#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, 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!

[pink-petal-horns]

ThroneBound

Brother Day (Cleon XIII) x Fem!Reader

The ritual is older than memory.

Older than the Genetic Dynasty itself.

A ceremonial consort—offered by the Core Worlds at the zenith of the Spiral Festival. Not a wife. Not a mistress. A symbol. A fertile woman chosen to share in the Emperor’s power for one cycle—bound to him for appearances, for fertility rites, for unity.

The tradition had been abandoned.

But Cleon XIII brought it back.

And he chose you.

—

You remember the announcement.

How your name echoed through the Spiral Council chamber like a gong. You’d been standing at the rear wall, clipboard in hand, merely there to observe. Your planet had submitted your name as a diplomatic courtesy—a harmless gesture to satisfy cultural expectations.

You were never meant to be chosen.

But when Brother Day turned, robes of crimson and gold swirling at his ankles, and said your name aloud—everything changed.

The air had left your lungs. You bowed because you had no other choice.

Later, your hands had trembled as the ceremonial robe was draped across your shoulders.

“You do realize this is just performance,” your superior had said. “He’ll use you for political unity, parade you in front of the other systems, then discard you.”

You believed that. You tried to.

Until the first night.

—

You are not summoned that night. Nor the next.

But every appearance you make at Day’s side draws eyes. The robes you wear are sheer, glittering like molten light. You walk one pace behind him—never ahead. Your hand rests on his arm at banquets, but he never looks your way.

Not in public.

In private, it’s worse.

You catch him watching you from across the great chamber during debriefings. His eyes—piercing and heavy—trace the slope of your neck, the way your fingers tighten on your stylus, how you never shrink under his gaze.

It becomes a game. You don’t flinch. You dare him to speak first.

He never does.

Not until the sixth night.

—

You hear the guards dismiss themselves behind you.

His voice is low.

“You don’t kneel.”

You turn. “Would you like me to?”

He approaches slowly, like a wolf. “Do you think this palace wants another bowing sycophant?”

You tilt your head. “I think you want obedience.”

“No,” he says. “I want ownership.”

The silence thickens.

“Is that what I am to you?” you murmur. “A showpiece to own?”

His eyes darken. “You were chosen for more than show.”

He steps into your space, and this time—you are the one who flinches.

“You were given to me,” he says, voice like smoke and storm. “And I am trying, with great restraint, not to take what I was promised.”

Your breath catches. “Then why haven’t you?”

His hand comes up—fingers brushing your jaw with unexpected gentleness.

“Because the moment I do,” he whispers, “you’ll never walk into a room without bearing my mark again.”

—

You sleep in his bed that night.

Not because he commands it.

But because when you whisper yes, it burns out of you like wildfire.

—

He undresses you like he’s unraveling something sacred.

The ceremonial gown falls in a pool of gold at your feet. He doesn’t rush—his hands trail down your sides, over your hips, up your spine. When he lowers his mouth to your chest, his tongue flicks over your nipple and you gasp—arching into him.

“You want a performance?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ll give them a queen who moans for her empire.”

You reach for his robes, but he catches your wrist.

“No,” he says. “I’ll handle that.”

He undresses slowly, methodically. And when he’s bare—chest broad, skin flushed, cock hard and glistening—he kneels before you.

Not as a man.

But as your goddamn ruler.

—

His mouth is a revelation.

Hot, slow, devoted. His tongue licks between your folds, sucks your clit just right—like he’s learning you for worship, not pleasure.

You tangle your fingers in his hair.

“Cleon—please—”

He growls against you. “Say it louder.”

“Please—”

He slides two fingers into you, curling just right, pressing deep. You whimper, thighs trembling around his head.

He brings you to the edge once.

Then again.

Then a third time, until you’re sobbing into his pillow, the sheets twisted in your fists.

Only then does he rise.

Only then does he give you his cock.

—

It’s not gentle. It’s not cruel.

It’s complete.

He takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other on your hip. You gasp, cry out his name, and he watches you in the mirror mounted on the chamber wall.

“Look at you,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. “Bent for the Empire.”

His voice breaks when you clench around him. “That’s it. Let them hear you.”

He flips you onto your back, lifts your leg over his shoulder, and thrusts deeper—harder—until you can’t form words. His mouth finds your neck.

“You belong to me now,” he murmurs. “You were given—but I kept you.”

You come with a sob.

He follows with a ragged groan, buried deep inside you, your name echoing off the golden ceiling.

—

After, he holds you.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

When he does, his voice is raw.

“I know this was meant to be symbolic. Temporary.”

You turn your head, still catching your breath. “And now?”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“They’ll call you ceremonial,” he says. “But you’re mine.”

You nod, hand on his chest. “Then make it real.”

—

You wear his colors from then on.

Red and gold, embroidered with the Cleonic crest. At public appearances, you stand beside him, not behind. And when a courtier dares question your status, Day fixes them with a cold smile.

“She is Thronebound.”

And no one challenges him again.

[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.

[glaciermoth]

18+ MDNI

. ݁₊☁️. ݁˖ .

Stars in Your Eyes and Bruises on Your Thighs

Timebomb | Ekko/Jinx

. ݁₊☁️. ݁˖ .

Content tags: Porn what plot/Porn without plot, Consensual non-consent, Dubious consent, Aftercare, Penis in vagina sex, Rough sex, Vaginal fingering, Cunnilingus, Slapping, Face slapping, Spanking, Choking, Marking, Biting, Manhandling, (Light) Bondage, Degradation kink, Praise kink, Possessive sex, Dirty talk, Dumbification, Begging, Multiple orgasms, Sexual overstimulation, Squirting and vaginal ejaculation, Dom Ekko, Sub Jinx

Word count: 5522

Notes: this is my oldest and currently my most popular fic but i wanted it on my blog so sorry if youve seen it before! this fic is also on ao3 but ive since edited it and made it a little more cohesive i think. i also want to note that this is very much a fantasy and the depiction of consensual non-consent here is not in the slightest true to life and it does come off pretty dubious but again! this is purely fantasy and both characters are very much enthusiastically into it

. ݁₊☁️. ݁˖ .

He'd had his eye on her a long time. Jinx. She had thrashed and yelled the whole time the Firelights brought her in but the second she was tied securely to some piping on the floor she quieted, realising there was no way out of this one. He had her brought straight to his living space for…privacy. He rationalised it by saying that he had a long and complicated history with her and he’d have a better chance of getting through to her by himself.

. ݁₊⊹. ݁˖ . 

Her chest heaves from the struggle, she waits impatiently to see what the hell is going on so that she can figure her way out of it. It doesn’t take long for Ekko to pull the bag from her head and crouch down level with her. She glowers at him, her eyes seeming to light up in the hazy luminance of the sunset streaking through the window. 

He ignores her sharp stare, "I just needed to see you. I needed to know for sure that you were okay," 

"So you just let your goons kidnap me? Real charming, mister. You sure do know how to romance a girl," she drawls. 

Maybe his methods of checking in on his old best friend were a little unorthodox but tying her up seemed like the only way to make sure she didn't try to explode them both. Again. 

He lets out a heavy sigh and leans into her, his face less than an inch away as he undoes the knot that holds her restraints to the pipe. She frowns, not expecting him to just...untie her— not that she was completely free yet with her hands still bound tightly behind her, but still. She stands up hesitantly, waiting. For what? She doesn't really know.

He puts his hands on either side of her head on the wall behind her, trapping her in between his arms. Everything in her screams at her to run but his body is so, so close. She feels a warmth beginning to rise in her cheeks when she catches herself staring at his full lips.

"I was just hoping that...maybe you would come around." He leans in, his eyes trained intensely on her stunned face, "I realised lately that I need you in my life, I've always needed you. It doesn't matter if we're trying to kill each other, if we're best friends again, or even if we were something…more. I don't care what you are or what you've done anymore. You don't have to change, Jinx. All I want is for you to not disappear on me,"

She considers what he says. She can't even fathom that she could be important to anyone, least of all him. So, she chooses to stay hidden behind her guise of pretending as if she just couldn't give a damn.

"You're real cute, Ekko. But you and me are in the past," She shakes her head, "When the hell will you learn to let me go?"

She should know by now that Ekko can see right through her.

"Stop it, Pow— Jinx, why can’t you just let me look out for you?"

He's so dramatic. She rolls her eyes at his words.

Why can't she hear him? He had tried talking, pleading, even physically fighting her. Nothing seemed to get through to her. Maybe it was time for a different approach. 

He grabs her shoulders and all but slams her against the wall, ripping a gasp from her.

"Ekko! What—" 

"Just shut up," He cuts her off. 

He grabs her chin suddenly and jerks it up before slamming his lips into hers. Everything he had ever wanted to say finds her in the way that their bodies meet, in the way the heat rises between them. His kisses come so rough and wild that he knocks the wind out of her. There's no resistance from her— they both know that she needs him as much as he needs her. It's easier to admit it in the way she opens her lips against his, drinking him in like he's the only thing that can keep her alive. She loves it. She loves him. 

He smiles against her and drags his teeth against her bottom lip. The change in momentum lifts the fog in her head and she realises she had forgotten to breathe the whole time she had been lost in his mouth. She tilts her head back to draw in air, her eyes fluttering open. He immediately takes the opening and finds her neck, passionately kissing the soft, sensitive skin. 

"We shouldn't be doing this..." she gasps.

"I'm not forcing you to kiss me back," He smiles teasingly against her throat.

"And you still haven't untied me," 

Despite her displeased tone, she continues to rest against the wall, tipping back her head further to give him more space to work. He pulls her in by her ass as he continues his onslaught— sucking, nipping, breathing heavily into her— all to hear the sweet little whimpers and moans spilling from her mouth. Her skin darkens beneath his lips, bruises quickly striking up against her pale skin.

He wants her to remember. 

He's addicted to the way her skin tastes, addicted to how easily he can mark her up, to claim her. He nips gently at the crook of her neck and licks it as if to soothe it. He glances up at her flushed face and sinks his teeth in, earning a sharp cry from her.

"Fuck," He pulls back and takes in what he's done. 

Her skin is littered in dark splotches, still shining in spit. Her lips are red and almost swollen from their shared passion. His fingers ghost over where he had bitten her in admiration. 

She looks at him with big, hungry eyes. The moment seems to slow in time as her chest rises and falls. Had he convinced her that this was right? Was this what she was hoping for all this time?

"I need you," 

"I think we both knew that already, baby," 

"Please," she breathes, "let me touch you,"

He brushes her hair out of her face and kisses along her cheek until their lips meet again. She kisses him back like she's starved— so, so desperate.

"Patience, beautiful. We're gonna do this my way, you're gonna let me take my time for once," 

He wraps his hand around her throat and she lets out a soft grunt as he pushes her to the wall. His lips come heated and hungry against her jaw and ever so slowly down her neck. His other hand moves to grope her chest, searching for the soft flesh beneath her clothes. His groan vibrates against her skin as he shoves her top up in a moment of impatience. 

Exposed to the cold of the room, her breasts welcome the feeling of his big, warm hand palming at them. He takes liberty in squeezing and massaging them, paying special attention to her nipples in his movement. He delights in her soft moans of approval and places a last kiss against her neck. 

"You're perfect," He straightens himself up, hands moving to hold her waist, "You're mine,"

She stares up at him, wondering if she heard him right. He turns her around and runs his hands down her body, landing them on her hips.

"You're mine. Say it to me. Tell me,"

"I'm…" She trails off for a second, "I'm yours. All yours, Ekko," She questions if it's fully the truth but she really hopes it is and that's enough for now.

Finally, finally, he undoes the restraints on her wrists. He rubs where the rope dug in, smiling as she melts into his touch. They savour a second of calm between them for once, if only for a moment.

She catches his hands and pulls him closer, guiding him to touch her. 

"Need you. Here. Please," She brings his hands back to her chest, barely restraining a groan as his fingers sink back into her skin, massaging her in all the right places.

"You're so good for me, baby, letting me touch you like this," he whispers into her hair, his warm breath tickling her ear. 

He remembers his bed, only a couple metres away, and, in a flurry of movement, he picks her up, sweeping her feet from under her. It's not long before she's sinking back into the mattress, blinking up at him above her. She feels so small beneath him but she can't help liking the feeling of being so helpless for him. 

His knee finds its way in between her legs, pressing against her in a way that practically lights her on fire. The feeling causes her to whine and grind against him, trying to find purchase. He swallows her pitiful little noises, tasting her tongue against his. He purposefully leans closer, drinking her in wholly and putting more pressure on that sensitive spot that craves attention so badly.

Hands wander wildly as sparks seem to fly between them. It's all either of them have ever wanted but they still need more. 

She pulls away and starts desperately kissing at his neck, licking and sucking as she goes. She trails spit everywhere, her whole body craving the taste of his skin. She claws at his back, pulling his shirt up. He sits up and pulls it off, throwing it across the room and not caring where it lands. He cradles her damp face and a smile tugs at his lips as she immediately starts kissing his hand.

"I need you closer,"

"I thought you didn't want this," he says with a half mocking smile.

She hides her face in his shoulder— stifling a tiny groan— trying to appear frustrated with his teasing as if it didn't just turn her on more. 

She focuses back to the growing need between her legs, her lips still wet as they brush against his skin. She rocks her hips, rutting against him, creating a sort of dampened pleasure. She clings to the back of his neck and draws him closer, panting loudly in his ear, mouth parted slightly in her effort. She would take anything at this point, she just wants him to finally focus on the growing, painful ache she feels.

Much to her frustration, he pushes her hips back against the bed, stilling her. He adds a sharp slap to the side of her thigh.

"Uh-uh baby, not yet, you'll get off when I touch you. Got it?"

She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head as if he gave her any room for disagreement.

"I need you, Ekko, right now," She pouts.

He places a hand on the centre of her chest and pushes her all the way down into the sheets.

"You're such a fucking slut, Jinx, I can't believe you're so into this,"

Her fingers dig into his scalp as he descends her body. He leaves his mark everywhere he goes, covering her breasts in hickeys and biting into her supple skin. He pushes her top up further and takes a nipple into his mouth. The noises she makes at this sudden attention is like music to his ears— barely contained gasps and breathy moans.

He laughs under his breath at how reactive she is, "You still think we shouldn't be doing this?"

She just groans in response, becoming impatient with his teasing.

He stares up at her face from her chest, "You want me to touch you, baby?" he says with his lips against her skin.

She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod as if she doesn't want him to see her answer.

"Use your words baby, tell me what you need," 

"I—" She hesitates, her cheeks beginning to redden, "I want...you to touch me,"

"Good girl," He kisses her breast gently.

Now straddling her, he reaches down and makes quick work of undoing her trousers. He barely even registers the tight fitting, low waisted black pants she's wearing before both garments are crumpled up somewhere on the floor.

He sits back off her and pushes her legs apart, reveling in the sight before him. She's lying back, a hand laid daintily above her chest, allowing him the full sight of the bruises and bite marks he left covering her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones, her tits. 

She watches for his expression without her usual confidence, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. Strangely, it feels so right. She craves his attention. She aches for him to finally touch her where she needs it most. Her whole body feels hot as she waits. She hates what he does to her. She hates how he takes his time. She hates how he makes her want to drop to her knees for him and tell him that she'll do anything, anything he asks in exchange for her release. She hates, more than anything, that she loves it. 

Finally, his eyes drop. Every nerve in his body is electrified. 

Ekko runs his hand over her thigh, taking a moment just to admire, not daring to touch her yet. He takes in the sight of the neatly trimmed— now dampened— hair framing her slightly parted folds.

"Fuck," He slides his thumb up her slit, pushing her lips apart slowly, "All this for me, baby? You're fucking dripping. Look at this mess,"

She whimpers, completely unrestrained. Her fingers pull at the sheets as she fights the urge to grind against him.

"You need this, don't you?" 

"Please, Ekko," she whispers.

He slips his thumb over her clit, watching her twitch in response. He almost feels high seeing how he can elicit such a strong reaction from such a subtle touch.

She blinks and he's suddenly laid face to face with her slick cunt. He grips her thighs and pulls her down towards him, a small reminder of how easily he could overpower and bend her to his will. He licks a small stripe up from her hole to her clit. Ekko watches as her eyes squeeze shut, her head falling back, mouth parting in silent pleasure. He flattens his tongue and works it around the small bundle of nerves, his spit mixing with the wetness continuing to leak out of her. The taste has him groaning into her, sending waves of vibrations through her body. She pants and moans, clamping her thighs around his head, bucking her hips up into him. She pulls at his hair, desperate for more. This time he has every intention of giving it to her.

He lifts his head for a second, just enough time to guide two fingers into her soaking pussy before immediately latching back onto her swollen, pink clit.

"Fuck! Ekko—" she cries, "Shit—"

She can't contain the way her body responds to him, writhing and moaning out for him like a bitch in heat. She starts to feel that telltale pressure bubbling up in her lower abdomen— a tingling spreading through her as he attacks her from inside and out.

He sucks and laps at her hungrily, not giving a shit how much mess he's making. He's obsessed with the way her walls close in and around his fingers whenever he moves, whenever he presses into her in just the right way. He loves the way he can hold her teetering on the edge, full control over whether or not she would have the release she needs so badly. Ekko's free hand pushes down on her hip hard and he doubles down on his efforts, fingers pressing into her g-spot at an unrelenting pace while he makes out with her cunt. 

She's close, her body shaking while she wails and grasps at anything her hands can find— his hair, his hand, the bedsheets.

"Fuck! Ekko fu— I'm gonna come—" She slaps her hand over her mouth.

Her whole body stiffens up and she suddenly releases into his mouth, completely taking him by surprise. He likes it. He gladly laps up her cum before he starts flicking his tongue over her ever-so-sensitive clit. Her body feels like it's burning as she rides out her orgasm. He doesn't pull away from her until she's twitching and almost sobbing, pulling harshly on his hair at the overwhelming pleasure he continues to give her.

He slowly pulls his fingers out of her and runs his already soaking hand up her spread out pussy. She whimpers at the contact with the over-sensitive skin, trying to move up the bed away from him. He's back on top of her, hands pinning her wrists down either side of her head. 

"You really think we're done, baby? And here I thought Jinx could handle more than just one little orgasm," he taunts, "I'm gonna fuck this pretty little pussy so good. You need this. You're gonna be a good girl for me and take what I give you, yeah?"

She bites her lip, squirming under him, helplessly turned on still. Her legs are spread out— his knees between them keeping them stuck apart. The cold air washes over her still twitching cunt, eliciting a small, needy moan from her.

He yanks her arms up above her head, pinning her with just one hand. He strokes her face, ending with his thumb pressed against her bottom lip.

"Answer me, baby. I know this slutty little mouth works just fine. You're gonna be good for me, aren't you, gorgeous?" He pushes down on her lip, opening her mouth slightly. 

"Yes. I-I'll be good," she stutters out, her voice— barely above a whisper— tinged with the smallest hint of shame. 

Her own submissiveness surprises her, but really, she can't help it, it was him after all.

He hums in approval and kisses her forehead. He reaches down and pulls his fingers along the slick between her legs. She barely manages a gasp before he slips two wet fingers into her mouth. With each pass over her tongue, he pushes deeper, her eyes watering as he nears the back of her throat. There's nothing she can do as she splutters, trying to keep up with him. His grip on her wrists tightens as she starts to choke, spit beginning to dribble from her mouth as he forces it open. Staying still becomes increasingly harder when she finds herself struggling not to gag around his fingers. 

He finally relents, removing his fingers and releasing his iron grip holding her to the bed. Thumbs brush over the flushed skin of her cheeks lovingly as she gasps for air. 

"So good for me. You like the way you taste, baby?" 

She nods quickly, her eyes shining up at him. He runs his fingers through her messy hair and kisses down her face. He undoes his jeans and shifts them off, leaving him in just boxers. Jinx's eyes wander over his form, her eyes widen as she sees the sizeable bulge that has formed in Ekko's pants. She squeezes her legs together against his thighs in a futile attempt to hide her intensifying arousal. 

He pulls her delicate hand towards him and guides it underneath his waistband, "Feel what you've done to me, dirty girl. You need this cock, don't you?" He snickers, "Look at your pussy all spread out and wet for me, she's practically begging me to fuck her." 

"I don't...I don't know if I can take it, it's just so big," she whines.

"Oh baby, you can take it, trust me," he says, taking his boxers off as he speaks.

He shifts himself closer, his body pushing her thighs apart. He holds his cock and slaps it against her clit, making her squeak. Jinx grabs onto his arms, steadying herself as he inches forward. A low, prolonged groan escapes his lips as he sinks the tip into her heated core. 

"Mmh, Ekko, oh my god—"

He pushes all the way in, head dizzy at the feeling of her tight cunt pulling him in. She digs her nails into his skin, a choked moan coming from her at the feeling of being stretched out so much, so quickly.

"Fuck, ple— Oh fuck, Ekko. Your— It's so big—" she cries.

"Shh, baby, I know. You're doing so well, pretty girl,"

He swings her legs up over his shoulders and plants his hands down either side of her waist. Her back arches at the feeling of him moving inside her even just slightly.

He draws back so slowly, delighting in the way her breath hitches and her body shudders in anticipation. He watches the way her chest heaves, the way she furrows her eyebrows and bites down on her lip, just waiting for him to deliver on his promise to fuck her thoroughly. 

He plunges back in— all the way to the bottom— her walls making a squelch sound as his cock invades her drenched pussy. Jinx throws her head back and wails out, finding his hands and gripping onto him for dear life as he starts moving. He's torturously fucking slow but so, so deep.

"F-fuck— Hah— Oh my fucking god," she breathes, "I need— I need more—"

"You're a fucking slut, huh? Yeah, I bet this dick feels real good in your wet fucking pussy, baby," he taunts, "Beg for it like a good little slut,"

"Wh-what?" she asks, eyes all round and confused. 

Did he seriously just tell her to beg for it?

"I wanna hear how much you need my dick, gorgeous. Tell me. Right now. Beg for it,"

She shakes her head, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. It was bad enough that she wanted it in the first place and now he was telling her to actually beg for it?

"Hmm, that's too bad," He slows so much he almost stops, just teasing her hole with his tip.

"No, no, wait, don't stop," she whines, clumsily reaching out to grab his hips, trying to pull him back in as if she could actually move his muscular body.

"You know what to do," He smirks.

"Please!" she spits out and turns her head away in resentment, pretending as if his teasing didn’t actually make her want it more.

"Please, what? What do you want, Princess?"

"Ugh, I— I fucking hate you!" She bucks her hips up into him— rage and want bubbling to the surface. 

He grabs her thighs underneath her knees and pushes them up against her chest, stilling her. He can manipulate her body so easily. The way he's got her folded in half under him with his weight pressing down on her, his cock grinding against her clit, is driving her insane.

He kisses her neck, his hot breath fanning over her skin, "C'mon, baby, you can do it, it's so easy,"

"Please— Please fuck me, Ekko—" she chokes out.

"Hmm? What was that, baby? I didn't quite catch that," He nips at her skin and grinds down into her, feeling how absolutely soaked she is.

"Fu— Fuck! Please, I— I need it! Please fuck my— My pussy! Please, please, please—" 

"That’s it, baby," He buries himself all the way back in. 

He sets a fast and rough pace, loving the way her tits bounce up and down, the way she mewls and arches her back, her fingers frantically gripping the sheets. She's coming completely undone beneath him, mouth hanging open, unable to stop the all lewd noises escaping as he drills into her relentlessly. She swears his fingers are going to leave bruises from how hard he's gripping her. Her nails rake up and down his arms as he leans over her, his loose locs spilling over her face whilst he fucks her. He’s so deep he’s almost touching her cervix. She's still so fucking tight, her cunt gripping his shaft as he thrusts into her harder and harder. He breathes out— rough and uneven— as he pounds her pussy over and over and over. 

He grabs her hand and pulls it down onto her lower abdomen and presses his own hand down on top of it, "You feel that? My fucking dick inside you? You're so tiny you can see it, baby,"

"Fu-u-uck..." she groans, each thrust shaking her voice. 

He's hitting her g-spot each time, the added pressure really accentuating the blinding pleasure. 

Her second orgasm hits her like a train. She clenches around him, shaking violently as she squirts out onto him, painting his stomach in ejaculate.

"Fuck, that's a good girl. That's my good fucking girl," he growls, "Fuck, baby, you're squeezing me so tight—"

She clings to the headboard as he fucks her through her orgasm. Her eyes are shut tight, her body still stiff as the pleasure courses through her. 

"Ekko— Ekko! Fu— It's too muc— Nnghh—"

Slap! 

Her head clears for a split second, feeling a sting spread through her cheek—

"Don't wanna hear any of that, baby. You’re not fucking done,"

His palm is pressed against her lips, forcing her to be quiet before she can argue back. He squeezes her cheeks in his grip, getting closer and closer to his own high as she squirms and struggles under him from the overstimulation. 

Muffled cries come from the blue-haired girl as she paws and scratches at his hand, feeling almost as though he's splitting her open on his cock. With his spare hand, he reaches down and rubs the rough skin of his thumb over her exposed clit. Tears spill from her eyes and her body almost stops working as he forces another intense orgasm out of her. The way her cunt clamps down around him is too fucking much. A thick, drawn-out moan leaves him as he releases into her, his cum overflowing and leaking out around him.

Jinx breathes sharp, ragged breaths when he takes his hand away from her lips. He lets her legs fall off his shoulders and brushes her hair out of eyes. Her makeup is fucked up— streaks of mascara staining her cheeks, lipstick smudges coming away from her mouth. 

"Look at you..." He smiles, "You're such a mess, baby." 

"Y-your fault..." she murmurs, dazed, "You're f-fucking mean,"

He smacks her pussy and her whole body jolts as she jerks her legs shut and mumbles something incoherently. He runs his fingers over her stinging clit soothingly while kissing down her cheek. He tastes her salty tears, sounding a triumphant, satisfied hum. She thinks he's done— he’s had his fun, he won— they both came too, surely he's done. She makes a small sniffling noise, starting to come back down to Earth—

"You think that was mean, baby? Just wait,"

"Wha— Wait— What?"

He effortlessly flips her small body over and lays on top of her, his mouth to her ear.

"You can handle a little more. I've spent a long time waiting for this, I think I'm going to make the most of it,"

"Mmnh, please— I can't— I can't take any more,"

"It's not a matter of can or can't, you're going to. You’re mine. You’re mine. I own you. Thought you said you were gonna be good and take whatever I give you? You don't want me to have to hurt you, do you? Pathetic little whore like you would probably like that though,"

He pulls her hips up abruptly, her body easily folding to his whim. Her face is buried in his pillows, hands curled up next to her, weak from how roughly he's treated her already.

"Please..." she mumbles.

"Please what baby? You want me to fuck you, huh? Can't get enough of this cock?"

"Mmmnnh..."

He smooths his hand down her back, enjoying how much control he has over her. He grabs her ass harshly and slaps it, once, twice, three times— he starts to lose count. He leaves bright pink handprints on her fair skin and his hand stings from the impact. She cries out each time, her body jolting forward, fingers grasping at the sheets underneath her.

Ekko smiles and spreads her ass apart, taking a good look at her puffy, stretched out cunt. Her hole is ruined— leaking cum everywhere, clenching and fluttering around nothing.

"Such a fucking whore, you like it when I really fucking degrade you and hurt you, don't you? Your pussy is dripping everywhere, baby," He laughs under his breath, "I'm gonna fucking break you,"

She cries out a strangled moan as he shoves his cock into her, his fingers digging into the fat of her hips, pulling her onto him mercilessly. He hammers into her hard and fast, giving her no time to breathe, his brutal pace only allowing her choked out wails and sobs.

His cock pummels her g-spot, pushing bursts of liquid from her with each thrust. The pleasure is painful, taking over Jinx's whole body as Ekko uses her like a toy. He tangles his fingers in the base of her braids and yanks her head back, bringing her body parallel to his. He gropes over her tits and kisses her neck roughly as she reaches up to stroke his face behind her. He uses the hand previously tangled in her hair to squeeze her neck. Despite how hard he's doing her, he's careful not to press too deep— just enough to give her that blood-rushing-to-your-head feeling that has her dizzy with bliss. He parts her folds with two fingers and rubs her puffy, swollen clit furiously. She lets out a ragged scream, releasing all over his hand and onto the bed, her face bright red and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. 

"That good, huh? Tell me about it baby," He yanks her head back by her braids, making her face him. 

She barely registers what he says, just bites her lip and moans at full volume.

"Don't have any words, princess? Look at you. Cock's got you all stupid. Dumb slut. You fucking love this shit, don't you?"

She shakes her head, "Too much— Too mu-uch. Please, plea— Hah— Please—"

"Aw, too much? Poor baby. You just keep coming though, huh?" he teases.

He shoves her head down into the pillows and pulls her hands behind her back, pinning them in place.

"You're gonna shut up and take this cock ‘til I say you're done. You're gonna be a good, dumb fucking whore for me,"

"Mmmnhn..."

She's so fucked out, all dazed and hazy, her body limp and so fucking sensitive. He loves the way she cries about how it's too much while her pussy squeezes around his dick. It hurts so much but it feels so, so good, the way he rams into her hot, wet cunt, abusing that sweet spot inside her each time.

"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Take it. Take it," he grunts out.

She sobs desperately into the pillow as he pushes down on her, arching her back even more— her ass straight up in the air while he fucks into her. He lets go of her wrists and yanks her hips into him over and over, her skin slapping against his forcefully. 

"One more, baby, just one more. You can do it, angel," he says, snaking his hand under her stomach and finding her throbbing heat. 

He uses one hand to hold her head down in the pillow, giving him more leverage to pound into her.

"Ekkommfh—"

Her vision goes black and she sees stars as he tips her over the edge yet again. She squirts out everywhere, her juices seeping into the mattress below. Her screams are muffled in the sheets and her knees give out as she convulses under him. 

He lurches forward with her, still inside, "That's it, good girl. Let it out, make a mess all over me. Good fucking girl— Fuck—" 

She twists and trembles under him as he works her through it and he can't stop himself from spilling his release into her at the sight— rope after rope of cum pouring into her spent hole as he shudders out a slow, satisfied groan. 

"Fuck…"

She whimpers softly as he pulls out, her face still buried in the soft pillows. Ekko rubs his hand over her back, tracing her spine— admiring her perfect body. He turns her over and peppers her face with gentle kisses, chuckling as she smiles weakly.

"Let me clean you up, baby," 

He draws up a hot bath for her and spends time rubbing her shoulders and diligently checking her body to make sure she doesn't have any lingering pain after their intense session. 

When they're both dry and back in bed, Jinx lets Ekko brush her hair and re-plait it carefully.

"Was that too rough?" he asks, worry plastering his face as he finishes up her braid.

She turns to face him and rests her palm against his cheek, a teasing smile pulling at her lips, "I think you've gone soft, little man,"

He lies back and opens his arms, wrapping them around her when she lays on top of his chest. He pulls a plush duvet over them and strokes her head.

"I'm not gonna leave, Ekko,"

"Yeah?"

"I just...I just really love you..."

"I love you too, Jinx,"

[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.

[gusulanarchives]

Archived Record • RV-O-002

Title: touch me deep, pure and true

Author: clancularia

Filed Under: Carnal in Focus, Not suitable for young disciples

Description from the Author:

“You are a unique case,” Lan Wangji said. “I am not sure I will be able to help you. Even the methods of investigation will need to be experimental.”

“Does that mean you won’t help?” Jiang Yanli asked.

“No,” Lan Wangji answered slowly. He looked at Wei Wuxian. “But you must understand that the process would not always be... comfortable. And that, despite the possible discomfort, there are no guarantees that anything I learn will lead to a solution.”

___

Wei Wuxian goes to renowned scholar Lan Wangji for help with his core injury. In a twist that neither of them were expecting, it turns out that the solution to all his problems is a whole lot of magical, kinky sex.

Like... a whole lot. But it's all for very important Reasons, they swear!

Archivist’s Commentary:

While initial cataloguing suggested a work of wholly licentious intent, further examination revealed an unexpectedly structured narrative beneath its overwhelming sensual content. The plot—though frequently interrupted by scenes of vigorous and imaginative intimacy—does exist and is, in fact, competently woven. The principal characters engage in acts best left undescribed, often in public or otherwise ill-advised settings, with an array of implements and a level of verbal exchange that would render even the most senior cultivators faint. The author appears entirely unrepentant in their pursuit of thematic excess, blending emotional intensity with increasingly elaborate impropriety. It is unclear whether the work is educational, carnal, or some alarming fusion of the two.

Additional Notes from the Archive:

This text contains material of such an explicitly corporeal nature that spiritual destabilization is not merely possible, but likely. Prospective readers are strongly advised to engage in cleansing meditation before and after perusal. The pairing is explored with an enthusiasm that may challenge even the most stoic disciple’s composure. All restraint—sectarian or otherwise—has been abandoned. Proceed with every caution.

[irrelechan]

The Last Ember’s Light - Chapter 2

The Apprentice

The sanctum emptied slowly after her acceptance. The other apprentices scattered like leaves as stone wards hummed themselves back to sleep. Gale neither dismissed her nor lingered ceremoniously. Instead, he gathered his belongings methodically and gestured toward one of the tower’s many archways.

“Right, this way,” he said, his tone still carrying a quiet, unreadable warmth. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

It was only once she followed Gale that she realized how little of the tower she’d actually seen. The grand halls were impressive, probably designed to intimidate lesser mages, she thought. However, the inner corridors breathed a distinct air. Warmth lingered in the stone. The magic was subtle, more thoughtfully placed, and absent of the grandeur she’d expected.

They moved past warded doors etched with sharp sigils, past alcoves where crystalline orbs floated in lazy orbits around something unseen. One chamber they passed seemed impossibly larger than the space it occupied. Seraphyne caught glimpses of suspended constellations beyond an open doorway, diagrams of stars casting faint violet and blue light across shelves stacked with weathered tomes.

“Astral observatory,” Gale offered, noting her brief and curious glance. “Arguably the most impressive room in the Tower, as well as my favorite. Very useful if one cares to court dangerous ideas at midnight.”

She raised a brow. “Do you?”

“I’ve learned to be more selective with my midnight company.” There was no accusation in his voice, just a self-awareness that stung far less than she expected from a man with his reputation.

They took a narrow stairway lined with alcoves of pastel, glowing crystals. As she followed, they faltered—not rejection, but a momentary pause, like someone at the edge of a forgotten name. He slowed only once, pausing beneath a massive archway carved with delicate spirals of silver.

“We’re still in the lower quarters,” he said. “The wards here are not as guarded, but if you find any of them speaking to you… I’d highly suggest listening before you act. Some can be… a tad temperamental.”

“Most things worth listening to rarely speak,” she replied.

That earned her one of those near-smiles again, but genuine enough to soften her guard despite the tower’s ever-present chill.

When they finally stopped at an unassuming wooden door in a hallway far quieter than the others, he placed two fingers against the sigil on the frame. The latch clicked open with a soft hum.

“It isn’t grand by any means, but it’s yours to do with as you wish.”

She stepped inside, taking stock of sparse, simple, but well-made furnishings. Polished stone walls were etched with minor protective wards, a small writing desk sat pressed against the wall next to the large window, and shelves on the wall next to the bed were eager for clutter to occupy the space. The word ‘yours’ resonated deep within her as she processed its depth. It meant that she was no longer a prisoner in the back streets of Waterdeep.

Mine. Warded. A blank canvas, to become anything I wanted it to be.

“Well, I’ll leave you to settle then,” Gale said, casually. “Someone will bring you a list of tower protocols. Not all of them are worth following, to be perfectly honest. But, you seem the type to figure out which is which.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, a flicker of something between caution and curiosity crossing her features.

“…Am I allowed to ward the door?”

He became preoccupied with his thoughts momentarily, then turned to her. “It’s your space, claim it however you see fit.”

And with that, he left her. The room wasn’t large or luxurious, but it was hers, and she was more than grateful for that fact. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Seraphyne exhaled in relief. Not from exhaustion—although she felt plenty of it—but from restraint. The breath she exhaled was the kind you don’t realize you’re holding in until your body believes it’s safe.

She looked out of the high-arched window that framed Waterdeep’s skyline like a painting, then to a basin in the corner that shimmered faintly with a cleaning enchantment. Probably older than most living mages. She thought.

The bed seemed comfortable, if untested. She dropped her satchel on the floor and unpacked it with careful consideration. She set down a few scrolls, along with her cracked mirror and a tarnished silver ring, carefully on the desk. After rummaging around in her satchel, she found her tiny pouch of powdered ruby for a spell she didn’t yet know how to cast. She placed each object with care, in peaceful reverence. Each one proved to herself that she had survived and made it here to Blackstaff.

Then, she took out a stub of chalk and traced a sigil on the wall above her bed—one of shielding. The Weave shimmered faintly in response, recognizing its speaker. Not resisting at all, it yielded its magic to the sigil.

She whispered. “Let’s see if this place can hold me.”

—

The Tower never slept.

Even when the halls were quiet and the sconces dimmed to twilight hues at night, the Weave hummed just beneath the stone—subtle, patient, like a machine that never stopped running.

Seraphyne awoke to that hum, her breath slow, her eyes adjusting to the soft interplay of light through her window. Sunbeams filtered in, warped by enchantments on the glass. It painted the stone floor in shifting hues of violet, gold, and a soft, unnatural white. She took in a deep breath and smelled the faint traces of lavender and old parchment.

Her body remained tense despite the softness of the bed. Comfort, in her experience, was often a prelude to disappointment, but she hoped she’d grow accustomed to it over time. The hush of the room was too complete. No tavern noise. No boots stomping past her door. Magic, like silk threads in a tapestry, wove itself into every inch of her surroundings.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and took in her room again. It still felt sparse and silent, but now hers. She moved to the desk, where a tray had appeared. Breakfast—fresh fruit, dark bread, and a cup of tea still warm—waited for her.

A welcome gift for my first day?

Opening her wardrobe, she found apprentice robes that weren’t opulent, but well-made. As she braided her hair and fastened the familiar talismans around her neck, she spotted a folded note that had slipped under her door.

Library Annex. Third Tier. Shelf 17C. – G.D.

No friendly greetings were included in the note. No signature flourishes. Just very specific directions.

Smirking at the brevity, she tucked the note carefully into her sleeve. She left the room without hesitation, but not without caution. By the time she reached the hallway, Blackstaff Tower had changed. It greeted her like wind through a veil. Veins of magic pulsed slowly beneath the granite, their rhythm almost aligning with her own. The sconces flared faintly as she passed, acknowledging her presence with acceptance. Statues that hadn’t moved yesterday now shifted when she turned her back. The Tower was non-threatening; it solely observed.

It maintained its structure for the most part, though she suspected it could change even more if it wanted to. Its energy, along with the changing corridors and structural walls, shifted in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

By the time she reached the Library Annex, the sun had climbed behind large, enchanted glass. Warm beams of refracted color danced through the air, catching dust and illuminating the gilded lettering of floating books. The annex was hushed, yet buzzing with arcane curiosity. Apprentices moved with a determined focus. Some drifted in low conversation about theoretical evocations; Others hunched over scrolls, hovering beside enchanted carts that glided toward their destinations. The Tower felt alive now, less testing and more conversational. As for the other apprentices, no one spared her more than a glance.

At least, not openly.

Word of her appointment had already spread throughout the Tower. A few apprentices—mostly those of noble lineage—cast judgmental glances her way. Some looked confused. Others, resentful. One didn’t even bother hiding a scoff.

The clause invoked to appoint her was an ancient law for “exceptional, unaffiliated talent,” with the Archmage’s direct endorsement. The law hadn’t been used in nearly a century. And never for someone like her. Other applicants, especially those of noble birth, had been furious. Some called it favoritism. Others believed it to be heresy. But the Tower’s leadership had made its judgment. And the law had technically overruled the rest.

Staircases moved of their own accord. The ladders wandered. The bookshelves whispered to each other in ancient tongues. As she rounded a corner lined with crystal-lit alcoves, two apprentices stood talking just out of reach of a scrying orb’s passive field. They didn’t notice her approach, at least not at first.

“Did you hear? She hasn’t even attended the Evocation Trials. That’s a first-year requirement.”

“Doesn’t need to, it was ‘Archmage privilege.’ Must’ve impressed him with some backroom spellcraft, if you know what I mean.”

A pause. Then a laugh, low and bitter.

Seraphyne didn’t stop walking or flinch at their words. But she did feel the air thicken as she passed—like walking through steam that didn’t burn.

Shelf 17C stood tall and unassuming, its wooden frame darker than the others, slick with age.

Nestled between crumbling tomes on planar convergence and spell-field collapse, a single scroll tied with a simple black ribbon waited to be opened. No markings of note, no sigils to guard it. She stared at it, fingers hovering just above the ribbon. This wasn’t how things worked, not for people like her. She was more accustomed to snatched knowledge, borrowed scrolls, and eavesdropped lessons. Not spellcraft knowledge given voluntarily. Her instincts hissed warnings of caution in her mind. Yet, her curiosity ignored them. For a moment longer, she hesitated, then unrolled it, holding her breath.

The scroll unfurled as if it had been waiting for her. Not a lesson from what she could tell. A spell—and an unfinished one, at that. Glyph work twisted across the parchment in spirals of potential. Notes in Gale’s handwriting threaded between the symbols, probing for answers.

“What purpose does this binding serve if not for containment?”

“What happens when the sigil here is inverted?”

“Would the Weave bend or break?”

His questions weren’t rhetorical. They weren’t traps, either. She looked around the library, then back at his questions. Am I to answer these?

Seraphyne’s heart beat faster from wariness. She felt too exposed. She wasn’t used to being given room to think, to question the things that surrounded her. Even as her fingers curled tighter around the scroll’s edge, something muted inside her stirred.

She sat cross-legged in an isolated corner of the annex and pulled out a stub of chalk. She didn’t trust herself to write in ink just yet.

She drew a circle of warding around herself, more habit than necessity, then began anxiously tracing variations of the sigils in her notebook. Her thoughts formed a dozen questions about the sigil, unspoken and half-formed. She almost wrote one down before stopping herself to recheck her work.

Word spread. That she was working on that scroll.

They watched her like an unstable rune—fascinated, cautious, half-expecting failure. At first, it was sideways glances. Apprentices passing by pretending to shelve something or recheck notes. But by mid-afternoon, more had gathered. Some took nearby tables; others hovered near shelves with clear views. A few whispered openly. Her name passed between them rapidly. Some showed interest, some held disdain, others had a wary sort of respect. No one interrupted her directly. But they watched. And when she adjusted the warding circle or paused to squint at a sigil, they leaned in, measuring her progress.

They had expected a fraud. Or a fluke. Instead, they saw someone still here, still working, not pretending, or failing.

They watched, whispered, and returned.

When she noticed the time was now dusk, chalk covered her hands, and the scroll had curled at the edges beside her. She stared at it again, the space beneath Gale’s final note. She considered what it meant to be allowed to write something there. Far above, unnoticed in the shadowed arch of the annex’s upper level, Gale watched her with patience. He made himself unobtrusive, as he was hopeful, giving her space to try, without his presence looming near would make her more comfortable.

She hadn’t just passed a test. She had answered his invitation—partially, but answered nonetheless, according to his observation.

She felt him before she saw him. His stride was barely audible. What gave him away was the air in the room. It seemed to change when Gale entered. The Tower was always aware, but when he was near, it tuned itself differently, like a note striking true against a string she hadn’t realized was playing. Seraphyne didn’t turn right away, but her spine straightened. Not from fear, but from reflex and old habits of self-preservation. In her past, attention meant consequences.

The scroll lay beside her on the table, wrapped neatly and re-tied with the original black ribbon. She had set it there deliberately, as if she could delay its departure. The work she had done still marked her hands. Faint ink smeared along the knuckles, and smudges of chalk remained under her nails. The stillness that held her wasn’t fatigue. It held a strange expectancy. The kind that lingers before unwrapping a gift.

“Ah, the brave survivor of the Annex. I was beginning to think the place had swallowed you whole.” Gale emerged from behind a narrow shelf of codices, mantle slung with effortless carelessness. Not like a proper Archmage, more like a man who’d wandered off mid-thought and hadn’t yet returned.

Her eyes turned to the scroll. “Was this a test?”

“Hardly.” He sat across from her without ceremony, voice even but laced with wryness. “If it were, I’d have told you how to fail. Much kinder that way.”

He gestured toward the scroll, almost fondly. “No, that was an open thread—a riddle I’ve yet to untangle. The diagram is a theory in search of its proof. One that has been rattling around in my mind for some time now.”

She gave him a sharp, analytical look. “You wrote on it like you expected someone to write back.”

“I wrote on it like I hoped someone would. You, Seraphyne, are the first who has.”

She studied him, uncertain of the current beneath his words.

“You engaged of your own accord—and that, more than talent or titles, is what the Tower listens for. Most attempt to impress me. Some even flatter it.” He gave a small, knowing smile. “But you asked the right questions—and more importantly, you acted on the answers.”

Her jaw shifted, with a tic of discomfort. She didn’t reply, but something inside her shifted. The silence that followed didn’t feel stiff. It carried thought, then, a tap of her ink-stained finger against the parchment.

“Your containment glyph was redundant.”

His expression remained unreadable, but his tone turned breezy. “Didn’t I mention it was unfinished? But by all means, do carry on. It’s refreshing to be corrected.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You implied I’d invert the structure. That would’ve caused a backlash spiral.”

“And you didn’t,” he said mildly.

“Barely.”

He tilted his head. “Still avoided it, no?”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp with incredulity. “That was reckless!” Then, more measured—but no less fierce, “Respectfully…”

“It was trust,” he replied, without flourish or defense. Just the truth.

She leaned back slowly, eyes still on him. The scroll between them was long since set aside, but it might as well have carved itself into the table.

After a moment, she asked, “Is this how you teach? With cryptic scrolls tucked into corners and backhanded compliments laced with risk?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Only when an apprentice earns the right to a cryptic scroll. They’re not as affordable these days to just be handed to anyone.”

A spark flickered in her expression. “And when they don’t?”

“Ah,” he said with mock regret. “Then it’s lectures. Dreadfully boring ones, people would pay to not attend.”

Laughter passed between them, light as dust. Then he quieted, and so did she.

“You know,” he said, voice easy but trimmed with intent, “Curiosity isn’t restricted to spell work, Seraphyne. You’re allowed to ask questions of me, even.

Something in her chest pulled taut. She nodded once, quick and clipped. Not ready to speak further. He didn’t press.

Gale rose unhurriedly and turned toward the archway. At its threshold, he paused, head slightly turned.

“Next time,” he said, not quite looking back, “Break the ward first. Let the resistance teach you something interesting.”

As he stepped away, something stirred above. A soft flutter of wings cut through the silence. A winged cat with a blue stone collar glided down from a high bookcase. It landed lightly on his shoulder, curling around his neck as if it had always belonged there. It blinked at Seraphyne once, its eyes sharp with a strange, assessing intelligence, then turned its head with an almost regal air.

Seraphyne blinked, momentarily caught off guard. What is a tressym doing in here? I hadn’t noticed it before—had it been watching me this whole time?

The Tower returned to stillness. Lost in the shadows of the upper alcoves and mezzanines, a handful of apprentices feigned study, their gazes secretly following each word, their ears catching every whispered nuance. A chilling silence hung in the air; None dared to challenge the Archmage’s power. Not like that. And yet, she wasn’t disciplined or dismissed. There was no thunderwave, no unraveling of flesh from bone. Just a conversation. A challenge met without punishment.

The whispers resumed, quieter now, lined with something unfamiliar.

Curiosity.

She stayed where she was, her hand moving unconsciously, sketching a slow, spiraling glyph into the wood with a bit of chalk. Her breath wavered in its rhythm. His words lingered like a chime, faint but constant, echoing in a part of her she hadn’t realized was listening.

The idea of asking questions pressed gently against old defenses. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a trap.

The Tower still listened, yes. But not like a warden, as when she first came. More like a teacher, or a new friend waiting for the next line in a conversation that had finally begun. She remained seated, one hand unconsciously sketching a slow, spiral glyph into the wood with a bit of chalk.

You’re allowed to ask questions.

His words stirred something she hadn’t wanted to wake. Not yet. It felt too large, too sharp around the edges. A fragile thing, waking up in the dark recesses of her consciousness.

She rose from her seat, more out of restlessness than intention. Her boots made very little sound on the stone as she moved deeper into the shelves, drawn not to any title in particular, but to the silence between them.

“I’m not sure what to ask,” she whispered.

Gale had told her once that there was no need to search for what you needed. If something was for you, it would find you. And it did.

As she walked, running her fingers down the book spines for comfort, a slim book eased from the shelf beside her, stopping her in her tracks. It looked like a feather caught in a breeze, hovering weightlessly before descending in a slow arc until it landed at her feet with a low thump.

Seraphyne stared at the fallen book.

It had no title, no sigil, or seal. Just a smooth, dark leather cover, worn at the edges in a way that suggested hands had held it often and with care.

She crouched and lifted it, as if it might break if not handled with gentle hands. Notably warm, not magically so—at least, not overtly. It carried the warmth of something that had been waiting, almost like a book set down by a hearth, expecting its owner to return. The Tower didn’t speak. But she felt it speak. It wasn’t a whisper in her ear or a command in her mind.

She opened the book carefully. Inside, the first page was blank. And then, with the subtle grace of ink drawing itself into shape, words appeared in that same flowing script she had seen before on her note by the door:

Then, begin by writing the questions down.

No fanfare. No summons. Just a simple answer to her spoken question. The realization that the Tower was not only magical but alive enough to respond to her musings made her stomach clench in a way she couldn’t explain.

Seraphyne sat down on the floor slowly, the book cradled in her lap as if it were a sacred object. Her quill hovered over the page as her throat tightened, and her hand hesitated. Internally, she fought the trepidation that had long protected her. Her hesitation stemmed less from fear now and more from the ache of recognition. That someone—or—something was asking her to speak when she had spent so long teaching herself not to.

She took a deep breath, then lowered the quill and let it rest in the groove of the book’s spine. She did not feel ready. But she would be one day soon. She sensed that she just needed more time. The Tower had not merely acknowledged her. It had made room for her. And that, she realized, was more dangerous than any spell: being seen.

—

Dawn hadn’t thoroughly claimed the sky. The light filtering through the clerestory windows was a pale blue, barely warm enough to illuminate the room. Seraphyne emerged from her quarters, her eyes adjusting, and her boots silent on the floor. To her surprise, no summons had come. Yet, something had pulled her from sleep with the same gentle insistence as the air in her lungs. At the base of the inner stairs, a single ribbon of pale vellum curled like a fallen petal. She picked it up with caution.

The surface remained wordless. Only a diagram, drawn circular and incomplete, like the beginning of a glyph meant to expand when finished. Beneath it, an arrow pointed outward toward the exit.

She hesitated.

In the days since arriving, not once had she stepped outside the Tower’s main keep. The doors remained unlocked, but she hadn’t tested them, either. The Tower suggested—and she followed.

The vast double doors creaked open before she could push them. Not loudly, just old hinges stretching like waking limbs. The air outside was cool and sprinkled with dew. Mist clung low across the grass, curling in the soft morning breeze like the smoke of a lazy spell. She stepped through it, trailing no more sound than a breath, looking over her shoulder from time to time. The Tower behind her felt suddenly immense, as though its silence watched her go with mild curiosity. Like a stone giant trailing her at a slow, patient pace.

She followed the path instinctively—past the low herb beds, through the trellised arches where flowering vines blinked sleepily with dew. At the edge of the grounds, she found a clearing ringed with seven standing stones. They looked ancient and were scored with symbols. The grounds felt like a place that should be untouched by design.

And there, waiting on the flat stone bench in the center, was another book. It was slim, hand-bound, with no title, similar to the book Seraphyne had been given in the library. Its pages fluttered in the morning breeze. Seraphyne approached the book with caution. The stones didn’t hum or pulse under her feet.

She opened the book and flattened it on the bench. This time, no ink formed on its own. Instead, inside the cover bore a note with a single line, scrawled in handwriting she recognized—Gale’s, precise but impatiently written:

Finish the glyph. Let the land respond. — G.D

She stared at it. No lesson plan or rubric was provided. Just space to try.

A piece of chalk was left beside the book, pale and waiting for her hand. She knelt, fingers already tingling with the itch of spell craft. This wasn’t about control. It was about trust—in the Tower, in herself, and magic.

She took a deep breath and began to draw. The lines of the glyph flowed as her hand moved, shaping not what she knew but what she sensed around her. The circle grew with each drawn line. Morning wind rose and curled around her, as if eager to follow her movements.

And when she closed the final loop, something answered.

The mist stirred inward and through her, condensing into a soft, shimmering pulse that resonated beneath her fingertips. The grass rippled. A soft hum, like a note drawn from stone and soil, thrummed underfoot. It was the sound of completion. Seraphyne exhaled slowly, her body warmed from excitement despite the chill. The glyph was fading, but the echo remained. A simple spell. A question was asked, and it was answered.

Behind her, she looked back at the Tower that loomed quietly above. The glow faded from the circle as the glyph dissolved into the stone. Stillness followed, and it felt saturated with meaning. Seraphyne sat back on her heels, her breath visible in the cool air. Her fingertips tingled from contact with raw, responding magic. The power wasn’t imposing, but was exchanged willingly by the Weave.

She didn’t hear him approach at first. She felt him, like the change in pressure before a storm breaks.

“I wondered if you’d come,” came Gale’s voice, low and steady behind her. Not surprised—more pleased than anything.

“Is this another one of your unfinished theories?” She asked curiously.

“Not this time. This one was complete. I simply wasn’t sure if you were ready to finish it.” He offered a small, knowing smile. “Turns out, my hesitation was the only thing misplaced.

His footsteps were hushed by moss and stone as he approached.

She rose slowly, brushing her fingers against the edge of the stone as if to anchor herself. “How do you decide that?”

“I occasionally don’t,” he said with a faint shrug. “The Tower decided your practice today,” he added, pointing back to the ancient stone structure.

They stood side by side in the open. The stones towering around them like sentinels. The fog began to lift, revealing glimpses of distant hills, forest edges, and the long, serpentine path that circled the Tower’s outer grounds.

“You’re changing how you teach me… why?” she said after a moment of thought.

“You’re changing how you listen.”

That made her pause. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious…”

He looked at her, not appraising, but waiting for her to step forward. “You’re not,” he said. “The Tower noticed. And it… decided to invite. The choice is now yours to make.”

She studied how the rising sun caught his brown hair, slightly gilding the edges like metal left too long in the light. While already tall, Gale possessed a composure that made him seem taller than he was, an ease that filled silence without disturbing it. His features were fine and balanced, as though deliberately drawn—but it was the way he moved, aligned so precisely with the Tower’s rhythm, that made her pause. Sometimes, she could hardly tell where he ended and the Tower began.

He glanced toward the woods. “There’s an old trail beyond the standing stones. Overgrown but walkable. Care to join me?”

She followed his gaze. “Another lesson?”

“No.” A pause. “Just pleasant company and conversation.”

She hesitated. Then nodded once.

They began walking side by side, not quite in rhythm, but not out of step, either. The path roughened in places, vines tangling across old flagstones, but neither minded. The quiet wasn’t strained, but companionable. Seraphyne welcomed it after the rush of completing the diagram.

Gale offered no pressure, and to her surprise, she felt no urge to leave. She was still learning how to stand in someone’s gaze without bristling. Still learning that being given space doesn’t mean being abandoned later. That sometimes, permission can be a type of kindness freely given.

[aghost-writer]

Wisteria

Ending: Muzan

This is a Yandere Demon Slayer x Female Reader Fic!

MDNI!!!

When Muzan first kidnapped Y/N, it was not in a fit of rage, nor was it driven by blind emotion. His motives were far more calculated, rooted in a desire for control—something far more insidious than the impulsive violence others might have expected. He had heard of their potential, seen glimpses of their strength, and understood that someone with such power could either become a valuable ally or a dangerous enemy. But Muzan never relied on chance. He was methodical, and the only way to ensure Y/N’s loyalty was to bring them under his direct influence. 

The night of the abduction was cold, and the moon hung high, an eerie witness to the event. Muzan had made sure everything was planned down to the smallest detail. He didn’t need to act quickly or violently. No, he knew that the most effective way to claim Y/N was not through brute force, but through subtlety. He had his agents intercept them on a quiet street, away from prying eyes, and in an instant, Y/N was whisked away. They had no time to react. The world they knew was suddenly far out of reach, swallowed up by darkness.

When Y/N regained consciousness, they were in an unfamiliar place. The walls were stark and sterile, the air unnaturally still. The bed beneath them was soft but unfamiliar. There were no windows, no signs of life outside the room—no escape. They tried to move, but a dull pain shot through their limbs, a reminder of the restraints that had been placed on them. Their heart raced, fear gripping them as they scrambled to make sense of what had just happened. 

And then they heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps, measured and purposeful. 

Muzan stepped into the room, his presence dominating the space even before he spoke. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned them with a quiet intensity. There was no anger in his gaze, no malicious glee. He wasn’t here to fight or to prove anything. He had already won. 

"You should be grateful," Muzan's voice was calm, almost condescending, as he spoke. There was no trace of the fury they had heard about in tales. His words were laced with a quiet assurance, a certainty that this was how things were meant to be. "The life you’re accustomed to? That’s over now. You’ll learn to adapt to what’s necessary to survive."

Y/N stared at him, their pulse quickening as a sense of dread crept over them. What did he mean by that? Was this some twisted test, some form of punishment? They tried to rise, to gather their strength, but their body felt weak, tethered by the fear that Muzan’s mere presence invoked.

"You can resist, of course," Muzan continued, as though reading their thoughts. "But that will only prolong the inevitable. You will learn. It’s better that you do so now."

Y/N’s mind raced. They had heard whispers about the demon king, about his ruthlessness and his desire for power. But now, faced with the reality of the situation, they realized just how much they had underestimated him. They tried to move again, pulling against the restraints, but the realization hit them—Muzan had already thought of everything. 

Days passed, each one slipping by like the last, and Y/N’s world became smaller with every passing hour. The rooms they were confined to were secure, meticulously designed to ensure that escape was impossible. The windows were locked with unyielding iron, and the doors were reinforced with layers of security. Muzan had already anticipated every move they might make, every possibility. He was always several steps ahead.

Y/N’s attempts to escape became increasingly desperate. They would wait for the guards to change shifts, slip through gaps in the security, only to be caught and brought back to the same sterile room. Each failure was met with Muzan’s quiet, unflinching gaze as he watched them struggle.

He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. His control was not exerted through threats or violence, though Y/N could sense the underlying power that radiated from him. Instead, it was the quiet, unrelenting assurance that everything in this place, every aspect of their existence, was under his watchful eye. It was that realization—the steady, oppressive certainty—that gnawed at Y/N’s will, that broke their spirit a little more each day.

Muzan provided everything Y/N needed to survive—food, warmth, shelter—but all of it came with the condition of submission. They were no longer allowed to make their own decisions, no longer allowed to control their own fate. Every comfort came with the implicit demand to give in, to accept that they were now his possession.

"You will stay here, with me," Muzan stated one night, his voice cool, devoid of any emotion but a quiet finality. He stood in the doorway, watching them with a look that conveyed nothing more than expectation. "Until you realize the only person you need is me."

Y/N felt a knot tighten in their chest at his words. There was no warmth, no love in them—just the chilling assurance of a man who had already decided their fate. There was no escape from this place, no way to outrun him. In that moment, it wasn’t fear of pain or death that gripped them—it was the suffocating knowledge that they were now entirely at his mercy.

The days bled into each other, and Y/N could feel the slow but steady erosion of their will. There were no more visitors, no more allies to come to their rescue. They were alone in the world, with only Muzan’s presence for company. Each time they tried to fight, to break free, it was as if the walls of the room closed in tighter, the sense of isolation growing thicker. 

Muzan didn’t need to break them physically. His strength came from his ability to make them believe they were powerless. The more they struggled, the more they realized the futility of it all. 

And then, in a quiet moment when Y/N lay still in the room, Muzan approached them, as though sensing the shift in their spirit. He didn���t speak at first, but his presence was heavy, filling the air with a strange stillness. 

"You will understand soon," Muzan murmured, his voice almost soothing. "What I offer you is power, Y/N. Strength, security—everything you could ever need. All you need to do is accept it. You’ll learn, in time, that this is the only way to survive."

Y/N closed their eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on them. They had never imagined that this was how it would end—trapped in a gilded cage of control, unable to escape. But Muzan was right about one thing. The life they had known was over. They were no longer in control, and now, all they had was him.

Time passed, and the days within the confines of Muzan's grasp began to blur together. At first, Y/N had resisted with every fiber of their being, their spirit unwilling to accept the fate Muzan had imposed on them. But over time, something began to change—something subtle, almost imperceptible at first, but undeniable as it continued. Muzan’s control over them had never been overtly cruel or violent. Instead, it was suffocating, like a thick fog creeping in, surrounding them until they couldn’t see anything but him.

His presence, which had once filled Y/N with an instinctual dread, became a constant in their life—unavoidable, undeniable. His coldness, his utter disdain for weakness, had initially left them feeling like little more than a prisoner. But now, Y/N couldn’t help but notice a flicker in his eyes that they hadn’t seen before—a hint of something deeper, something almost... interested. He was still the same calculating figure, still the same puppet master pulling the strings behind their every move, but there was an undertone of recognition, of respect that hadn’t been there before. 

It was hard to ignore the way his gaze lingered on them at times, as if he were appraising them not only as a captive, but as something more—something to be shaped, refined, and tested. Muzan’s voice still carried that chilling, imperious tone, but there were moments when it softened, almost imperceptibly, to a degree that left Y/N wondering if they were imagining it.

One evening, after yet another grueling training session, Y/N collapsed onto the floor, their body trembling with exhaustion. They had pushed themselves harder than ever before, driven by an instinct to prove they could withstand whatever tests Muzan threw at them. Their lungs burned, their muscles screamed for relief, but there was no rest. They knew better than to expect mercy. But this time, there was something different.

Muzan stood above them, his tall frame casting a shadow over their prone figure. His eyes were cold as ever, but there was something in the way he looked at Y/N—something that almost seemed like approval. For a long moment, he simply watched them, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Y/N waited, breathless, unsure if they were being judged or simply observed.

“You’ll do better next time,” Muzan said finally, his voice a soft, almost approving murmur. His words were not scornful, nor were they the usual sharp commands Y/N had come to expect. They were, instead, a quiet statement, as though he were acknowledging their potential rather than berating them for their failure.

Y/N blinked, trying to process the unexpected sentiment. They were used to Muzan’s harsh criticisms, his constant demand for more, for perfection. They had come to expect nothing less than the cold, impervious figure who sought only to break them, to mold them into a tool for his own purposes. But now, there was something else—something that felt almost like camaraderie, or at least a recognition of their shared struggle.

Muzan didn’t reach down to help them up. He didn’t need to. Y/N knew better than to expect such gestures of kindness from him. But as they lay there, panting and bruised, something shifted inside of them. The resentment, the anger that had once burned so fiercely, began to dull, replaced by a strange sense of respect. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one Y/N wasn’t sure they could fully understand. After all, this was the same man who had kidnapped them, forced them into servitude, and twisted their life into something unrecognizable. But here he was, not as a monster, but as a man who saw something in them—a potential that could be cultivated, a power that could be honed.

"You have strength, Y/N. I see it in you," Muzan remarked one evening, his voice soft, though still carrying that quiet authority. "There’s potential here, in you. But it requires cultivation. You can’t hide from your own power forever."

His words were neither an accusation nor a boast. Instead, they were a statement of fact, delivered in the same calm tone that Y/N had come to associate with him. There was no malice, no cruelty in his voice—just an unspoken understanding that he could shape them into something greater. Muzan wasn’t simply trying to break them, not anymore. He was trying to make them better, stronger, more in line with his own vision.

It was a difficult pill to swallow. Y/N had always seen Muzan as the embodiment of ruthless ambition, a demon lord who ruled through fear and domination. But in that moment, they began to see the cracks in the facade—the moments where his actions weren’t driven by some desire for sadistic pleasure, but by a belief that power was the only true currency in the world. And if that was the case, perhaps Muzan wasn’t so different from them after all. 

Y/N began to wonder if this was the reason he had kept them alive, why he hadn’t discarded them like he had done with so many others. They were more than just a tool to him, more than just an object to be controlled. They were a means to an end, a part of a larger plan that Y/N couldn’t fully comprehend. And in some twisted way, they could feel the pull of it—the lure of his power, the desire to be something greater than they had ever imagined. It was unsettling, but it was undeniable.

The following days were filled with more rigorous training, and while the exhaustion still weighed heavily on them, there was a strange new drive inside Y/N. They no longer resisted the sessions with the same defiance they once had. Instead, they pushed themselves harder, driven by something deeper than mere survival—something that came from a growing understanding of what Muzan wanted from them, and what they could become under his guidance.

One day, after a particularly brutal session, Y/N collapsed once more, their body trembling from the exertion. This time, however, there was no immediate judgment, no harsh reprimand. Instead, Muzan watched them from a distance, his gaze steady and intense. For a moment, there was silence between them—a quiet acknowledgment of the struggle they both shared.

Muzan finally spoke, his voice calm but tinged with an emotion Y/N couldn’t quite place. "You’ll do better next time. But you’re getting closer."

Y/N didn’t know what it was—whether it was gratitude, respect, or something more—but for the first time since their capture, they felt a faint sense of camaraderie, as if they weren’t entirely alone in this battle. They weren’t sure if they could ever fully trust Muzan, but in that moment, they realized they were no longer fighting against him, but with him. There was still much to be done, many walls to break through, but for the first time, Y/N felt the faintest stirrings of a bond forming between them—one forged not through fear or subjugation, but through the shared pursuit of strength.

It wasn’t loyalty, not yet. But it was a beginning.

Y/N’s time under Muzan’s control had shifted from mere survival to something far more complex. The resentment and anger that had once driven them were still present, but there was now an undercurrent of something else—an understanding that Muzan’s methods, though cruel and manipulative, could be used to further their own goals. Y/N’s desire for revenge, the burning need to settle the score with Michikatsu Tsugikuni, had not faded. It had only grown stronger, more defined with each passing day. Tsugikuni’s betrayal had carved deep scars in their soul, and every moment spent under Muzan’s reign only stoked the fire of vengeance that burned within them.

Muzan, ever observant, had seen this shift in Y/N long before they had fully realized it themselves. He recognized the determination in their eyes, the way they trained with a singular focus, the way their thoughts drifted toward their nemesis, as though the very idea of Michikatsu Tsugikuni was enough to consume them. Muzan wasn’t blind to the depths of their hatred, nor was he unaware of the potential in Y/N’s thirst for revenge. He saw it as an opportunity, a way to bind Y/N even further to his cause, to make them a tool not just of power, but of precision.

One evening, as the cool night air settled over Muzan’s domain, he approached Y/N while they were training, their movements sharp and fluid despite the exhaustion that seemed to weigh them down. His gaze was steady, unreadable as usual, but there was something in the way he watched them—something calculating, something that suggested he had already made a decision.

"You’re getting stronger," Muzan said, his voice low, almost approving, though still carrying that same icy edge. "Your desire for revenge—it's powerful, I can see that. But you must understand something. Revenge is not something you rush into. It is a game of patience. A game of precision."

Y/N paused mid-motion, a sheen of sweat glistening on their skin, and met his gaze. The idea of patience, of waiting, gnawed at them. But they knew better than to challenge him outright. Muzan was not a man who tolerated disobedience, not even from those he had begun to shape into something more.

"You must wait," Muzan continued, a cruel smile barely curling the edges of his lips. "I will take care of the Demon Slayers. Once they are destroyed, once the world is in chaos, that is when you will strike. I will ensure Tsugikuni’s downfall. But you will bide your time until then."

The weight of his words settled over Y/N like a heavy blanket. The idea of waiting, of holding back their thirst for vengeance, was unbearable. Every fiber of their being screamed for action. But Muzan had been clear—his plans took precedence. The Demon Slayers, the very group that had once hunted him and his kin, were a larger threat. Destroying them was paramount, and only once that task was complete could Y/N take the vengeance they so desperately craved.

The promise, however, was a potent one. Muzan had just offered them the one thing they had longed for—the destruction of Tsugikuni, the final act of revenge. In that moment, Y/N understood that waiting, though difficult, was the price they had to pay to exact the kind of retribution they desired. Muzan had the means, the resources, and the power to make their vengeance a reality. All they had to do was be patient.

And so, Y/N agreed, though it chafed against every instinct within them. They would wait. They would bide their time, training, becoming even stronger, honing their skills until the day they could stand before Tsugikuni and make him pay for his betrayal. Muzan’s guidance, though manipulative, had shaped them into a weapon—one that would be unleashed when the time was right.

As the weeks turned into months, Y/N found themselves immersed in the darkness of Muzan’s world. The Demon Slayers, despite their efforts, remained a threat, but they were far from the only challenge. Muzan’s enemies were numerous, and there were many who sought to take his place as the ruler of the demon world. These enemies were ruthless, each encounter a reminder of the brutal politics of power. But Y/N had learned, through Muzan’s teachings, how to navigate that world, how to become something more than a mere tool—how to become a force in their own right.

During these months, Muzan’s focus remained on the Demon Slayers. Y/N had a front-row seat to the machinations that played out between Muzan and his foes. They saw firsthand how Muzan used his power to manipulate, to destroy, to annihilate anyone who stood in his way. It was a world of cruelty, where alliances were fleeting and loyalty was a currency that few could afford. Yet, through it all, Y/N couldn’t shake the knowledge that they, too, were being shaped for a specific purpose.

Finally, the day arrived.

The Demon Slayers were broken, their ranks decimated, their leaders crushed. The world was ripe for the taking, and Muzan’s victory over them was absolute. There were no more barriers between Y/N and their revenge. The long months of waiting, the endless hours of training, all led to this moment—the moment when they would face Michikatsu Tsugikuni and claim the vengeance that had haunted them for so long.

Muzan was there, as always, his cold eyes watching them closely. "Now," he said, his voice low, almost proud. "Now you can take what’s yours. Go, and show Tsugikuni the consequences of crossing you."

Y/N stood before Muzan, the weight of his words and the promise of their vengeance weighing heavily on their shoulders. They had waited, endured, and now the moment was finally here. With a nod, Y/N turned and walked toward their destiny, ready to face Tsugikuni and exact the justice that had eluded them for so long.

When they returned, bloodied and victorious, their task complete, Muzan was waiting. There was no smile on his face, no overt celebration, but there was something in his eyes—an acknowledgment, perhaps even a hint of respect.

“Well done,” Muzan said, his voice colder than usual, but with an undertone of approval. "You’ve proven yourself. You’re more than just a tool now. You’re an ally, one I can rely on."

Y/N, standing before him, bloodied and triumphant, felt a strange mix of emotions. There was satisfaction in knowing that Tsugikuni had paid for his betrayal, but there was something else as well—a new understanding between them and Muzan. No longer were they just a pawn in his game; they had earned their place as an equal. Their relationship, though still built on power and control, had shifted. They had proven themselves capable, not just of serving Muzan’s goals, but of pursuing their own.

As Y/N stood before Muzan, their heart heavy with the weight of what had been done, they realized that this was only the beginning. Revenge had been claimed, but the world was still filled with enemies, with power struggles that would never end. But for the first time, Y/N felt ready—ready to face whatever came next, not as a captive, but as a force to be reckoned with, standing shoulder to shoulder with Muzan, not beneath him.

For Y/N, the path to vengeance had led to something far more powerful—freedom, in its most complicated form.

As the months passed, Y/N's relationship with Muzan began to evolve. What had started as a brutal, one-sided dynamic between captor and prisoner had slowly morphed into something far more intricate, a strange bond that both of them seemed to nurture, though neither would have admitted it out loud. There was no denying the power Muzan wielded over Y/N—he had shaped them, broken them down only to rebuild them into something stronger. But there was also something deeper, something more subtle that had woven its way into their interactions, a connection that transcended mere control.

From the very beginning, Muzan had treated Y/N as something more than just another tool in his vast collection of resources. Their bond was always different—there was an unspoken understanding, a recognition that they shared blood, that their fates were intertwined from the start. As children, they had been rivals, sparring with each other as siblings often did, but there had always been an underlying mutual respect between them. When Muzan turned toward his dark ambitions, Y/N had been caught in the undertow, swept along in his schemes, their lives forever altered. 

“You’ve learned well,” Muzan remarked one evening, his cold eyes narrowing slightly as Y/N expertly executed yet another of his intricate plans, effortlessly slipping into the role of his most trusted confidante. “But never forget, it’s me who gave you the foundation to reach this point.”

Y/N, standing tall and confident in the aftermath of their successful mission, only nodded in response. They had long since shed their resentment for Muzan’s overwhelming control. It wasn’t that they were blind to the darkness of his soul, nor that they had forgiven him for the things he had done. But they had learned something important—the world was not kind, and in it, survival meant learning to adapt, to take advantage of what little power they could seize for themselves. Muzan had given them that power. In return, they had made themselves indispensable to him.

As time wore on, Y/N began to recognize that they were not simply a tool, a means to an end. They had grown into something more in Muzan’s eyes—a partner. And Muzan, though still a cruel and calculating demon lord, was no longer the distant, emotionless figure they had once seen him as. He had become someone who valued their contributions, who saw them as an equal, albeit one still bound by the unbreakable chains of loyalty.

Y/N’s days were filled with training, honing their skills until they surpassed even their own expectations. With each passing week, they grew stronger, sharper, more attuned to the harsh realities of the world they now inhabited. And though Muzan never stopped trying to control every aspect of their existence, Y/N had learned how to thrive under his watchful gaze. 

One evening, as they worked together in the quiet of his vast, darkened mansion, Muzan paused and turned to them with a small, but unmistakable smile curling the edges of his lips—a rarity for him, and one that made Y/N pause mid-task.

"You've become much more than I expected, Y/N," he said, his voice softer than usual, though still carrying the weight of authority. "But you must never forget the lessons I’ve taught you. Without me, you would be nothing."

Y/N lowered their gaze for a moment, the words cutting deep, but they had long since come to terms with the fact that Muzan’s view of the world was one of absolute dominance. It was in his nature to believe that nothing existed without his hand shaping it. Even so, Y/N could no longer deny that Muzan’s influence had sculpted them into something formidable. They were not a mindless follower; they were a partner, a force in their own right.

"I don't forget," Y/N replied with a calm certainty. "You gave me the tools I needed to survive. But I’ve taken those tools and made them my own."

Muzan's eyes gleamed with something like approval, though it was fleeting. He didn’t respond with words, but his gaze lingered, as though measuring the weight of their statement.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N and Muzan continued their work together. In some strange way, Y/N felt they had grown closer to him, their bond strengthening as they carried out his plans, their victories becoming shared ones. They had become more than mere allies—there was a connection between them, a shared history that no one else could ever understand. Muzan, in his cold, distant way, had become something like family to them. In this twisted existence they shared, they were all the other had.

One evening, they stood together on the balcony of Muzan’s mansion, gazing out over the sprawling city below. The lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows that stretched across the streets like a sea of darkness. Muzan’s arm brushed against Y/N’s as they both leaned over the railing, silent in their contemplation.

“You’ll always have a place at my side,” Muzan said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken meaning. “No one will ever take you from me. You’re family now, Y/N.”

Y/N glanced at him, their expression unreadable. The word ‘family’ was one they hadn’t thought to associate with Muzan, not after everything that had happened between them. Yet, as they stood there, with the weight of his words settling over them like a cloak, they realized that he was right. They had come to depend on one another, had forged a bond so deeply rooted in shared experiences that it was now impossible to sever. Whether it was love, loyalty, or something else entirely, Y/N didn’t know. But they understood one thing clearly—Muzan was not just their captor or their teacher anymore. He was something far more complicated. He was their family, as twisted as that might sound.

Y/N’s gaze shifted back to the city below, the endless lights now seeming more like stars in a faraway sky, a sky that was somehow both familiar and foreign. Their life had become this—an endless cycle of power, control, and survival. But in that moment, standing beside Muzan, they felt something that had been absent for so long—an understanding that they were no longer alone.

For better or worse, they had found a place beside the demon lord. They were his equal now, his ally, and his family. And in that, they had found a strange sense of belonging, even if the world around them was dark, unforgiving, and endless.

[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

[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.

[kingconcretenc]

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