[Damn, these are becoming a habit. WELP! Manorian, a bit of Celorian because pls we all know that’s lingering in the back of our boy’s head, just ruminating on Dorian’s feels for a certain Witch Killer, fair warning this could get angsty but I swear no freezing oneself to death this time, for @propshophannah and @helloprinceling because I love you and also I want you to suffer :P Set whenever you want it to be, darlings.]
Loving Manon alternates, depending on the day, between easy as breathing and really fucking hard. Some days they laze around in bed, grinning and whispering and rutting, and there’s little to it but sweat and sex and soft white hair like moonlight glowing in the sunlight, and it’s easy to love her.
Other days she sits in a corner and broods. Or she disappears on Abraxos to do gods-know-what before the sun has fully pushed away the pink fingers of Dawn and Dorian is left to brood on his own. Whenever Asterin sees, she snorts and tells him to stop looking like a kicked puppy. He tries but it’s hard, even though Manon always comes home at the end of the day, hands him a fist full of wildflowers and he smiles and loves her again. He can’t help it- loving Manon is hard when he’s alone.
On the worst days, it’s not her fault at all that it’s hard to love her. It’s his own. The shadows steal into his mind overnight and he is left watching Sorscha die over and over and over again. Or he’ll catch Aelin laughing with her head tipped back, arm in arm with Lysandra and he’ll have to look away. Aelin is Queen of Terrasen; Aelin is married to a male who would walk through Hell for her; Aelin killed Celaena Sardothien a long time ago. It doesn’t matter, though. Celaena steals into Dorian’s nightmares, wrapping herself around him to the sound of a haunting piano, loving him like she was born for it; his beautiful assassin, the girl he freed.
But on good days, the days that outnumber the bad, loving Manon is easy and Sorscha’s head is driven away and Aelin’s fangs flash in the sunlight. Manon is easy to love. Her eyes are gold, her hair is liquid moonlight, and her body is slim and strong and his, a thousand times his by the goddess’s grace. Her smile is small and lazy, pointed iron teeth hidden by closed dark lips. Her eyelids are pale, veins hardly visible, thin skin dropping to hide golden irises with a fan of thick lashes. Her hands are smaller than his, covered in a hundred scars, her nails sharp and iron and deadly, proof of her vitality.
Question. Do you all think Dorian can detect lies because he has super cool raw magic? Or because he has some Gavin-like gift that allows him to be able to detect the lies without holding the Sword of Truth? Or maybe he was holding the SoT in the Bloodhound scene and I missed it?
Ok. So this is not the first time Maas has used the word “god” to describe Dorian and his magic. But what I find interesting is that in EOS, Rowan uses his magic to shield Dorian’s magic from being detected by Gavriel and Fenrys. Rowan also mentions that Dorian will be someone to watch/fear because he looks harmless, but his mind is always calculating.
With those points in mind, does anyone else think that maybe our dear Dorian has been shielding his magic for longer than we’ve been led to assume? Meaning:
Dorian does not want ANYONE to know how powerful he is. Which would then make me think that although he did (maybe) honestly ask Rowan for help using his magic, Dorian was also pretending…?
Let’s not forget that when he killed the king, Maas described him as giving a battlecry of a god and that Aelin said Dorian’s magic was “infinite” meaning he shouldn’t get tired/run out of magic…right?
Then at the beginning of EoS, we have that weird scene where Dorian stares for a second too long at the portrait of his mother and him–the portrait where its obvious they don’t look alike.
Does anyone think that maybe Dorian is, maybe, a reincarnation of one of the gods? Or that maybe he is more than just being guided by the gods? (I headcanon that maybe one of the gods pulled a “zeus” on Dorian’s mom or his dad and Dorian is the result, or that maybe dearly dead Gavin found a way to like “leak” back into the world of the living and brought some of Elena’s raw magic with him (through their bond–I know HOW WACKO this sounds btw) and he is the one shielding Dorian?)
When I read this scene, it makes me think that Dorian might have been shielding Manon from being able to pick up on his magic because he was getting riled up a bit and he (perhaps unintentionally) lost a bit of his hold on his magic. NOT to say that I don’t think he might always be shielding it from everyone. I could have SWORN there was a scene early-ish in EoS where Rowan mentions how Dorian’s hair wasn’t moving. But didn’t put together that it could be a shield.
And then, remember when he and Aelin went all Canarram (or whatever it’s called) they flashed between the glass bridge, the castle in Orynth, and, “another place, perfect and strange, where they had been rafted from stardust and light.” I’m just sayin that sounds a lot like where the gods were all chillin when we saw them in the mirror.
Also, this “Dark Dorian” is at odds with the Dorian who “mercifully” snapped the Bloodhound’s neck/the Dorian who doesn’t know which side of the line he stands on (monster or human).
This is a collaboration between @onceuponapeach and I. It may be a trick, or a real smutty treat. Read at your own risk (we promise it’s brisk!).
[The Dark Lord - A Halloween Manorian AU]
Rain sluiced the windows as thunder boomed and lightening flashed. The girl with the moon-white hair felt around in the darkness for the matches, trying not to panic. The power had gone out about an hour ago, and the old mansion she lived in was drafty. She’d been carrying a candlestick through the corridors, back to her bedroom, when she’d turned a corner and a gust of air had blown it out.
She’d panicked and run back to the kitchen to get the matches. She found them on the counter and lit the candle again, pocketing the matches in her red, silk night robe.
The clock in the grand entry way of the old mansion chimed. Her stomach twisted. It was a quarter till midnight.
Careful to shield the candle, she made her way as fast as she could back to her bedroom. If she could just make it, she would be fine. She could calm her nerves and everything would be fine.
A hiss of chains on wood sounded behind her.
She spun around, searching the opposite end of the corridor for anything that could have made that sound. She held her breath. Lightning boomed, illuminating the entire wing of the house.
Nothing. There was nothing there. No one there.
She swallowed hard, and hurried up the grand staircase to her bedroom.
She’d bought the old mansion right out of college and had begun renovating it room by room. It wasn’t until she’d started on the master bedroom that she’d begun to see and hear things that weren’t there. She’d looked up the history on the house, and it hadn’t done anything to quell her fears.
It’d been built in the 1600s by a man known as the Dark Lord. For decades, people had reported seeing and hearing his ghost roaming the halls of this mansion. Always moaning and dragging his chains, calling out for the lover he’d lost. She’d been burned as a witch by the villagers. When he’d tried to save her, they’d imprisoned him in this mansion. Locked him inside, and left him for dead.
She shivered as she entered her bedroom and checked the warding around the doors and windows. For years, she’d been warding her room against him. For so long she’d been terrified–
Clink, clink, clink
Her heart began to race.
Clink, clink, clink, went the chains as they dragged and rattled across the floor just outside her room.
She held her breath.
Footsteps–male and heavy–slowly drew toward her bedroom door.
Thunk
Thunk
Thunk
Her heart was practically beating out of her chest, but was it in fear? Or anticipation? Not once had the Dark Lord dared entered her bedroom, the warding ensured that–but tonight, it was Halloween, and the rules were different. She checked the warding again.
Gone. It was gone. Erased and scratched out. She’d scratched it out.
She swallowed hard and backed into the room just as a silhouette darker than any shadow she’d ever beheld filled the open doorway. She began to shake.
Lightning boomed. But… there was nothing there. The doorway was empty. She blinked furiously trying to adjust her eyes after the flash.
A cold draft swept through the room–it prickled her flesh, sent shivers down her spine, rustled the fabric of her red silk slip around her bare thighs. Her candle went out. Something in the darkness beyond the door began to glow. Eyes. His eyes–a piercing shade of sapphire.
The darkness seemed to pause on the threshold, loomed over the room.
Shit shit shit
She backed up until she hit her vanity. She groped in the dark for the lamp switch.
Maybe the power is back on, she thought frantically.
She found the switch, turned it–click, click, click–nothing.
Lightning flashed and boomed, illuminating the room. And for a split second, she saw him. The Dark Lord. Muscular, golden skin bare except for the chains wrapped around his neck and arms, thrown over his shoulder. A subtle smile played across his lips–he knew. Knew the warding was down. Knew he could now get into her room.
Her breath left her. Words failed her.
He stepped across the threshold, and smiled at her through waves of blue-black hair. It was a smile that promised pain. Pain laced with pleasure. She found her voice.
“Are you going to hurt me, Lord Dorian?” she whispered. He approached her slowly–making each step count–until there was nothing else in the room but his dominating presence. He loomed over her and let the chains he’d hauled over his shoulder drop to the floor with a loud clank.
“Yes,” he promised in a deep male purr. “I’m going to hurt you.” Her mouth went dry. “You have kept me out long enough. Now I’m going to show you what I can do with these chains.”
“Good,” she said.
In a flash of sapphire and blackness, Lord Dorian threw Manon over his bare shoulder. Darkness swam around them and then suddenly they were in the master bedroom of the mansion. It was beautiful and opulent and outfitted with gold fixtures and a crystal chandelier. He threw her down atop his master bed and–
Click, click, click, click
–he’d chained her down. She struggled against the irons, testing to see how much movement they would allow her–it wasn’t much.
Another cold draft swept through the room, and she saw him standing at the foot of the bed. Naked and hard.
He stroked himself slowly in the dim light. She writhed in anticipation, trying and failing to bring her knees together. The chains were too tight.
“You are as I remember you, my love,” he said. He knew she wasn’t talking about her, but his dead wife. Shortly after she’d moved in, Manon had found a portrait of the woman and she’d be lying if she said they didn’t have the same face. And the same name.
“Please,” she whimpered, watching him stroke himself. He chuckled and crawled up the bed to her. He ran his hands up her thighs and under her red, silk nightgown to her waist. She arched her back, trying to get those hands where she wanted them.
“Patients, witchling,” he purred. “We have all night.”
“I ache for you, Lord Dorian.” Her words set his sapphire eyes ablaze. He braced his arms beside her head and claimed her mouth. It was brutal and needy and commanding. His hands roved over her chest. He leaned back and she felt him slip his fingers beneath the sweetheart neckline of her nightgown and pull.
The sound of the tearing fabric set fire to her blood. She was nothing but anticipation and feeling.
“Manon,” he whispered as her bare breasts spilled into the room. He tore the slip from top the hem. Then ran his hands from her bare thighs, up over her panties and stomach until they landed on her breasts.
This was her favorite part.
She arched into his large, rough hands as he fitted them around her breasts, grasping and kneading and pulling. His cock was hard and wet against her belly. He rubbed himself against her as he worked her over.
He rolled her nipples between his fingers, and a moan escaped her lips. She pulled against the chains, wanting to get her arms, her legs around him. He chuckled at her helplessness as he bent forward and sucked a nipple into his mouth. It was thick and hard and soft all at once. He bit down.
She thrashed as pain and pleasure became one. He gave her a lovers laugh. He released her nipple and bowed to the other one. Sucking it in and flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin. He moved and bit the soft, white skin on the inside her breast hard.
She struggled against the chains.
He bit her again, this time drawing blood. She cried out. He rolled and pulled at her nipples with his thumbs and pointer fingers. Pleasure spasmed across her chest–wired to her core–mixing with the pain, turning it and forging it anew until it, too, felt like pleasure.
“You are mine,” said.
“Yes, Lord Dorian,” she whimpered. He forced a finger in her mouth and told her to suck it. She did.
With his other hand he ran a finger between her legs–over the fabric of her red silk panties.
“You’re very wet,” he said, removing his finger from her mouth. “Good girl.”
She only nodded. He pulled the fabric of her panties aside and she watched him force two fingers inside her.
“You’re very tight, Manon,” he said. “I like that. I don’t want other men touching my things, do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord Dorian.” She nodded. Forming words was a struggle. He snapped his fingers and suddenly the chains vanished.
“Come,” he said, moving to sit on the end of the bed. She got up and stood in front of him. He pushed the straps of the torn nightgown off her shoulders, and it fell to the floor. He flicked his wrist and another cold breeze swirled around her. She shivered.
Working a muscle in his jaw, he pulled her panties down. She stepped out of them. He appraised her naked body. Lightly squeezing her hips and thighs in his hands–as if he were checking the durability.
He motioned to him lap. She began to sit, but he stopped her.
“Other way,” he said. He sat back and watched as she laid her hips and belly over his thighs. She was careful to brush up against his erection.
He sat forward and slipped a finger inside her. She moaned and quaked.
“Now,” he said. “How many men have you fucked since last Halloween?”
She searched her brain. His finger worded her in and out and in and out and she couldn’t think.
He smacked her ass. Hard. Lord Dorian wasn’t fuckin’ around. She gripped the bed sheets as the pain subsided and he slipped his still wet finger back inside her.
“I asked you a question.”
“Three,” she said.
Another vicious WHACK!
“I thought I made myself clear, Manon. You belong to me. You live in my house, you follow my rules. Do you understand?”
WHACK!
“Yes,” she cried. “Yes, I understand.”
WHACK!
“Good,” he said. “Did you enjoy their company?”
“No.”
WHACK!
“Why not, Manon?”
“Because… because they’re not you.”
WHACK!
“I’m sorry,” she said, waiting for the pain to ebb. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Good,” he said hauling her up and tossing her onto the bed. He climbed up behind her and snapped his fingers. Chains appeared around her wrists and bound each to the ankle on the same side. Her head was now pushed into the mattress and his hands lifted her rear into the air.
He thrust himself inside her all at once, and she cried out. But whether from pain or pleasure she didn’t know.
WHACK!
He pulled out all the way, then forced himself to hilt all at once. He was long and thick and hard.
“I don’t like the idea of someone taking this away from me”–another thrust–”taking you away from me again, Manon.”
Her vision blurred and she saw fire. Blinding and white. She screamed with his next vicious thrust–
“Don’t let them take me, princeling! Please! Don’t let them take me!”
And just like that she was crying, sobbing. And then she wasn’t on her face and knees, she was on her back, Lord Dorian atop her, arms around her. She clung to him as he cooed her and wiped her tears. She couldn’t remember…
“What happened,” she said. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember–”
“Shhh,” he said, kissing her temple gently. She cried at the gentleness of him. Something long lost that she hadn’t known she’d been searching for.
“I miss you.” She didn’t know where the words came from, why she missed a figure of shadow and smoke who haunted her dreams, haunted the house, she lived in.
“It’s done,” was all he said before he pushed back inside her and she forgot who and what she was. Forgot that he was not a man, but a ghost, forgot that he’d been haunting her dreams since before she could remember.
He held her hands to the mattress above her head and whispered her name as he thrust into her slow and deep.
“I’ll never leave you, my love,” he whispered. “I’ll always find you, my witching.” Over and over and over again he whispered to her, until she was nothing but a feeling and pleasure. And when she came, he whispered into her mouth, “Remember once, remember twice, together again when you remember thrice.”
***
Manon awoke to the sound of someone banging the mansion’s large, brass door knocker. The sound rattled off the corridor walls and echoed through the mansion. She crawled out of bed and froze.
She was in her bed, but… she hadn’t remembered… she thought she’d gone to bed in a red nightgown. Not the large, frilly, whatever the hell kind of shirt she was wearing. It was clearly a men’s undershirt, but from what century she had no idea.
The sound of the door knocker clanged through the mansion again, and she made a mental note to rip it off the door.
She got out of bed and threw on a pair of pajama pants. Her rear was sore. Actually, everything was sore. Her ankles, her wrists, her… She looked in the vanity mirror.
“What the…” she said, looking at her neck. She lifted her shirt. She was covered in what looked like old bite marks.
The sound of the door knocker pulled her attention, and she hurried downstairs–ready to murder whomever it was. Children, nuns, puppy dogs, she thought. Well, maybe not puppies.
When she made it to the grand entrance hall, she threw open the door–only to be stopped dead by a tall, deliciously handsome man with sapphire eyes and hair so black it was blue.
“Finally,” he said, thrusting a stack of papers at her and just walking right into the house.
“Hey! What the he–”
“It seems that you’re the current owner of my house. You’ll see there”–he motioned to the giant stack of papers–”that the bank had no authority to sell it, as it was still under my grandfather’s ownership.”
She looked from him to the pile of papers in her hand. Then back at him.
“Look here, Dorian,” she barked.
“What did you just call me?” She froze. He hadn’t said his name.
“Uuuh.” She had no idea why she said that. Although there was something familiar about him. He stalked to her. Sapphire eyes blazing, searching her own.
“Say it again,” he said.
“Dor…rian?”
“Again.”
“Dorian,” she breathed. She furrowed her brow, staring back at him. His face, his nose, his mouth. “Dorian.” And maybe she was crazy, maybe she had completely lost her mind, but she reached up and brushed the collar of his expensive jacket aside. He didn’t flinch as she dropped the papers and used both hands to pull down the collar of his shirt–revealing a bite mark she knew would be there. Knew, because she’d put it there.
She gasped and jumped back.
“This isn’t real,” she said. “This isn’t real. You’re dead. I’m–I’m dead.” She shook her head, blinking wildly. Why did I say I was dead?
“You’re not dead,” he said, “and neither am I. But maybe we both died once. A long, long time ago.” Slowly, he approached her.
“There was a fire,” she breathed. She had no idea how she knew that. No idea where that thought had come from.
“Yes,” he said, still getting closer. Her hands shot to her mouth. She was going to be sick.
“Oh god, the smell,” she said. “I could smell myself burning.” Anger flashed through his eyes and he grabbed her shoulders. She stared at him.
“You,” she said, reaching up to touch his face. “You tried to get to me. Dorian. Your name is Dorian, and you were my husband.”
And all at once she remembered. Remembered who they were. Remembered that she’d been dreaming about him since she was a child because he’d been haunting her. Because with whatever blood magic she had before she’d been murdered, she’d bound them together. And made it so that if he could get her to remember who they were three times in one lifetime, then they could be together.
She threw her arms around his neck and let him swept her off her feet.
“I told you I’d find you, witchling,” he whispered into her hair between his tears. “I’d never leave you.”
“I knew you would, princeling,” she said, “I knew you would”
