#before learning restraint and method and expectation

[canonkiller]

do it all for love

[mariasont]

Art of Losing Control - A.H

summary: sweetheart!reader is uesd to following orders, but she's never questioned why, until now. when hotch turns an academic discussion into something personal. too personal

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

warnings: dbf!hotch, pyschological tension perhaps??, discussion of power dyanmics, dom/sub undertones, age gap, suggestive themes 4 sure, hotch lowkey putting r through an accidental bdsm awakening

wc: 2.7k

The glass was arguably frigid beneath the pads of your fingers, but it was a biting type that worked its way into your skin before your brain could catch up. You recoiled instinctively, rubbing your hand against your sleeve in a futile attempt to chase away the lingering feeling. That was pointless. The cold had already burrowed itself in. 

You were sure that was the point. Uncomfortable people bred sloppy mistakes. But from the way the woman sat inside the room, the way she barely seemed to notice, you weren't sure exactly how effective said method was.

If the cold affected her, she didn't so much as blink. She leaned forward, elbows sinking into the scuffed metal of the table, her fingers hovering just above, twitching, like they wanted to move but hadn't yet been given permission. Impulse warring with... restraint? Maybe.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves, a subconscious tick, the body's way of trying too hard to stay still. But the longer you watched, the more convinced you became that it was something else.

She looked far too at ease for someone who'd just been arrested. No tension in her shoulders, no fight in her posture, like this was casual small talk over a morning coffee instead of answering for a crime. Her head dipped slightly, her eyes lingering on Morgan as if his words were little more than passing curiosities.

You inched closer to the glass, shifting focus to Morgan. He kept his voice perfectly tuned, soft enough to seem non-threatening, firm enough to demand attention. He was letting the conversation unfold at its own pace, drawing her in without forcing it. It reminded you of a hunter scattering bait, waiting for the trap to spring shut.

You were trying to study it, the pick apart the mechanics of it all—the inflection in his voice, the way he leaned back at just the right moments, how he allowed the silence to work for him rather than rush to fill it.

You used to think it was instinct, just something they (the best, brightest and more experienced of the BAU) had, something that can't be learned. But the longer you were here, the more you saw it for what it really was—craft, skill, an art so finely tuned it just looked like instinct.

When you looked back to the woman, you noticed it, the way she lingered on her words, shaping them slowly, like she was tasting each one before decided if it was worth sharing. 

"She's enjoying this." The words slipped out quietly, almost like an afterthought, your eyes still fixed on the suspect.

The sound behind you—low, contemplative—made you turn before you could think about turning.

Too fast. Too reactive. And suddenly, you weren't just turning you were colliding, your shoulder pressing something solid. Firm. Hotch. His chest absorbed the impact.

It sent a strange disconnect between knowing this is your boss and whatever ridiculous reaction your body had decided to have about it.

If he noticed your flustered reaction, he gave no indication, just took control of it—turning you back to the glass, his palm settled between your shoulder blades.

"Tell me why you think that."

Your heart stuttered. Slamming against bone, thrumming under skin, knocking around like it didn't belong to you anymore. Heat licked up your neck, pressing at the back of your ears.

And Hotch, well, Hotch was just watching, waiting, looking at you like he expected something useful to come out of your mouth. 

Your tongue flicked across lips that felt too dry, but that didn't fix the problem.

"She's keeping the pauses in conversation long—," You exhaled, tried to make it sound normal. "Like she wants him to say more. Like she's giving him the space to take the lead."

Hotch barely tils his head. His version of a nudge. "And?"

You swallowed. He did this sometimes, gave you just enough room to think, to fumble, to find an answer on your own instead of handing it to you. It wasn't impatience, not exactly. It was how he worked, specifically how he worked you. Letting you step forward, letting you find the edge of your own thought before deciding whether or not to pull you back.

You leaned closer to the glass, tracking every detail, letting yourself see her the way he would.

"She keeps touching her lips. Not absentmindedly, but... like she wants to draw attention to them." Hotch said nothing, so you keep going. "She tilts her head, too, just a little—lets her neck show when she laughs."

"Good."

It was just one word. Barely even a murmur. Almost nothing. But it still gets in, slipping into that deep, secret part of you where validation and want blur together, where approval doesn't need to be loud to matter.

And it's not even praise exactly, but it's close enough. And that's all it takes, just that tiny, electric satisfaction sparking along your spine, pulling you upright, nudging your chin a fraction higher. Like something inside of your had been set right without you even realizing.

Then, his voice again. "What else?"

You hesitate, not because you don't know what you're looking for, but because you're trying to separate what you see from what it means.

Your eyes flick lower, and you see the way she presses her thighs together, holds, then releases. It was hardly there, like she was just getting comfortable in the chair. But she does it again, right after Morgan leans forward, his voice dropping, guiding the conversation exactly where he wants it.

You roll the scene over in your mind, trying to pin down exactly what you're seeing, trying to slot it into something else. Engagement. Focus. Attentiveness. It could be any of those things. It could be nothing.

But her lips part—not to speak, not to react, but to breathe. It’s so slight, just enough to let in more air, just enough to give away what she’s feeling. You might have missed it if you hadn't been looking for something, but now it's all you can see.

You swallow, and now not only are your lips dry, but your mouth is too, because you know what you're looking at now.

And you should say it, because that is what profiling is, isn't it? Identifying behavior, understanding it, giving it a name.

But you hesitate, because where you grew up, girls didn't talk about this.

They didn't acknowledge it, didn't name it, didn't let it exist in spaces where they were allowed to be seen. You were raised to be polished, poised, proper. To sit with your legs crossed, to smile without showing too much, and certainly to ignore the things that weren't mean to be spoked aloud.

"She's reacting to him," you say finally, fingers catching on the necklace at your collarbone, rolling it between your thumb and forefinger. You took the cowardly way out. "To the way he talks. She likes that he’s leading.”

You don't wait for Hotch to confirm your words, because the question is already pressing forward, unfiltered.

"But if she's not in control," you say, almost to yourself. "Wouldn't that make her less interested?"

"Not necessarily." Hotch shakes his head. "Interest is subjective. Sometimes it increases when control is taken out of their hands."

"She's aroused." Hotch continues, completely detached, "because she enjoys the feeling of someone else guiding the interaction. It changes the way she experiences the conversation. Instead of leading, she's reacting. Instead of deciding, she's anticipating. That shift can heighten emotional and physical response."

Your body freezes. It shouldn't, but it does. Because he says it so plainly, so unbothered. Aroused. Just another word, just another observation. He could be talking about stress responses, about interview techniques, about anything other than this. But it feels different. Sounds different, slipping from his mouth in that low, even tone of his. 

And maybe that's why your jacket feels too heavy now, why your face feels too warm, why his hand at the top of your spine feels less stable and more like something you can't bring yourself to move from.

She likes giving up control.

That's what he said. That's what makes this work for her. And you hear it, you process it, but you don't get. Not in the way you should. She enjoys it, but how? You've spent your whole life gripping control with both hands, holding it tight enough to leave imprints on your skin.

Growing up, your parents had been distant in different ways—your mother preoccupied with appearances, your father preoccupied with, well, everything else. So, you handled things yourself. Your grades. Your future. Your emotions. You made the decisions, because no one else would make them for you.

But Hotch. Hotch was different.

Your trust in him didn't require thought, didn't need justification. It just was. You listen when he speaks. You follow his orders before you've even processed them. You let him decide things for you, choices you hadn't even realized you wanted made. When he told you to slow down, you did. When he told you to push harder, you gave more. You want his approval, but it’s deeper than that.

You didn't just follow him, you let him lead you. And that should feel strange. It should make you second-guess yourself, make you want to push back. But you don't. You never have.

And that feels like something you should've noticed sooner, a part that you don't quite know what to do with.

You open your mouth. Then shut it.

It's a stupid question, it must be. Because he just explained it, because it's obvious, because she enjoys it, because that's just how some people are.

And still, Hotch, who hasn’t even looked at you, hasn’t moved an inch, somehow notices. Somehow knows. "You don't have to filter your thoughts."

You pause for just a second, lips pressing together, trying to gauge whether this is a question worth asking. It feels too big. Or maybe too personal. Like voicing it might crack something open that you haven’t even looked at yet. But you can’t stop it now.

"Why do people like that?"

"Because for some people, control is synonymous with stress," Hotch says. "It's a constant demand, predicting outcomes, making the right decisions, managing not just their own expectations, but those of everyone around them. Being able to defer that to someone else, to trust that another person will handle it, removes the weight of responsibility."

You shouldn’t be applying this to yourself. Shouldn’t be peeling apart his words and trying to fit them around something  familiar. But you are.

"So, if someone's always been in control, they start to..." You hesitate, grasping for something else, some other explanation. "What? Get tired of it?"

"It's not uncommon. If control has always been a requirement, not a choice, then relinquishing it—at least in certain aspects—can feel like a sort of freedom for them."

You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, but it does nothing to slow your thoughts.

"And this kind of thing, it doesn't just appear out of nowhere, right? It has to come from somewhere?"

Hotch nods. "Most behavioral patterns do. Sometimes it's environmental, sometimes it's developed naturally. Sometimes it's learned through relationships. And sometimes, it’s an adaptation. A response to an environment where they had no choice but to take care of themselves. Where emotional needs were ignored or never considered at all."

Your breathing quickens. Not in a bad way. Not exactly.

It's just strange, hearing something you've never put into words, something you've never even considered, be said so matter-of-factly. There was something unnerving about hearing your life, your past experiences boiled down into a single sentence.

It makes you feel exposed. Which is ridiculous, he wasn't talking to you. It's just behavior. It's just patterns. It's just psychology. It's not personal. It's not.

"But why would someone be... aroused by that?"

You barely recognize your own voice. The words came out too fast, too eager, and the second they hit the air, you regret them. You weren't supposed to ask that, weren't supposed to say that and certainly weren’t supposed to let it sound like something you needed an answer to.

But the word was out now and the world didn’t seem to collapse around you.

Hotch doesn't even blink. "The connection between submission and arousal is well-documented. Less control means less overthinking. Less overthinking means more sensation. More sensation leads to a heightened response.”

You shift slightly. His hand feels like it was burning through the layers of your jacket.

"And it's not something you should hesitate to discuss." He glances to you, his voice doesn't change, doesn't dip into anything resembling awkwardness, and somehow that only intensifies the heat pressing against your skin. "You can't be afraid of conversations like this. Understanding human behavior means understanding all of it. Power, desire, submission, these things drive people as much as fear or anger. If you hesitate to recognize them, you won't see them when it matters."

You hate that you reacted in the first place. Hate that he noticed. Hate that now, whether you like it or not, there’s something you feel the need to prove—to fix.

"I wasn't—," You exhale sharply, shaking your head as if that would rewind the last ten minutes. "I just—I didn't mean to sound like that. I know it's important. I—" Another sharp inhale. "Sorry. I don't know—,"

You turn, just barely, and it’s a mistake. Immediate. Total. Because now you’re looking at him—fully, completely—and something inside you tilts like gravity just shifted.

Your body brushes his, and somehow, somehow, he still feels bigger than he should be. Like he takes up too much space, like if you moved an inch closer, you'd disappear into him completely.

He hasn't moved. That's the worst part. He hasn't adjusted, hasn't shifted, hasn't done a thing except exist, and yet, he's there, encompassing and suffocating in a way you don't hate. Your breath catches and you know he hears it.

For a second, just a second (maybe even a millisecond), so brief it could be imagined, his lashes dipped before lifting again. You think his fingers twitch at his side. Maybe. But then, it's gone, erased before you could be sure.

"I'm not criticizing you," Hotch says, and you believe him. "You don't need to apologize or justify yourself to me. You're still learning, and I want you to be able to recognize things like this without hesitating. That's all."

You nod, but it's not fully a nod, more like the start of one before you think better of it. 

"I'm sorry," you say instantly, the words automatic, before you can think about them. "I don't want you to think I'm not taking this seriously."

Hotch doesn't sigh, doesn't scold, doesn't soften. He just looks at you, giving you a beat, like he's waiting to see if you'll realize what you just did—if you’ll take back the apology yourself.

When you don’t, he says simply, "That's not what I said. I know you take this seriously. I wouldn't be having this conversation with you if I thought otherwise."

You should move. You need to move.

Your brain fires off the warning like an emergency flare, but your body stays put. You know you should step back, break the tension, say something that makes this feel normal again.

But Hotch hasn't moved either. Hasn't stepped away, hasn't broken his gaze, hasn't done anything but watch you.

Your lips part, a breath catching on the back of your throat. You don't know what you're about to say, maybe something stupid, maybe something honest, maybe something you wouldn't even understand until it was too late.

Before you can, the door opens.

"Hotch?"

The moment snaps. Shatters. Like glass under pressure, breaking apart before you even get the chance to understand what you were standing in. Whatever was there—if there was anything—vanishes in an instant.

Emily stands at the door, her expression unreadable.

"Rossi's asking for you."

Hotch steps away, and the moment his hand leaves you, the cold rushes in like a shock to your system. You don't realize how warm you'd been until it's gone. Until you're left with this.

You don't move. Not right away. Because for a second, you feel off-balance, like stepping away will make something shift, something collapse, but that's ridiculous. Irrational, even. You shake it off, press your lips together, fingers moving before you shove them back to your sleeves. Back to the cold you should have never stopped noticing.

It was always freezing in here. That was the point. Uncomfortable people bred sloppy mistakes.

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[eccentrcks]

I'm not afraid of you now I'm not afraid of you now villain and violent infant and innocent baby both arms cradle you now I'm not afraid of you now. - "Forwards Beckon Rebound" by Adrienne Lenker.

"Russell Adler, I've been expecting you." He hears her cold voice, thickened with disdain and perhaps resentment, which was ironic that he should be displaying such... dislike towards her instead of the way around for giving him so many emotional scars than his time in Vietnam had given him. "I see we bear similar scars now," Marlene, the little terror who's been a painful thorn to his side, simply sat in front of him on some wooden stool as she nodded at his neck.

Just the opposite sides, kid...

"I wasn't expecting a warm welcome, but..." He stated blankly and tried readjusting his restraints. "I would've expected to be somewhere more reclusive... instead of the same room you entrapped me."

"Don't worry, this isn't my safe house. It's just... temporary." Those empty brown eyes of hers bore into his cold blue ones. His sunglasses remained on the creaky wooden floor. "So, I just removed the tracker from your pocket what you intended to put into me and put it in some fishing shop into fish bait. That's gonna be an interesting trip for your little jarheads." She chuckled dryly and played with the sharp edges of the silver blade.

"You never intended to kill me." He broke the silence after a moment of Marlene staring at him. As if she was inspecting the insect caught in a harmless trap.

"Why should I? Getting rid of you doesn't really benefit me," She leaned forward with her knife, the point end flipping to downwards with the handle in her grip. "You're just an CIA officer with not much value for me. Just one of those... potential casualties. I'd rather just let your job do it for me. I learnt a lot from my mother and the organization that taken me in."

"Astraea."

Marlene just stared at him and an unsettling smile dipped onto her features. "Of course, did you know that mercy isn't always a good thing? Especially the one receiving it? That's the lesson I learnt as a child and relearnt it the year after we first met. So, sparing you wasn't an act of kindness. Otherwise, it would've been nothing more a waste of my time." She reached over to fix his hair and paused to grip the scalp. "It's something you should consider learning for yourself."

Adler almost wants to laugh at that and not out of genuineness. More like sarcastically. It made him think these people were creating a merciless killer more than some obedient soldier, he doesn't really want to know if her mother was worst or not.

Marlene Monroe obviously knows what she is doing, and of course, he'll immediately believe she grew up like an seasoned field operator. What kind of mother teaches their child to be a soldier and to withstand torture in a long capacity? And Adler once believed he could've controlled her like he did with Bell a year ago.

He would've been easily compromised like now.

She let go of his scalp and went back to fiddling with the knife in her hands. "My time with them... made me realized we're not so different each other, although there was one difference that stood out. I had more freedom... and then when they took me in by force, it wasn't long before I felt true isolation. You and my previous interrogators in the past made me feel like I had an opportunity to leave the black hole before, but with them..." Marlene slowly leaned in again. "It was like there was no hope for me at all. Just absolute no way out until they just put you to better use. Nothing can make you feel that way compared to their ways."

Adler stayed still and barely budged from her intense gaze. "So the next time we meet and we will... perhaps I can show you what hell is truly like. It's nothing compared to your little MKUltra methods and all. Then maybe... maybe we'll see that little facade of yours break. Soldiers like you break eventually. They always do." She nodded with a little hum and lightly tapped his chin with the end of her knife.

"What happened to going home?" He had to ask since the last time he'd seen her, she was determine to do Astraea's dirty work in exchange to going home. Yet she was still here, continuing to be the war criminal he's hunting down.

Marlene tapped the knife on her own chin and looked thoughtful before rolling her shoulders. "There's nothing for me to go back to. You'll know the feeling of being seen as an actual villain someday, Russell Adler. Trust me, there's no worser feeling than your loved ones seeing you as the bad guy and eventually becoming one." She stood up from her seat towards a silver briefcase to unlock it.

"Now, I have very important matters to attend to than to entertain you and your whack jobs. So... until then, Russell Adler." Marlene finished before putting on a respirator and some little canister inside released gas. "Nighty night." Those empty brown eyes intently stared straight at his face to watch the drug take effect on him.

Adler felt his vision blurring and breathing became heavier. Little dots that slowly turned bigger filled his vision and it wasn't long before he completely blacked out.

Until then...

-

a.n: Beautiful artwork goes to the lovely @sleepyconfusedpotato and on my god, I loved this piece so much! This is more of a concept on how Adler tries to reach and confront the rotting apple of his eye who gave him fresh scars as she explains how she was taught and etc while he was restrained. This wasn't proofread either, so I apologize for any bad grammar detected.

[divine-crows]

🎨✨️Art Magic✨️🎨

Uses, Forms of it, and Why I Think Everyone Should Try it at Least Once.

Foreword

Right before the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I had been trying and failing to rekindle my flame for magic work. No matter what I tried to do I just couldn't get back into my studies and I was reaching a point where I was convinced I lost my spark and was doomed to live an empty life. Then it all changed when a YouTube Channel challenged how I thought about everything: Molly Roberts. That's when I was opened to the possibility of art magic, and I'll now share my love of it with anyone willing to read on.

What Is Art Magic?

A means to utilize art for spellwork, raising magical energy, or for exploring your magical subconscious. It encapsulates multiple different types of art and is generally not confined by conventional expectation (unless that's what you prefer).

You can utilize art magic by. . .

Using traditional art methods

Digital art methods

Collages

Music composition

Jewelry making

Embroidery

And much more!

How do I know if Art Magic is Suitable for Me?

There isn't a specific thing that'll indicate this form of magic is perfect for you, however I have some anecdotes from my personal experience as both a witch, and a regular artist that form a sort of idea on what could denote this being perfect for you!

First off, craving freedom from personal restraints was a big factor that pushed me towards blending my craft with my passion for art. If you want to run from the monotony of life, if you feel trapped by the social construction of boxes, or if you simply want to challenge your own mental restraints... then this idea might resonate with you.

Challenging yourself with a new form of magic, similarly, can also be a good enough reason to try. I'm the type of person who loves to constantly learn new things and I unfortunately get bored really quickly if I can't get new source materials. Using Art Magic has proven a fun challenge for me that allows me to explore a lot more topics you can't just open a book to find.

For those that may not be able to safely perform a lot of traditional style spells, this form of magic provides a discreet way to practice witchcraft. Most people wouldn't really question someone if they picked up the hobby of making art, and even if they did there's plenty of reasonable excuses out there.

How you prefer your spells to manifest themselves can also affect if this journey is a good idea or not. I find that Art Magic is really good when it comes to subtle spellwork that is more longform (though depending on how you construct them you can definitely create a spell that's the opposite).

Catalog aspects of your magical journey. Imagine a grimoire filled with pages of drawings, each one telling a story of something you experienced or learned as a witch. This especially may be more beneficial for visual learners.

You could use it as a means of meditation, sometimes art can be calming and it can open the door to your mind (so-to-speak). Especially if you're like me and struggle with staying completely still while trying to clear your mind, this may be helpful for you.

Trying to better understand archetypes, deities, types of entities, or even your own self can also be a big part of this. I've used art magic as a way to embody the "energy" of something before so I could better understand it. Especially when you're trying to seek knowledge that isn't often written on, it can provide a great way to explore more.

How Can I perform an Art Spell?

I have a step-by-step process that can give you some insight on how you may approach it:

1) Think of the intention you want. I like to close my eyes and meditate on it for about a minute then I write down if my mind wandered to any specific imagery or ideas.

2) Think of visual symbolism and colors that can help you capture the mood you want. Perhaps you need a warm color palette to invoke positive feelings, or maybe there are specific objects or animals you can include on the composition that represent something.

3) If you feel it fits your composition, you can include sigils, symbols of significance, and include shapes that have certain associations. It doesn't even have to be obvious either. You can use a circular composition to convey something endless for example, or a triangular composition to show priority over something.

4) In general follow what your heart tells you. This is a little cliche, but ultimately follow what seems best to you. Art isn't about boxing yourself in and my guidelines are just general ideas for anyone who's lost!

Why do I think that everyone should try it at least once?

From my experiences as a witch, I find that a lot of paths to be followed are quite rigid. By no means am I implying that a rigid structure is bad-- it creates a foundation from which we can work upon. I myself am exploring rigid, 'traditional' (for lack of a better term) ways of working magic. Art magic pushes you out of your comfort zone in a safe way. It makes you consider how you associate things. It makes you create new sigils and makes you research new symbols you previously wouldn't have used.

So next time you're lost on a spell, or you've lost your way in your Craft and you don't know what to do, think about maybe giving Art Magic a try. I hope my guide was a helpful starting point for anyone interested in the topic!

[asa-do-your-thing]

restraint

18+ MINORS DNI Roose Bolton x F!Reader 2.5 k Warnings: P in V sex, porn w/o plot, smut duh, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, blood, orgasm denial, humiliation/degredation ~ reupload due to technical issues ~

You sat as still as you could and watched your husband, Roose Bolton, as he carefully filled out ledgers and wrote missives. A shiver ran over your semi-naked form, your shift not giving you nearly enough warmth. Roose looked up and studied you with his pale eyes, the corners of his lips twitching into something akin to a smile. “Do you know how long you’ve been sitting there already?”, he asked nonchalantly.

You tried your best to look outside without turning your head, a small blush creeping up your cheeks. “No, my Lord, I do not. As long as you have wished me to sit here.”

“Hm, that much is true. And do you remember why you are sitting there, in your shift and stockings?”, he asked, putting his quill away and standing up to pour himself some ale, smiling coldly as he saw the way you gulped to relieve your parched throat.

A crack of thunder made you flinch and your blush spread even further. This was… well, you would’ve thought that you would have died of embarrasment, yet… you were enjoying this just as much as he was. You had seen the way he was constantly shifting in his seat, readjusting himself under his desk - your husband, who to others seemed like the coldest, eeriest man in Westeros, was unable to stay focused on his lordly duties, because he was as pent up as a fourteen-year old boy.

“Because I wished to walk around the Dreadfort in barely any clothes during this storm, so my Lord has decided to punish me for my childish behavior,” you whispered with a tiny smile. “And because I am just such a silly little girl, my Lord has instructed me to wait for him to finish his tasks, without moving from the spot.”

Roose walked towards you slowly, his gaze never leaving your face. He took a sip of ale and licked his lips. "And have you learned your lesson, sweetling?"

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The hunger in his eyes made heat pool low in your belly. If anyone knew the relationship, the dynamic you had with your husband… But then again, hadn’t your septa and your mother told you that the most important thing in your life would be to serve your husband?

He set the tankard down on a side table and came to stand before you. His fingers traced along your collarbone and down between the valley of your breasts. "I'm not certain you fully understand the consequences of your actions. Perhaps a more thorough punishment is in order."

Before you could respond, his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. You gasped at the sudden sting of pain that melted into pleasure as his lips claimed yours in a bruising kiss.

When he finally released you, you were both breathless. "To the bed. Now," Roose commanded in a voice that brooked no argument.

On shaky legs, you stood and made your way to the large four-poster bed, the cool air caressing your heated skin. You could feel Roose's eyes on you, tracking your every movement like a predator stalking prey.

"Remove your shift and lay on your back," he instructed as he began to methodically remove his own clothing.

With trembling fingers, you untied the laces and let the thin fabric pool at your feet before climbing onto the bed. The furs were soft against your bare skin as you settled against the pillows. This was always the most exhillarating moment - when you saw that Roose was thinking, slowly stroking himself. Thinking how to punish you, thinking about how he could claim you, and you’d only know once he started.

“Gods, you’re pathetic. Already dripping onto the furs,” he stated matter-of-factly and methodically opened your legs, opening them like the maester did when he had examined your maidenhead. “And there I was, trying to punish you. Now you’ll expect me to fuck you senseless so you can get rid of that burning desire?”

You whimpered and squirmed under his intense scrutiny, equal parts embarrassed and aroused by his crude words. "Please, my Lord," you breathed, unsure if you were begging him to stop or to never stop.

Roose chuckled darkly. "Please what, my little whore? Please fuck you until you scream? Please make you come undone on my cock?" He ran a finger teasingly along your slit, making you gasp and arch your back wantonly.

"Yes...oh gods, yes!" you cried, all sense of propriety abandoned in your desperation for his touch. Your mind was awash in a haze of lust, caring for nothing but the ache between your thighs.

"As much as I'd love to bury myself in your sweet cunt, you haven't earned that privilege yet," Roose declared, withdrawing his hand. You nearly sobbed at the loss of contact. He grasped your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach in one swift motion. "Up on your knees. Spread yourself open for me."

Humiliation burned through you as you slowly shifted into the degrading position, face pressed into the furs while reaching back to part your buttocks with trembling hands. Never had you felt so exposed, so vulnerable. The first sharp slap to your rear made you yelp in surprise. Roose rubbed the abused flesh almost soothingly before delivering another. Every slap came harder than the last and your pain became ever greater, but so did your yearning for your husband. “P-please, Lord Hus-Husband… I’ll… I want… I’ll be good, I’ll… control myself…,” you whimpered, your cheeks moist as his hand connected once more with your raw flesh. “Be your… good little… quiet wife…”

Roose's hand paused, resting heavily on your stinging backside. "Will you now?" he mused, his fingers trailing along the crease between your burning cheeks. "And how do I know this lesson will stick? That you won't be traipsing about the Dreadfort like a wanton harlot the moment my back is turned?"

You shook your head frantically against the furs. "I won't, my Lord, I swear it! I'll be good, I'll obey, please..." Your voice cracked on a sob, overwhelmed by the heady mix of pain and desperate arousal.

"Shh, sweetling," Roose soothed, his hand stroking up your spine and tangling in your hair. "I believe you." He used his grip to turn your head to the side so he could see your tear-stained face. "But I'm going to make certain you never forget."

With that, he shifted to kneel behind you, the thick head of his manhood pressing insistently against your cunt. You were so wet, he slid in easily despite the stretch. A broken moan fell from your lips as he filled you completely, your inner walls clenching around his length. Roose set a relentless pace, the harsh slap of skin against skin mingling with your whimpers and cries. One hand locked around your hip while the other was buried in your hair, holding you up cruelly but oh-so-sweetly at the same time.

It felt like heaven. For if there was one thing you loved most about your Lord Husband, it was his ability to make love to you. You knew in your hazy mind that most people would not consider what he did to you to be love, but strangely enough it felt like the highest reward to be treated as such by him. Because even if you were his toy in his chambers, he expected you to be a formidably cold and smart Lady Bolton outside of them.

Your impending release quickly dragged you out of your thoughts and you could do naught but to bury your hands into the furs, wincing and moaning as he pulled you closer onto his cock. Roose's thrusts grew more erratic, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise. You could feel your own peak rapidly approaching, your body tensing and quivering in anticipation. Just as you teetered on the precipice of ecstasy, ready to let the waves of pleasure crash over you, Roose suddenly stilled.

With a firm grip, he flipped you onto your back, his pale eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made you shiver. "Did you think I would let you find your release so easily?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm despite his labored breathing. "After your wanton display? No, sweetling. You'll have to work much harder for that privilege."

You whimpered in frustration, your body aching for completion. "Please, my Lord," you begged, trying to rock your hips against him, desperate for any friction. "I need..."

"I know exactly what you need," Roose cut you off, pinning your hips to the bed with bruising force. "But you won't be getting it. Not until I deem you worthy."

He slowly withdrew from your clenching heat, making you cry out at the loss. You felt empty, hollow, your body singing with unsatisfied need. Roose stood from the bed, leaving you sprawled wantonly across the furs, a sheen of sweat glistening on your skin in the candlelight.

"Clean yourself up and compose yourself," Roose commanded sternly as he began to dress. "I expect you presentable and in the Great Hall within the hour."

You struggled to sit up, your limbs trembling from the strain of your denied release. "But my Lord..." you started to protest meekly.

Roose fixed you with a piercing stare that silenced you instantly. "Do not make me repeat myself, wife. You will do as you're told or face further consequences. I will not tolerate disobedience."

With that, he swept from the room, leaving you alone with your frustrated arousal and stinging shame. Gingerly, you rose from the bed on unsteady legs and made your way to the wash basin. As you cleaned the evidence of your coupling from your thighs, you couldn't help but grin. He was mean, wicked even, but you knew that was exactly what he needed - a soft wife for himself and a strong partner, who supported him on the outside. The only thing that could not be convinced of your love and respect for your husband was your weeping, fluttering cunt that wished for nothing but sweet release.

After carefully pinning up your mussed hair and donning a demure gown, you made your way to the Great Hall as instructed. Roose was already seated at the high table, surveying the gathered household with cool appraisal. You took your place beside him, locking your eyes with his, curtsying and sitting down next to him, displaying your expected power and gave him a respectful kiss on his cheek. “Lord Husband.”

Roose nodded in acknowledgement but his eyes remained fixed ahead, not sparing you a glance. Throughout the meal, he engaged in discussion with his men, barely paying you any mind. You tried to focus on your food but found your appetite lacking, still keenly feeling the ache between your thighs.

As servants cleared away the dishes, Roose finally turned to you. "Walk with me, wife," he said, rising from his seat. It was not a request.

You followed obediently as he led you out of the Hall and into the torch-lit corridor. The stone was cold beneath your slippered feet. Roose didn't speak, the only sound the swishing of your skirts and his measured footsteps. He came to a halt before a heavy wooden door - the entrance to his study.

Producing a key, he unlocked the door and gestured for you to precede him up the winding stairs. Your heart raced in both trepidation and anticipation. At the top, you emerged into the study itself, the scent of parchment and leather filling your nostrils. Roose shooed the servant away and locked the door behind you with a resounding click.

"Disrobe and bend over the desk," he commanded calmly, as if merely commenting on the weather. “Don’t make me wait.”

Your fingers trembled slightly as you untied the laces of your gown, letting the heavy fabric slide from your shoulders to pool at your feet. The chill air pebbled your nipples and you bent over, spreading your thighs for him. “Thank you…,” you whispered with a small smile and gasped as he wrapped his hand around your throat, silencing you. You could distinctly feel his other hand tugging his cock out of his breeches - gods, he didn’t even take them off - and positioning it against your entrance.

“One squeak and I’ll stop and then you won’t get anything at all, my girl,” he muttered, lust tinging his own voice. “Enjoy it.”

With one powerful thrust, Roose sheathed himself fully inside your aching core. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, but you quickly bit your lip to stifle any further sounds, heeding his warning. He set a brutal pace, each snap of his hips driving him deeper, stoking the embers of your arousal into a raging inferno.

The hand at your throat tightened just slightly, not enough to truly restrict your breathing but serving as a constant reminder of his complete control. His other hand gripped your hip, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh as he used the leverage to pull you back onto his cock.

You braced your hands against the sturdy desk, knuckles white as you struggled to maintain your silence. Each thrust seemed to hit that secret spot within you, sending jolts of electricity racing up your spine. Roose was not a vocal lover, but you could hear his breathing growing more labored, could feel him throbbing inside you as he chased his own release.

Despite the authority he wielded over you, in these intimate moments you knew you held a power over him too. The usually cold and stoic Lord of the Dreadfort, driven to base animal instinct by the heat of your body. It was intoxicating.

The pressure built inexorably, your inner walls beginning to flutter around his pistoning length. You were so close, balancing on a knife's edge, desperate for that final push to send you careening into ecstasy. Your teeth clenched as hard as they could and tears of desperate pleasure dripped down onto Roose’s hand. Please, you wished to mumble, please, I’ve been so good, but you restrained yourself and simply breathed deeply.

Roose could sense your impending climax, the telltale quiver of your walls giving you away. With a particularly hard thrust, he growled low in your ear. "Now, wife. Come for me now."

His command was your undoing. The coil within you snapped and your orgasm crashed over you in wave after wave of searing bliss. You convulsed around him, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure radiated out to the very tips of your fingers and toes. Through the haze, you could feel Roose's thrusts grow erratic before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling his hot seed deep inside you with a guttural groan.

For a moment, you both remained locked together, chests heaving as you came down from your carnal high. Then Roose withdrew, leaving you feeling bereft and empty. On shaky legs, you turned to face him, seeing him tuck himself back into his breeches, his expression once again an unreadable mask.

"Clean yourself up," he instructed brusquely. "And make sure you're properly covered. I won't have my wife parading around looking like a well-used whore."

"Yes, my Lord," you replied demurely, even as a secret smile played at the corners of your lips. You knew that beneath his icy exterior, you held sway over Roose in a way no one else did. It was a heady feeling. So when you were dressed and presentable, you gently took Roose’s hand and gave him a small smile, drawing him closer and giving him a soft, gentle kiss with your bloodied lips.

Roose stiffened momentarily at the tender gesture, unused to such open affection directly after his punishments. But after a heartbeat, he relaxed into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. When you pulled back, he studied your face intently, his pale eyes searching yours for any hint of deception or manipulation. He found only genuine warmth and devotion reflected back at him.

"You are a strange creature," he murmured, thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips, smearing the blood. "Soft and yielding, yet possessing a core of steel. You would let me do the most depraved things to you, and still look at me with such...love." He said the word as if it were foreign on his tongue.

You leaned into his touch, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. "I am yours, my Lord. In body, mind, and soul. There is nothing you could do to change that."

Something flickered in Roose's eyes, there and gone too quickly to identify. He lowered his hand and stepped back, putting distance between you once more. "We shall see," he said cryptically. "Now go, before I decide to bend you over the desk again."

You dipped into a curtsy, a secret smile playing about your lips. "As my Lord commands." With that, you turned and slipped from the study, feeling Roose's eyes boring into your back.

[ccieatchildren]

Scars

Shower steam filtered in through the open bathroom door, warming the bedroom and permeating the smell of soap in the air. They had been reapplying ointment, what little he had given them, to their still healing wounds and rebandaging them. Whumpee turned from their spot on the edge of the bed to watch as he walked in. There was a certain swagger to the way he carried himself that they despised. However, while Whumpee hadn’t been here for long, they had already learned not to engage with him if they didn’t have to– it wasn’t worth the risk– so Whumpee just stared.

A towel was slung low around his waist and his hair was still damp, leaving droplets of water in his wake. His half naked body was on full display, and Whumpee couldn’t stop from curiously analyzing each part of him. They typically didn’t get to see much of him due to clothing or dark lighting getting in the way, but now they could see the various scars littering his frame. 

There were two slash marks on his lower right abdomen that formed an uneven cross, a line of indented flesh that seemed to encircle his whole left bicep, a bullet wound sat right above on his shoulder, and on his right collarbone were four deep cuts, almost like claw marks. Whumpee hadn’t expected someone like him to have so many cicatrices, he was a simple researcher, and while they did get hurt sometimes, they typically were small cuts from broken glass or chemical burns. They had their own to confirm. Furthermore, normal villains usually had many more lesions and blemishes across their figures from many fights and powers going haywire. Though, he wasn’t like many normal archetypes anyway. 

Their train of thought was cut off by a deep chuckle. “Like what you see?” 

Whumpee blushed, glaring at him, and turning back to what they were initially doing. He continued to snigger at their embarrassment while they furiously tried to refocus on patching themself up. The thought of the line being cliché and overused made them feel a bit better, and they continued to bash him in their head to calm themself down as they worked. 

The rustling of a towel could be heard as he dried off his hair, sounding like a wet dog shaking itself dry. Then, they could hear him shuffling in the background, presumably fetching clothes from the closet. Whumpee tried to keep their gaze solely on what they were doing, but could no longer concentrate on their task. Having been caught staring, and him misinterpreting their attention, irritated them, but now they were even more curious. Forcing themself not to look, only made them want to look more. Whumpee cursed themself for having the self restraint of a five year old…

Slightly pivoting their head to peek at him again as he picked out his attire, they barely managed to stop themself from gasping at the sight. His back was still turned to them, and scrawled there was one of the most unsettling wounds they had ever seen. Along his upper back, spanning from the left shoulder to the right the word “BASTARD” was carved in large letters. The raised skin along his shoulder blades conveyed that the cut had healed long ago, but whoever had done it, made sure to slash deep enough so the mark would stay there forever. They had seen many things, from their own burnt skin melting off, to arms completely torn off, but the deliberately and aggressively engraved swear on his body disturbed them in a way they had never felt before.

Whumpee had never met anyone, villain or otherwise, who intentionally and methodically cut someone in a way that would leave them alive but always wearing a reminder of their experience. Especially in a way that exuded so much wrath and resentment. At least not until Whumper. They looked down at themself and the injuries that adorned their body. Was he using the same techniques on them that someone else had used on him? The thought made them shiver. Vigorously returning to their task, Whumpee swore to themself that they would not allow Whumper to scar them like he had been himself. 

— — — — —

“Just ask.”

Whumpee flinched. They had just finished one of their sessions and Whumper decided to patch them up afterwards this time. They would much rather do it themself, as his hands would always roam to places they didn’t need to, but Whumper would use better medicine whenever he played medic, and knew how to bind the wounds tighter than they ever could with their, now constantly, trembling fingers. They also weren’t allowed to say no to him.

“W-What?”

“I can practically hear the questions bouncing around in your head.” He suddenly pulled the bandage harshly, pulling a gasp out from them. “Not to mention the hole you’re burning into my back with your staring.” The hand on their middle considerably tightened, “it’s starting to piss me off, so ask.”

Whumpee contemplated his demand, unsure if he meant it or if it was just another one of his tricks, baiting them to make a mistake just so he could beat them again. But they could feel him getting agitated behind them, therefore they had to say something. However, Whumpee didn’t think asking him what was really on their mind would go over very well. They had to think of something quick, but, unfortunately, when it came to talking they didn’t work very well under pressure. So…

“How do you get your hair so sleek?” Whumpee wanted to smash themself over the head with a glass. This was the best their brain could come up with? Might as well say goodbye to a calm evening.

Whumper was still behind them, and they were already saying their prayers, until he barked out a laugh. “What?” The amusement pervaded his tone. “You have been ruminating for the past three days on how I do my hair?”

“… Yes.”

He continued to cackle behind them as Whumpee quietly panicked, hoping that was enough to quell him.

“Aww, that’s cute, darlin’. Didn’t know you still had the quips in you.” He took a moment to pretend to wipe a tear from his eye. “But I don’t think that’s what you’ve been thinkin’ about.” Arms locked around their waist, pulling them flush against him. A dark voice whispered in their ear, “Now, I’ve indulged your little game,” his arms constricted, pushing into their stomach, agitating their injuries, “letting you figure out the best way to approach this,” Whumpee looked away. “If I’m honest, it was quite nice to see you contemplate whether to ask me or not,” his voice grew smug, “it means you’re learning, becoming more obedient, which will only make things easier for the both of us in the future.” Whumper squeezed even further once again, and they groaned from the pain. “For that, I’m giving you an out. Be good and I��ll reward you. So,” he growled, “ask the damn question.”

Whumpee gulped. “Fine. Ju- Just let go,” they pushed at his arms, “it hurts.”

Whumper clutched them tighter. Whumpee could feel some of their wounds reopen under the pressure. “I’ll let go when you stop wasting my time.” 

“Okay, okay,” they wheezed. “I just wanted to know about the large scar on your back,” the ache was getting worse. “The one that says bas–.”

He abruptly let them go, allowing air to filter back into their system and dampening the pain to a dull throb. “I know the one.”

Whumpee froze, trying to suppress their oncoming coughing fit. They didn’t want to set him off when he was obviously very displeased. He curtly got up and headed for the door, leaving them with the final words,

“Do not bring it up again.”

Extra:

Fuck that motherfucking mothafucka. 

Whumpee wanted to punch something, they just did what he asked and now he’s mad at them, like it’s their fault.

Fuckin’ hate that fuckin’ kidnappin’ piece of shit. They continued to curse to themself as they finished the job Whumper brusquely left to them. Closing up the now open cuts, applying ointment, and finally bandaging them for the– hopefully– last time that day. Whumpee sighed to themself. Who were they kidding, he would ruin them again at night. But at least they had a new piece of information to exploit.

It may take a while, but they will escape from here and see everyone again.

[hroscek]

Dottore NSFW alphabet

NSFW alphabet for Il dottore ✮ hope this finds the right audience

GN! partner

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Aftercare with the 2nd harbinger is minimal to say the least. He resents attachment so don't expect anything more than a towel to clean yourself up with. If you do have the (mis)fortune of being his partner he will likely stay with you for a while before returning to his work.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Dottore doesn't spend much time pondering his own body, but if he had to pick a favourite part it would definitely be his hands. He's likely very skilled with using them, especially because of his work. In the bedroom he uses his knowledge to touch, caress and prod at different spots to see how you react. As for his partner, I feel like Dottore has a fascination with the abdomen. It's a very sensitive area of the body so he would take advantage of that to explore what feels good to you. He would enjoy finding sensitive spots along your stomach, making your body shake.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Doesn't care much for it, usually finishing either on your stomach or nearest body part (depending on the position). If you get him worked up enough he might finish inside you, but he mostly thinks of convenience when picking a spot.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not that experienced, mostly due to a general dislike for people. He sees it as a waste of time since it's not vital to his experiments, but you're most likely not going to be his first as he did get curious a couple times along the way. I'd say he knows the basic positions, some (outdated) terminology and it could be quite enjoyable if he decided to put some effort in.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary or any where he has a view of your face to see how you react to him. He sees sex as a method to study you and your body, so why waste the opportunity to learn something new. Hope you can keep your eyes closed as he will be examining every expression you make in detail.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Very serious. Again, he wants to take that moment to study the act so he would likely be laser focused on taking everything in. Don't be shocked if he pulls out a notepad out after you're done to take notes the first few times you do it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

This man is all about efficiency. If it doesn't impact his research he won't do it and that includes shaving anything other than his face. He does have impeccable hygiene though. I imagine his blue hair is natural, so all his body hair is a slightly deeper blue than his head.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Heavily depends on who you are to him. If you're just another experiment or one night stand he wouldn't be intimate at all. Purely robotic and serious. If you somehow break down his walls and get to a point he's comfortable with you though he will loosen up. He would give soft kisses along your shoulders and hold you ever so gently.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Very rarely. He simply doesn't have time to think about that side of himself, nor is he ever in the mood while caught up in various experiments. There may come a time once in a blue moon though when it catches up to him and he jerks off just to let off some steam.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Due to his inexperience he likely wouldn't know of kink until a partner introduced him to it. He probably wouldn't be super into it, but would take interest in any that further his goal of experimenting and seeing different methods in action. Most likely would be into hitting/spanking, choking and restraints.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

If he ever took a serious interest in physical intimacy to further his studies he would likely prepare a special section in a lab to test out different approaches in a neutral environment. For any partners he wouldn't be as picky. The bedroom, his study or any convenient place is fair game for him.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As stated, he isn't naturally motivated to be intimate with anyone. The only way to get him going is an opportunity to study the human body or further a goal of his. For more casual sex he would need to first have an established relationship with the person in which case he would likely initiate on a more regular basis.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything to do with him submitting to his partner (he is a VERY egotistical man) or anything that involves pregnancy (if his partner is able to have children). He isn't interested in creating a family as it would distract from his studies.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He would enjoy receiving, especially from a partner. If you offer it to him, he would start initiating as a stress reliever basically anytime you can. He would also give oral on occasion to see the effect it has on the other person, but he wouldn't swallow.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Very methodical and almost robotic. He would vary the pace to fit your needs, but only to a point. You can typically tell when he gets really into it as he would start losing the tempo and become rougher and sloppier.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

With a partner he would use them to bow off steam after a stressful period of experimenting. Definitely less organised and put together than his usual methods, but you don't mind it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He would be very interested in experimenting with the partner's body but only to an extent. As long as he has full control over the results he's eager to see how far he can push you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Being human and all he would likely last around two rounds on a typical day. He lasts slightly longer than an average human male, but not by a lot. If he saw the need for it though, he would definitely be willing to create a potion or medicine to extend the sessions.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

While he's not against the use of toys in the bedroom, he wouldn't own them personally. The only time you would see him using them is after he's exhausted all other options while trying out an experiment or if his partner brings them up first.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Definitely a tease. He loves seeing the look on your face after denying a release. It's all a part of the process for him, so why not have some fun while he's at it?

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Dottore is a quiet man in the bedroom. He's focused on his partner's noises so would make an effort not to drown them out with his own. You can expect an occasional grunt or words of encouragement to speed things along, but other than that dead silence.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Would send a segment or two to "deal" with a partner that's too needy. Whether you're into that or not is up to you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Around 17 cm in length and fairly thick. Probably uncut, unshaven but otherwise impeccably clean.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

When he's focused on an experiment he's suppressing his drive (which is pretty much all the time) but if he has a partner to take care of his needs he'd definitely be more open to any activity.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Dottore doesn't believe in sleep, likely returning to his work directly after he's done. If you do catch him at a time when he decides to wind down though, he'd fall asleep pretty fast from exhaustion. Appreciate those times, as they're rare.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

Hello, I've been thinking of writing my own headcanons for a while now. Is anyone interested in that? I'll likely be a fairly Dottore-centric blog for a bit while I'm still obsessed with him but I'm open to suggestions.

[yanderejustforyou]

Into The unKnown

Summary:

Harry Potter is captured by Draco Malfoy, who has embraced the dark side of magic. Now, in the cold, shadowed halls of Malfoy Manor, Draco is determined to make Harry his.

The air inside Malfoy Manor was oppressive. The walls seemed to close in with every passing second, and the stone arches towered above Harry as if they were alive, watching him. He could feel the heavy presence of dark magic that hummed throughout the place, making the manor feel like a living entity, its pulse in sync with Draco’s own.

Harry had been captured in the dead of night, taken before he had even a chance to defend himself. A blur of robes and an echoing voice were the last things he remembered before the darkness enveloped him completely. Now, he found himself here, bound in chains that dug into his skin, his vision clouded with confusion and fear, but also something else… something darker.

Draco Malfoy stood at the center of the opulent room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows that danced along the ornate walls of Malfoy Manor. His platinum blonde hair fell into his eyes, framing a face that was both beautiful and terrifying—a mask of cruel serenity. The cold, calculating look in his steely gray eyes sent a chill down Harry's spine, making it clear that this wasn’t the Draco he had grown up with at Hogwarts. No, this was a version of Draco molded by the intoxicating allure of power, steeped in darkness, and driven by an obsessive ambition that Harry could not yet grasp.

"You look so out of place here, Potter," Draco remarked with a smooth, almost playful tone, as he casually leaned against an intricately carved table. His lips curled into a sly smile, hinting at the amusement he took from Harry’s discomfort. "But you will come to learn that you belong here. With me."

As Draco spoke, Harry felt the pulsating weight of his words resonate within him—an echo that reverberated through his mind, igniting a wave of unease deep in his core. This was more than mere arrogance; it was a dark power that surrounded Draco, filling the air with an almost tangible intensity. It wasn’t only the gloomy atmosphere of Malfoy Manor that bore the heavy shadow of malevolence; Draco himself had morphed into an embodiment of that darkness, his heart twisted with an insatiable thirst for something that eluded Harry’s understanding, something that hinted at a longing or perhaps a desperation that was far more than it appeared.

"Let me go," Harry demanded, his voice rough and strained as he struggled against the magical restraints that bound him to the cold, stone wall. Each effort he made sent electric jolts of frustration coursing through him, but the enchantments held firm. "You can’t do this. It’s wrong."

Draco's lips curved into a slow, chilling smile that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "Oh, but I can, Potter. I already have," he replied, his voice smooth and confident, each word dripping with superiority.

As Draco advanced, the atmosphere in the dimly lit room shifted unsettlingly. The sound of his boots clicking against the ancient stone floor echoed, each step methodical and deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment of this twisted encounter. Harry felt the weight of Draco’s gaze, an almost tangible force that scrutinized him, making him feel exposed and vulnerable. It was as if Draco was dissecting him, perceiving every hidden fear and doubt swirling in his mind.

"What is this, Draco?" Harry managed to ask, his voice wavering between defiance and confusion. "Why are you doing this?" The question hung in the air, heavy with the uncertainty that gripped him.

Draco stopped just inches away, an intimidating presence looming over him. His pale blue eyes locked onto Harry’s face with unnerving intensity, making it difficult for Harry to look away. For a fleeting moment, Harry’s heart raced as he expected Draco to utter something, a cruel taunt or a twisted explanation. Instead, Draco raised a trembling hand. The unexpected softness of his fingertips grazed lightly over Harry’s jawline, creating a confusing blend of fear and an inexplicable thrill that coursed through Harry’s body. The world around them faded, leaving just the two of them in that charged silence, the air thick with tension and unspoken words.

"You really don’t understand, do you?" Draco whispered, his voice thick with something akin to pity. "I thought you would’ve figured it out by now. You’ve always been the light to my darkness, the antithesis to everything I’ve become. But you see, Potter, that’s what makes you perfect for me. You belong in this world with me, in the shadows. The war is over. There’s no reason for you to keep fighting anymore. It’s just you and me now."

Harry flinched, his heart racing. The touch of Draco’s fingers sent a shiver down his spine, not from fear but from something else—something he couldn’t name, yet couldn’t push away.

"You’re wrong," Harry spat, though his voice trembled. "I’ll never be yours."

Draco chuckled, low and dark. "You will. You just don’t know it yet." His lips hovered dangerously close to Harry’s ear, his breath warm against Harry’s skin. "I’m going to make you love me, Potter. I’ll make you crave it. All of it. The darkness, the power, the surrender."

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to fight. He wanted to yell, to scream, to fight back against the suffocating grip of Draco’s words. But the truth was, every word Draco spoke felt like a magnet, pulling him closer, twisting him inside. He had always been able to feel Draco’s presence in his veins, a memory that lingered in the back of his mind, no matter how much he tried to bury it. The rivalry, the hatred—it had always been there, but now it was something else.

"You're insane," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. His chest was tight with conflicting emotions, and he could feel his pulse quicken as Draco’s presence closed in.

"Insane?" Draco’s eyes gleamed with something darker, almost predatory. "No, Potter. I’m in control now. We’re in control."

With a flick of Draco’s wrist, the chains holding Harry snapped like brittle twigs, falling away to the ground with a soft clang. For a moment, Harry stood there, unrestrained, his body yearning to move, to escape, but he couldn't. He couldn’t stop looking at Draco, at the fire burning behind his eyes. Every part of him screamed to run, yet every instinct told him to stay.

Draco took a slow step forward, his fingers lifting Harry’s chin so their eyes met. "I know you feel it. You can deny it all you want, but you feel it, don’t you? The pull. The desire."

Harry shook his head, trying to push away the dark heat spreading through his veins. He wanted to hate Draco , wanted to tell him to get away, but the words stuck in his throat, tangled with a confusing mixture of emotions. His body was betraying him, responding to Draco in ways he didn’t understand.

"No," Harry whispered desperately, his voice barely audible. "I won’t… I can’t…"

Draco’s lips curled into a knowing smile, his hand still holding Harry’s chin with a grip that was both tender and possessive. "You can, Potter. You will."

Before Harry could react, Draco’s lips were on his, fierce and demanding. The kiss was not gentle. It was a brutal claiming, a collision of heat and darkness, as if Draco was trying to consume him whole. Harry’s mind screamed to push him away, to fight, but his body was paralyzed, drowning in the warmth of Draco’s touch.

There was no escape.

When Draco finally pulled away, his eyes locked onto Harry’s with an intensity that made Harry’s chest tighten painfully. "You see, Potter?" Draco whispered, voice low and dangerous. "This is what happens when you defy me. You’ll want this. You’ll crave me. And I’ll make sure you never want to leave."

Harry could feel the heavy weight of Draco’s words, sinking into him like poisoned thorns, rooting him in place. He wanted to resist, wanted to hate every moment of this, but the truth was, he couldn’t deny the darkness that had always been there between them. And Draco had every intention of making sure that darkness consumed him completely.

Notes:

Please leave a comment—whether you loved it, hated it, or just want to share your thoughts, I’d love to hear from you! and give me any of your ideas

[livelaughwhump]

what about elliot´s teammates having to restrain him for his own good, maybe he got flashbacks and got violent, like hitting his teammates and won´t calm down, i feel a lot of whump potential

i understand if its not your cup of tea in case you dont feel like writing it

Masterlist

Oooh, this is an excellent idea😈🥰 Thanks so much for the request!!

Content: flashback, knife violence, brief mention of blood, self-hatred, restraints, former pet whumpee

If I missed any content warnings, please let me know

-

The team wasn't unfamiliar with Elliot's flashbacks. They were typically triggered by small things, like loud noises or dark rooms, and they all manifested the same way; with Elliot frozen in place, tears leaking out of the corners of his wide, unblinking eyes and unintelligible mumbling followed by intense trembling of his whole body.

The team had witnessed many of these, and they'd learned a few methods to help bring Elliot out of it. The first was that Elliot seemed to respond best to physical touch, usually in the form of someone gently holding his hands. The second was kind words spoken softly and calmly into his ear. Finally, the third was patience. It wasn't easy to bring Elliot out of a flashback, especially when it was triggered by something larger. So, in order to bring him out of it, it was important for whoever was with him to be patient and calm throughout.

But nothing, not even the gentle methods the team had learned, could have prepared them for just how bad his flashbacks could get.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. The day started the same as always; the team ate breakfast together in the living room, Elliot sitting on the couch with his single slice of plain toast and cup of peppermint tea. He ate quietly, while the rest of the team chatted happily, making jokes and laughing with each other. Normally, he'd only eat about half of it, but on this particular day, he ate nearly the whole thing and drained his entire cup of tea.

He handed Landon the small sliver of toast he hadn't eaten, just like he did every morning, and stood up to take his empty mug to the kitchen. Elliot liked the routine. It was familiar and easy. Not much was expected of him, but it was just enough that he still felt useful. He liked making his own breakfast and doing his own dishes. He liked not being expected to talk when he didn't want to. As hard as it was to admit to himself, he liked his life with the team. They were nice to him. He trusted them.

As he was washing his mug in the sink, he couldn't help but stare out the window. Spring was swiftly approaching and Elliot couldn't look away as the morning rays of sun spilled through the gaps in the tree branches. He longed to go out there, to feel the warm sun on his face and the gentle breeze whistling through his hair.

Elliot couldn't remember the last time he'd been outside. It felt like years ago. It wasn't like he wasnt allowed to go outside. Of course he was...right? He'd never explicitly asked, but surely his friends wouldn't deny him that right. It's just that it was too cold before, that's all. There couldn't possibly be another reason.

"Elliot?"

The sound of another voice in the quiet kitchen pulled Elliot out of the endless spiral that was his thoughts. He started and gasped, only then realizing that the sink in front of him was quickly overflowing.

"Ah! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Elliot exclaimed, quickly draining the water. His muscles tensed as he prepared to be hit.

"No need to be sorry, sweet," Broderick's voice said from behind him. Chills scurried up the back of Elliot's neck as he felt the looming presence of the medic but didn't turn to look at him. "It was an accident. Did you get distracted?"

Elliot suppressed a flinch. "Y-Yes, Sir. I'm so sorry. It-It won't happen a—" Elliot's mind went white as he felt Broderick's presence grow closer, the wood creaking beneath his feet. Elliot's whole body froze.

"El?" Broderick said. "You all right? You look a little pale."

Dull images flashed through Elliot's mind, none of which he could comprehend. They swirled together and dissolved like salt in the sea, invisible but impossible to deny the lingering taste. The sudden influx of repressed memories left a rotten taste in his mouth; memories of Christian softly approaching him from behind, touching him, dragging him to the bedroom, stripping him of his dignity. He couldn't take it. The panic set every nerve in his body on fire, and as Broderick's gentle hand fell upon Elliot's stiff shoulder, all hell broke loose.

Elliot swiftly turned and slapped Broderick's hand away. "Don't touch me!" He shouted, tears stinging his eyes.

Broderick backed up, eyes wide with confusion. "Okay, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."

The next thing Elliot knew, there was a soapy knife in his hand. He didn't remember how it got there, but he shakily pointed it at Broderick regardless. "Get away from me!" He demanded, voice quivering almost as much as the knife in his fist.

Broderick was dumbstruck. "Elliot, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm just trying to—"

"Shut up!" Elliot interrupted. "D-Don't come any c-closer! I'll k-kill you!"

Broderick took a small, risky step toward the panicked boy before him. His voice was gentle and soft as he said, "Elliot—"

Elliot didn't waste a second before he swung the knife, slicing a thin gash across Broderick's forearm. Broderick gasped and hissed and stumbled backward just in time for the rest of the team to spill into the room.

"What is going on?" Karine questioned. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her. "Elliot?"

Tears were steadily trickling down Elliot's face. "L-Leave me alone! I w-won't let you t-take me! I won't!"

"Darling, no one is taking you anywhere," Yvonne tried to reassure him. "Please, put the knife down. It's just us."

"I don't think he's seeing us, Yve," Karine whispered. "Landon, I'm gonna need you to try and discreetly sneak up behind him and grab the knife. The three of us will distract him."

Lyra was frozen in place, unable to process what they were seeing.

As Landon soundlessly slipped away, Karine held out her hands placatingly. "Elliot, buddy? I'm gonna need you to put the knife down, okay? We're not gonna hurt you."

Elliot took a step back, arms shaking. "I w-won't let you t-take me!"

"We're not gonna touch you, I promise," Karine said. "We just wanna talk. Please put the knife down. You're gonna hurt yourself."

Elliot stood his ground, completely unaware of the giant man looming behind him. In one swift movement, Landon grabbed Elliot and plucked the knife out of his hands.

Elliot screamed in what could only be described as pure terror. He kicked and flailed, his fist nailing Landon right in the mouth before Landon caught both of his wrists and manhandled him. Elliot fought with every ounce of strength he could muster.

"LET GO OF ME! LET GO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!!" Elliot cried.

Landon wrapped him in a tight hug and whispered soothingly into his ear, "It's okay, it's okay. You're safe, buddy. You're safe." Over and over again.

Elliot's struggling didn't cease, and eventually, Karine had to grab hold of his flailing legs as well to prevent him from injuring anyone else, most of all himself. "Set him on the ground!" Karine shouted over Elliot's screams.

Lyra watched, tears blurring their eyes as Elliot was restrained and wrestled to the floor, all while sobbing and screaming and begging. The sight made their insides churn and their throat tighten.

Elliot sobbed and squirmed, but his fighting did little to free him. "P-Please, l-let me go. Wh-Why are you d-doing this?"

"You've gotta come back to us, buddy," Karine said in the most gentle voice she could. "You're home, safe and sound. No one is going to hurt you anymore. Just take a deep breath." Karine glanced over her shoulder at Lyra, who was still as a statue. "Lye? Can you grab us a weighted blanket please? Lyra? Lyra!"

Lyra snapped out of it, their focus shifting from Elliot to Karine. "Y-Yes. I-I'll be right back." They hurried into their room and grabbed the heaviest weighted blanket they had. When they returned, Karine had released Elliot's legs and Landon only had a loose hold on Elliot's upper half.

The boy had ceased his struggling and had instead dissolved into a sobbing mess. As Lyra handed off the weighted blanket to Karine, Landon released Elliot. The blanket was draped over Elliot's shaking body.

"Lyra? Maybe you should try to talk to him," Karine suggested.

Lyra nodded and kneeled down beside him. "Sunshine? Can you hear me?"

Elliot kept his eyes trained on the floor and the droplets of crimson that Broderick had left behind. The smallest nod of his head was the only response he gave.

"How are you feeling?"

Lyra didn't expect an answer, or really any kind of indication that Elliot had heard them. They weren't surprised when Elliot remained completely frozen in place, eyes unblinking and skin as pale as bone.

Lyra didn't push Elliot to speak. Instead, they sat beside him as he watched Karine wipe up the blood. Once the kitchen floor was no longer peppered with red, Karine excused herself and left Lyra and Elliot to themselves.

Moments after Karine's departure, Elliot said, in the tiniest voice possible, "Did I h-hurt him?"

His voice was so small and meek that Lyra wasn't even completely sure that they'd heard him. "What was that, El?"

Elliot took a deep breath and repeated his question, a little louder this time. "D-Did I h-hurt him?"

Lyra didn't know how to answer. They didn't want to make him feel worse by being truthful, but they couldn't stand lying to him either. "It was just a little cut," they answered, keeping their voice soft so as not to frighten him. "Broderick will be fine. He's a medic, after all. He's used to dealing with this kind of stuff."

Those words did nothing to ease Elliot's grief. "I hurt him," Elliot mumbled, his voice quivering almost as much as the rest of him. Tears flooded his blood-shot eyes and he sniffled. "I'm a b-bad dog."

Lyra didn't know what to do. It had been nearly a month since Elliot had last called himself a dog, and the last thing they wanted was for him to regress. Internally panicking, Lyra said, "It wasn't your fault. I don't know what happened, but I know it wasn't your fault."

Elliot's tears started to fall. "H-How do you kn-know?"

"Because I know you," they asserted. Elliot finally looked up at them, eyes watery and filled with regret. Lyra gently wiped his tears. "You're a good person, Elliot. A good person that's gone through some terrible things. You've been hurt and taken advantage of and abused, but you are still a good person and you always will be. You'd never hurt anyone on purpose, let alone one of us."

Elliot looked away. "Is he m-mad at me?"

Lyra shook her head. "He could never be mad at you. No one here could. We love you too much."

Elliot sniffled again and leaned his head on her shoulder. Lyra opened her arms and gathered him in a tight hug. He laid his head on her chest, his remaining tears soaking through the fabric.

"I've got you, sunshine," Lyra whispered. Elliot snuggled against her, curling up on her lap like a child after a nightmare. There was no place on Earth he felt safer than in her arms. She rubbed gentle circles into her back and carded her fingers through his hair. "I've got you."

-

Thanks so much for the request! I hope you enjoyed this! Also, please let me know if I have any typos. I didn't really get the chance to proofread this.

If anyone else has any drabble requests, suggestions, or questions for me or my characters, please send me an ask!

Taglist:

@l-antre-des-merveilles @pigeonwhumps @nicolepascaline @burningkittypoet @whumpinggrounds @suffering-and-misery @make-them-scream @honeycollectswhump @rabass @whumpdreamz @clairelsonao3 @ofclrosewriteswhump @cepheusgalaxy @pinkraindropsfell @mj-or-say10 @considerablecolors @whatamidoingherehelpme @whumped4whumplover @ladybizarre13 @theaustralianfrog @lavndvrr @bitchaknso

If anyone wants to be added to or removed from the taglist, please let me know!☺️

Or if you only want to be tagged in main chapters

[sailtomarina]

Dramatic, that

Playlist, AO3 | Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Hermione couldn’t make heads or tails of Malfoy. One moment he was making her work life a living nightmare, and then the next he stood behind her in the cafeteria line adding a bread roll here and a slice of chicken thigh there because she “didn’t eat enough.” What was he, her guardian? She hadn’t felt this amount of whiplash since, well, ever. He ran cold, then hot, then somewhere in between.

Take, for instance, when she’d been running late one morning. She must have turned off her alarm without realising it, giving herself hardly any time to splash water on her face and throw on some clothes before running through the Floo. She’s had to make do with a breath-freshening charm, and as for her hair, well, that was a lost cause. It had tumbled around her shoulders without restraint, the curls magnified after she’d fallen asleep with it wet after the shower.

She’d barely made it into the lift before the gate closed and met the now familiar eyes that so easily reflected his mood. Malfoy’s jaw had dropped, his body backing into the corner with both hands on the railings like he was afraid her hair was about to devour him whole. Rather than the expected snide comment about nests and creatures, he’d just stayed in position until they’d reached her floor.

Now here he was back to his unflappable self and questioning her methods of communication with the Centaurs–as if he had ever tried to secure a meeting with any in the past. The star-gazers were notoriously difficult to find unless one trespassed on their territory, and Hermione was not that stupid. At least, not anymore. She’d learned her lesson after Sixth Year.

“As I said before, the Quantock herd will not accept anything less than full autonomy of the indicated region and their inhabitants.”

“And as I have stated before, the Wizengamot lacks the authority to transfer ownership of lands under multiple owners, some of which are Muggle, to a single entity.” Malfoy countered. Wearing what might have been a Muggle suit if not for the large fold of the collar and how the coat trailed in the back, he almost looked like the perfect representation between the old and the new. 

She wanted to grab him by his oversized lapels and shake hard enough to make teeth clack. He kept his hair shorter lately, so there was no slicked back style to send into disarray.

The remainder of the session passed quickly once it was clear she’d have to revise her proposal yet again. Her next attempt would need to be fully armoured and ready to batter down any opposition.

The very next morning, Hermione arrived at her desk to find a deep crimson flower in a small vase. 

Rebecca’s lips curved upward when she noticed it in the middle of her delivery of messages and mail. “Dramatic, that.”

“Is it?” She’d thought the offering the exact opposite of dramatic. While, yes, the long train of blossoms reached upward as if asking for attention, the single stem seemed humble enough.

“It’s a gladiolus.”

At Hermione’s blank look, her assistant gestured along the length of the flower.

“Sometimes called ‘little sword’. I’m sure you can see why.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “It’s striking. I take it to mean something equally cutting? A strike to the heart, perhaps?”

“Right in one!” Rebecca replied with a mock stab and wink. “Cut anyone down to size lately?”

“Not to anyone who’d send me flowers. Curses would be the more appropriate response.” Hermione scowled at the elaborate signature on one particular memo. It was just like Malfoy to sign off with a flair unbefitting the subject matter.

As the door clicked shut and blessed silence fell into place, she took deep pleasure in slashing the thick paper with a cutting spell, imagining it was the sender’s suit she was cutting to ribbons. The image of Draco Malfoy squawking in indignation as he stood shirtless before their peers and elders brought a smile to her face…until she recalled the breath of his shoulders and how well he’d filled out those same suits over the years. 

She gave herself a vigorous shake and sat down. There was no time for that. She had a mountain of work and not enough hours in the day to entertain much else.

Still, Hermione took a short moment to appreciate the vase once more. It really was the perfect shade of green, reminiscent of seafoam. A thin line of gold curled around the slightly flared rim. She leaned closer in inspection. That wasn’t real gold was it?

Of course not. That would be dramatic.

The luminescent sheen repeatedly caught her eye throughout the day, and Hemione found herself frequently losing track of a given task as she stared at the ascending scarlet and its vessel. At the twelfth instance of distraction, she gave up.

There was one way to satisfy her curiosity.

Ever since Hermione had first started receiving questionable mail as far back as Fourth Year, she’d learned all manner of detection spells. The most common of them checked for harmful substances and would have already been conducted by Rebecca. However, Hermione had a couple of others up her sleeve she wanted to try.

The first attempt resulted in nothing new. The spell was supposed to pick up any remnants that might indicate the sender’s identity, but all it relayed was herself and Rebecca. She wasn’t sure if she was surprised or relieved at the lack of additional information. Whoever it was took great care to hide all traces of themselves. On one hand, Hermione hated not knowing the answer to her question, but, on the other hand, what would knowing do in this particular case? Would she feel obligated to reciprocate?

Her second attempt revealed the vase to be even more valuable than she’d suspected. Not only did real gold line the rim, but the glass had been manipulated by dragon fire. But how could that be? The tamest dragons she’d come across were those born and raised within sanctuaries, but even then, they weren’t ‘tame’ in the typical sense of the word. ‘Appeased’ would be more accurate.

Mysteries layered upon mysteries. She could chase the crumbs, perhaps ask Charlie Weasley if he knew of any glassmakers who might use dragon fire.

Or, she could accept the gift and continue her work knowing someone out there was in her corner, supporting her every step of the way. The Wizengamot and Draco Malfoy could sock her in the eye all they wanted; she’d simply bleed out the swelling and keep on punching.

Written for the @hp-flowers week 2 prompt: gladiolus

1107 wc

Cross-posted on Tumblr and AO3 (MarinaJune)

[fatcatlittlebox]

(sorry if this sent twice! my app was being wonky!) Just wanted to say that you took the words out of my mouth with that analysis and that's the reason why I wanted to know your thoughts on him. Also we are so blessed to have fans like you who can see into her character so well, beyond ships. I'm with you on Celeborn. Until I see for myself how he is portrayed my feelings are lukewarm at best but I don't necessarily hate him. It's too bad he doesn't stand out apart from his wife. Not sure why he was written like that. I suppose TRoP will have to salvage his portrayal from the movies and try to make him someone who Gal could realistically fall for, but it's a very tall feat. At worst they just make him another character like Elrond (not bashing, just that her and him have a sibling vibe relationship). A concerning trend I notice among Celeborn fans is that they're already making him seem either 1) like an enabler for Gal's worst qualities (when her lesson in growing is her learning restraint and tolerance and inner peace), or that he's like a Halbrand 2.0 without the Sauron tag. Which... is kind of eye rowing raising. Because that makes me wondering it people aren't just seeing a blank OC and projecting things onto him, which would be kind of bad because then that would really cement the complaint that he's not a very distinguished character.

Thank you anon! As I've said before, the most notable of Tolkien's romances were really chivalric love stories, particularly the star-crossed ones. Beren and Luthien. Melian and Thingol. Even Arwen and Aragorn. Celedriel isn't really like any of those couples. And I have to say, if the writers didn't expect us to ship haladriel they, for some reason, hilariously thought they could mold their dynamic after those pairings and keep it platonic. I mean Charlie even said to Miv in an interview that "we"- Halbrand and Galadriel- were like Beren and Luthien. LOL.

I would say that the template for Galadriel and Celeborn could be Faramir and Eowyn? Kind of two people who've been through trauma, thwarted dreams and disappointment who find peace and refuge in each other? I agree that if they made him some tempering influence on Galadriel, that would leave a bad taste in my mouth because really, barf. Halbrand advised Galadriel to slow down and be methodical, deliberate. Not muzzle her. Now that Gal has a ring of power, she's never been more formidable. And text Galadriel was always portrayed as this benevolent but undeniable apex predator. Like she's on the side of good but...could totally annihilate anyone on a whim. I think Celeborn being cardboard bland has more to do with Tolkien not really getting around to fleshing that story out. He still hadn't even really completed Galadriel's character.

[cosmonaughty]

Infusion|| Emerie/Hemlock one-shot

Description: Emerie wants to learn more about torture methods and asks for a hands-on lesson.

This one-shot is not technically nsfw, but I will include a content warning for: + needles + IV + other medical references

I don't know if there's a term for "consensual torture", but it's pretty much that.

 Emerie didn’t know what to expect; she wondered if she had made a mistake asking for this, but she didn’t want to back out now. As far as she knew, the anticipation was part of the experience, and in any case, it was something different from the scheduled monotony of her day to day. Still, she couldn’t fight back the anxiety creeping up on her. She was visibly tense and shaking slightly, hardly a surprise, given her attire. Despite the room’s frigid temperature, all she had on was the sleeveless undershirt and shorts that typically served as her underwear. 

        The temperature of the room somewhat complicated the otherwise simple procedure of placing an intravenous line in her arm. It took a slow couple of minutes of Hemlock’s fingers attentively searching the soft underside of her arm for a decent vein before he finally found one he had confidence in. Emerie winced as his needle sank into her flesh, but she knew that minor sting was nothing compared to what was coming. She turned her head to watch him clamp the tube and move on to prepare the syringe, moving as though the whole process came to him as naturally as breathing. In a way, it felt reassuring to know that she was in experienced hands, but it also led her to wonder how many times he had done this. This exact thing, she thought, probably never.

When he set the large syringe down on a sterile tray beside the table she was laid out on, she let her gaze linger over it. The fluid inside had no color or viscosity that she could easily detect; for all she knew, it could have been anything.

        “Whenever you want it to stop…” He reminded her, pushing a plastic bulb into her open hand. Her fingers curled loosely around it and her thumb toyed with the cord it was attached to in an attempt to seem unbothered. Hemlock moved around her to secure the restraints around her limbs. As each was pulled tight, her grip on the bulb in her hand became more rigid. He paused beside her head and repeated what he’d told her before they had begun, “You don’t have to do this. If you back out now, I won’t think any less of you.”

        “It was my idea.” She answered evenly. It was an idea she wanted to see through, not only as an act of stubbornness, but as an educational experience. She had been given brief lessons on methods of enhanced interrogation, but had no first-hand experience with it. If it was something she may be expected to assist with, she reasoned, she should have some understanding of what it felt like. Stubbornness had only become a factor over time, after Hemlock had initially dismissed the idea. Now she had to do it. If he didn’t think less of her, she would think less of herself if she gave up now. She wanted to do it. It wasn’t for him, it was for her.

        He didn’t make any further attempt to dissuade her, simply secured the final restraint and moved on to make the injection. From the corner of her eye, she saw him deliver a few sharp snaps to the side of the syringe and saw a shimmering drop of liquid well up and spill out of the needle hub as he held it at the ready. She heard him unclamp the tube and briefly detected the flush of saline in her throat.

        “I’m going to go slow.” He told her as he fitted the syringe into the access port. Slowly, he depressed the plunger, sending half of the solution into her already tense body.

        Emerie didn’t have to wait long to feel the effect. It began as a stinging sensation at the infusion site. Before she had time to register the initial burn, it had shot up her arm and was overtaking her entire body, searing its way down towards her core. Her lips parted to gasp for air and the sound that escaped her was a strained cry of shock; she had somehow believed that the pain would come on gradually, not all at once like a bolt to the chest. She fought to regain her composure, if only she could breathe then maybe she could steady herself.  As she exhaled in a series of short, heaving breaths, she was acutely aware of the serum sizzling in her veins like battery acid.

        Amidst the blinding pain, she felt something warm press against her wrist and looked to see Hemlock checking her pulse, seemingly untroubled by her initial reaction. The contrast between the waves of pain traveling through her body and the soft, albeit impersonal, human touch was confusing in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The confusion itself intrigued her and pushed her to keep going. Struggling to take in another breath, she did her best to flex her hand toward the half-filled syringe.

        “More…” She gasped out. Even through her strained and blurry vision, she spotted a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as Hemlock turned back to the syringe and unclamped the tube once again. His gaze lifted to watch her intently as he, very slowly, depressed the plunger all the way.

        Although Emerie had believed that the second round would be easier, she was once again shocked by the white-hot pain that rocketed through her body. This time, she didn’t even try to disguise her reaction, groaning through gritted teeth and pulling against the restraints as her body tried to thrash and twist away from the unseen source of its distress. She tried to pull in another breath, but each of her lungs felt as though it was held in a vise. Her chest barely hitched with a shallow gasp, followed by another and another as she tried to drink in as much oxygen as her panicked body would allow. She began to feel lightheaded, even as thousands of electrified needles stabbed at her nerves, and she could feel something effervescing at the edges of her consciousness, something she couldn’t identify that sparked as intensely as the pain surrounding her.

        Her hands, still bound at her sides, flexed and gripped the edges of the table as she managed to pull in a deep, shaking breath. The plastic bulb rolled off the table and dangled limp from its cord as she exhaled in a breathy wail, weak enough to almost be a sigh. Hemlock took this as a signal that she’d had enough and detached the syringe, wiping the port clean before flushing it again.

        “It will be over soon,” He assured her, disposing of the empty syringe. “Give it a moment to clear your system. Talk to me when you’re able to.” 

        Gradually, Emerie felt the pain begin to subside; as it faded, it left behind it a pleasant feeling that she had only felt in passing a few times before. Not a feeling of pleasure, but the relief that comes with the sudden absence of pain. Breaths began to come more readily as her body relaxed, and she savored the ease with which she filled her lungs. Her momentary bliss was disrupted when she felt something warm roll down her neck.

        “Am I bleeding…” She muttered, her voice coming out hoarser than she had expected. Hemlock stepped closer and examined her, undoing the restraint that held her head down and turning her face from one side to the other.

        “Sweating.” He corrected her, this time doing a slightly better job at hiding his smirk, although she still spotted it. He set to work on releasing the rest of her restraints. Puzzled, she lifted her now free hand to her face and wiped the moisture away from her skin. It was indeed sweat.

        “But it’s freezing in here…” She pointed out, still staring at her hand. “Isn’t it…? ‘M shaking…”

        “I can see that. Here,” He returned to her side with a towel, which he used to lightly dab at her brow before handing it to her so he could take her arm and ease her off of the table and onto her wobbly legs. “I’d like to hear what your findings are.” 

        They were sitting side by side on her bunk. Emerie had a blanket wrapped around her and a cup of juice held in both hands. She was still shaking, but her voice had returned and now she was describing her experience with exuberant fascination. 

        “I thought if I could just keep pushing through, eventually it would get easier…more manageable, at least, but it never did, it just kept going on and on and on and-”

        “Careful.” Hemlock warned her gently, supporting her hands with his before she had a chance to spill her drink all over both of them.

        “-and on…Yes, thank you.” She smiled sheepishly and took a sip of the electrolyte drink. It tasted like artificial fruit with an underlying saltiness that would be immediately recognizable to anyone who had ever consumed potassium powder.  “How long was it, altogether?” 

        “From the first injection, nearly five minutes.”

        “Only five??” She nearly choked on the bright orange liquid and hurried to cover her mouth with the back of her hand. 

        “Nearly five.” He corrected her. “It’s still very impressive. And you didn’t even confess to anything, so I’d say you held up well. Or well enough for nearly five minutes’ worth. At a low dose.”

        “I don’t have anything worth confessing…” She said with a weak little laugh, dipping her head to hide the warm bloom of pink that crossed her cheeks as she said it. 

        “Not everyone does. Most will come up with something, though.” 

        “Well,” Emerie lifted her head and sat up straighter, taking on a more academic tone. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” Hemlock’s brow raised in what seemed to her to be genuine surprise.

        “‘Next time’? I think once is enough.”

        Emerie deflated a little bit; she was confident she could do better if she tried again. Of course, the experience itself had been excruciating, but she felt there was still so much she could learn, about the process and about herself, given enough time. Besides, the way she felt now, radiant and weightless, somehow sparkling in spite of her messy hair and threadbare blanket and the bruise developing in the crook of her left arm, made the pain worth it. 

        “But I’m sure I could hold on longer next time,” She insisted, clutching her cup tightly in both hands. “You could even increase the dosage or…I don’t know…what about gradually increasing levels of intensity? I think that could be interesting.”

        “It could be very interesting.” He agreed, slowly nodding along to her suggestions. “But not tested on you.” 

        “Why not on me? You test on yourself all the time.” She tried to look resolute, but with her blanket cloak and her cup of juice she ended up looking adorably pitiful. Hemlock exhaled an amused scoff and brushed a few limp auburn strands off of her forehead.

        “There are some things you shouldn’t get used to.” He told her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her affectionately to his side. He pressed a kiss to her temple and mumbled. “We really should wash your hair, though.” She laughed and playfully kicked at him as he stood and offered his hands to help her up. Although the conversation was seemingly settled, she couldn’t resist one final retort as she leaned against his side on the way to the refresher.

        “Next time I’ll make it to six.” 

[krovscastlerpg]

Cassian Lord | Villager | 315 | Dragon (Storm) | Versatile

"I want what they have, and I'm gonna take it."

Cassian was born to full blooded dragons in the English countryside in the year 1709. His parents, neutral on all sides in terms of the War, wanted to focus on their wealth and standing. His father was a lauded barrister (and still a practicing attorney today in Europe) and his mother is an entrepreneur, often investing in high-yield projects in all manners of different media. Cassian’s parents struggled with fertility for thousands of years before he was born and struggled after he was born as well. As a result, Cassian has no siblings.

Cassian grew up with high expectations but didn’t find them daunting. He’s a dragon who loves a challenge. Some might say he was spoiled well into adulthood and beyond, but he doesn’t act it. Cassian likes to challenge himself in any way that he can to strive for greatness. He wants to be an expert at whatever he chooses to put his mind to. He hates being bored and will do anything to occupy his mind and body. It has resulted in 300 years worth of jack of all trade skills and knowledge, which he only considers a meager start as he is still considered young by dragon standard. Cassian will try anything at least once, whether it be physical or mental.

The challenge that Cassian enjoys the most is within the physical body. Whether it’s a supernatural being or a human one, he finds the body fascinating. All sorts of supernatural beings can have different physiology, need different types of care and attention to either heal or become the peak of what they can be. He’s fascinated in beings that can change form like himself, that have accelerated healing like himself. Is it evolution? Magic? Science? The meld it all is something he could study for days and days. Not to mention the body’s response to certain stimuli.

The subject drew him into becoming a doctor. He’s got enough certifications and degrees to wallpaper a room, but he finds that the most lucrative of doctoral skills in plastic surgery. The lifestyle and clientele irritated him after a decade and now he focuses on clinical doctoring and physician work. He knows quite a bit about magic and the methods behind it. While unable to practice it himself, he has been prone to read and hoard texts about healing. Some things that he’s learned have been through friendships with witches and are exclusively from word of mouth; spells he will never be able to use stashed away in his mind for his own knowledge and perhaps profit if another witch wanting the knowledge could be exploited. With the science of today, he does find the use of others using magical abilities a bit of a short cut when it comes to small things that nature can handle on its own. 

Cassian has just moved into Krovs Town. A friend of a friend told him that the Oymyakon Health Clinic was in need of physicians. Wanting to spend some time investing in himself rather than his wealth for the first time in years, he made the move. His parents think it’s beneath him but Cassian considers it a vacation for himself. He doesn’t expect the short tempers of Hollywood starlets (or their agents) or any extensive life-threatening surgeries to come into play and that will be relieving. Krovs Castle being near was also a very, very nice incentive. He doesn’t have negative opinions on the slavery in the castle. He’s interested in what Krovs Castle has to offer and wants to explore it and its services, if only to satiate his own curiosity. Anything that benefits Cassian is something he likes and if he can gain enjoyment from another’s expense? He’ll support it.

Positive Traits: optimistic, inquisitive, quick-witted, good-humored

Negative Traits: greedy, vain, holds a grudge

3 turn-ons: banter, size difference, attentiveness

3 turn-offs: piss, fear, restraints on himself

[babylon-wails]

⍫⍫⍫ BABYLON WAILS -- Prologue ⍫⍫⍫

Rats In A Cage Part 2: Caduceus

When Mystery next opened her eyes, her vision pulsed, swimming in and out of focus. The world around her undulated in sickening waves, its edges blurring into grotesque forms. The surface beneath her shifted unnaturally, a horrific parody of a bed—if a bed were made of muscle and sinew, slick with blood and glistening like raw meat. It squirmed beneath her weight, almost alive, pulsing in time with her own labored breathing. A wet, nauseating squelch came with every slight shift of her body.

She tried to move her head, but pain shot through her neck and shoulders like an electric current. Her arm throbbed, a deep, searing ache that refused to fade. She clenched her fingers—not her fist, just her trembling fingers—desperate to feel something solid, something real. A flash of memory assaulted her: a face, sharp and clinical, framed by the stark white of a lab coat. The doctor. The whip. The fire. The mark.

The Mark of the Beast still burned on her right forearm, its divine gold etching searing into her flesh like molten metal. It hummed with a presence of its own, alien and intrusive, a brand that mocked her humanity. She wanted to scream, but her throat was raw, her body too weak to muster even a whisper.

A shadow fell across her. She tensed, every nerve in her body screaming for her to fight, to run, to do anything. But she was powerless. Her heart raced as another figure loomed into her wavering view. It wasn’t him. This man’s face was different—thinner, sharper, with a cruel kind of curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“Well, well,” the man drawled, his tone teetering between amusement and hunger. He leaned in too close, his breath warm and invasive against her cheek. “What a marvel you are. Such resilience… such exquisite design.” His gloved hand hovered over her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “Tell me, Isaac, why bother keeping her alive when we could learn so much more from… disassembly?”

“Parth.” The reprimand cut through the room like a blade. The voice was cold, deliberate, and unmistakably familiar. Isaac. He stepped into view, his expression unreadable but no less commanding. “You’re here to observe, not indulge.”

Parth straightened, his lip curling in a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Indulge? Is that what you think I’m doing? Forgive me for wanting to cut open your precious specimen before you patch her up. Think of what we could discover…”

“I have thought of it,” Isaac replied, his voice even but edged with finality. “And I’ve decided against it.”

Parth sighed, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. “Always so clinical, aren’t you? Fine, have it your way. But don’t expect me to celebrate your restraint when you’re wasting such potential.” He turned on his heel, casting one last lingering glance at Mystery before disappearing into the shadows of the room.

Isaac exhaled quietly, his attention shifting back to her. His movements were slow, methodical, as he crouched beside her, checking the state of her wounds. There was no malice in his touch, only a detached precision that somehow felt even more unsettling. He worked in silence for a moment, the soft hum of the room filling the void.

“Were we to have met under better circumstances…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to her face. Whatever thought he had was quickly abandoned, his focus returning to his task. “It doesn’t matter now. You need to rest.”

He reached for a mask, his gloved hand steady as he placed it over her mouth and nose. The cool hiss of gas filled her lungs, and the edges of her vision darkened once more. Isaac’s voice followed her into the void, low and measured, a lingering echo that felt less like comfort and more like a chain dragging her deeper into the abyss.

“You’ll be useful yet.” 

And then, there was nothing.

⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫

The fire poker dug into Mystery’s back, the jagged, searing metal forcing her forward step by agonizing step. Her muscles screamed in protest, the newly patched wounds across her body burning with every motion. When she faltered, the poker jabbed deeper, its tip grinding against her shoulder blades like it was trying to carve through to her soul.

“Move it, meat,” a voice snarled behind her, sharp and guttural. With a final shove, she stumbled into the cell, her bare feet slipping on the slick, glistening surface of the floor. The door slammed shut behind her, the heavy clang reverberating through the grimy, pulsating walls.

She barely had time to register the sound before a low, raspy laugh cut through the stale, rotting air. “You never fuckin’ learn, do you?”

Mystery turned slowly, her body trembling from pain and exhaustion. Perched on the grotesque imitation of a bunk—a structure of bone and sinew half-buried in the oozing wall—was her cellmate. Wretch grinned down at her, his yellowed teeth sharp and uneven, his eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement or disdain. With a fluid motion, he hopped down, landing in the viscous muck that served as their floor. Strands of sticky gruel clung to his boots as he sauntered over, his tattered clothes hanging loosely on his wiry frame.

“Yer lucky that stupid doc likes ya,” he said, his grin widening as his eyes flicked to the fresh bandages Isaac had wrapped around her. “Y’know that, right? If it were anyone else…” He trailed off, shaking his head with exaggerated pity. “Nah, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be parts. Useful parts, maybe, but parts all the same.”

Mystery didn’t respond. She didn’t have the energy to bite back, to roll her eyes, or even to glare at him. Wretch’s teasing fell on deaf ears as she stumbled forward, each step a battle against the sucking, squelching pull of the cell floor. She reached the other bunk—if the mass of flesh and tissue could even be called that—and collapsed onto it. The surface pulsed faintly beneath her, warm and sticky, like a living creature resigned to its grotesque existence.

Her head hit the sinewy surface with a dull thud, and for a moment, the world seemed to spin. Today’s torture had stripped her of everything—her energy, her will, even her thoughts. All she had left was the faint echo of a name in her mind: Isaac.

Who was he, really? And why had he bothered to keep her alive? The memory of his voice lingered, cold and clinical but somehow… human. It wasn’t kindness, she knew that. Men like him didn’t have room for kindness. So why? Why save her?

Her train of thought dissolved as Wretch’s voice cut through her haze again. “Wounded and tired, and you’re just gonna lay there like a corpse, huh?” He leaned over her, his wiry frame blocking the dim, flickering light thrumming from the veins crawling against the cell’s ceiling. “In front of a wretch like me? You really do wanna die, don’t ya? Dumbass.”

She closed her eyes, too drained to muster a response. Her breathing slowed, her body sinking deeper into the grotesque embrace of the flesh bed. A small, stubborn part of her trusted he wouldn’t do anything—not to her. Maybe that part of her was stupid, just like Wretch said. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, she let herself drift.

Wretch lingered for a moment, his sharp eyes studying her as though trying to decide whether her exhaustion was an act. Finally, he sighed and backed off, muttering something about her being a “boring corpse.” He slid down against the oozing wall opposite her, the muck squelching beneath him as he sat.

Pulling a lump of bloody goop from his pocket, he began molding it with his fingers, shaping it into a lopsided ball. He tossed it into the air, catching it with a wet slap as it splattered faint streaks of red across his hands. Over and over, he repeated the motion, the rhythmic sound oddly calming.

Mystery’s breathing evened out, her consciousness fading into a merciful abyss. Wretch glanced at her once, his expression unreadable, before turning his focus back to his gruesome toy. The cell fell silent save for the occasional squelch of flesh and the distant hum of something alive—and waiting—in the walls.

-⍫⍫⍫-PREVIOUS-⍫⍫⍫- -⍫⍫⍫-NEXT-⍫⍫⍫-

[yanpoetry]

Chapter 3.A: Part 9: Dealing with Escape Attempts

Escape attempts are a natural response to the Darling's growing realization of their captivity. Their initial resistance may take the form of physical attempts to flee or emotional cries for freedom, but these are to be expected—and their handling is critical. This is where the true strength of your authority will be tested. The Darling may believe they can break free, but in the end, they belong to you. Your actions will reinforce their helplessness and reaffirm the absolute control you possess over their fate.

1. Recognizing the Signs of an Impending Escape Attempt

Before an actual escape attempt, there are always subtle signs that the Darling is thinking about fleeing. They may become more agitated, restless, or distracted, exhibiting behaviors that show their discontent. They might try to create distance from you, ask questions about their environment, or begin testing boundaries.

It’s essential to catch these signs early. If you notice these behaviors, it’s time to tighten your control, ensuring they understand that disobedience or any attempt to leave is futile.

2. The Initial Confrontation: Redirecting Their Focus

When the Darling makes an attempt to escape—whether it’s a physical attempt to leave the room, a secret plan to get help, or simply emotional withdrawal—it’s vital to intercept and confront them quickly. The first step is to block them from moving forward, either physically or emotionally.

If they try to run, simply stop them with a commanding presence, a firm grip, or by blocking their path. If they try to call out for help, silence them immediately by taking control of the situation. You can use words like, “You’re not going anywhere” or “Stop, this is where you belong.” This statement will remind them that resistance is pointless.

3. Physical Restraint: Reinforcing Your Control

When dealing with an escape attempt, physical restraint becomes essential. Holding them firmly, whether through a simple but controlled grip on their arms or a more direct method like pinning them to the bed or wall, reinforces that they are not free to act on their impulses. Restraint is not just about limiting their movement; it's a way to dominate their space, making them aware that even in their most desperate moments, they are completely under your control.

This act of restraint will trigger a psychological response in the Darling, one of fear and vulnerability, but also of resignation. The Darling will learn that escape is a pipe dream and that even the thought of rebellion comes with consequences they cannot endure. This physical connection helps sever any remaining illusion of autonomy they may hold.

4. Punishment: The Consequences of Defiance

If the Darling has already made an escape attempt, punishment is necessary to reinforce your dominance and prevent future disobedience. The consequences should not be simply physical; they must be emotional and psychological as well.

Isolation: One of the most effective forms of punishment is placing the Darling in the Timeout Room again. The stark, isolating environment will reinforce their feeling of being cut off from the world, heightening their dependency on you. The absence of comfort will serve as a reminder of what life is like without your care.

Silent Treatment: Withholding affection is a powerful tool. If the Darling believes their escape attempt has cost them your approval, they will likely feel the emotional sting of your neglect. This is an emotionally devastating form of punishment, making the Darling feel undeserving of your attention, and it reinforces the idea that only through submission will they receive love and care.

Threats of Greater Consequences: You may use threats as a psychological tool, saying things like, “If you try to leave again, I won’t hesitate to make things worse.” The idea of escalation will linger in the Darling’s mind, causing them to doubt whether they’re willing to risk more severe punishment.

5. Deeper Psychological Manipulation: Weaken Their Resolve

Punishment, though effective, is just one part of the equation. Psychological manipulation will ensure that escape attempts become nothing more than fleeting thoughts in the Darling’s mind. After a failed escape, remind them of the futility of their actions by saying things like, “You can’t leave, no one will help you,” or “Where would you go? Who could protect you like I do?”

These statements are designed to dismantle any hope of freedom and convince them that they are only safe when they’re with you. Make them feel that the outside world is a dangerous, unwelcoming place that is simply not worth returning to. Tell them that no one else would ever care for them the way you do, and that escaping means losing the love and protection you provide.

6. Preventing Future Escape Attempts: Closing All Possible Paths

After dealing with the escape attempt, it’s time to ensure that no further opportunities for escape remain. This includes closing off physical routes—ensuring doors are locked, windows are sealed, and access to transportation or help is blocked. But the psychological barrier is just as important.

You must continue to reinforce the idea that there is nowhere else to go. Remind the Darling, constantly and subtly, of how much they depend on you. If they show signs of defiance or plan another escape attempt, punish them again to show that their willpower is no match for your control. Make them feel trapped in both the physical and emotional sense, with no way out and no reason to try.

7. Making Escape Impossible: The Final Mental Barrier

At this stage, the Darling should be made to understand that escape is no longer even an option in their mind. You will achieve this by presenting yourself as the only solution to their happiness and well-being. Every escape attempt should be met with overwhelming force and consequence, both physical and psychological, to the point that the Darling comes to internalize that any thought of escape is meaningless.

Use phrases like, “You belong to me, and I will never let you go,” or “There’s no life for you outside of me,” to drive this final mental wedge. The Darling should begin to feel that to leave would be to sacrifice everything, including their emotional stability, physical comfort, and the love you provide.

8. Final Submission: Letting Them Accept Their Fate

Ultimately, after enough failed attempts and sufficient psychological pressure, the Darling will realize the futility of their escape. They will begin to accept their fate and will no longer attempt to flee, understanding that to do so is to fight a battle they cannot win. They will submit to you fully, not because they’ve been physically beaten into compliance, but because they have been mentally, emotionally, and psychologically conditioned to believe that you are their only source of happiness and safety.

From this point onward, the Darling’s will will be fully yours, and the constant fear of escape will fade. Any future disobedience will be quickly dealt with, and the Darling will come to realize that they can never outrun the hold you have on them.

[locustheologicus]

I want to encourage people to read the following Foreign Affairs article, "How to End the Democratic Recession: The Fight Against Autocracy Needs a New Playbook" by Larry Diamond. This thorough analysis on the state of democracy is very consistent with the concern that Pope Francis has been pronouncing on the very same topic. A term that I have not heard of before qualifies the type of populism that concerns Pope Francis, Larry calls this illiberal populism and goes on to describe these as "illiberal pseudo-democracy that appealed to far-right anti-immigrant and nationalistic forces around the world." Here is the graph that is used in the article to demonstrate the growing concern of illiberal populism and its support for authoritarian regimes.

In raising the alarm Larry reminds us of our early American experience and the struggles that our founders has with a form of populism that could take our nation into a dangerous place. I raised this in a recent post where I mentioned how the American version of illiberal populism could be tied to the anti-federalist tradition of old. Larry remind us how the federalist founders who would draft the U.S. Constitution sought a system of checks and balances to restrain the ambition of authoritarian rulers.

Restraint in the exercise of power is not a natural tendency. This is why the framers of the first constitutional democracy, the United States, understood the need to check and balance power, following the Madisonian principle that “ambition must be made to counteract ambition.” “If you want to test a man’s character,” goes one aphorism, “give him power.” …Over the past two decades, critical constraints on human behavior have lifted. Ambitious politicians have observed the rhetoric and methods their peers abroad have used to dismantle democracy, piece by piece. These aspiring autocrats have learned from examples of success and acted on those lessons, emboldened by the inability of domestic and international actors to restrain them. Once, the diffusion of political ideas helped foster democratic transitions. Today, it facilitates democratic backsliding.

The creation of our own Constitution was a brilliant governmental meanuver by Hamilton and Madison. But the author then goes on to remind us of the fragility of this process. Illiberal populism, organized by a potential strongman, can undermine the constitutional system of check and balances to undermine the democratic process.

Furthermore, constitutions restrain rulers only if they are enforced. When these documents are embedded in norms, incentives, and expectations, violations are rare and tend to fail because powerful actors rise to reaffirm the constitutional order out of both conviction and self-interest in sustaining the rules of the game. But when severe political polarization generates a sense of existential risk—a fear that losing an election could mean the permanent loss of political power and even one’s livelihood and freedom—these dynamics change. A politician with sufficient skill and will to override constitutional norms can embark on the road to autocracy.

We have seen and heard Candidate Trump promoting such a political agenda and we need to take this very seriously. Larry Diamond suggest that democratic supporters begin organizing mass mobilizations to counter this form of populism and I for one agree. We need to take back the message and to visibly stand in defense of our institutions. With the American election coming up I believe that many of us need to be prepared for a long contested election and if the illiberal populist take to the street us neo-federalist may want to begin organizing our own movement. Professor Diamond offers this response.

The key to defeating authoritarian populism is to expose its vanity, duplicity, and venality, to show it to be not a defense of the people but a fraud upon the people. This requires independent reporting to reveal corruption. It requires using, whenever possible, countervailing institutions—regulatory bodies, auditing agencies, the judiciary, the police, the civil service, and, if there is a significant opposition presence, the legislature—to disclose and curtail abuses of the public trust. Elements of civil society, such as bar associations, trade unions, student groups, and other professional and civic organizations, can be important allies in this cause. Resistance is more effective when mobilized early; the longer populist authoritarians hold on to power, the more they chip away at institutional constraints.

I remember early on being one of those mild voices that accepted the idea that our system was completely flawed and that both parties and our government in general was inept. When others suggested this narrative I would shrug my shoulder and agree with them. Afterwards I soon realized that there was an authoritarian agenda that wanted to push this message and what our American illiberal populism was hoping to accomplish when candidate Trump was coupling his own self-interest to that message. Since then I have been using my post to help promote the concerns I have with our illiberal populism, a populism that has manifested since the birth of the Tea Party in 2009. I know others have also exposed the arguments from this movement but I think more of these voices need to be heard, neo-federalist voices that support our constitutional system of government and the democratic process. One of my favorite posts has been a defense our system of government based on an excellent documentary by Adam Conover and the teaching of Pope Francis.

As this is a blog that I promote through social media I would like to hear from others about organizing around this message, promoting what I am calling a neo-federalist movement that can address the illiberal populism that we see today. I very much think that we will see this movement reemerge as it contests the upcoming elections and I think we need to be prepared for this.