tell to frighten children, but not before the Flayed Man’s bastard heir sowed terror in the North after they betray the Wolves. A wedding will end with the guests dead in the Feast Halls of House Frey and a dire wolf’s head sewn onto the headless corpse of a red-haired Stark.

Her Dreams had come back worse as her forced sobriety reduced her to a vomit smelling sweating mess, how Jack could still stand her was beyond her own reasoning.

“Ask for more of that liquor we had at the welcoming feast, Sarella.” The princess is morose and terrible company in shitty weather, she is much fucking worse when her dragon’s blood reminds her the world will end no matter what.

“Princess Isabael said we are not to let you imbibe heavily, you may drink some wine at dinner, and it will be watered down to prevent inebriation.” Her handmaiden, Sarella Sand, reminds the princess is on a tight leash.

No drinking, no fucking, no endangering the carefully laid plans to integrate Dorne into the Realm.

The annexation of their kingdom had been intended with another marriage alliance, one between Arron and Heaveanerys after Queen Myriah Martell died without issue and her widower refused to take Prince Maron’s title. Queen Aelizabeth, her goodsister and eventual successor, however, had a distaste for even the acceptable types of incest and a rather convenient need to strengthen the ties of the dragons to their lords who did not like the idea of Dorne becoming the Seventh Realm.

Aeva and Tommy were supposed to wed, back when Uncle Daeron still lived, but his half-sister and widow had refused to honor it even after she needed Dornish Spears to banish her own brother for trying to usurp them. Still the half-cousins and former betrotheds had become lovers after Aeva realized that endless revels and fucking ensured her dreams would be forgotten each day.

Then she just had to see he would marry a red-haired girl covered in freckles and hiding deep and dark secrets. Even if the mystery girl was not a great beauty nor was of royal blood like Aeva, she would have Tommy’s heart. So, the princess rejected his hand and found a Dothraki Khal to help her forget him in Pentos. When Aeva was introduced to Lady Lucilla yesterday, the Princess had charmed a servant into sharing with her his strange and strong clear liquor to forget what she knew of these people. Sure, Rose Tyrell and Jack’s sister, Katerina Tully, vouched for her and she did not give the same feeling as half her family ---nor the instant loathing the princess had for Amos--- but did she have to be a Bolton?

Aeva supposed it was a blessing Lady Lucy Bolton was barren, Amos becoming Lord Consort already made the rest of Westeros uneasy and Gods forbid the girl discovered how much power you can gain through a son or even a daughter.

The sooner this wedding was over the better.

“Am I forbidden from seeing my sworn protector, oh faithful jailor?” the princess asked sarcastically knowing her mother would banish Jack from Dorne if she broke her stupid new rules.

Apply yourself, her mother had said. As if Aeva couldn’t take the Iron Throne with her wits and her cunt before Heavenerys was wedded and bedded. Just because she is not showing people what she’s truly capable of, it does not mean she is stupid. The last person who thought that was now dancing with the Stranger.

“If you wish him in your bed always, you should just marry him. Seven knows he is the only man you’ve strung along this long. Even Prince Thomaryon could not boast of having been your paramour for more than six moons.” Sarella finished veiling her so no one could see how dreadfully she’d slept the night before.

Night! Aeva cannot even recall a time this year when she had seen dawn or morning when she awoke. Usually, she arises past noon or dusk with Jack having taken up her terrible habits. The last they had slept together in the same bed was at their stay at Kingsgrave to take Fae’s gifts and well-wishes north and that was nearly four months ago.

He was to stay with the Tully envoy, his sister would come with her husband who happened to be the nephew of Lady Genevieve Bolton ---the sad and tormented woman who mothered the unsettling beasts called Eli and the other one. But knowing her paramour, he was somewhere with the lads or his Umber Cousins.

“You know why, Ella.” The princess reminds her the dreams she pretends haven’t driven her mad.

Madness is inherited, her children would be born mad like her or scaled and dead like the monstrosity that killed Queen Myriah and the one she dreamt she gave birth to while she lived in Pentos with her Khal.

As fearless as Aeva appeared, there was nothing she feared more than becoming a wife and, worse, a mother. Too many risks involved even if Aeva liked children and was a good aunt and caretaker to those who played in the pools of the pleasure palace she lived in.

But much like the Wall is meant to fall and the Dragons die out, Aeva has seen seven children, four sons and three daughters. Two pairs of twins, and all would marry into each of the Seven Realms.

They would be healthy and have human form and yet the princess is terrified of saying yes to it.

“If he did not run when you were at the worst of your malaise, he won’t run when you give him a child with visions of doom and dragon wings. Besides, the stud books say there’s hardly any incest in his bloodline, so you may end up better than poor Queen Myriah.” Sarella gave her a playful shake of the shoulders to try and get the princess out of her dark moods.

“I suppose it won’t end terribly, but you will be who I blame when I get fat and disgusting with twins.” The princess hopes this will stave away the perpetual state of unease she’s had since they arrived here. The place makes the hair rise at the back of her nape.

She is to go out riding with Jack, get lost for a while and hope a bout of wild fucking can at least make her passable company. Aeva had even insulted the three redeemable people in the Bolton family at some point during the evening.

Amos had to get his cock sucked by his bride-to-be to keep him from throwing Aeva out with the rest of the Dornish Envoy out in the cold when the princess refused to bite her tongue and reminded him just because he married the future queen he was not a true royal. Aeva was not this bitchy, but there was something about that man that just made her roll her eyes and insult him.

Everyone feared him and yet the princess could not be bothered to do so. Perhaps because Aeva’s fears lay elsewhere or because, at some point, she had dallied with all of her cousins including Aunt Polly’s only trueborn child. Whatever it was, she knew he loathed her even more for not cowering before his gaze.

It would make this visit here fun, and make up for the fact that only her servants and Jack could see the intricate designs she sat for hours to get done. She’s not even allowed to dance for the guests, her Rhoynish dances are deemed too sensual for these prudes.

Gods forbid another groom leaves his bride at the altar for her again!

“You have a beautiful horse, your highness.” Lucy Bolton is quiet but not in that trained mousiness the courtiers have when they want to sink their teeth into someone of higher rank.

The buckskin Sand Steed is a beauty, sturdy and graceful. Unlike Erinys, Garin was able to survive the cold climate of the north with relative ease. Erinys was a gift from Drogo ---who intended to marry her until Aeva’s dreams ruined that too—and was meant for the grasslands and deserts, not the north and its summer snows.

“If you think Garin is a beauty, you should see Erinys. She is as golden as the dawn.” The princess tries her best to be cordial at least, but her words come off as rather cool.

“Garin after the Prince of the Sorrows?” the red haired asks and Aeva nods.

No matter how she tries, Aeva cannot forget what she dreamt of her last night. She cannot make herself forget she dreamt of her flaying a man she is very sure is Thomaryon.

“Yes, after the Prince of Chroyane.” The same prince who called on Mother Rhoyne to cast down the Valyrians and succeeded when the river flooded overnight and afflicted them all with greyscale.

A name chosen more because she liked it and not as the threat to the dragons as some speculated.

“Is it true that you have visited Essos?” there was curiosity in her voice. Perhaps she was a girl who has never been south of Riverrun who reads of the outside from this dreary place.

“Yes, I have been as far as the Dothraki Sea.” Perhaps Aeva could keep better watch on the girl by befriending her.

part 2

[fanfictiongirlie]

Game of Thrones - His Wolf, Her Kraken Chapter Two

Click here for masterlist

Parings: Theon Greyjoy x Original Female Character

Description:

Arenna Stark grew up adoring Theon Greyjoy.

Theon Greyjoy grew up hating Arenna Stark.

In the midst of war, Robb Stark decides to ensure the loyalty of the Greyjoys by marrying of his sister Arenna to Theon. Arenna will do whatever it takes to keep Winterfell under Stark rule, even if that means marrying the boy who bullied her all her life.

Warnings: None. (This fanfiction will eventually be explicit!)

Chapter Two

- Arenna -

I was sat in my tent, it was bleak and cold, but I was used to the cold, it wasn't the cold that bothered me, I sighed heavily as I sunk into my very uncomfortable chair, a random book in my hand. Robb, my older brother had wanted me only to read books to help our battle, but I couldn't stomach those books any longer. I was thinking over the news my brother told me only this morning at first light. 

"You knew of this" I looked up to see Theon, my heart ached painfully as he walked into my tent, I cursed myself, forever angry with myself, no matter how horrible the man in front of me could be, the entire time I knew him, always so horrible, I still couldn't get over the feelings I had always had for him. I adored him, and he hated me. 

"What?" I questioned, I knew what he was speaking of. Obviously I knew, Robb told me first. 

"You heard me" He snapped, he was looking at me how he always did, his green eyes were always dark when they looked to me, his face always so angry and tense. He of course knew how I admired him, most of the North knew. It embarrassed me, but I still couldn't stop. 

"Robb decided it" I answer quietly, placing my book down "What do you want me to do about it?"

Theon stared at me for a long moment, his expression hardening. Then, he turned away as he began to pace back and forth in front of me like a caged lion. 

"I don't want this, don't you understand? The last thing I want is to be shackled to some...some child!" He growled, running a hair through his long hair in frustration. I flinched at his words, always a child, that's how he saw me. 

"So go tell Robb about it!" I yelled back, matching his tone. 

"I already did!" He retorted, rounding on me with a furious scowl. "Don't you think I tried that? Your brother is stubborn, do not shout at me as if I'm the one the blame!"

"I'm only shouting at you because you're shouting at me!" I hiss, standing up, he still towered over me but I would never back down, not to the likes of a man. No matter how I felt about him. Theon scoffed, he continued to pace back and forth like a restless animal, it was driving me insane. 

"Because you're the one who agreed with it! You didn't even protest! You were just sitting here in your little tent hiding away, whilst your brother planned our future without giving a damn whether we wanted it or not!" 

"Of course I don't agree! I don't know if you ever noticed but I'm a female, I don't get an opinion!" I snapped, rolling my eyes at him. Despite my deepest feelings for him, I hated him too, or at least I thought I hated him, and yelling at him was something the two of us were very used to. We grew up screaming at one another. Driving my entire family crazy. 

Theon stopped pacing, staring at me incredulously. "Is that the only reason? You agreed because you're a woman?" He says in a low, cold voice. "Not because you actually want to be married to me?"

I stayed quiet for a moment, I knew what he was grasping at. Always rubbing my feelings for him in my face, he was never gracious to me about them. I hadn't agreed to marry Theon because I wanted to marry him, I didn't want to marry him, when Robb told me my heart dropped deep into my stomach. 

"No" I answered sternly. 

"You used to..."He said a little quieter. 

"Maybe when I was seven!" I snapped back. 

Theon smirked and stepped closer to me, it made me nervous, though he had never laid a hand on me, I never trusted him fully not to. Men were creatures and I knew that. "Ah yes, when you were always following me around like a little pup, you were such a nuisance, so clingy"

I rolled my eyes again "And you were horrid and spiteful"

"You were irritating" He pointed out, coming to stand right in front of us. "Always begging for my attention, never leaving me be for five bloody minutes. You were damn everywhere I was!" He growled. I don't tear my eyes from his, my pretty blue eyes and his pretty green eyes, both angry as we stare at one another. I step backwards, sitting back down on my chair, sinking into the seat, my eyes burned with tears, but I wouldn't let them fall, not with him watching me. 

"Are you going to burst into tears now?" He asks mockingly "That's all you ever used to do when we were younger"

"Can't you just leave me alone" I ask, my tone quieter, my breathing was heavier, being alone with Theon stressed me out, I wanted Robb to come in, stopped this pathetic argument. Theon stared at me for a moment, his eyes cold and hard. 

"No" He says simply, confusing me "I'm not going to leave you alone, and you know why?"

"Why?" I ask, my voice quiet. 

"Because" He said in a mocking tone "You're to be my wife, so you're going to get used to my presence whether you like it or not"

"Here I thought you would argue to your grave rather than marry me" I say, my voice dripping with distaste. He chuckled, a dark, cold sound that echoed in the tent. 

"Maybe I would have, if your brother didn't have my bollocks in a vice grip" He growled "But the fact is, I've got no choice, and neither to you" He paused for a moment, giving me a cruel smirk. "You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not"

I rolled my eyes and stood up once more "Looks like it" Theon eyes followed me as I walked to the other side of the tent, close to the exit. 

"Looks like it" He drawled, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice "So I guess you'd better get used to having me around, wife"

"Not yet, dickhead" I say harshly, I rolled my eyes and left the tent, leaving him alone as I go to find my brother. 

[lkfarrout]

This is Chapter 3! Start at chapter 1, and read chapter 4 next!

Main Tags: General, Sea Grunkles, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: After a fight with a kraken-like creature, Stan is left with broken ribs, an injured arm, and a bruised ego. Ford just wants to help him.

Warnings: angst, injury, broken bones, swearing

Chapter 3:

The rest of the day passed quickly, despite there being little to do. Stan spent most of the time fishing, with breaks here and there to grab food and replace the ice pack tucked securely between his shirt and his life vest. It was nice just existing out here, not thinking of anything except the fishing rod in his hand.

His twin, on the other hand, tried his best to be productive, but found his mind continuously wondering. Over and over, he found himself standing at the control console, his gaze switching between the GPS and the view of Stan on the deck through the small window. They would reach the next anomaly in a few days. It could be absolutely anything -- perhaps another monster that would try to kill them. When Stan dozed off in his deck chair in the late afternoon, Ford knew what he had to do.

---

As Stan slowly came back into consciousness, the sun was low in the sky, shining right in his eyes. Shades of light blue mixed with yellow in the cloudless sky and reflected off the water. It was beautiful.

Stan thought back to one special evening on the boat, when the brothers stood off the portside watching the sunset together. They remarked how, when one was this far north, the sun set far in the southwest. Before long, it had turned into stargazing together. Stan contemplated bringing Ford out to enjoy a night like that again.

As he stood, he squinted and raised his good arm to shield his eyes from the brightness, before pausing. Portside, sunset in the southwest. But he was on the starboard side. Oh, shit. His fishing pole hit the deck with a clatter as he rushed for the cabin.

"Don't touch it, Stan." Ford stood, arms crossed, blocking the control panel.

Stan tried to push past him, kindly letting his twin know of their predicament. "We're going the wrong direction."

Ford stood his ground. "No, we're going back to port."

Stan's jaw tensed, "Oh, like hell we are. It'll take weeks to get back to shore!"

"You're injured. You need a doctor, possibly surgery! I'm not visiting another anomaly until I know you're okay to fight."

"I'm fine, Ford." Stan's hands turned to fists at his sides. It was supposed to be them running this ship together, making decisions together.

"Oh, you're fine?" Ford let his arms hang at his sides, letting his defenses down, "Then hit me, Stan."

"What?"

"Punch me in the face, right now. Left arm."

Stan was conscious now of his fists, and he let them relax. "No."

"Why, because you can't?" His brother egged him on.

Stan took a deep breath, "Because I won't."

"Oh, you don't want to fight me now? Then quit fighting me," Ford pointed sternly at the table, commanding Stan to sit, "and let me look at your arm. And then maybe, I'll turn this boat around."

Stan, defeated, began to remove his coat and life vest, and sat down. Ford crouched in front of him

"Say 'ow' when it hurts." Stanford grabbed hold of his brother's arm and began to move it, starting with the wrist and making his way up. Stan rolled his eyes as Ford bent his arm back and forth at the elbow. When he reached his shoulder, Stan inhaled sharply through his teeth.

"So it's your shoulder?" Ford asked.

"I coulda told you that, genuis."

With a six fingered hand, Ford started to massage the front of Stan's shoulder and chest.

"Ow.... ow.... ow," Stan said flatly, with each prod and poke. When the fingers pressed into his collarbone through his shirt, Stan flinched back in his chair and swore.

"Try to stay still, I'm almost done."

Stan gripped the table with his good hand and clenched his jaw as pain shot down his arm. Finally, his brother stopped torturing him and stood up.

"Just as I thought. You have a broken clavicle."

"Okay, Doctor Pines," Stan said sarcastically, "what do we do now?"

Ford began shuffling through some notes on the table. "I think I can throw together a small x-ray device to look at it closer. And you'll need a sling to keep your arm in place. Plus ice and ibuprofen, of course."

Stan arose from the table determinedly, "Great, you get on that and I'll get us goin' the right direction."

"Absolutely not. Not until I can x-ray you."

Stan knew it was no use fighting him anymore, especially with one arm out of commission. Instead, he pulled his coat back on and grabbed a beer out of the fridge.

"Fine. I'm gonna go stargaze."

[hamsterclaw]

The world is burning, and Jimin's struggling to find meaning in anything, until he meets Namjoon.

Pairing: Jimin x Namjoon

Genre: mem x mem, post nuclear war apocalyptic AU

Rating: 18+

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, mentions of blood, injury, mentions of military, PTSD

Jimin tucks and rolls, the moulded alloy of his droid armour scraping against the tarmac.

The flash of heat and light blinds and deafens him, for a few long moments he’s completely vulnerable to attack. 

He blinks, and the world comes back in a rush. 

With it, the face of his partner, creased with concern as he leans over him. He taps his visor, and as Jimin says his name, his voice filters through to Jimin’s earpiece.

‘You’re not going to die on me, are you?’ Namjoon asks, his light tone at odds with the way his eyes are fixed on Jimin’s face.

‘Not today, Joon,’ Jimin replies. He accepts Namjoon’s hand, lets Namjoon put his muscles to work hauling him up to his feet.  

‘Where’s the kraken?’ Jimin asks.

‘Took care of it,’ Namjoon says, nonchalant.

Jimin rolls his eyes. ‘I set you up for the kill.’

‘You’re good like that,’ Namjoon agrees. He’s quiet a moment, setting his co-ordinates, getting his bearings. Finally, he turns to Jimin.

‘Let’s get back.’

***

Whenever Jimin ventures out of skylock, he finds that more of the world is burning. The nuclear war was two scant years ago but it feels like a lifetime. 

The first nuclear explosion took out half of Asia, the second, North America. After that, the world was dying too fast for anyone to keep track. 

He’d been on secondment in Algeria, thirty miles west of the first skylock base. He’d been lucky.

He’d made it into skylock hours before the final explosion set the whole world on fire. 

The first person he met in skylock was Kim Namjoon, brisk, efficient and decent, even in the face of total devastation. He’d been so overwhelmed by the engineer’s kindness it had taken him a while to notice how attractive he was.

He’s facing away from Jimin now, stripping off his droid suit in the annexe. He’s lean, his shoulders and back corded with muscle.

He turns unexpectedly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He catches Jimin staring at him.

Jimin does a terrible job of hiding his reaction, startling and dropping his visor on the concrete. 

He ducks his head.

He’d been fine facing off against the kraken, one of numerous predators that had mutated out of the nuclear war. 

It’s beyond him why he can’t handle himself with one man.

He’s just a man, even if he’s got the body of a Greek god and dimples that make Jimin’s stomach flip.

Jimin realises Namjoon’s talking.

‘Your lip’s bleeding,’ he says.

Jimin presses a finger to his lip. ‘I must have bit it,’ he mutters.

He steps out the rest of his droid suit and lines it up with the others. His hair, usually a shade long and now longer than he’s ever kept it, is matted to his forehead, covering his eyes.

Namjoon says, casual, as they both step into skylock, ‘want to eat together after we report in?’

‘Sure,’ Jimin says. 

He keeps forgetting how popular Namjoon is. They’re both by the food arena, about to enter, when they get stopped. 

‘Hey Joon, we wanted to catch up about the greenhouse,’ says Miyoung, one of the botanists. 

‘Sure,’ Namjoon says, glancing at Jimin. ‘What about ——‘

‘Why don’t you eat with us?’ asks Jae, gesturing.

Jimin smiles at Namjoon. ‘I’ll catch you later, ok?’

He ends up eating alone, taking his tray outside the foodhall to the benches that overlook the large lake in the centre of skylock. 

When he’s putting his tray back Namjoon catches up to him.

‘Hey, you should have stayed,’ Namjoon says.

Jimin looks up at Namjoon. ‘Sounds like they wanted your help.’

Namjoon had been an engineer before the world disintegrated, and whilst this skylock was stabilising  after the first nuclear bomb, he’d been pivotal in resource planning and a maintenance regime for their skylock’s many moving parts, none of which could be allowed to fail.

The atmosphere outside skylock is pure radiation, rearranging cell lines for fast spreading cancers and worse things Jimin’s never had the stomach to consider. 

To top it all off, Namjoon had also been an avid gardener as one of his many hobbies. His encyclopaedic knowledge of botany has come in useful more than once.

In a world that’s been destroyed, Namjoon is valuable in many ways.

Jimin? Not so much.

He’d joined the military out of high school, had kept going whilst he was trying to figure out his life until one day ten years later he’d realised that it was his life. 

For Jimin, there’s not much that’s familiar in skylock, the world going to shit has a way of flattening the hierarchy.

Jimin makes himself useful by volunteering for missions venturing out of skylock to gather information, collect items that haven’t been obliterated to allow them to be reverse engineered. 

There’s a limit to how many he’s allowed to do though, the medics are strict about it. It’s mainly Min Yoongi, and although Jimin will go toe to toe with anything with a pulse or a current, there’s something that makes him hesitate about challenging Min Yoongi.

The man isn’t physically intimidating but he looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to fight dirty. 

Jimin realises Namjoon’s still looking at him.

‘Sorry,’ he says, sheepish, ‘I got distracted.’

Namjoon’s dimple flashes as he smiles, the warmth in his eyes making Jimin’s own skin prickle with heat. 

‘I asked if you wanted to visit the underwater channel with me. I need to run some tests on the stucture, and I could use the company.’

‘Yeah,’ Jimin says.

‘Great. Are you free now?’

***

Jimin’s only visited the underwater channel once, he gets claustrophobic after one of the tasks he had to do in the military was crawl along a few hundred feet of underground tunnel and the sides caved in when he was mere yards from sunlight.

He’d survived, physically, but he has recurring nightmares of being trapped, choking on loose rocks and dirt, unable to call for help.

Jimin’s never had the interest to unpick his past traumas, he’s alive and the dreams are few and far between and there’s always been inanimate objects for him to take his grievances out on when he’s needed to.

He’s following Namjoon further into the channel, which thankfully is high enough that even the taller man doesn’t have to stoop. He’s staring at the breadth of Namjoon’s shoulders when Namjoon turns.

Jimin looks away too quickly, too obviously, and facepalms internally. 

‘Do you see?’ Namjoon asks, voice low, leaning closer.

Jimin swallows, hopes it’s not obvious that his mouth has gone dry at the handsome engineer’s proximity.

He’s been told a few times how good-looking he is, himself, but he’s never just relied on his looks. 

There’s something about Namjoon’s serious demeanour that stops Jimin from sharing the flirty remarks he usually gets by on.

‘Wh-what?’ asks Jimin.

Namjoon points, so close his chest brushes Jimin’s shoulder, and Jimin pleads to whatever god is in charge of this mess for composure because popping a boner right now, in the dark, with Kim Namjoon’s solid chest against him, would just be too much for him to handle.

Jimin would rather toss himself out of skylock and take his chances with the krakens.

‘That,’ Namjoon says.

This time, Jimin looks.

A gold luminous fish slips between the mud and aquatic plants. It gleams even in the low light, and it’s been so long since Jimin saw anything beautiful there’s an odd tightness in his chest.

‘It’s pretty,’ he says, hushed in his awe.

Namjoon looks like he’s about to say something but he just smiles.

‘I’m going to set up my equipment, it’ll probably take twenty minutes. If you get claustrophobic—‘

‘I’ll watch the fish,’ Jimin says. He crouches down next to the closest porthole, face next to the glass.

The bottom of the lake is dark for the most part, but there are lights under the tunnel that illuminate it just enough to see.

Namjoon watches Jimin press his face to the porthole for a moment, then he starts unpacking his things.

Jimin awakens without the sense of rising panic that he usually feels, the uptick of his heart rate that’s so unbearable he usually leaps out of bed. 

Instead he’s gradually aware of the low drone of machinery, the unyielding solidity of the ground beneath him, the gooseflesh on his skin from the coolness in the air.

Jimin opens his eyes.

Almost immediately Namjoon’s voice sounds in the dark, the warmth and timbre of it reassuring Jimin further.

‘We’re still in the tunnel. I’m almost done.’

Jimin rubs sleep from his eyes. His voice comes out husky like it does when he’s slept a while.

‘Was I out long?’ he asks.

‘Not long, half an hour,’ Namjoon says.

As Jimin’s eyes adjust to the gloom he sees the outline of Namjoon moving, packing his equipment.

‘Do you —‘ Jimin’s voice cracks. ‘Do you want help?’

‘I’m done,’ Namjoon says. ‘Don’t worry.’

It’s only when they’re back above ground that Namjoon asks, ‘Do you have nightmares?’

Jimin’s instantly self-conscious. ‘Why?’

‘You talk in your sleep,’ Namjoon replies.

‘What did I say?’

‘It sounded like military shorthand,’ Namjoon says, shrugging. He looks at Jimin. ‘I’d have woken you but you settled down.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jimin says. He hesitates. ‘I was only in active combat once, I’m really not that —-‘

‘Once is enough,’ Namjoon says. He puts his hand on Jimin’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to talk about it. I didn’t mean it critically, I was curious.’

For some reason, Jimin can’t stand the thought that Namjoon might think he’s traumatised or damaged in any way. He’s thinking of something to say that doesn’t sound defensive when Namjoon takes his hand away.

‘Side note, you look cute when you’re sleeping,’ Namjoon says.

Jimin’s instantly ascatter. He stares at Namjoon, but Namjoon’s already walking away.

***

‘Yes, yes, Jungkook!’

Jimin waits outside Jungkook’s pod, trying not to look like he’s some sort of voyeur as Jungkook apparently fucks the living daylights out of some chick.

Ah shit, it’s Miyoung the botanist.

She emerges disheveled from Jungkook’s pod, bows demurely in Jimin’s general direction and hurries away.

Her shift is still tucked into her panties but Jimin doesn’t want to be the one to mention it and judging by the glow on her face, she probably wouldn’t care anyway.

A moment later Jungkook emerges, shirtless, his hair a mess.

‘You couldn’t save the fucking until after?’ Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook snorts. ‘What after? You mean when we all die on our radiation ravaged remnant of a planet?’

The kid’s got a point.

Jungkook’s not done. 

‘Maybe if you got laid once in a while you’d be less tightly wound,’ Jungkook advises.

He takes the walkie-talkie Jimin’s holding out to him, tattooed arm a stark contrast to the plain beige of his jumpsuit.

Jimin rolls his eyes. Jungkook’s a cocky little shit, and why wouldn’t he be?

There weren’t many people who looked like him in the world before it all went to shit, much less in a skylock with barely six thousand people.

Add to that a devil may care attitude and an uncanny ability to look hot in skylock-issued beige, and Jungkook’s got it made.

Jimin would be tempted himself, if the kid wasn’t so aggressively hetero.

Once a week he and Jungkook patrol the perimeter of their section of skylock, looking for breaches, gathering information about new creatures and wildlife outside the dome to share with the scientists.

It’s a two day job usually, although lately they’ve been having to cover more and more ground as patrol teams are gradually dwindling.

People are dying in their skylock, sometimes at their own hands. 

Hope springs eternal but not in the presence of total destruction. People have given up on looking for a savior.

Which is why Jimin’s tone softens as he asks, ‘Want an energy bar?’

For all his faults, Jungkook’s so fiercely, vitally alive that Jimin finds it hard to be apathetic around him.

Jungkook accepts. 

After a moment he says, ‘I’ve had a couple people ask me about you, you know.’

Jimin concentrates on a mound of rubble just outside of the perimeter of the dome. Is it bigger than it was?

He says, unencouraging, ‘Yeah?’

Jungkook’s got the log out, starting to fill it in. ‘Yeah. I said you have a type.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Dimples,’ Jungkook says, so innocently Jimin has to laugh. 

‘Shut up, you asshole.’

Jungkook laughs. 

‘If we weren’t stuck in this skylock there’s no way I’d ever hang out with a little shit like you,’ Jimin says, but there’s affection in his tone.

‘Please,’ scoffs Jungkook. ‘You’re littler than me.’

Jimin laughs and takes the log out of Jungkook’s hands. 

‘Give that to me, Kailash said he could barely read your writing last time.’

Jungkook shrugs. ‘Who gives a shit what I write? We’re all dying, just slow.’

Jimin pointedly crosses off the panda that Jungkook’s drawn in lieu of an observation.

‘There are other skylocks. We just need to get to them,’ Jimin says, quietly. 

‘More people, just what this dying planet needs,’ Jungkook retorts.

Jimin says, ‘The nuclear explosions didn’t touch the poles.’

Jungkook tilts his head back, towards the radioactive orange glow from the atmosphere. 

For a second Jimin has a glimpse of Jungkook how he would have looked before the world fell apart, sun on his face, grass around him, and it’s so unbearably tragic he has to look away.

For all that there are barely two years between them, Jungkook’s so young sometimes Jimin feels like there are lifetimes between them.

Jungkook blinks, and the cynicism etched in his young skin falls away. 

‘I like penguins,’ Jungkook declares, eyes bright. 

The absurdity of it makes Jimin laugh again, what else is there?

***

Jimin’s running along the lake, trying to burn off the fatigue he feels from another sleepless night.

There’s a noise behind him, and he whirls because he’s always hated being followed.

It reminds him of being hunted.

‘Sorry,’ says Namjoon.

He’s stayed a reasonable distance away, as though he’d known Jimin’s a hair trigger away from—

From what?

Jimin doesn’t know. It’s been a while since his last mission, and he can feel tension building inside him again. 

Fuck Min Yoongi, Jimin has to get on another mission outside skylock, and soon. 

The turmoil inside him needs an out, and what better way than to take it out on a creature that would otherwise kill him?

Kill or be killed are better options than dying inside, although Jimin’s tempted by Jungkook’s approach of fucking everything that moves.

Jimin realises Namjoon’s still looking to him for a response.

‘It’s ok,’ Jimin says. He swipes a hand over his face. ‘How are you?’

‘Been better,’ Namjoon says, quietly.

He gestures, and they start running together. 

Jimin finds he has to put effort in to match Namjoon’s longer strides, and although the taller man looks elegant when he’s standing still, when he’s loping along at pace he has a discoordination to his movements that’s sort of….

Goofy.

Jimin smothers his smile as Namjoon nearly trips over a tree root. 

‘You ok?’ he asks, touching Namjoon’s arm.

Namjoon gives him an embarrassed smile. ‘I can be a little clumsy.’

Jimin smiles back. ‘Thank god, I was worried you were perfect.’

Namjoon gives an incredulous snort. ‘Perfect?’

Jimin thinks of Jungkook and is emboldened to double down.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You’re pretty impressive.’

Namjoon’s smile is shy, dimples stamped into his cheeks. ‘I think you’re kind of cool too, you know.’

Now it’s Jimin’s turn to be embarrassed, but Namjoon’s brown eyes are warm and he seems perfectly sincere, so he responds in kind.

‘Thank you.’

They’ve gone almost full circle now. 

Namjoon looks like he’s about to speak when the siren blares.

It’s an assembly.

***

Jimin shifts restlessly from his vantage point near the raised dais. Namjoon, next to him, says uneasily, ‘I think I know what this is about.’

Jimin thinks back to the underwater channel.

Their skylock is run like a civilisation of sorts, there’s a collective of committees who are responsible for running various essential areas, the leaders of which form the Council.

Water and food supplies.

Air purification.

Defense.

Health.

Joseph Poon, leader of the Council, a Chinese military strategist who proved his brilliance time and again in the early days of skylock, starts the assembly.

He lays out the problem with his usual crisp brevity.

‘Our skylock was never meant to sustain this large a population for this long. Although the intelligence and tech gained from missions has helped, we of the Council are of the belief that the time has come for difficult decisions to be made.’

Beside Jimin, Namjoon murmurs, ‘The tunnels.’

Jimin has an uneasy vision of the tunnel that collapsed on him. He wills the unwanted image out of his head.

‘We’re going to need to seek alternative means of shelter and survival. The world atmosphere remains hostile to human life, but—-‘ 

Joseph looks grave. 

‘But, from what we know, the nuclear bombs weren’t detonated at the Poles. We of the Council feel that the only chance of survival of the many is to create a path to the Arctic circle.’

There’s murmurings, raised voices. Jimin looks to Namjoon for verification, and immediately knows that this information isn’t new to him.

Namjoon puts his hand on Jimin’s arm. Jimin hadn’t realised it, but he’s been clenching his fists so tightly he’s drawn blood. Crescents of crimson bloom on his palms when he releases.

‘We can die hiding or we can die trying to forge a future for humankind.’

Jimin knows which option he’d pick.

‘We’re going to select a team to venture out to get the tech we need to join our underwater channel to the tunnels of the Nordic skylock.’

Joseph looks grim. ‘Hopefully the Nordic skylock has realised the same as us and have already started extending their underground bases Northward.’

There’s a flurry of discussion, shouted questions, but Jimin’s stopped listening.

All he sees is a course of action and orders he can get behind. There’s a reason he thrived in the military, after all. 

***

Jimin’s suited up in droid armour, checking for breaches in the protective cladding of his suit. 

Beside him, Namjoon’s doing the same.

It’s two days since the assembly. Jimin had walked straight up to the Council after and volunteered himself for the first mission.

And all missions thereafter but he hadn’t declared that openly because Min Yoongi had also been present. 

Min Yoongi had pointedly switched out Jimin’s radiation counter for a second one, trading a full line of bars for a clean slate. Two counters were all one was allowed before enforced sabbatical.

Jimin doesn’t intend to go on sabbatical. He’d rather….

Rather what?

Jimin’s worried that death won’t provide the relief he seeks. Worse, he’s worried that for all his bravado  he doesn’t really want to die.

Namjoon motions for Jimin to turn so he can check his armour. He hands Jimin his helmet with its visor, his respirator. 

Jimin snaps his helmet into place, depresses the tiny button beside his jaw.

Namjoon’s voice fills his in-ears. 

‘Remember, we get into the digger and we head straight back. No fighting, even if we run into kraken.’

They’re heading to a farm three miles west of skylock, to see if they can acquire equipment that might aid in constructing the tunnels.

Jimin watches as Namjoon checks his video camera and deioniser, and when the engineer gives him a thumbs up, he hoists the backpack of their supplies onto his shoulders and checks the clip on his yag laser.

Namjoon punches in the eight-figure code to exit skylock and they’re off.

As always, it’s eerie venturing out beyond the confines of skylock. 

The air is still, stagnant, and there’s a thin heat in the atmosphere that feels like standing outside an oven set to high.

There’s distant screeching, occasional growling, none of the birdsong Jimin’s used to.

The worst was when he and Namjoon ventured towards the sea on a previous mission. The scores of dead fish and the odd dolphin washed up on the red shores, silent, unblinking, haunt him to this day.

Jimin’s always loved the beach and now he can’t imagine the ocean how it was before without feeling uneasy.

He and Namjoon keep close together, each on high alert. 

Namjoon’s voice crackles through. ‘I never get used to it.’

‘It’s worse every time,’ Jimin agrees.

‘I used to like hiking,’ Namjoon says. There’s sadness in his voice that Jimin’s not used to hearing. 

‘What do you think of the Council’s plan?’ Jimin asks.

They’ve settled into a steady rhythm now, easing past the tension that sees them off whenever they start a mission.

Namjoon says, ‘It’s a long shot.’

Jimin agrees. ‘I guess it’s better than staying put and waiting to die.’

Namjoon turns to him. ‘You’re a realist.’

Jimim shrugs. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I have hope,’ Namjoon says, so simply Jimin can hear the honesty in his words.

Jimin can’t see Namjoon’s face at all through the visor and respirator but he gets the sense that he’s smiling. 

‘It’s easier to talk to you like this,’ Namjoon says. ‘When I’m not distracted by your pretty face.’

Jimin’s trying to think of a good comeback when Namjoon says, ‘Sorry, that was inappropriate.’

‘Are you flirting with me?’ Jimin asks, finding his voice.

‘Trying to,’ Namjoon replies. 

‘You couldn’t have done it in skylock? When we’re not masked up and in danger of being attacked by mutant creatures?’

Namjoon laughs. ‘Are you complaining?’

‘Yes,’ Jimin says, but he’s smiling under his visor. 

Namjoon says, ‘I did ask you to go to the underwater channel with me.’

‘Was that….. your idea of a date,’ Jimin wonders.

Namjoon laughs. ‘There are limited options,’ he points out.

‘At least you tried a date and didn’t just skip to the fucking like Jungkook,’ Jimin says.

Namjoon says, droll, ‘I’m a gentleman.’ 

Jimin laughs. ‘We can try again when we get back,’ he suggests.

‘I’d like that,’ Namjoon replies. 

‘Me too.’

Jimin realises he means it.

***

Jimin’s got a prickly feeling in the back of his neck but he can’t work out why.

He and Namjoon arrived at the farm uneventfully and were able to get the information they needed from an excavator that had been stored in a barn, untouched by the extreme atmospheric changes.

There had been a kraken lurking around the peripheries which hadn’t detected them, and they’d been able to leave without being attacked.

Now they’re less than half a mile away from skylock, making good time, and he’s got the oddest sensation that they’re being watched.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Jimin’s yag laser is drawn, finger on the trigger guard, and beside him, Namjoon’s been uncharacteristically subdued.

Then Namjoon says, ‘You feel it too, don’t you. Something’s watching us.’

‘It’s close,’ Jimin says, clipped.

The hair’s rising on the back of his neck now, the tension ratcheted up so high he could scream.

He whirls, and Namjoon moves to protect his back.

There’s nothing, but his sense of unease deepens.

‘Can you run the rest of the way,’ Jimin asks, quietly. 

‘Yeah. Say when,’ Namjoon says, tersely.

‘Now.’

Jimin starts running. 

They’re within sight of the annexe when Namjoon says, wonderingly, ‘Holy fuck.’

There’s someone else in droid armour between them and the annexe, but it’s wrong.

It’s all wrong, because only two people venture out of skylock at any one time.

It’s all wrong, because the droid armour doesn’t belong to their skylock.

Jimin’s already raising his yag laser when the other person raises their own weapon.

Jimin recognises it immediately. There hadn’t been many people on Earth before the nuclear war who’d faced down an AK-57g and survived to tell the tale.

Jimin could list out the specs but the crux of the matter is that no one faced down an AK-57g and survived because it didn’t just annihilate —- it vapourised. 

Jimin had been one of the lucky ones, and he doubts he’d be so lucky as to survive it twice.

He fires off a shot, aiming at the centre of the breastplate, and immediately puts himself between Namjoon and the enemy.

‘Get into the annexe,’ he shouts.

Namjoon’s shouting something back, but Jimin’s focus is narrowed down to the man who’s trying to kill them both.

He fires off another shot, this time aiming for another kill shot. 

There’s the hiss and screech of rubber and metal. 

In his periphery he can see Namjoon at the entrance to the annexe, and just beyond it, Jungkook, armed to the teeth and hastily donning his droid armour, ready to step in.

The kid’s brave as fuck but he’s too late.

Jimin’s got no cover, just a burning desire to get his ass out of the trajectory of the AK-57g before it gets handed to him.

He’s three feet from the entrance to the annexe when he hears the low drumming of the AK-57g.

Jimin wonders, idly, how much force droid armour can withstand.

He wonders if he’ll ever find out.

At least Namjoon got back into skylock.

Is this the end? 

Jimin waits for his life to flash in front of his eyes.

There’s a wave of heat, then a force so great that mercifully, it knocks him out.

***

The roof of the infirmary is open to the sky through two sheets of titanium enforced clear plexi-shield.

Thank god for small favours. If Jimin had to look at an actual ceiling he’d have wriggled out of the steel cage restraining him long ago.

Jimin’s quite sure he can move all of his body, he’s been trying out different muscle groups over the last two weeks whilst he’s been healing.

The blast from the AK-57g would have liquefied him to a pulp if Jungkook hadn’t dropped the rest of his droid armour and yanked Jimin out of the worst of it.

As a result the kid’s in the next bay with minor burns and a sprained wrist, and Jimin?

Jimin’s alive to tell the tale.

His shoulder will probably never be the same and Min Yoongi’s worried about a spinal injury so Jimin’s immobilised for the time being, but he’s alive.

Jimin closes his eyes as the door to the bay slides open.

He hears a distinctive shuffle, then Min Yoongi’s dry voice.

‘I know you’re awake.’

Jimin opens his eyes.

‘How long till I can move, Dr Min?’

‘Trust me, as soon as it’s safe I’m kicking you out of my infirmary,’ comes the reply. 

Min Yoongi sounds like he’s shaking his head. ‘Between you not listening to anything I say and the menace in the bay next to you, all my nurses have whiplash.’

Jimin stifles a grin. 

He’s heard most of Jungkook’s pickup lines in the two weeks he’s been next to him.

The kid’s even sleazier than Jimin had thought, with a side of being so fucking sweet and endearing he’s surprised anyone can resist. 

He also snores like a bear, it’s just as well Jimin doesn’t sleep much.

Yoongi’s face comes into view above him.

‘Soft tissue and ligament injuries take weeks to heal but I think if you carry on the way you have been, you should be good to start moving properly in the next week or so.’

Yoongi says, ‘No missions until you’re fully recovered.’

Jimin says, ‘With me and JK out, they’re going to need new patrol.’

Yoongi says, straightfaced, ‘Funnily enough, there are more than enough volunteers in this skylock to keep this place safe. Everyone kind of has a vested interest.’

Jimin can’t argue with him.

Yoongi dips out of view. ‘While you’re here, there’s someone I’d like you to speak to. He’s an ex-army doc who got extra qualifications in psychology and behavioural therapy.’

Jimin scowls. ‘I don’t —-‘

‘Don’t you?’ Yoongi interrupts. Jimin still can’t see him, but there’s kindness in his voice that makes Jimin shut his mouth.

Yoongi comes back into view. ‘I can see your PTSD a mile away, Jimin-ah.’

‘While you’re waiting to die have you ever thought that maybe life could be a bit more bearable?’

Jimin stares at him, mouth shut, afraid of what might come out if he opens it.

‘Or you could be like our friend there and fuck everything that moves,’ Yoongi says, loud enough for Jungkook to hear.

Jimin can hear the pout in Jungkook’s voice.

‘I can’t help that everyone wants me, hyung.’

‘It’s Dr Min to you,’ Yoongi retorts. ‘And you won’t be this handsome forever, Jungkook, better think of a backup plan.’

‘How about dying from our imploding planet,’ Jungkook mutters sulkily.

Yoongi’s silent a moment. Then he sighs. ‘What am I going to do with you both?’

‘I did well,’ Jungkook declares. ‘I saved Jimin.’

‘Thanks Jungkook,’ Jimin says.

Yoongi’s exasperated. ‘Who’s going to save me from the both of you?’

***

It’s sometime in the early morning, Jimin thinks, he can tell from the way Jungkook’s snoring has changed to quiet breathing that he’s in deep sleep.

Jimin hears the swish of the infirmary door, assumes it’s one of the nurses but whoever it is has a heavier tread than either of the two nurses on tonight.

He wishes he could turn his head.

‘Jimin?’

It’s Namjoon.

Namjoon’s been coming by at odd times since Jimin got injured. He hasn’t asked for the details but from piecing together what he’s heard he knows that work on the tunnels has started in earnest.

The stranger in droid armour who attacked them was from an underground military bunker who was trying to access their skylock. They weren’t able to find out more — Jimin’s last shot had been fatal and destroyed any chance of finding out more. 

The AK-57g had blown a fissure into the skylock panel where Jimin had been before Jungkook yanked him out of harm’s way.

‘Still here,’ Jimin says. 

He wishes he could see Namjoon’s face, there’s barely any light. He knows the moon’s still up there in the sky but truly, he hasn’t seen its familiar shape since the world fell apart. There’s only the ghostliest of glows that separates the total darkness of night from the inflamed red of day.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Namjoon asks. 

‘I’m fine,’ Jimin answers. 

He’s worried he sounds curt, but a moment later Namjoon’s face hovers above him.

‘They’re close to reaching the furthest Nordic tunnel,’ Namjoon says.

Jimin thinks about that.

He realises Namjoon’s still looking at him.

‘What time is it?’

Namjoon hesitates. ‘It’s 4am.’

‘Can’t sleep?’ Jimin asks.

‘I know you have trouble sleeping sometimes,’ Namjoon says. He moves out of Jimin’s field of vision, the shape of him wavering around Jimin’s peripherals. 

He shrugs. ‘I figured I’d keep you company.’

It’s true. The early mornings are the darkest part of the night for Jimin. 

‘Do you want me to read to you?’ Namjoon asks.

Jimin tries to nod but doesn’t quite manage it. Somehow Namjoon gets the gist.

‘I’m reading this book I think you’ll really like,’ Namjoon says.

He pulls a chair close to Jimin’s bed.

‘Tell me what it’s about,’ Jimin says. 

‘It’s set in the future,’ Namjoon starts. He breaks off abruptly. ‘Well, it was written in the past and it’s how the author imagined the future to be.’

Jimin can think of a thousand responses to that, each more bitter than the last, but he likes Namjoon’s voice and he’s stuck in this bed and part of him wants Namjoon and his story to take him someplace else.

He shuts his eyes and listens.

***

Jimin’s upright for the first time in weeks. He ignores the warning sound from Min Yoongi, swings his legs out of bed and promptly collapses on the floor in a heap.

Yoongi can’t resist an ‘i told you so’ but he also helps Jimin up so there’s that.

Jimin stretches his calves experimentally, sighing at the newfound tightness. This is worse than the time he was shot on duty near the borders but at least he’s still here to tell the tale.

Yoongi says, dryly, ‘Thank god, come take him off my hands.’

Jimin looks up to see Namjoon approaching.

‘I can make it back to my living space,’ he says, lying through his teeth because he doesn’t want Yoongi to know he was right about suggesting a transport pod.

‘Yeah,’ says Namjoon, agreeably. ‘But if you take a transport pod it means I can’t play the big buff hero.’

He flexes jokingly but Jimin’s mouth goes a little dry as he gazes at Namjoon’s broad shoulders. 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin can feel flirtation lacing his voice as he says, ‘Yeah ok, you can carry me back home.’

Namjoon’s dimples flash. ‘Why don’t we start with leaning on me.’

He offers his arm, and Jimin slips his hand into the crook of it.

Jimin’s no slouch in the muscles department, he’s got a core honed through years of training, but his physique is lithe, slim.

Namjoon’s not just tall, he’s also got the broad shoulders and chest Jimin’s always had a weakness for.

His bicep tenses under Jimin’s hand.

‘Can you walk?’ Namjoon asks, low, so that Yoongi can’t hear.

Jimin nods. He’s going to walk at least until he’s out of Yoongi’s line of sight, he’s not going to let the smug asshole medic win this one.

Behind them, Yoongi sighs, exaggerated. 

‘It’s not too late, I can call a transport pod now, Jimin-ah.’

Jimin can feel Namjoon’s arm tighten again. 

‘We’ll be fine, Yoongi,’ Namjoon says, so firmly Jimim could kiss him.

He smiles up gratefully at Namjoon and for just a second Namjoon blinks.

‘Shit, if I’d known playing the big strong hunk would have made you smile like that I’d have done it from the start,’ Namjoon teases, gently.

Jimin’s laughter is genuine, and despite the ache from his long unused calves, he hasn’t felt this good in a while.

***

Jimin’s running again. He’s been seeing the ex-army psychiatrist Yoongi recommended, having therapy sessions once a week.

He’s not sure if they’re helping him, except he’s dreading waking up less. It’d taken him a while to realise he was sleeping more and waking up feeling less panicky. 

He’s been seeing Namjoon almost every day, helping with excavation work on the tunnels, and he thinks that’s going well too.

Both the tunnels and this thing with Namjoon.

Whatever it is.

Namjoon’s waving at him now, all near six feet of him, all bulky arms and dimples and Jimin’s damn near blinded by the sight of him.

The man is beautiful, and Jimin’s not been able to flirt since he stared down an AK-57g. The first time.

Jimin waves back, then pretends he has to check on some of the excavation equipment so he has an excuse to turn his back and compose himself.

Moments later he hears footsteps, Namjoon’s familiar loping gait.

‘Checking equipment, huh?’ Namjoon’s voice is dry, but it sounds like he’s smiling.

‘Yeah,’ Jimin says.

He risks a glance at Namjoon.

‘Looks like the heating coil’s down,’ Namjoon observes.

‘They don’t work with a heating coil —‘ Jimin starts, before realising Namjoon’s just fucking with him.

He is an engineer after all.

Jimin looks up at Namjoon, pretending to be annoyed. ‘I know I’m just a soldier but I know how to work machinery.’

Namjoon eyes Jimin’s crossed arms, and a dimple appears in his cheek. 

‘You’re cute when you’re mad.’

‘I kill enemies,’ Jimin says, unable to keep the pout out of his voice. He can hear himself sounding like Jungkook but he can’t help it.

‘I know,’ Namjoon says. ‘You’ve saved my ass a few times.’

‘It’s a good ass,’ Jimin concedes.

There’s a spark in Namjoon’s gaze, a fizzle that makes Jimin feel warm all over. 

He’s about to say something, but Jimin never hears it because there’s shouting near the entrance of the tunnels, the low, menacing rumble of a landslide.

To Jimin’s horror, the mouth of the tunnel starts to crumble, partially obscuring the entrance.

‘There are people in there,’ Namjoon breathes.

It’s the last thing Jimin hears before he’s running to help.

He knows what it’s like to be buried alive.

***

Jimin’s not there, not all of him anyway.

He watches, detached, as he helps with the rescue effort.

He thinks, dispassionately, that no matter how much planning takes place, rescue efforts don’t go to plan because humans are wildcards in an emergency.

Fight. Flight. Freeze.

The people around him are doing variations of all three.

Jungkook, covered in sweat and dirt, driving an excavator, single-minded in his focus.

Yoongi, staying where he is like he’s rooted, directing the people around him, triaging and treating.

Namjoon on comms coordinating teams of rescuers.

Himself, choking on rubble, half buried because if he wasn’t he’d be running. Jimin can’t run so he leaves part of him here and no one’s checking if all of him’s there and that’s ok.

Jimin’s shoring up the sides, packing rubble with his bare hands. His shoulder stopped screaming a while ago, now it’s seized up. He has to turn his whole body to move rocks but he keeps going anyway.

Gradually he becomes aware of hands on his, his name being called. Jimin tries to shut it out but eventually he can’t.

Namjoon’s voice, coming like it’s from far away. Hands on his arms, on his busted shoulder, making him step away.

Jimin comes back into the shell of himself, a mess of tears and blood and pain, and immediately wants to leave but there are arms around him, holding him like a child. Namjoon’s voice keeps him grounded, low and urgent. Jimin can’t understand the words but he listens anyway, until he’s anchored and he can no longer get away.

***

There’s the light of the moon in the pod, dead quiet all around.

Apart from breathing, separate from his own.

A shape next to his.

Jimin looks.

He’d know the slope of that deltoid anywhere, the curve of that torso.

There’s an arm around his own waist that Jimin explores, tentative, with his fingers. Skin smooth as marble, muscle roped underneath.

Namjoon, stretched out in the moonlight like a man who’s never worried that death is coming for him in the form of an enemy soldier, an AK-57g, a landslide.

Jimin envies him.

He touches along Namjoon’s shoulder, down to his chest, his waist.

Taking his fill.

A tension’s building into muscles that were lax with sleep. Jimin can’t see Namjoon’s face but he’s stirring under his touch.

Namjoon says, in a tone that makes Jimin shiver, ‘Don’t stop.’

Jimin tilts his face towards Namjoon’s, and he obliges with a kiss.

Feather light, the faintest pressure on his mouth.

For a big man, Namjoon’s so gentle.

It’s Jimin who seeks another, wanting another taste. He sighs when Namjoon obliges again.

Namjoon huffs out a breath. ‘I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,’ he tells Jimin.

Jimin kisses him again so he doesn’t have to speak. His skin warms under Namjoon’s fingers wherever he touches.

Under the thin blanket his body responds, curving into the heat of Namjoon’s body until they’re close, skin to skin.

Namjoon doesn’t take, so much as let Jimin give, and Jimin revels in it. He relishes the way Namjoon’s breathing stutters as he places his palm on his chest, the way Namjoon groans thickly into the skin of his neck as he rocks his hips against his.

There’s fabric between them still, but Jimin can feel how beautifully hard Namjoon is, pressed between them.

Namjoon utters a curse, emphatic, and the gravel in his voice makes Jimin’s eyes close. He can feel Namjoon touching him, exploring the ridges of his abs, sliding round to his back, pulling his hips closer, curving round his ass, hands so big his fingertips dip between his cheeks.

Then, whispered against his ear, ‘Can I?’

Jimin has no idea what he’s agreeing to, only that he wants whatever Namjoon wants.

‘Yeah.’

There’s the click of a lid, and Namjoon’s hand delves under the waistband of Jimin’s bottoms. 

His grip is firm, like Jimin likes, slippery with lube that’s warm. Jimin wonders how he managed that, idly, but then his thoughts fade as Namjoon strokes him.

He’s hard, so hard. 

It’s been so long since someone else has touched him like this.

‘Stay with me,’ Namjoon says, voice thick now. ‘Fuck, stay.’

Jimin reaches up to curl his hand around Namjoon’s neck, tug him closer. 

‘Fuck me,’ he breathes in Namjoon’s ear, and Namjoon shudders, big man that he is, his skin prickling under Jimin’s touch.

Then he’s turning Jimin over, onto his front. The cool sheet against Jimin’s cock makes him moan a little in protest.

He can feel Namjoon behind him, pressing kisses down his spine, down to his cleft, parting him. Namjoon’s tongue flicks against his rim, and Jimin muffles his cry against the pillow.

There’s more lube, sliding down his hot skin, then Namjoon’s pressing two fingers against him, slow.

Jimin groans at the feel of him, and Namjoon stops. 

‘Is this ok?’ he asks, calm like his cock isn’t throbbing against Jimin’s ass, hard and smearing precum.

‘Yeah, fuck, don’t stop,’ Jimin pleads. ‘Don’t stop.’

Jimin moans as Namjoon’s fingers rub inside him.

‘Sound so pretty,’ Namjoon grunts. He presses, gentle, and Jimin’s cock jerks, spilling more precum onto the sheets.

‘You like that?’

Namjoon lifts Jimin’s hips, runs the head of his cock between Jimin’s cleft, tantalisingly close to his rim.

More lube dribbles down on him, then Namjoon’s lining himself up, pushing in.

‘So fucking tight,’ Namjoon utters. 

He curls a hand around Namjoon’s forearm, braced against the bed.

‘You feel so good, baby,’ Namjoon croons, reassuring him even as Jimin can feel the tension in Namjoon’s body as he holds himself back.

‘Fuck,’ Jimin moans. ‘Don’t stop.’

Namjoon curses, slips in another inch, and the stretch of him is so good Jimin can barely breathe.

Namjoon moves a little, a short thrust that makes Jimin’s hand tighten on Namjoon’s forearm.

‘Doing so well,’ Namjoon praises. 

He thrusts again, slipping deeper, sending another jolt of pleasure up Jimin’s spine. 

He can feel his release beckoning with every thrust, the heat of Namjoon’s cock inside him, the friction from the sheets against his own cock, and Jimin’s not sure how much longer he’ll have any form of control.

Namjoon presses a kiss to the back of his neck, cock slipping deeper as he reaches around to take Jimin’s cock in his hand.

Jimin wants to warn him but he can barely breathe to speak.

Namjoon groans, deep, as Jimin pulses in his hand, spilling white streaks of cum between his fingers, the pleasure making him loose, floaty.

Jimin thinks he cries out as Namjoon pulls out, fisting himself.

‘Fuck,’ Namjoon gasps, ‘fuck’, as he comes and Jimin can feel his hot release dripping over his ass, the backs of his thighs.

Namjoon’s turning him over then, wanting to see his face, and Jimin pulls him close to tell him it’s all right.

Everything’s all right.

***

Jimin’s running again, a loop around the lake, only this time it feels different.

Jimin stops so that Namjoon can catch up. The atmosphere in skylock has changed again, whatever Earth’s trying to do to heal itself is changing the climate outside skylock.

It’s cooling down, and Jimin doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad sign.

Namjoon approaches, sticky with sweat, his skin golden and gleaming in the light of the rising sun.

Jimin tilts his head and Namjoon leans down for a kiss.

He knits his fingers in Namjoon’s.

Later today, the first team of explorers, including Namjoon, Jungkook, Yoongi and Jimin himself, are setting off into the tunnels where they’ll breach the last few hundred yards to the tunnels of the Nordic skylock. Then, after that, the Arctic.

The possibilities are limited, and terrifying.

Namjoon squeezes Jimin’s hand, pulling him back into the present. His profile is beautiful, and Jimin reminds himself to really look just in case this is the last time he sees Namjoon like this.

For the first time in a long time, Jimin wants to remember. 

©hamsterclaw 2024

[ritunn]

Trans in Golarion: A Sample of Pathfinder's Trans Representation

Golarion, like any world, is home to people of many walks of life, but one thing it does very well is trans representation. There isn't a Lost Omens lore book without at least one trans character, in fact there's typically multiple! So, with pride month here, I wanted to highlight some of my favorites that don't get much press. Shardra, the shaman iconic, and Mios, the thaumaturge iconic (both pictures above) are one trans woman and enby you're probably familiar with already, but let's get you acquainted with some more! If you aren't of course acquainted with them, I recommend reading the Meet the Iconic stories for them.

Meet Shardra Geltl!

Meet Mios!

Iltara Clavela

Lost Omens Grand Bazaar, Pg. 48

The owner of Material Changes in Absalom, a fashion boutique, day spa, and a place where not only can your clothing be changed, bur your entire body, Iltara was born in Irrisen to the far north. Born to two parents who made a bargain with a winter fey to have a son that could wield fey magic of frost and winter so that he could lead their army in a wretched second Winter War, this wouldn't be the case. For the fey realized that he had not a male spirit, but a female one instead and that he would never lead anyone in war. The child begged her parents to let her abdicate her name and find the magic to align body with spirit, but they refused. So, when enlisted, she fled and found the fey to ask for the body she desired, but the fey could do no thing. Coming up with a second plan, the child asked if it could help her escape and to that it agreed, only for her name. A simple bargain, one that was happily made as the child renamed herself Iltara.

From then on, she would use her skills to take on odd jobs, but never used her magic for fear of revealing herself as a winter witch. Eventually, she helped fixed the clothes of some entertainers who invited her on as their seamstress and when she had grown close enough to them, she revealed her magic and she was asked to perform herself as a magician. Iltara agreed, only if they helped her find the magic she sought. The group toiled and the entertainers were confused by her obsession until she emerged with an enhanced visage. Illtara had finally achieved what she always dreamed of and now helps make the process for others like her much easier.

Ahran Benimaya

Lost Omens Grand Bazaar Pg. 36

Another merchant within the Grand Bazaar, Ahran is the tattooist at Kraken's Ink Tattoos, working there with his boyfriend, the azarketi, Brine. Growing up in the devil worshipping capital of Cheliax, Ahran's family were Shelynites, devotees of the goddess of art, Shelyn (who is quite queer herself may I add). However, with the state religion focused firmly on Asmodeus who isn't exactly a fan of the more chaotic free loving goddess, Ahran's family had to be careful. However, Ahran himself grew to be a talented artist to the joy of his parents, a skill he'd make use of upon moving to Absalom once one of their neighbors warned them they'd been accused of heresy and had to flee.

There, Ahran saw a shop selling a serum of sex shift for sixty gold pieces and thought it'd be the best way to align his body to his true identity. However, making that much money would be no simple task drawing portraits of others at Absalom's docks for copper pieces. So, he went to Kraken's Ink Tattoos and asked to become an apprentice to tattooist and owner at the time, Maelara, a tiefling dwarf of exceptional skill. Maelara found her new apprentice shared that skill, his artistic talents coming in handy, and soon enough he had enough gold to purchase the serum and become who he was always wished to be. A decade later Maelara retired and Ahran has run the shop ever since. If you ever need a magic tattoo (or just some normal ink), he's your man and even features in book one of the Stolen Fate adventure path.

Ishii Bunji

Lost Omens Firebrands Pg. 42

A member of the revolutionary group called the Firebrands, Ishii "The Tyrant Breaker" Bunji is infamous for his jubilant demeanor and towering physique as a former sumo champion. One of the many people who aided in tearing down the tyranny of the Jade Regent in his homeland of Minkai, Ishii helped rebuild afterwards but a question stirred in his heart. "What good is strength if not used to protect the vulnerable?" This led him to joining the Firebrands and eventually becoming one of their most formidable warriors. Able to win fights against champions, spellcasters, war machines, and even battalions himself, he joins small rebellions rather than full revolutions, an equalizing force that nothing can stop. When the rebellion is over, he stays behind to rebuild, cooking his signature hot pot for others in his massive shield that also happens to be a family heirloom, a singing steel cooking pot. A symbol of not only protection, but one of hearty meals and a better tomorrow. These actions have lead him to receiving many love letters and quite a few lovers as well, but he's not quite interested in marriage and thus remains the Firebrands' most eligible bachelor.

Passenger

Lost Omens Firebrands Pg. 45

Passenger was among the many androids who crashed in Numeria, unlike many androids, all of Passenger's companions had died. Every other incubator held incomplete or damaged bodies and the only sign of identity they had was a damaged plaque calling them "Passenger #-". Taking this as their name, they ventured into Numeria and were taken in by a group of scavengers who they soon left when they heard the Black Sovereign Kevoth-Kul, ruler of Numeria, was accepting androids into his court in the capital of Starfall. There they met more of their kind and learned of their android nature, but when a group of Firebrands made their way to the court looking to enter the dangerous Silver Mount for adventure, Passenger was intrigued and tagged along.

This adventure left Passenger wanting more and they declared themselves a first-mark Firebrand and staged even more expeditions into the Silver Mount with their tinkering experience and any who wished to join helping them. One of these people was Tyen-Ra, a human tigerkin, and over the next few months they discovered an annihilator robot which they fixed up and named Scrapheap. Using their newly found scorpion mech, they left Numeria and accumulated more members and a reputation as the Fire's Finest, traveling across Avistan searching for adventure, fine food, and fun wherever they went. Scaring a few along the way with their terrifying mech, only to ease their fears when the Fire's Finest popped out.

Beirivelle Starshine

Lost Omens Knights of Lastwall Pg. 42

The Knights of Lastwall are home to numerous prominent trans women, most notably Anevia, a major NPC in Wrath of the Righteous, and the leader of the organization, Kalabrynne Iomedar. Beirivelle herself is newly knighted but already rising through the ranks with her skills as a bard devoted to Shelyn. Born in Absalom to a noble family, Beirivelle was arranged to marry another high-ranking member of Absalom's noble houses and live an uneventful life. When the lich known as the Whispering Tyrant attacked the city, however, she realized she wanted more from life. Her spouse's tastes thankfully weren't very feminine and she was able to exit it gracefully, but she only was able to flee home after an intense argument with her father.

Ever since becoming a Knight of Lastwall, however, the dainty romantic has been making alliances for the organization, first with the Scarlet Rose after a candlelight dinner with its leader, Filarina Grantsliem. In addition to these duties, she gathers stories as any bard does, adventuring with anyone from the brutal orc skullhunters to the Chelaxian Hellknight Order of the Torrent who hunt down kidnappers, aiding all with her divine magic and bardic knowledge. As well, she finds other "late blooming" girls and those who have yet to bloom at all and helps them find their own path away from harsh families or dire circumstances. For now in her official duties, she uses her diplomatic skills to recruit adventurers and locals, doing her best to protect them. All the while trying to court the anti-Geb factions of Nex who despise the necropolis for the decades long war the country had with it, hoping to get their help with dealing with the undead. That is proving difficult to do as it feels impossible to navigate its byzantine court politics. Thus, she continues her search for allies to aid in that endeavor.

Conclusion

You have any trans characters you love in Pathfinder not mentioned here? I know Il'setsya Wyrmtouched is one I adore and even a character belonging to freelancer, Amber Stewart, who has done work for many TTRPG companies, even getting her own villainous arcanoloth featured in D&D's Planescape book. Perhaps you'd like to share your own trans TTRPG characters whether in Pathfinder, D&D, or another game! If so, I'd love to see them.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Neither Iron Or Glass, But Steel

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Greyjoy!Reader

Warnings: sibling incest, taboo love, forbidden attraction, separations, past abuse mentioned (aka what ramsay did to theon), revenge, mentioned mutilation

Words: 2875

Summary: You weren't made of iron, like those of your family. Nor glass like many noble women seemed to consist of. No. Now you were something stronger. Steel like the blade in your hand.

“Quiet little one.” Theon breathes against the shell of your ear as his hand grabs onto the round of your ass to slam himself deeper into you.

Well, you would have been more quiet if he wasn’t fucking the living daylights out of you. The cold of Winterfell made your nipples hard and easier for Theon to pinch and tease.

Due to the failure of the Greyjoy Rebellion a couple of years ago, the two of you had been taken as captives by the Starks. They had put it in nicer words but you and Theon knew better. As long as you had your brother with you though you knew everything would be okay. He was there to protect you from the foreignness of the north. Yet you had grown to love Winterfell more than the gloominess of Pyke. You would take the snow over the sea. Theon however dreamed of the Iron Isles. Dreamed of being swathed in the kraken of house Greyjoy. He always said you would be the most beautiful woman on Pyke if you were to return. From the hard faces you remembered from your childhood you didn’t doubt it.

In the early days of having first arrived in Winterfell, you were understandably scared. Being a Greyjoy you couldn’t show how you really felt so you covered up your fear with silence and cold indifference. Theon was the one to build up your comfort and confidence. Each night he’d steal to your room and keep you company while whispering sweet words to you. Any kind of warm affection was normally frowned upon in your family, but when it concerned you, Theon didn’t care. Never cared. Balon Greyjoy wasn’t there to frown at you, calling your affections weakness.

Maybe it was there where it all began. Lips strayed away from areas that were considered innocent. Hands roamed in a hungry manner that didn’t belong in a brother-sister relationship.

Who had given in to desire first?

When had innocence turned to desire?

Neither of you could be able to answer that. Neither of you cared.

Yet you knew others would care. They would condemn you

“Th-Theon” you begged “s. . . slower!” You were going to break. You were going to scream loud enough for all of the north to hear if your brother didn’t slow down. What made it worse was Theon rubbing your clit.

You were coming undone.

Bright dots splashed across your vision as your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock. Theon groans as he fucks you until he too reaches his climax in shudders. You feel his cum overflow and trickle out of you, dribbling down your leg.

Panting and red faced, your knees buckle making you nearly fall face forward into your pillows. Theon catches you, pulling you on top of him as he falls backwards onto the mattress. He holds you tightly to him. Head still swimming you close your eyes and attempt to catch your breath before reminding Theon that he should be leaving. You could practically hear his smirk. ���What, now that you’re fucked me you want me to leave? How cruel of you, sweet sister.”

Smiling back you reply “Yes, I’ve gotten my fill. Your cock is the only use I have for you, brother mine.”

His touch soft now, Theon tilts your head up so that he can brush a delicate kiss to your lips. All joking aside, Theon whispers. “I love you (y/n).”

“I love you too Theon.”

In the quiet of the night, your warm bodies fending off the cold, the two of you share another kiss. It lacked the passion of moments before. Instead no replaced with unwavering love and devotion.

You wished he could stay in your bed like this. “Theon, you should really get going.”

Theon’s arms tightened around you, unwilling to let you go. “Just a few more minutes.”

The protest was on your tongue, but you were exhausted from Theon fucking all sense out of you. You nuzzled against his chest, the warmth of it making your cheeks burn even more, and close your eyes. Just a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

What a fool you had been to assume that.

The moment you heard the door open and the maids shriek, you knew that you and your brother were screwed.

You and Theon hardly had time to scramble for clothes when the Lord of Winterfell was summoning you to his chambers. The maid had made quick work of alerting Ned Stark. Fear wasn’t something that the two of you were customed to, but standing there in front of the sour faced northern lord, you felt it creeping down your back. Even Theon was on edge, the slight twitch of his fingers giving away how he felt now that your secret was out in such a way. Ned didn’t need to say anything. You knew what was about to happen before he opened his mouth.

Separation.

But who would take in the disgraced daughter of Balon Greyjoy? That was the hardest part. Although Ned did keep quiet about you and Theon, there were those who weren’t so ready to bring up a child of a wannabe usurper. As delegations were being made about where you would be sent (for it had to be you since having the only son left of Balon’s would be most beneficial to the Starks) there were guards posted at your door every night and you were forbidden from even looking at your own brother. Hot headed and arrogant Theon fumed. Robb had tried many times to cool down his tempers, but when you were involved, there was nothing to be done.

Ned had to make a decision quick or else. . . he feared what would happen if he prolonged the decision.

Without being near Theon, you crawled back into yourself. You couldn’t let them see how scared you were. How devastated you were to be away from your brother, your lover. Your room had never felt colder.

The beauty of the north fled, now seeing it as a wasteland that sucked out all warmth.

Finally after weeks of correspondences, Ned sent you away to some lord. Far away from Theon.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. The guards rushed you past Theon’s door as others were trying to keep it closed while your brother raged on from behind the barrier. You trembled underneath your cloak as you willed the tears inside of you to freeze up as well as your heart.

What would you do without him? How were you to survive without your big brother beside you?

It took years but eventually you learned how to live without him. You would always miss him, but now you didn’t need him to feel strong. To feel confident. You were a grown woman, having been away from the north for years. The lord Ned had sent you to was not a kind one. He abused you. Eventually you thanked him with a knife to the gut. Thanked him for all he had taught you. Thanked him for making you strong and fearless. You took what you could from his estate and fled into the dark. You weren’t scared. Even when you came across a band of thugs and thieves of the like you never flinched. You proved yourself time and time again, earning scars and a reputation. Many called you a beast with a blade; the terror in a skirt.

You weren’t made of iron, like those of your family. Nor glass like many noble women seemed to consist of. No. Now you were something stronger. Steel like the blade in your hand.

You were ready now to see your brother. To demand that Lord Ned Stark.

Fate had different plans though.

Execution.

War.

Betrayal.

You were still reeling from the news when, drinking away your shock in some tavern halfway into the north. Now Winterfell belonged to the flayed men of Bolton. Where was Theon now?

“It took a while to find you.”

By nature your dominant hand moves to the hilt of your sword as you turn around in your barstool. A young woman stood there, dark eyes as well as shortened hair make her appear hard; just like yourself. They gave her the look of a warrior. There’s something about her that you can’t quite place. A familiarity. Something in her face.

“I had to follow many leads. Whispers and gossip.” She continues, making her way to the seat next to you. With a closer look you see the bright blossom of young bruises on her face. “Just to find you, little sister.”

Little sister. . . “Excuse me?” Your heart ached, remembering the last person to call you that was Theon. It never bothered him when he emphasized on the fact that you were his sibling. No, it made his feelings stronger for you.

Unceremoniously she takes your drink, acting like a fish dying from lack of water. She slams the mug down. “It’s been years since we’ve last seen each other. It’s Asha, (y/n).”

“A. . . Asha?” Last you checked she was still on the Iron Isles. “What in seven hells are you doing here?”

Asha smiles, a crooked smile so much like Theon’s. “I missed you too.” Then her expression darkens. “(y/n), I searched high and low for you because of Theon.”

You nearly leapt at the mention of your brother. “Where is he? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s become Ramsay Bolton’s prisoner.” Eyes as heavy as a storm drill into the wood of the bar table. “He’s. . . Not the same. I went to try and get him. Try and save him. Gods how it all went wrong. He didn’t want to be saved. Ramsay’s tortured him. I need your help. You’ve always been closer to him. The two of you have gone through a lot together. And if the stories are true, you’ve become quite a warrior. You can reach him. I thought about giving up on him. That he was a lost cause. But then I remembered when he was last on Pyke.”

The only warmth you had ever seen that belonged to an ironborn was from Theon. But now Asha shares the same tenderness; not exactly the same as Theon’s, but that of a sister’s.

“He spoke so much about you. How he was going to raise an army and find you.” There was a lingering accusation. A suspicion that you caught onto in the lilt of her voice, but Asha disregarded it as soon as she had said it. Now was not the time for questions. And even if the question in her tone was true, well, she was never one to judge.

In an instant you were up. “Enough talk. We can have a proper reunion once I get Theon back.”

The mock in his eyes was very clear. He didn’t try to hide it. Cruel amusement glittered in his eerie pale eyes. Once upon a time, without your brother, you would’ve cowered underneath such a look. Now you were your own woman. A woman skilled at the singing of blades. You cowered in front of no man.

“Little Kraken.” Ramsay Bolton grins like a cat who got it’s beloved cream. “Your sister sends the Little Kraken to try and take Reek?”

“Theon.” You corrected him. Standing as tall as you could against the Bolton bastard, you take small steps closer to him. They had let you in with no problem, assuming someone as tiny and harmless as yourself wouldn’t pose much of an issue. All too willingly guards brought you forth to Ramsay. The bastard who killed his father and step-mother in order to gain power in Winterfell, thus in the north. You would’ve found it comical had it not been for the fact that he had been torturing your beloved brother.

A scoff rakes through Ramsay’s mouth before calling behind his shoulder. “Reek!”

Something sick rises in your core. No. You didn’t want to see him like this. This wasn’t him. This cowering, trembling, man that was dragged in front of you. Where was your beautiful brother?

His shifty, scared, eyes move from you to the ground. Hands covered with dirty bandages are held close to his chest, as if he was scared that Ramsay might grab them and chop off more fingers. Theon’s whole entire disposition was so. . . wrong. . . The arrogance that used to make you laugh was completely gone. Dark hair that you loved to run your fingers through was cut short and now tangled and matted in a mess.

“There is no ‘Theon’ anymore. He’s Reek now. Do you still want him?” Ramsay’s hand grabs the back of Theon’s neck making him flinch.

“Of course.” You keep your gaze on this dilapidated man even when it hurt you to do so. “He’s still my brother.”

“Your sister failed.” The bastard lord muses. “What makes you think that you’ll be any different?”

“I have no army. So you can rest assured that no more of your men will be spared. It’ll just be you and me.”

That makes him laugh outright in front of your face. “You’re going to fight me? And what will I get if you lose?” He already sounded like a man who had won.

“Whatever you want of me. Kill me, torture me, or take me as your own.” Men, you had learned, when overcome by lust whether it be sexual or violent were often clumsier during a fight. And the man in front of you, was one that was insecure as well. He had to kill his own father just to gain notoriety and a title other than bastard.

Something on Theon’s face twitched, coming to life. A spark igniting in his dark eyes as you were so willing to give yourself over to Ramsay. It told you that there were bits of your brother still there, still clinging on.

Ramsay motioned for someone to bring him his sword. “You have a deal then, little Kraken. Just don’t go back on your word.”

“I never do.”

No one could believe it.

All they could do was stare at the bleeding mess that had once been their master. Dead at your feet. Specks of his blood drying on your cheek as you gaze down at the monster that had mutilated your brother. If only Asha hadn’t tried to use brute force to rescue Theon, this would’ve been done sooner. One on one had always been your aim.

Putting your sword away you walk over to Theon. “Lets go Theon.”

He shies when you hold out your hand to him. Patient and gentle, eventually he puts his mutilated hand in your’s. Before you could leave with your brother, several Bolton soldiers block your path. Theon freezes, refusing to move. You speak softly to him, telling him everything will be okay as you draw your sword once more. You’d fight everyone if you had to.

“Let them pass!”

“B-But Lady Bolton! She just killed the Lord of Winterfell!”

A fair skinned young lady with bright auburn hair is standing on top of a balcony. Her giant black furs nearly enveloping her as she leans over the ledge to yell. “It was a trial by combat. Lord Bolton failed and thus paid with his life. Let her pass.”

They were hesitant but dispersed and watch you and your brother leave with grudging eyes.

Later that night you and your brother were stationed at an inn so that you could wash and feed him. Theon was utterly fragile both physically and mentally, often flinching under your featherlight touch. He didn’t protest as you undressed him but you could tell that he was incredibly uncomfortable.

“(y/n). . .”

“It’s okay Theon. Turn around so I can wash your front.”

He furiously shakes his head. “(y/n), I can’t.”

Frowning you put down the washcloth and stare at his abused back. “What do you mean?”

Shivering not from the cold but from his own insecurities, Theon continues to shake his head.

“Please Theon.” You put all of your love into your voice.

It reaches to him as he hesitantly turns around.

You stare and your throat clenches up.

You should’ve tortured that bastard Bolton.

His arms are crossed in front of his chest, not hiding something important that is missing from his lower regions.

“That. . . That son of a bitch.” You growl, fury warming your cheeks and making your hands tremble with rage. You wanted to kill Ramsay all over again.

“I’m sorry. . . Even. . . Even if you wanted to- well- be together like we once were. . . I can’t. You should’ve just left me there. I’m useless now.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” Gingerly you run your hand up his arm and to his cheek. “Don’t you ever say that again. I don’t care what that monster did to you. You’re still you. And I still love you.”

Theon melts under your touch, probably the first gentle one he’s felt for quite a while. Tears run down his face, releasing all the anguish and pain he had went through.

You kiss the crease between his brows. “I love you Theon. It’ll be okay. We have each other now. We’re together again.”

[stereax]

is there a reason why Carolina is losing all their affiliates???

Other than being assholes to Erik Haula?

Okay, but in all seriousness, there's a short answer and a long one.

The short answer is two words long: Pyotr Kochetkov.

The long answer? Meet me under the cut.

Alright, hi there. So to answer this question fully, we need to talk about the AHL in depth. The AHL, or American Hockey League, is the second-highest league of North American pro hockey, under the NHL. Most people tend to believe it's just "where prospects play before they hit the NHL". This is... only a part of the story.

There are 32 teams in the AHL to match 32 NHL teams. The idea there is that every NHL team would have an AHL affiliate - the most recent expansion, for example, the Coachella Valley Firebirds, is the AHL affiliate for the newest NHL team, the Seattle Kraken. Many of these teams are owned by the same group as owns the NHL team - Harris Blitzer, for example, owns both the New Jersey Devils and the Utica Comets. Others don't - the AHL's Charlotte Checkers, for instance, are owned by Michael Kahn, whereas their NHL affiliate, the Florida Panthers, is owned by Sunrise Sports (aka Vincent Viola).

Why is this important? Well, if you're an NHL team that owns your AHL team, you can let that AHL team leak money. You're turning a good profit on the NHL team, so you don't have to make your AHL team economically viable on its own - you just put it in as a massive tax write-off and go on with your day. Thus, you can put all of your AHL team's resources into developing your AHL players to get ready to play at the NHL level. Of course you sign some vets and such of your own, maybe get a few undrafted guys for the AHL team too, but generally, an NHL-owned AHL team's sole purpose is to develop NHL players. Winning the Calder Cup (the AHL equivalent to the Stanley Cup, not to be confused with the Calder Memorial Trophy given to the best NHL rookie) is just gravy on top.

Contrast this to independently-owned AHL teams, where this is not the case. For these teams, making money is paramount. How do you make money? When you win. Fun fact - the Chicago Wolves, incidentally, used to be televised on main channels partially as a fuck you to Bill Wirtz, who didn't let the Chicago Blackhawks' home games be televised, presumably to drive ticket sales. The Wolves saw that and pounced on the opportunity to make some cash. So if nothing else, love them for sticking it to the Hawks. You can still watch Wolves games on My50, it seems, if you've got that channel, as well as AHL streaming options.

But back to independently-owned AHL teams before I go on my daily anti-Hawks crusade. You want to make money. You do that when you win. When you make the postseason. When you win in the postseason. Independently-owned AHL teams want to win, not necessarily develop for the NHL. So when your NHL team keeps taking your best player away for weeks and then giving him back... you get annoyed.

Now let's play Chicago Wolves Simulator. You are Don Levin and Buddy Meyers, the Wolves' owners. Your goal is to win the Calder Cup or at least come pretty damn close so you can pay the bills. You have a good team - hell, you won the Calder last year! - but your best asset is this star goaltender named Pyotr Kochetkov. When Koochie's in net, you usually win because he bails out your team. When he isn't there to help you win, you kind of don't. Now, Carolina's going through its own issues in net, so they keep calling Koochie up and down. And, as previously mentioned, you kind of suck without Koochie. To be fair, you're not all that great with him, but you suck without him. And you have no control over when he goes up to Carolina, even just to sit on the bench.

You miss the playoffs by one point. One. And your three-year contract with the Canes is up. What do you do?

Waddell Young, GM of the Wolves, says their philosophy and the Canes' fundamentally differed. The Wolves develop and win. Winning develops, to them. The Canes wanted the Wolves to focus solely on development. Not winning. So, when their deal with the Canes was up, the Wolves said "no thanks, we're not going to continue this, we're going independent". This decision makes them the first non-NHL affiliated team in almost 30 years. Now, this isn't to say all independently-owned AHL teams are doomed to fail in partnerships because of divergent philosophies. Look at the Hershey Bears and the Washington Capitals for a prime example of that - the Bears are one of the best teams in the AHL and have won four Calder Cups with the Caps as their affiliates since their affiliation began in 2005. But the Wolves were quite unhappy with the Canes, and so the two split. Also notable is that the Canes have also poisoned the waters with who should be their local AHL affiliate, the Charlotte Checkers, to the point where the Checkers affiliated with the Panthers instead. So... there's that.

So what can the Canes now do with non-roster players? They can affiliate with another AHL team (co-affiliation); one instance of this was when the Seattle Kraken affiliated with the Charlotte Checkers in 21-22 because the Coachella Valley Firebirds weren't yet ready. Supposedly the plan is to get an affiliate for 24-25. But what do they do this year? Especially if they can't find an affiliate to share, which seems more and more likely as the summer drags on? Well, you can't sign players to two-way deals with the Wolves anymore, so you can't really keep veterans around in the AHL to call up if needed. So you... sign nine defensemen to NHL contracts and carry them on the roster at all times. Yep. Don Waddell, Canes GM, has basically stated outright that his roster is probably going to have to carry 22 or 23 players at all times to be sure to have replacements in case of injury. And your prospects? They either go to Europe, where they're basically inaccessible for the whole year, or you loan them to other AHL clubs. Waddell has said plans are in place with several teams to send 2 or 3 players each to several different AHL clubs. For your youngest, they go back to major junior in the CHL and related leagues. Same for your veterans - if you want to keep them, you'll have to sign them one-way (I believe) and then loan them down to scattered AHL teams across the league. Prospects who you could have signed to play in the AHL and develop? You're probably going to have to let them go to free agency (see: Kevin Wall, leading player for Penn State and Carolina draft pick, who just inked a deal with the Milwaukee Admirals, AHL affiliate of the Nashville Predators). And then you can send your worse prospects to your ECHL tea- wait. Oops. They just lost that too. Can't do that either. Well, shit.

And remember, one of the Canes' biggest assets is their system of play (with strong defense) that they execute well. The Wolves needed to teach their players the Canes' system and prepare them so the jump from AHL to NHL wouldn't be that tough. The Canes put their coaches on the Wolves for that purpose (the Wolves have since cleaned house and instated their own). Loaning your players to another AHL team? Why would that team be incentivized to teach your player(s) the system? So now even when you're calling up someone to play for the Canes, you have no idea how well they know the system and no idea how well they can play in it.

This now begs the other question - how will the Wolves fill their roster? Well, they've got options. Generally, an AHL team takes the prospects of its NHL affiliate and then fills the rest of the roster with AHL veteran free agents that the AHL team signs to AHL-only deals. But without an NHL team, it's a smidge more complicated, or perhaps easier. Firstly, other NHL teams can loan their prospects to the Wolves instead of their own AHL teams if they consider the Wolves better at developing them, for instance. The Wolves can now also sign whatever free agent players they find roaming around that could be a good fit for their team - undrafted college players, good ECHL players that can't seem to get called up enough, AHL veterans, players on European teams (especially Russians who might want the chance to get the fuck out of Russia) and so on. These free agent players could see the Wolves as a stable AHL team that can pay solid money (the AHL doesn't have a cap) with a strong chance at contending for the Calder as well as a possible stepping stone to an NHL contract. The Wolves also don't have to worry about these free agents taking ice time away from the Canes' prospects, who would need to be prioritized under an affiliation, which would also be a strong incentive for AHL free agent veterans to sign with them - they'd be able to get a truly fair chance, unlike under an affiliate system where prospects are the priority and free agents are generally playing fewer (and worse) minutes.

And remember - Chicago just drafted Bedard. The city's getting back into hockey and Hawks tickets are expensive. Want to watch some quality hockey on the cheap? Why not come to Wolves games! They're only 18 miles away from the Hawks, too!

Let's now talk about the ECHL and the Norfolk Admirals. Thankfully, this is going to be a lot simpler. The ECHL, unlike the AHL, has only 28 teams. This means 4 NHL teams don't have an ECHL team. In addition, very few, if any, ECHL teams are owned by their NHL affiliates. This further incentivizes them to play for profit (winning the Kelly Cup, the ECHL version of the Stanley Cup) instead of development. On top of this, relatively few ECHL players actually make it to the NHL. ECHL affiliates change fairly frequently, especially due to many of the teams folding because of financial issues (most recently the Brampton Beast, Manchester Monarchs, and Quad City Mallards). So if an ECHL team decides to drop its NHL affiliate, or vice versa, there are four other suitors, all of whom would probably want to pay the ECHL team decent money to be their associate. For the Admirals, it's easy - they see the Canes lose their AHL affiliate and decide they'd rather take the Jets' offer instead, whether it be for the money (Carolina's supposedly notoriously stingy) or for the security. It's just really fucking funny that it happens at the same time Carolina loses their AHL team. Get fucked lol.

TL;DR stan the Wolves for rejecting the system. Canes Suck.

[ask-de-writer]

SUBMARINE! 1812 an Alternate History

Chapter 7, part 2 of 6

Winter in England

by

De Writer

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////////

Down at the secret dock where the Kraken was taking on stores, I made note of the last of the huge Albatross missiles as it slid down through the loading hatch. All of the lesser missiles, the Eagles, Hawks and even Shrikes had already been stowed. Besides the missiles, we had taken on stores of provisions, repair materials, water and, necessary for any happy ship, a quantity of rum.

The role call complete, Commodore Martin turned to me and shook my hand as he stated proudly, “The ship is yours, Captain Tecumsah. This sealed packet contains your orders for the attack on the English Isle. President Arnold himself drew this up. May you use it well to discomfit the Crown and make them realize that they are too deep in the wrong for a simple apology.”

I smiled and touched the corner of my tricorn hat in salute as I took the packet and replied, “To quote my good Midshipman O'Hara, we shall kick the Royal Arse!”

It was with a sense of profound pride that I strode down the gang plank to the deck of my ship, the Kraken. My crew had already gone below except for the few needed to cast off the stern and bow lines.

A pair of strong, twelve oared tugs pulled the Kraken free of the docks and out to the deep channel that would let us leave unseen by any. I ordered, “Open the floor valves one half.”

Our ship settled until some waves were flowing across the decks. “Close floor valves. Set bow and stern planes down two. Walking beams, slow.” The Kraken started gently forward, sliding slowly under the waves. When the depth glass showed twenty feet down, I called, “Bow and after planes down one.” At our present pace, the slight downward pressure of the diving planes held us nicely at our chosen depth.

I turned to Midshipman O'hara with a smile and told him, “Well, old friend, we are on our way to kick some Royal Arse.”

He smiled back, “Couldn't have a better errand, Sir. Just wish that we could get there sooner. My boot is sore from disuse. Needs some good exercise.”

After about three hours, I had the center periscope raised and ordered the force pump plied to bring some fresh air into the ship while I looked all about with the new design periscope. In the distance, well to the north of us were sails. I consulted a thick manual of British and Continental sail plans. I nodded at what I found.

O'hara studied the book over my shoulder and read, “Gazelle, British diplomatic packet. Not to be attacked unless it attacks first.”

I shrugged, “It is a fact, O'hara that all of our fighting will not end the war by itself. In the end, it will be diplomats sending notes and talking face to face that will actually end the war. That is why we must let the Gazelle be.”

O'hara gave a sideways bit of a grin as he pointed out, “Even if Sir Lional was to suggest peace, I doubt that he will be listened to. It will be Parliament and the King who would have to decide and I have noticed long ago the the ones hottest for War are the ones furthest from the action!”

“Indeed it is so, old friend. Perhaps this mission will help them to think that maybe peace might be the better option. We may find out in a few weeks time.”

With the Gazelle out of sight and no other vessels about, I ordered us to the surface. We raised the periscope/masts and proceeded under sail, not only faster than running submerged, we gave the men on the walking beams a welcome rest. In the Atlantic at this season, it could not last. We lowered sails and slid silently into the calm depths below the violent weather raging above us.

The only sign of the Atlantic storm above us was from the men on the force pumps, working to bring us fresher air than what was presently in the Kraken. Even without their efforts, the Kraken held enough air to be safe for two whole days under the surface. As waves above rose higher than the snorkel, it cut off to prevent water from entering, and the force pump crew, feeling the resistance would have to pause their efforts until it came clear again.

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[asher-writes]

❤️ for Tulip & Aspen!

Thank youuuu <3 <3

❤️ first kiss / realization

From this post. Send me a ship and a heart for a brief snippet!

--

What a pretty thing, it is, curled up on his floor.

Tulip had told Aspen to get some rest after the fire had devastated its community. The once-human was changed by the events in a way so physical that at first, Tulip had struggled to reconcile it was the same boy. It now bore heavy horns and crackled with a green light that he knew to be the Forest's magic; he could feel this in every push and pull of the elements.

"I did mean for you to take the bed," he sat beside the sleeping creature, his hand trailing down its spine. It trembled, dark eyes heavy to open. Only a slight whimper, as if consciousness was too painful, came from it. "Come."

He lifted Aspen, and lay his charred body on the sheets. Aspen nuzzled against the cloth, its weak hands gripping hold of Tulip, unable to let him go. "Oh, darling," Tulip sighed, sitting beside it.

Aspen's tears were warm against his hand as he cupped the scarred cheek. Though a frail whimper crawled from its throat - like a pup abandoned in a storm - it did not pull away, its grip finding his wrist and holding with a demand to never be left alone.

"I can hardly handle seeing you this way." His heart thundered and shook at the display of trust and affection. That only he could ease even an ounce of the horror Aspen had endured this day.

"What would help?" He wondered aloud. Aspen's eyes were wet and wide as it looked up at him. He saw sharp, canine teeth when it finally spoke, after a moment of thought.

"Tell me something happy," it whispered.

Tulip thought for a moment, something happy on a day like this? But it was his job - was it not - to bring balance even when things felt so destroyed?

"The Forest has already begun repairing, the flowers are peeking through the undergrowth, there are many who were unharmed in the centre and north of the forest, and-" he paused, staring down at the thing that had always been so obvious and open to him; the thing that shut every word off from his mouth, as it became the only thing he could say: "-I love you."

Aspen exhaled a breath that it must have been holding all the day. Fresh tears fell easily from its eyes, but a smile - tentative though it was - graced its pained face. "Oh, thank the gods," it breathed.

Tulip felt himself crumble forward. Their lips and noses brushed, warm and peaceful in the storm that had ensnared them. Aspen smiled and kissed him with feeble exhaustion, before slumping back into the bed. "Stay with me, please...rest."

Tulip did not mind the smell of smoke, or that his sheets were now caked with ash and dirt. All he cared for now turned into his arms, where they could both simply, finally, rest.

-

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