you’re my absolution

⛓️‍💥

[dulcebloodhnd]

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dulce. south asian. queer. in my twenties.

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 dulcebloodhnd — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT PLAGIARISE MY CONTENT OR FEED AI.

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hate that mohan doesn't get the credit she deserves for being an amazing mentor to both whitaker and santos in s1. she balanced strictness and encouragement perfectly and she was instrumental in whitaker bouncing back from his bad cases and gaining confidence but somehow the credit for that goes to robby even though he didn't do shit aside from giving a ted talk on emotional repression... not only that but she was the ONLY doctor to tell santos that she deserved to be there and that she was good at her job.. it was trinity's first day there, she was enduring psychological warfare from a white demon, and samira was the only one to look at her and say langdon was wrong! he's not right about you!! not even robby says that to santos ever!!! samira mohan.... you are teacher of the century and we will avenge you

[finnbennettsource]

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[femmecrash]

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[aerionsfanart]

09_40am

[wellwishesforya]

(x)

[the-darklings]

As per your last publication… how abt a Winterhall situation in which LS is, let’s say… pretty dominant in bed? How would Maekar react to this? Feel free to make it NSFW 😮‍💨

WINTERHALL TAKEOVER ‼️💥

Short answer: he’s into it. catastrophically. the kind of into it that scares him a little.

Now, the long answer:

Here’s the thing about Maekar (and I’ve said this before multiple times but it bears repeating because it’s foundational to understanding him in bed) this is a man who has spent his entire life as the fourth son. The spare’s spare’s spare (sorry I keep saying it because it tickles me lol). The one they pulled out when they needed a sword and put back in the cupboard when they needed a prince. Baelor got the love and the crown. Aerys got the learning. Rhaegel got the softness. And Maekar got… duty. Hardness. The understanding that he was useful but never wanted. Not in the particular, singular, breathtaking way that people want the people they actually choose.

And then he married you. Who had loved his brother first.

Who looked at him across that Winterhall solar like she was measuring a sword for balance and trying not to flinch at the weight.

So when you climb on top of him (when you press him back into the furs with a hand splayed flat on his chest and just look at him, eyes animal steady, hair loose, mouth already bruised from his) something in him goes very quiet and very still in ways he’s never experienced. Because you didn’t have to. That’s the thing. You could lie back. You could let him do the work, let him earn it, let him prove himself useful the way he’s proven himself useful his whole damn life. You could make this another duty. He half expects it most nights, braces for it even, in that grim Maekar way where he decides in advance that whatever you give him will be enough because it has to be.

But instead you’re taking. Instead you’re looking at him like he’s something you want. Like he’s a feast and you’re starving. Like you picked him.

He doesn’t let go easily, either. This needs saying. Maekar’s whole life is a clenched fist. Control is how he survives being the one nobody reaches for first—he reaches for himself, holds himself together, never lets anyone see where he’s cracked. So the letting go is rare. It has to be earned. You have to work him up to it. Slow, patient, the way you’d gentle a wild horse, except the wild horse is a grown man with his jaw set so hard you can see the muscle jump.

You kiss him until he forgets what he’s holding onto. You whisper things in his ear that you’d never say in daylight—my husband, my lord, mine, mine, mine—until his breath catches. You drag your nails down his chest and his hands fist in the furs because he doesn’t know where to put them. He’s been taught to do, to give, to serve, but he hasn’t been taught to receive. He hasn’t been taught that he’s allowed to just lie there and be adored.

But you teach him.

And gods, once he lets you? Once he actually submits to it?

He loves being ridden. Loves it in a way that would mortify him if he ever had to say it out loud. He loves the sight of you above him—wife, wolf, wild thing, all his—mouth parted in pleased snarl, throat exposed, hands on his chest for balance as you take him exactly how you want him. He loves that he can see all of you. That he can watch your face, watch your pleasure, watch you use him for your own satisfaction and take what you need from him. That’s the part that breaks him, really, the taking. That you want him enough to take.

He loves being marked. The bruises you leave on his shoulders, his chest, the insides of his thighs. Bite marks at his collarbone that his squire will see the next morning and very carefully pretend not to. Maekar wears them like a man who’s been starving for proof even if no one else alive will ever glimpse them. Someone wants me enough to mark me. Someone will look at me tomorrow and know. He will never acknowledge this. He will never say it but when you bite down hard on the meat of his shoulder and he makes that broken noise in the back of his throat? That’s what it is. That’s what he’s saying.

He loves being needed. When you tell him, breathless, wrecked, half out of your mind (I need you, I need you, Maekar, please) the word please from your mouth does something to him he can’t articulate, not even years into your marriage. Because you don’t say please. You don’t beg. You’re a Stark of Winterfell and the Lady of your own hall and you don’t ask for anything; you take it or command it or do without. But you beg him. You need him. Him specifically. Not a Targaryen, not a sword, not an heir-maker, not a replacement. Him. Maekar. The fourth son. The spare. Just him.

The aftermath is where it gets almost unbearable.

Because when he lets go like that (when he lets you take him apart) he can’t quite put himself back together straight away. He lies there with you draped across his chest, breath still unsteady, one arm banded tight around your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and his other hand keeps moving over your hair, your shoulder, the knob of your spine, like he’s trying to memorise you by touch. He doesn’t say anything. He never does. But his heart is pounding under your ear and his throat works when he swallows and you can feel him trying not to break in some way he doesn’t have words for.

And then, very gruffly, into your hair:

“Wife.”

That’s all. That’s all he can manage. But you’ve learned by now that in Maekar’s mouth that word is a whole country. It means you chose me. It means you stayed. It means you wanted me like that, you rode me like that, you needed me like that, and I don’t know what to do with it but I’d die before I asked you to stop.

You press a kiss to his sternum where your mouth has left a livid red mark and you whisper back, “Husband.”

And he exhales.

[oriixxc]

[the-darklings]

okay i fear i might be cooking but hear me out on this…what if in the modern au! reader/LS stumbles upon maekar’s old leather jacket that is stuffed at the back of his closet and wears it/tries it on…surely maekar would be seeing stars?? am i right or am i right??

You're absolutely cooking because Maekar finding you in that jacket would fundamentally break something in his brain I'm afraid 😭

you find it by accident first time, shoved way back in his closet behind suits and dress shirts, genuine leather worn butter-soft from years, still faintly smells like cigarettes and something indefinably him

pull it on without thinking because you're cold, too big in the shoulders, sleeves past your fingertips, and you're examining yourself in the mirror when he walks in and just—stops, goes completely still in the doorway

the look on his face is something you've never seen before, caught between recognition and hunger and genuine disorientation, like he's seeing two timelines overlaid and can't process it

"where did you find that" voice rough, controlled but barely, and you can see his hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from crossing the room

when you say casually "back of your closet, didn't know you had a rebellious phase" he makes this sound low in his throat, finally moves, crosses to you with that focused intensity he usually reserves for crisis management

his hands find your hips through the leather, pull you back against him, and you can feel exactly how affected he is, the evidence pressed against your lower back

bites down on your neck carefully, controlled even now, but his breathing is ragged: "you have no idea what you look like right now"

there's something in his voice you've never heard before, something almost vulnerable, and when you push him to explain he just says "like mine. like you're wearing my past and i get to keep you anyway"

the jacket becomes a thing after that—sometimes you wear it casually, oversized sweater underneath, and watch him try to maintain composure across the dinner table, watch his eyes track you with barely concealed want

but the lingerie version is when you actually see maekar lose control completely

you plan it deliberately, wait until he's had a brutal day, until he comes home exhausted and wound tight, and you're in his bedroom wearing expensive lingerie and nothing else except his old leather jacket, unzipped just enough to be obscene

the sound he makes when he sees you is genuinely wrecked, something between a curse and a groan, and his carefully maintained composure just shatters in real time

he's across the room before you can blink, hands framing your face, kissing you hard enough to bruise, desperate in ways maekar never is, and when he pulls back his pupils are blown

tries to form words, can't, just kisses you again with his hands sliding under the leather to find bare skin and lace, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of not completely losing himself

"keep it on" he rasps against your throat, pushing you back onto the bed, shoving you legs apart to settle between them, mouth everywhere, and the jacket stays on because apparently that specifically is breaking his brain

fucks you still wearing the jacket, leather against your skin and his hands, and the visual of it does something to him he can't articulate—you wearing his past, his rebellion, proof you want all of him not just the corporate version

after when you're both wrecked he's still touching the leather like he can't quite believe it, fingers tracing where it frames your body, voice quiet and almost thoughtful: "keep it. looks better on you than it ever did on me"

it becomes a weapon you deploy strategically: wear it with nothing underneath when you want to watch his control snap, wear it casually when you want to see him wound tight all evening knowing what's coming later

there's something deeply psychological about it for him that he struggles to articulate—that jacket represents when he was angry and lost and rebelling against everything, and seeing you choose to wear it means you see that version of him and want it too, not just the disciplined controlled man he's made himself into

sometimes you catch him just looking at you in it with this expression that's hunger and tenderness and something almost like grief, like he's mourning the boy he was and grateful for the man he became and overwhelmed that you'd want both

the first time you wear it out (just to run errands, casual over jeans) he physically has to adjust himself before you leave the apartment, and the whole time you're gone he's thinking about it, texting you things that get progressively more explicit

you learn that wearing it then asking him to do something completely mundane—"can you help me with this" or "come here for a second"—makes him wild, the contrast between domestic normalcy and the visceral reaction he has to seeing you in his leather

once you wear it to answer the door when he comes home and he doesn't even make it fully inside, just backs you against the wall in the entryway, hand sliding under the jacket to find you wearing nothing beneath it, and the groan he makes is devastating

he's never possessive in obvious ways but the jacket makes him territorial. he marks you up more when you're wearing it, wants evidence of himself on you mixing with evidence of his past

afterward he holds you close with the jacket still on and his face buried in your neck, breathing hard, and sometimes he'll say things he'd never say otherwise: "needed this. needed you. don't know what i'd do without—" can't finish but you understand

the jacket becomes intimacy shorthand between you. you wearing it means you see all of him, you want all of him, even the parts he's tried to leave behind, and that vulnerability is what actually hits him harder than he'll ever show or admit

maekar who never loses composure, who's disciplined and measured and controlled in every other aspect of his life, completely falls apart for you in that jacket, and you both know it, and the power dynamic of that is intoxicating for you both

the jacket stays in the front of the closet now, accessible, and sometimes he'll pull it out himself and hand it to you with this look, and you know exactly what he's asking for without words needing to be exchanged

becomes one of those intimacy markers in your relationship—the jacket means vulnerability, means maekar letting himself want without restraint, means you claiming all versions of him across time, and neither of you takes that lightly

[gutpunchlove]

baelor targaryen + little details