𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

# 𝙰𝚄𝙶𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙻𝙴𝚈  // a dependent original character blog advised by seb ( she / they, twenty-two, gmt ) for london falling. trigger warning on this blog for possible sexual and other adult content. non-members dni.

THREADING ONLY ON DISCORD FOR THE TIME BEING!!

In some random room in the houses of parliament. How your character ended up here with August is up to you! I do feel a bit sorry for them tho <3

tw: bomb threat and august being august

“Not much of a safe room, is it?” August scoffed, as he watched the Thames flow just outside the window he was leant against. “Pop a sniper somewhere,” he gestured vaguely to the other side of the riverbank, “Over there, and BAM, they’d JFK me before the door was even closed and locked.” Seriously, he’d expected a bit more protection, considering he was the Prime Minister, and someone had called in a bomb threat on the houses of parliament. Cooped up here with a bunch of civilians was practically demeaning for someone of his stature. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Talk about inflation for the next few hours? 

The room was a stark, featureless space with one window and a single, flimsy door. A table and a few chairs had been haphazardly arranged in the center, and a small TV was mounted on the wall. The room was cramped with only three people in it. Himself, his one security detail who had accompanied him to the loo and then this poor civilian who probably hadn’t expected to end up locked up with the PM and the man dedicated to holding his cock while he pissed. 

where: a private party

when: 11pm @augustfinley​

God only knew where his husband was tonight. He had been absent most of the week.  “Last minute urgent meetings with clients” he said. Luis wasn’t surprised with the late meetings as much as he was with the frequency of them. Once or twice a week was a norm, for either of them, but it had been happening nearly every night, and Luis couldn’t say the days had been much better. He wasn’t precisely thrilled to go to this fundraiser without him by his side, and had decided to bring his sister with him knowing that she’d have the time of her life and expecting that he wouldn’t have to do it all on his own. It was a bit bold of him to expect his lawyer sister not to take advantage of this to broaden her clientele. Luis figured he’d call a cab home when the all too familiar silhouette of the PM caught his eye. Wine glass in hand, he’d approached the bunch of bodyguards before he’d gone to stand by him. “What a fucking nightmare,” he began. Anyone who attended those events so often was meant to hate them at some point. It was always the same thing. An eternal dinner all to lead to checks being signed. All for show. He hated that. “At least the wine’s good.” Couldn’t go wrong with Chateauneuf du Pape, as his husband had so gracefully taught him years and years ago.

There’s that one meme August specifically remembers his young son sending him. Something about a man dressing himself more and more like a clown as the text goes further. He always happens to remember it during times like these, when he feels like an expensive show dog being paraded around, doing silly little tricks for treats ­– or money, in this case. The clown makeup was packed on hard today, red nose and all. It was the beginning of the election season, and it was necessary for fundraising to be shifting gear in intensity. A high-class whore, he considered himself, looking pretty and acting nice to the crusty old fucks who wanted to elect one last tory PM before they evaporated into dust, laughing up from hell at the future generations they fucked over in the process.

Not that August really gave a shit about any of that. As long as he stayed at 10 Downing Street, he’d whore himself out to the lobbyists whenever need be. Especially when it meant keeping Espino in his place, where he belonged. It simply wouldn’t do for him to entertain any possibility of actually usurping August’s position at the top. 

Speak of the devil.

Like a cat running into a dog, the hair at the back of August’s neck prickles at the familiar voice. His security detail was clearly slacking; he had specifically requested that the mayor be kept away from him tonight. “Mr. Mayor,” he greeted, nonetheless. It wouldn’t do to seem so pissy when the party was only getting started. “Where’s you husband?” he asked point blank, with a sly little smile. Of course word had already gotten around, that the man who so often accompanied Luis at these events was nowhere to be found.

It’s take your kid to work day! Except it’s take your PM to work day!

Congratulations, you’ve been selected as the lucky individual to show the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom around your work. He will shadow you for a day, after which dinner will be served at the PM’s private residence at 10 Downing Street. Oh, and by the way, you can’t say no. <3

Some sparkly-eyed brand-spanking-new intern for the PR team seemed to be full of brilliant fucking ideas, looking to be the next big thing in relationships management. How they’d managed to pitch this as something they should do was beyond August, but since he happened to owe a favor or two to his PR manager, he’d thought it was best to get this over with to prove that the rat bastard who came up with this idea should clearly be fired. It seemed patronising to request (read: force) citizens to have the prime minister fumbling around their workplace all for a few articles in papers nobody even reads anymore. But, since someone clearly thought it was Pulitzer-prize worthy material, here he was, with a security detail and a reporter, showing up to some poor bastard’s place at 7:30am sharp, as he had been instructed.

‘Dress appropriately,’ had been the command from his team, but without more instruction the definition of appropriately was hardly clear to him. Meagan had stuffed him into a white shirt, over which he wore a woolen hunting sweater, the lapels of which scratched uncomfortably against his freshly-shaved neck. He had, for the first time in a decade, black jeans and some walking shoes on. August hadn’t dared look himself in the mirror before he left, fearing he’d have to witness the suburbanite nightmare his wife had made him into. This was probably what she dreamed of every night— the thought made him shudder.

He rang the doorbell, which sent an 8-bit rendition of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy ringing in the house. How cliche, August thought, and for a moment pondered how he might go about banning all doorbells in the country. As funny as the thought was, he had little time to think about it before the door was swung open and he was greeted by a face looking about as excited as he was feeling himself.

“Hello!” August greeted, cheerful as ever, “May we come in? You have a lovely home.” He didn’t wait much for an invitation, and instead let himself and his little entourage in. “Now, my team thought it’d be best I go into this entirely blind, so I have no idea what we’re doing today. What is it you do for a living?”

From the moment her fate and reputation had been bound to Malachi via his ever-tightening rope of demands, Zoya fashioned herself as the Jabberwocks’ black cat by night, broken mirror by day — irresistible and portentous all at once. That was to say: what the Emperor bid of her, she obliged and not just because those were the cards that she’d been dealt. Deeper than that existed the fact that there was something undeniably tantalizing about being something of a gateway drug to so many others, or an avenging angel leading a lost soul further astray.

Such was the general objective of her night, though the person who’d issued it had neglected to give further details beside revealing a time, place, and the vague expectation that he expected a smile. From whom, Zoya didn’t yet know — but, a wolf smiling was rarely ever a thing of comfort and so, she prepared all the necessities to make herself comfortable: three lines of coke, neat and straight, a drink in hand, and music turned up impossibly loud, drowning out even the sound of the door opening and the Prime Minister himself walking in the room.

The brunette leaned over the table to snort a line through a rolled-up fifty-pound note, letting out a deep sigh like she always did once the first wave of the high hit her, eyes fluttering open only to realize she was no longer alone. “Fuck,” Zoya giggled with faux-abashment, recognizing the man’s face even under the dim, red-hued glow of light. “Now I’ve got two famous faces to play around with.” At that, she presented him with the banknote placed between her fingers as though she was offering a cigarette — this time, one meant for a drug far stronger than nicotine, courtesy of Rune. “I won’t tell Her Majesty the Queen if you won’t.”

⁎

Before entering, August had taken a moment to steady himself. An unbuttoned shirt collar and a deep breath later, he made sure no prying eyes were around and entered the room he’d been directed to. His eyes adjusted to the change of light, pupils blown and the capillaries in his eyes already straining. In no time they’d be as red as the brothel-esque lighting in the room.

“Fuuck…” He didn’t need to be invited in, the door quietly falling shut as August ventured further, towards what was so enticingly being offered to him. The music was loud in his ears, like a jackhammer in his head. He’d never been much for dancing, but it was a beat like this, at this intensity, which could drag even his stiff limbs into a smoother motion. The drugs would need to kick in first, before he’d bust a move, though.

August accepted the note graciously, and with practised ease knelt next to the table. First one, then the other line fell victim to his hunger. He closed his eyes, head tilted upwards, and breathed for a moment. The familiar grip of the high tightened around him, and August immediately felt himself relax.

August Finley. Wasn’t this the kind of kismet Zoya bled on about sometimes? Not particularly. Not when he had been invited, not when there was always something needed from the emperor whenever he appeared, not when there was something wanted from him in exchange. What surprise did it hold to see the nation’s Prime Minister in the state he already was in? Not one drop in that spreading smirk, being held by the elbow for attention and support in equal measure.

“Febreze? Smell like shit,” he guessed with a grin to follow before his head swayed to the side, the direction they’d be going in. That whiskey smell. “Who’ve you been drinking with to pump you full of the cheap shit? Could’ve just lapped up what was in the loo before coming.”

⁎

“Fuck off,” August protested with a grimace, “If something here smells like shit it’s the individually packaged bottle of Ralph Lauren’s piss you’re swimming in.” He was grumpy; tired from his wife dragging him around like a show pony, drunk from the awful alcohol and in a steep downward spiral towards total apathy. A pick-me-up was dearly needed, and this was unfortunately one of the only men he could trust to provide. Once he stopped fucking about, of course. The literal teenager that he was. Infuriating.

“Espino,” the PM sighed, defeated. “I guess the bartender saw him and assumed the more expensive the better.” He shrugged. “Or someone is trying to kill me. Take your pick.” A few slightly uncertain steps led to a more certain walk, following Malachi towards an intriguing future. The red-tinted hallways had the PM blinking to stay focused, and a few fingers still carefully grasped the loose clothing at the other’s arm, just in case. Or accidentally. Perhaps both.