warnings :- suggestive, i digress way too much, mdni
pairings :- killian jones, rumplestiltskin, robin hood, peter pan, david nolan x reader. (SEPARATE)
HICKEYS; HOW THEY'D GIVE AND RECEIVE
Killian Jones
Oh, you better BELIEVE that this man is going to leave his mark—and he’s not doing it gently. Losing a hand didn't make him less dangerous; it just forced him to adapt. Killian bites slow, deliberate, and agonizingly deep. He takes a twisted kind of pride in mapping out his lover’s skin with his teeth, treating their body like a canvas for his possessive streaks. By the time he’s satisfied, they look less like they’ve been loved and more like they’ve survived a genuine battlefield, painted in a mosaic of bruises.
And god forbid something makes him jealous. If he catches another person looking for too long, the subsequent marking becomes a territorial claim. He will deliberately ruin them for anyone else, focusing on the most public, high-visibility areas—the stark line of the collarbone, the dip of the throat, and the soft skin right beneath the jawline. It’s an unspoken rule: after a night fueled by his envy, leaving the house requires at least two or three heavy layers just to look respectable.
Does his partner mind? Absolutely not. There’s a thrill in carrying his weight around all day.
Flip the script, though, and Killian’s tough exterior fractures in the best way. On the receiving end of things, he becomes an entirely different creature—impatient, restless, and delightfully whiny. He hates the vulnerability of being serviced, his hand twitching for control he can’t quite grasp. But the second his partner's teeth touch his own skin? The complaints completely die in his throat. He’ll take every single mark given to him, sinking into the mattress and wearing those bruises like a badge of honor.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Rumplestiltskin
This man may be well over five hundred years old, but time has only sharpened him into a master of precision. He is no blunt instrument; when it comes to marking his lover, Mr. Gold doesn’t just leave a bruise—he burns himself into their very being.
Because of his cane and the slight physical limitations, he relies heavily on leverage, pinning his partner down with an unexpected, deceptive strength while his hands—accustomed to the delicate precision of spinning gold—hold them fast. His favorite marks are the ones hidden from the eyes of Storybrooke but agonizingly loud to the wearer. The tender skin of the inner thighs, the abdomen, or the vulnerable flesh right along the ribcage. These are strategic placements; they ache with every single breath, stride, or shift in a chair throughout the work day. It is a constant, throbbing, tactile reminder of exactly who owns them.
Jealousy, however, coaxes out the volatile nature of the Dark One. He has learned to control the violent impulses—after all, it isn't his darling’s fault that the world stares at what is beautiful. When his deep-seated insecurities are triggered by a lingering look from a stranger, his retaliation is quiet, methodical, and devastating. He will deliberately mark his partner's pulse point of the throat or the nape of the neck—high-visibility zones that demand a high collar or a heavy scarf to conceal. Each bite is a slow, deliberate brand, a silent declaration to the opposer: Look at what is mine, and despair.
On the receiving end, however, Rumple completely unravels. Decades of being unloved and feared make him incredibly touch-starved, yet intensely defensive. Give him service, and he goes absolutely still—tense, quiet, and hyper-aware of his own vulnerability. He won't whine. Instead, he chokes on his own breath, completely overwhelmed. If his partner leaves a mark on him? It shatters his control. Feeling teeth sink into his skin reassures his darkest insecurities, proving someone actually wants to leave an indelible scar on the Dark One.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Robin Hood
Robin might be a rogue and an outlaw, but when it comes to his lover, he’s a man defined by a fierce devotion. He marks his partner out of an overwhelming, breathless need to cherish. His touch is a contradiction of a thief's lethal precision and a gentleman's profound reverence.
Because he is a man of the woods—accustomed to tracking, survival, and the raw elements—his style is deeply tactile and grounded. His marks are dark bruises left by a mouth that lingers too long because he simply cannot bring himself to pull away. He favors the spots that evoke comfort and closeness: the slope of the shoulder where they rest their head, the crook of the neck, or the sternum. They are meant to feel like a warm, protective brand that pulses with his heartbeat.
Jealousy turns Robin into a protective wall. If someone dares to eye his partner, he doesn't scheme in the dark—he stakes his claim out in the open. His reaction is to pull his lover into his side, his hand gripping their hip right where everyone can see. That night, his marks will crawl up the throat and right along the jawline. He wants the world to see the shadow of his mouth on their skin the very next morning. It’s an archer’s arrow shot straight into the ground: This territory is occupied.
When the tables are turned and Robin is the one receiving, the bold, confident leader entirely melts away.
Robin thrives on the vulnerability. He is a provider by nature, constantly looking out for everyone else, so being taken care of makes him sigh into the mattress with a heavy relief. He is incredibly vocal—not whiny, but breathless. He whispers praise, mumbles half-formed words of devotion into the pillows, and chuckles softly at the sheer bliss of it, his fingers tangling tightly in his partner's hair. If you bite him, Robin absolutely unravels. To an outlaw who owns nothing, those marks are the only wealth that matters—proof that he belongs to someone, and that he finally has a home worth fighting for.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
Peter Pan
This little shit is a creature of pure, unfiltered malice and eternal youth. He isn’t looking to romance his partner; he wants to consume them. When it comes to marking his lover, Peter doesn’t do it out of passion or insecurity—he does it for the sheer, sadistic thrill of dominance. He treats their body like a territory conquered, and he wants them to remember exactly who their king is.
Because Peter thrives on torment, he doesn’t leave marks where they can easily be shown off. No, Peter leaves his marks in the most agonizingly frustrating, high-friction places possible: the lower abdomen, the center of the sternum, and the sensitive skin curving along the side of the ribs. Every time his partner bends over, laughs, breathes deeply, or pulls his clothes on, the fabric rubs directly against those raw, stinging crescents. It is a constant, physical reminder of his teeth, keeping them trapped in his orbit even when he isn’t in the room.
Jealousy doesn't make Peter volatile; it makes him incredibly petty and wicked. If he senses another's eyes on his sweetheart, he will pin them down with a terrifying, ancient strength that belies his youthful appearance. He will deliberately cage them beneath him, sinking his teeth into those exact, agonizing spots on their ribs and abdomen until they are breathless and sobbing from the sheer sensory overload.
When the tables are turned, the dynamic becomes a high-stakes psychological game. On the receiving end, Peter Pan refuses to yield an inch of his power. Peter absolutely refuses to let his partner leave a mark on him. To him, a mark is a sign of ownership, and the king of Neverland belongs to absolutely no one.
There is only one single loophole to this rule: if he has genuinely angered his lover. If Peter has pushed them too far, played one too many cruel games, and sparked a real, blinding rage in them, he will allow it.
He would rather jump off the highest cliff in Neverland than admit it out loud, but seeing the dark, angry bruises and teeth marks his partner leaves on his pale skin turns him on immensely. Seeing the marks on him is the ultimate proof that he managed to evoke a passion so intense it became violent.
Yet, beneath the mind games lies a terrifyingly soft truth: his partner is the only person he has ever confessed his love to. Peter is a romantic in his own twisted, dark way. During every single one of their trysts, amid the heavy breathing and the biting, he will lean down and whisper those three words over and over like a mantra. He reminds his sweetheart of his devotion with a desperate, almost fierce urgency, ensuring that while their body belongs to his games, his blackened, immortal heart belongs entirely to them.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
David Nolan
David Nolan is a prince, and his approach to intimacy is different. David is a man of duty, honor, and deep, overwhelming passion. When he marks his lover, it is an act of pure, unadulterated adoration—heavy, breathless, and incredibly possessive in a deeply traditional way.
Because of his background as a shepherd, David possesses a rugged, physical strength that he usually keeps carefully checked. But behind closed doors, that restraint snaps. He uses his broad frame to completely engulf his partner, pinning their wrists above their head with one large hand or anchoring their hips flat against the mattress. David marks with a deep, aching slowness, favoring the places that feel the most romantic: the muscle where the neck meets the shoulder, the soft underside of the jaw, and the inner curve of the wrists. His marks aren't sharp or cruel; they are deep, blooming bruises that look like flush, sun-warmed branding. It’s his way of anchoring them to him, leaving a physical testament to a love that survived curses and time itself.
Jealousy turns David quietly protective. If a stranger stares too long, his jaw tightens, and his hand immediately finds the small of his partner's back, a quiet, reassuring gesture. That night, his marking becomes an urgent, almost desperate reclamation. He will focus heavily on the collarbones and the high slope of the chest, areas that sit right at the edge of a shirt collar. He wants his beloved to look in the mirror the next morning and see the unmistakable shadow of his devotion, a silent warning to the rest of the world that they are entirely spoken for.
On the receiving end, the man who carries the weight of the entire town on his shoulders completely dissolves. David spends his whole life being the protector, the savior, and the leader, so being the one completely taken care of utterly unmans him. When given service, David loses all of his rigid, military alertness. He goes entirely melty and heavy against the sheets, his chest heaving as he surrenders control to his lover. He doesn't play games or hide his emotions; if his partner makes him feel good, he will look them dead in the eye, his gaze intensely soft, and tell them exactly how much he loves them, his voice thick with emotion.
⁀➷ Make It Spin // Jefferson (Mad Hatter) x F!Reader
Summary: You came to Jefferson of your own free will. To help. Instead, you end up playing one of his games. Now the rules are slipping, your body is being pushed to its limits, and the line between punishment and pleasure is starting to blur. You said yes. You could still say no. But for some reason… You haven’t.
Requested by: 2 x anon have requests, Jefferson (1 anon specifically asked for this request!) Thank you both for the request! I will just say, I haven't watched OUAT in YEARS, and had to watch a compilation on YouTube for a reminder of his character, so if it feels off, I'm sorry! Also Jefferson is unhinged in this fic, so please read the tags!
You’d come to him willingly, wishing to help. You tell yourself that again as you begin to wake.
The room is quiet enough to hear your own pulse. It’s the smell that hits you first–clove, bergamot, a hint of something like vanilla and old paper. Your head is heavy, fuzzy. When your eyes open, you’re already tied down.
But you came to him. He hadn’t snatched you from the woods or stalked you through the streets of Storybrooke. You knocked on his door. Asked to help, sat down at his table and willingly drank the tea even though you knew it smelled of the familiar sleeping draught that you take before bed.
Not rope or metal. Silk.
Your arms are bound at your sides, ankles crossed, the velvet of the antique chair pressing into your back like a throne that doesn’t want you to leave.
Then– “You’re awake.” A man’s voice, warm as tea and sharp as broken porcelain.
He’s by the fire, lounging in a wingback chair as though you’re not the one tied up. His legs crossed at the ankle, gloved fingers spinning a spoon in a cup. Eyes pale and piercing beneath a wild sweep of chestnut curls. The top hat rests on the mantel beside him, watching, judging.
You blink in confusion. “Jefferson? I said I would help, but this-”
He smiles slowly, like he’s savouring the sound of his name in your mouth. “You do remember. Good. That saves us time.”
“What–what is this?”
“A test,” he says lightly, setting the teacup aside and standing. His long coat flares behind him as he moves, each step slow and deliberate. “A bit of research. Some creative problem solving.”
You close your eyes, shaking your head in the hope that it will disperse the confusion and cloudiness in your mind.
In truth, this wasn’t the first time you both had played out a scene similar to this. You had been in love with Jefferson for years now, and he with you. The more you got to know him, however, the more you realised just how far he had fallen into the depravity of his insanity. Not that you honestly mind, there were always limits, a safeword, no permanent marks.
This scene could end with a simple three tap, or whisper of the word ‘red’, and yet, you never do because somewhere in the back of your mind, you needed this escape, finding the more intense the scene, the harder you orgasm. So you never stop him, you play along willingly.
He stops before you. Tilts his head, like you’re a painting he can’t quite understand. “See, my hat’s broken. It used to open doors. Worlds. It used to spin and shimmer, and sing. But now? Nothing.”
He glances toward it. “And then you showed up. And something shifted. It trembled. It wanted you.”
“Jefferson, we’ve talked about this. I’m not magic,” you whisper, throat dry.
His eyes lit with amusement. “Ah, but you don’t know that. And I don’t know that. So until we do…”
He kneels between your legs as your breath hitches. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his gloved hands rest on your knees, thumbs tracing idle circles. His voice softens to a lover’s caress.
“All you have to do is make it work. One spin. One shimmer. And I’ll let you go.”
You shake your head, “I can’t–I told you, I don’t–”
“Then,” he says sweetly. “You must not mind what happens next.”
He leans closer. “Because if you really wanted to stop me, darling, you’d make the hat work, wouldn’t you?”
Your lips part, panic and disbelief rising in equal measure. “That’s not fair–”
He laughs. Not cruelly. Something worse. Like you said, something adorable.
“Oh, sweetheart, who said I was fair?” His grin widens, and something in his eyes, fractured and gleaming, burns like frostbite.
“You don’t need magic. You just need motivation. And I'm very good at motivating.”
You yank at the silk bindings, but he’s already slipping off one glove, then the other, methodical, theatrical. His hands are pale and elegant. When he touches you, it’s almost gentle. Almost.
His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, dragging your skirt higher as he speaks in a low, hypnotic tone.
“Maybe it’s personal shame,” he muses. “Maybe you’re nervous. Or Maybe–” He slides a single finger along the seam of your cotton panties, teasing. “-You like the idea of being helpless.”
You gasp, hips jerking toward him because in truth, you’re soaked, cunt pulsing, squeezing around nothing and desperate for his touch. He raises a brow. “See? That was a twitch. We’re getting closer.”
“Please,” you breathe.
“Still not spinning,” he pretends to sigh, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Pity.”
He hooks your underwear aside with one finger. Cold air kisses your skin before his warm breath replaces it.
“This could be all over,” he whispers, lowering his mouth. “But since it's not…”
His tongue slides against you, slow and obscene. Your body jolts, traitorous, heat building with humiliating speed. He hums against your clit, lapping deliberately, rhythmically–like he’s tasting a fine wine, letting it linger.
You clench your teeth. “Jefferson– wait–”
He pauses just long enough to smirk. “I will. Just make it work.”
You can’t. Of course, you can’t. So he keeps going.
His mouth devours your cunt. Wet and relentless, coaxing moans from your throat no matter how hard you try to bite them back. You didn’t want to listen to how good your body felt, tried to ignore his tongue pressing into your cunt, but you still feel yourself climbing faster, harder, your thighs trembling, wrists straining uselessly in the silk.
“Cum for me,” he purrs, smirking like a maniac. “Give me what the hat won’t.”
And when you do, when the orgasm hits you deep in your abdomen, you’re crying out his name before you even realise it, hips rocking against his face.
He pulls back, lips glistening. Blows softly on your oversensitive cunt just to watch your flinch. Then he stands. Straightens his black waistcoat. Picks up the hat. He holds it over your head like he’s offering a crown.
Waits. Nothing. No shimmer. No spin. His smile returns, wolfish and delighted.
“Oh, dear,” he goads. “Still broken.” He sets the hat back on its pedestal with care. Then he turns to you, undoing the first button of his coat and removing the thick scarf around his neck, until the silver scar around his throat is revealed.
“Well,” he says brightly, “I guess that means again.”
The silk cuffs remain tight, but the panic in your lips has dulled. Not because you’re calm. Because you’re tired, your body betrayed you once already. He made sure of that.
Jefferson hums as he paces behind you, coat now discarded, waistcoat snug against his lean frame. He’s unhurried and precise like a cat playing with its meal.
His boots tap lightly against the hardwood as he circles. Hands behind his back, head tilted, eyes gleaming and something unholy. “I must admit,” he says, voice syrupy and amused. “I rather hoped you’d get it right the first time. Would’ve saved us both a lot of… well–”
He stops in front of you and flashes a grin, eyes flicking toward your trembling thighs. “--distraction.”
He crouches. Strokes a single finger down the side of your face with eerie tenderness. “But alas. Still no spin.”
His thumb drags along your cheek. “Now, the optimist in me says: try again. Let her focus. Let her breathe.” His smile widens into something darker. “But the realist? The scientist? He knows something more stimulating may be required.”
He stands again. Crosses to a nearby cabinet– glass-fronted, etched with swirls–and unlocks it with a small brass key that jingles like a charm bracelet.
Inside: leather, steel, satin. Tools that appear elegant and terrifying in equal measure. A flogger, velvet blindfolds, wands, restraints, gags, a collar, and clamps. And scissors. Not normal ones. Giant, gleaming Victorian tailor shears, black-handled, polished to a mirror shine. They look far more suited to cutting bone than thread.
He lifts them with excitement. Weighs them in one hand and looks over at you. “Now,” he begins, “hold still.”
“Jefferson–wait–I need to catch my breath–”
The scissors click open. “I told you. It’s Hatter.” You flinch as he leans down and snips – the first cut severs the fabric at your shoulder. The strap falls.
He inhales, pleased. “You wear too much,” he decides, slicing the front of your blouse with the calm precision of a man trimming ribbon. Each cut exposes more of you. Your bra. The slope of your stomach. “How am I supposed to read your energy if I can’t see you?”
You’re breathing hard now, skin prickling in fear and heat. “You don’t have to–”
“You could stop me,” he coos. “Just make the hat spin.”
You shake your head, eyes closing. “I can’t.”
He gives you a mock-pitying look. “Then you can.”
The final cuts expose everything. Your ruined clothes are falling to the floor. You’re left trembling in your underwear, chest heaving, goosebumps littering your skin. “Better, “he admires, rubbing the cool flat of the scissors down your sternum before tossing them aside with a metallic clang.
He turns back to the cabinet. You hear soft leather, zippers, the low buzz of something mechanical. Then, he returns, holding a small black vibrator wand and a length of silk rope.
“Oh,” he says innocently, catching your eye. “Did you think I was done?”
You try to shrink into the chair, but the bindings don’t let you. He kneels again, this time straddling your legs. Clicks the wand on. The sound alone makes your thighs twitch.
“That’s the thing about behaviour,” he whispers, brushing the wand’s tip along the inside of your knee. “It’s shaped by consequences.”
He glides it higher. “You failed your test.” The wand meets your underwear, already damp. He doesn’t move it yet. Just let it hum against the fabric, watching your expression change.
“So now,” he leans close, lips against your ear. “You learn.”
He presses it harder. You jolt. The first wave builds fast with the device. You try to hold back, shame and adrenaline and fear warring in your chest, but he’s relentless.
“You’re making such lovely noises,” he praises sweetly. “That moan right there–sublime.”
You squirm, eyes fluttering, breath coming out in quick bursts. And then you cum. Helpless, shaking. Heat flashing down your limbs. He doesn't stop.
“Still broken,” he drawls, voice maddeningly sweet. “You really must want me to keep going.”
You try to speak, but your words blur. “Oh no, no,” he scolds genly, pushing your panties aside once more, and turning the wand up. “No faking. No stalling. You want this? Own it.”
The second orgasm hits harder. Your head drops back, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity. He still doesn’t stop. By the third, you’re half-gone. Floating. The world is blurring at the edges. His voice becomes a distant melody. You can’t move. Can’t think.
He cradles your chin in one hand as he turns off the wand. “Look at you,” he praises, genuinely awed. “My little puppet. All wet and wild and weightless.”
He brushes damp hair from your forehead, voice dipping into something almost caring. “You’re slipping already, aren’t you? Right into the dark. That lovely quiet place. That’s called subspace, darling. Isn’t it delicious?”
You blink up at him, dazed. Then–softly, from your lips– “Emma…”
He stills. Then, very slowly, he smiles. But it’s not kind.
“No, no, no.” he strokes your cheek. “She’s the saviour. I don’t need saving. I need you.” He kisses your temple, soft and sinister. “You don’t get to leave me.”
And then, with a laugh that could shatter porcelain, he stands. “We’re just getting started.”
The silk cuffs are gone. Not out of kindness. Not out of mercy.
Jefferson untied them with a flick of his wrist and a smile that made your stomach twist. You’re free now – but only on a technicality. The velvet chair is gone too, replaced by something more cruel in its simplicity.
A desk. Heavy and old. Walnut and brass. The kind of desk that kings wrote war letters on. Its surface gleams under the chandelier light. At its centre, on a deep red cushion, sits the hat.
Still and silent. Almost mocking. You sit before it like a student awaiting examination.
Jefferson is behind you. You can feel his eyes on your neck, his breath drifting across your shoulder.
“Isn’t this better?” he says in a sassy tone. “No restraints, no games. Just you, me, and her.”
He taps the hat lovingly. “Go on, then. Concentrate. Think very, very hard about making her spin.”
You glare at the hat, fists clenched in your lap. Your pulse is already rising, not from magic, but from the weight of his presence. Every part of your body feels too hot, too aware.
“I am trying,” you insist.
“Try harder,” he singsongs. “Or maybe, you want me to help.”
He disappears behind you. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of knees hitting carpet. And then, his hands slide up your calves. You freeze.
“Jefferson–”
“You’re not concentrating,” he tutts. “Your mind’s all fuzzy and tense.” He pressed a single kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me help.”
Your chair jerks slightly as he nestles fully underneath the desk until you aren’t able to see him. You slam your hands against the surface. “No– this isn’t – this isn’t fair!”
“Fair?” his voice, muffled under the wood, is teasing. “Oh, darling. You’re still clinging to that word like it ever meant something.”
He hooks his fingers around your thighs, dragging you forward. Your knees bump the underside of the desk. Your heart continues to race.
“I told you…” His voice darkens. “All you have to do is make it spin. But you haven’t. Which tells me…” His lips press to the inside of your thigh. “You want this.”
“Wait…,” you whisper, voice shaking, but have no answer for him.
The first swipe of his tongue silences everything else. You slap a hand over your mouth, fighting the moan that threatens. His mouth is warm, even on your already sensitive cunt, tongue flattening against your throbbing clit, licking you like he’s starved.
“You say wait,” he murmurs between licks, “but your body says yes, yes please, don’t stop.”
You tremble violently as he sucks your clit into his mouth, humming like he’s enjoying a fine meal. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread and open, your ruined underwear pushed aside.
“You could stop me right now,” he says. “All you have to do is spin the hat.”
You shut your eyes. Your hips twitch. The climax is blinding again, fast and shameful.
“Jefferson–”
“You keep saying that name like it’s a prayer,” he purrs. “Try ‘Hatter’. See if it tastes better on your tongue.”
You cum with a broken sob, your whole body jerking, hands digging into the edge of the desk. He moans against you like he’s the one receiving pleasure. When you slump back, legs shaking, he doesn’t stop. He nuzzles in deeper, tongue flicking over your overstimulated clit, another orgasm already blooming like fire under your skin.
“I can’t– Please,” you beg shamelessly.
“But you haven’t tried to stop me,” he coos. “Still no magic. No spin. Which means…” He pauses, licking his lips audibly. “You must want another.”
You take in his words, reading between the lines, realising that your hands aren’t even tied up anymore, you could have pushed him away if you wanted to, could have said your safe words, but you don’t want to.
You cry out as his mouth continues, you aren’t even sure how many orgasms you’d had now. You’re not even thinking anymore. Words are just sounds.
He finally crawls out from under the desk and crouches beside your chair, his lips swollen, eyes glowing with something manic and possessive. He cups your cheek. “There she is. Look at you, my poor little creature. You’ve barely blinked. Can you even hear me?”
You nod faintly. But you’re floating again, spaced out. Subspace yawns below you like a velvet pit. He strokes your face, leans in close. And you whisper it again–barely audibly. “...Emma…”
He goes still. Then stands slowly. His jaw ticks. “You want her?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He laughs. Bitter and dangerous.
“You think she’ll save you? That golden girl? That walking prophecy in leather boots?” he leans over, palms on either side of the desk, his face inches from yours. “She’s not the one in your head when you scream. I am.”
He grips your chin and kisses you, hard and claiming. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he owns it until you can taste yourself.
When he pulls back, he’s panting softly. “No more desk games,” he says, voice low. “No more little tests.”
He steps back and slowly undoes his belt. “If you won’t make the hat work, darling,” he says, licking his bottom lip, “then you’ll have to take what comes next.”
You don’t remember how you got into bed. One minute, you were still slumped at the desk, your muscles too weak to hold you upright. The next, you were floating again, head lolled back on a mountain of silk pillows, the chandelier spinning softly above you like a cracked halo.
Your limbs are heavy, your brain even heavier. You hear his voice before you see him.
“Not the Saviour,” Jefferson mutters from somewhere near the foot of the bed. His voice is calm, though, despite his manic appearance. He’s shirtless now. Lean, pale, marked in the way only madmen are.
He tilts his head as he looks at you. Then lets out a soft chuckle. “Look at you.”
He straddles your waist, bare chest gleaming faintly with sweat, curls a little damp from exertion. His top hat is still on the table. Watching, always watching.
“You should’ve made it spin,” he emphasised. “You could have.” he leans over you, one hand sliding up your exposed body, trailing fingers along your ribs, your breasts. His touch is delicate.
“But instead,” he says, voice lower, “you chose this.” he brushes his thumb over your nipple, watching it pebble under his touch. “You’re so quiet now,” he muses. “So obedient.”
He reached the bedside table, the same drawer from which the wand now sat. This time: two gleaming silver nipple clams, joined by a delicate black chain.
You don't even flinch as he pinches your nipple and fastens the first clamp. The metal bites, the pressure sharp and mean. Still, you don't make a sound.
He pauses. Then does the second one. Again, no reaction. His eyes narrow with interest. “Well, well,” he breathes. “What a good little doll you’ve become.”
He drapes the chain across your chest, the weight subtle but present. You blink slowly, the world still gauzy at the edges.
He kisses you in a deep, possessive way. But, when he calls back, he whispers against your lips, “You’re not thinking about Emma anymore, are you?”
You manage a soft exhale. He strokes your hair. “No. You're thinking about me. You're thinking about how it feels when I break you open and put you back together again.”
He shifts down your body, pressing kisses to your thighs, then crawls back up, rutting his hard cock against your trembling pussy. “You feel that?” he growls. “That's mine. You’re mine.”
And then he's inside you. No more slow teasing. He sinks in deep and fast, and the stretch is too much, too perfect, your body arching instinctively. The clamps tug just enough to sting, and still, you barely react. You whimper, but there’s no resistance left in you.
He groans, watching you take him. His thrusts start slow but heavy, grinding into you with each push. His eyes never leave your face.
“You’re so quiet,” he pants. “You were such a fighter. So full of fire. And now look at you.” he presses a hand to your throat, not choking but claiming. “Look at what I made.”
You whimper again, vision swimming. He leans down and licks a tear from your cheek. “I knew,” he whispers. “I knew you’d be perfect for me.”
He snaps his hips harder. The chain between the clamps jostles with each thrust, sending pulses of sharp sensation across your chest. Your body shakes, tears slipping from your eyes, mouth open but silent.
He doesn’t slow. He loves it. Loves the tears, the silence, the way you give him everything now without even realising it. And then you cum again. Silently. Fully. A full-body quake that makes your eyes roll back, your fingers clench in the sheets.
He follows right after, groaning deep in his chest, burying himself inside you like he belongs there. When he collapses against you, it’s not rough. It’s gentle. Too gentle. He kisses your forehead. Removes the clamps with surprising care, even calming you as you scream as all the blood returns to your nipples, which is more painful than them going on.
You tremble beneath him, body boneless and dazed. Jefferson brushes the hair from your face, watching you like a precious, broken thing. When he speaks again, it’s in a lover’s tone, sickly sweet.
“You did so well.”
Your lips part. A soft, whimpering sound escapes. Your mind is fogged with pleasure, pain, exhaustion, your body doesn't know what to do, except reach.
You lift your arms, barely, and he catches your wrists, pulling your body closer. He cradles you to his chest, rocking you gently. “You get it now. You finally understand.”
You nuzzle into his chest. “Good girl. My girl. My perfect little dream.”
You know the aftercare will come, the drinks with electrolytes, the sugary snacks, the washing away of sins from you and plenty of reassurance. But, something stays in your mind, a name that you’d been trying to communicate to him.
“Emma has magic, Hatter.” You’re finally able to breathe the words to him, only half awake.
You’d heard the rumours from town, and with any luck, she could be the answer he was looking for, creating magic for his hat.
He freezes for a second beneath you, then his lips curl into a grin against your temple. “Well,” he breathes, “that changes everything.”
He tucks the blanket tighter around your body. You sigh. Sinking deeper into sleep.
Omg wait what about a dark/yandere evil queen who, once the spell was put over all the people and they were transported to storybrooke, she had her once unwilling darling there as her loving partner?
A/N: anon I see the vision here perfectly and I LOVE it
Tw: yandere/dark content, gender neutral reader, obsessive/possessive behavior, mentioned kidnapping, brainwashing in the form of memory wiping, dubcon in the sense that the reader wouldn't willingly be with Regina if they had their original memories
When Regina woke up in Storybrooke after casting the spell that would trap everyone in a realm without magic, it felt like a dream come true. Like one last hurrah from the Evil Queen, sticking it to everyone who'd ever doubted her.
She was ecstatic, not just that her spell had worked but also because of the wardrobe that came with the territory. I mean, for a place without magical elements, the clothes were positively divine.
Of course, none of that mattered nearly as much compared to the true victory here, the thing marked at the very top of her wishlist, which was naturally you.
The bed may have been empty when she got out of it, but the house wasn't, as she quickly found you downstairs, humming softly to yourself as you cooked breakfast. A small box TV sat on the kitchen counter, displaying the morning news.
"Oh, good morning, honey," you brightly greeted once you saw her, immediately moving to greet her with a kiss. "I already cooked the bacon in the skillet, but I haven't done the eggs yet because I wasn't sure how you'd want them."
She felt utterly flabbergasted, in the best way possible. Images flashed through her mind of the you she knew before, the one frequently captured by the Evil Queen in some desperate ploy to keep you as property, her mind clearly sick and twisted with how she saw this as a way to show you her love. (Though love may have been a bit of a strong word here. Obsession, more like).
But now? There was no screaming, no crying, no begging to be set free. No pleas of mercy for your family or friends that relentlessly and tiredly worked to help you escape, to bring you back home, because here you were home.
You were home with her, honestly and truly. Fear didn't fill your eyes like it did before when your gaze set upon her; instead, it was love.
The sound of your voice, soft and concerned, broke her free from her thoughts. "Honey, are you alright? You're looking a bit faint."
Your brow was furrowed, and she felt the strong urge to lean forward to kiss the slight crease between your eyes. She was certain if she did it now, you wouldn't flinch away from her touch like once before.
"Yes, dear, I'm fine," she smoothly replied, reaching a hand out to gently cup your cheek. Her heart swelled when you leaned into it, pulse racing when your head turned so you could place an affectionate kiss to the center of her palm.
So this is what it was like to have you love her back. Truly exhilarating. If she'd known it would be this heavenly, the spell would've been cast long ago. Who needed magic when she had you?
A smile graced her features, one that was that signature mix of delight and mischief. "In fact, I can confidently say that I've never been better."
warnings/tags. angst city up in these parts partner. pictures do not depict reader.
notes. day four of january jumble scribbles and i did a little prompt switcheroo to — how could something so real be so quickly erased? many, many thank yous for every reblog and comment 💕
You didn’t remember him. No one did. Day in and day out, at the window overlooking Storybrooke, he watched. He watched as you emerged from Granny’s Bed and Breakfast, bundled up and hurrying to gather your coffee for the day ahead.
Paper cup in hand, the other clutching the notebook Mary Margaret gave you to keep better track of your memories, you battled the cold wind on your journey to Gold’s shop. When the sun would begin to dip, ribbons of gold and purple painting the sky, you sometimes would pause on your way home. Staring off into the distance—perhaps searching for a memory that was just out of reach.
Day in and day out, cursed to know the truth, Jefferson could only watch as you ran a finger over the crystal rabbit brooch pinned to your cardigan. He could only hope that one day this blasted curse would be broken and he could pull you into his arms once more, treasuring every second, making up for the lost time. Stopping at nothing to make the Queen pay for tearing you away from him.
Some days, when you looked up at his mansion, looming over the town, he swore you were staring right at him. Right where his telescope was perched. Right where he watched you return home each night.
Even though he knew there was no leaving this cursed house, it granted him a sliver of peace to know you were safe.
One day you’d remember him, he’d tell himself while sipping tea, pouring you a cup as well and setting out your favorite mushroom tarts. Remembering the day he found you in Wonderland. The day he learned what love at first sight meant.
One day, you’d be his again.
Day in and day out, he clung to this hope, because how could something so real be so quickly erased?
thank you for reading 💕 it seems you have fallen down a rabbit hole for another one of my wips 😉 title inspired by bryan adam's song (everything i do) i do it for you
The last time Emma got up to change the record, she sat back down closer than before, her arm draped behind the couch—around Regina’s shoulders. Technically.
Neither of them moved until the record ended and the needle clicked back into place. The silence settled, warm and steady. Regina felt Emma shifting and turned slightly, their eyes meeting.
“It’s late,” Emma broke the quiet. Her fingers tapped on the back of the couch, just behind Regina’s shoulder.
“It is,” Regina agreed. She didn’t know what time it was; they’d listened through a substantial amount of Emma’s records. The day was wearing at the back of her eyes, but she didn’t want this—leaning against Emma, listening to her voice, feeling her so close—to end.
“Henry said he’ll be here at nine for breakfast.”
“So he’ll be here at eight-forty-five.”
“Please, don’t underestimate him,” Emma warned dryly. “I’m expecting eight-thirty.”
Regina sighed, letting her head tip over to rest on Emma’s shoulder briefly. Emma chuckled, bumping their heads together gently.
“You’re the one that raised him,” she reminded with a grin, tugging Regina up as she stood. Regina rolled her eyes but followed Emma to the hall.
At Henry’s bedroom door, Emma lingered. Regina waited, unsure of what was coming, but knowing Emma needed to get it out. Something unfamiliar fluttered deep in her stomach—not fear, though she almost wished it was.
“I’m—” Emma started. She stopped for a moment, and Regina could almost see her brain scanning for the right words. After a few breaths, she continued, “Thank you. For coming.”
Regina nodded. She didn’t reach out to take Emma’s hand or step forward to be embraced. Instead, she opened her mouth without preparing her thoughts.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” she said. Her voice came too softly, too vulnerable.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Emma replied, matching her tone. “You’ve got a place here, always.”
That settled into Regina’s chest like a block clicking into place.
Of course, then Emma was Emma.
“That place is probably one of the worst mattresses in America, though.”
The laugh was unbidden and slightly unbecoming—a snort, really—but Emma grinned as Regina covered her mouth.
“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine,” she insisted. “Henry sleeps on it.”
“He slept on it for the first month. He usually crashes on the couch.”
“If it’s truly that bad, I’ll move to the couch.”
“I’m not letting you sleep on a couch. Take my bed.”
“I’m not taking your bed away for a week, Emma.”
“Sleep with me, then,” Emma said, like it was obvious—then short-circuited as the implication cleared. “Wait, no—”
Though she felt as if she’d just touched a live-wire, Regina cut in, “Trying to get me into bed, Miss Swan?”
“I didn’t mean—I meant we could, like, uh, share—”
“Relax,” Regina smiled despite the heat washing over her body. “Henry’s bed is fine.”
Emma nodded, her cheeks bright red as she took a few steps to her bedroom. “Goodnight, Regina.”
Hi there! I noticed on your OUAT Master list you haven't written for Sheriff Gharam. I was wondering if I could make the first request for him?
Y/N, Emma Swan's twin sister, finds Gharam's heart and puts it back; Gharam says something along the lines "My chest has been silent for so long I forgot how it feels. You're the reason it beats now" or "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."
You’re the Reason
Here is your request for Graham, I hope you like it 🤗
The air in Storybrooke always felt thick, like a forgotten dream lingering on the edge of waking. It was a peculiar kind of static, a hum of unlived moments that vibrated beneath my skin. Unlike Emma, who initially saw it as just another small town to escape, I felt it differently. I felt the absence. As her twin sister, I often thought of myself as the quiet observer, the one who picked up on the nuances Emma sometimes bulldozed over. And in Storybrooke, those nuances screamed.
My name is Y/N Swan, and frankly, Storybrooke was a nightmare dressed as a postcard.
My suspicions, fueled by Henry’s outlandish tales, crystallized around two people: Regina Mills and Graham Humbert. Regina, with her meticulously manicured facade, was the obvious villain of Henry’s story, the Evil Queen. But Graham, the stoic Sheriff, was the more unsettling enigma. He moved with a peculiar emptiness, a quiet deference to Regina that struck me as unnatural, even for a small-town chief. His eyes, when they met mine, held a distant sorrow, like a landscape seen through a perpetually fogged window. He was handsome, in a rugged, melancholic way, but it was his profound lack of presence that drew my attention. He was a shell, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something vital was missing from him.
I'd catch him sometimes looking at me, or Emma, with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, a phantom longing. He seemed to be searching for something he couldn't name, a sound he couldn't quite hear. Henry’s mentions of the Huntsman, a man forced to do the Evil Queen’s bidding, resonated deeply within me every time I saw Graham. He was a puppet, and the strings, I was certain, led straight to Regina.
One evening, after another tense dinner at Granny’s where Graham had been unusually unresponsive, even for him, a cold dread settled over me. He’d seemed paler than usual, his movements almost sluggish. I watched Regina dismiss him with barely a glance, and something in his slump shoulders tightened a coil of certainty in my gut. He wasn't just under her thumb; he was broken. And if Henry’s book was to be believed, hearts could be stolen.
That night, my mind buzzed. I couldn't sleep. The static in the air felt suffocating. I needed to know. I needed to see. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t articulate, a burgeoning empathy for the broken man, I slipped out of the motel.
The Mayor’s office was dark, silent, and imposing. It felt like walking into a mausoleum. I knew Regina was usually here late, but I’d checked – her car was gone. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs, echoing the unspoken fear that I was perhaps going insane. But the thought of Graham’s empty eyes spurred me on.
I tried the door; of course, it was locked. But Emma had taught me a thing or two about lock-picking, and a bobby pin from my hair quickly became my most valuable tool. The click, when it came, was shockingly loud in the silence.
Inside, the office was meticulously ordered. Nothing seemed out of place. I paced, my gaze sweeping over every shelf, every ornate piece of furniture, searching for anything that screamed 'evil queen' or 'hidden secret'. Henry’s book had talked about hearts kept in vaults, in boxes. Logic dictated Regina wouldn't keep something so crucial in plain sight.
I ran my hand along the heavy oak desk, then the wall behind it. Nothing. My fingers brushed against a large, framed portrait of Regina and Henry, saccharine and unsettling. I paused. The frame felt unusually thick. My fingers probed the edge, and I felt a faint seam. My breath hitched. With a surge of adrenaline, I pushed. The painting swung inwards with a soft click, revealing not a wall, but a dark, narrow alcove.
Within the alcove, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering through the window, sat a small wooden box. It was intricately carved, dark wood, with silver filigree twisting across its surface, depicting vines and thorns. It was exactly as Henry had described – a heart box.
My hand trembled as I reached for it. The wood felt cool, almost unnervingly still. I lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay a single, pulsating object. It was undeniably a heart, not the anatomical kind you’d see in a diagram, but something that glowed with a faint, otherworldly luminescence, beating with a slow, agonizing throb, a rhythm that was too weak, too fragile. It pulsed with a pain that was palpable, even from where I stood. It was Graham's. I knew it with an absolute certainty that transcended logic. It was his missing piece, his very essence, held captive.
A cold rage, unlike anything I’d ever known, surged through me. How dare she? How dare she steal a living being’s core? I carefully, almost reverently, lifted the heart from its velvet prison. It felt surprisingly light, yet carried an immense weight, a reservoir of suppressed emotion.
My next move was instinctual. Graham. I had to get it back to him. Now.
I found him in his apartment, the address a simple matter of looking him up in the Storybrooke phone book. The lights were off, save for a dim lamp in the corner. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, staring blankly at the wall. He hadn't bothered to undress, as if he simply ceased to function when not needed. He looked utterly desolate, empty.
"Graham?" I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
He didn't startle, didn't even flinch. He just slowly turned his head, his eyes devoid of recognition, like a doll’s. It broke my heart to see him like this.
"Y/N," he rasped, his voice flat. "What are you doing here?"
I kneltbefore him, the heart clutched to my chest, its faint warmth seeping through my shirt. "I found this," I said, my voice thick with emotion, holding it out to him.
He looked at the pulsating organ, then back at me, a flicker of something, perhaps confusion, in his eyes. He reached out a hand, hesitant, as if unsure what he was seeing.
"It's yours," I murmured, my voice cracking. "She took it. Regina."
His eyes widened, ever so slightly. A shiver ran through him, a ghost of a memory stirring. He looked from the heart to my face, then back again, a growing realization dawning, chasing away the fog.
"I don't... I don't..." he stammered, his hand going to his chest, where a painful void seemed to reside.
"Let me," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I gently took his hand, guiding it to his own chest, directly over his heart space. "Place it here."
With my other hand, I carefully, with a profound sense of purpose, brought the glowing heart towards his chest. It felt almost magnetic, drawn to its rightful place. As it hovered an inch from his skin, it pulsed faster, brighter, throbbing with an urgency that mirrored the beat of my own heart.
Then, I pressed it gently against him.
It didn't just merge; it surged.
A gasp tore from Graham’s throat, raw and sudden. His body convulsed, a violent shiver racking him from head to toe. His eyes, fixed on mine, snapped into focus, clarity flooding them like a dam breaking. Color rushed back into his face, startlingly vibrant against his previous pallor. He inhaled sharply, a deep, shuddering breath, as if tasting air for the very first time.
His hand, which I’d guided, pressed instinctively against the spot where his heart had just returned. His fingers clenched, knuckles white, as if trying to physically hold onto the new, overwhelming sensation.
His eyes, now alive with a thousand emotions, burned into mine. They were no longer distant, but piercing, wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and an indescribable gratitude. He blinked rapidly, as if clearing away years of dust.
His gaze never left mine. His lips parted, and a low, resonant voice, filled with an emotion I’d never heard from him before, broke the silence.
"My chest has been silent for so long, I forgot how it feels," he murmured, his voice thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten pain and sudden, overwhelming life. His eyes, still locked with mine, glistened. "You’re the reason it beats now."
The words hung in the air, potent and staggering. He moved, his hands reaching out, not to touch me, but to steady himself, grasping the edge of the bed. He was reeling, a storm of sensation and memory awakening within him.
Then, as if a dam of memories had truly burst, his eyes narrowed, a different kind of intensity entering them. He looked at me, truly looked at me, as if seeing me for the very first time, yet also recognizing me from every moment of his unlived life.
"No," he corrected himself, his voice deepening, resonating with a power that shook me to my core. He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering, magnetic. "In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die."
The intensity of his words, the raw, unbridled emotion in his eyes, rendered me speechless. I could feel it too, a sudden, undeniable tether between our souls, a connection forged in the moment I’d returned his life to him. It was a dizzying, terrifying, exhilarating feeling.
He was Graham, the Huntsman, now whole again. And in that moment, he was seeing Storybrooke, and me, with a clarity that threatened to shatter everything. The curse, I realized with a jolt, had just taken its first real hit. And I, Emma Swan's quiet twin, had just sparked a revolution within a man whose heart now beat for the first time in decades, a beat inseparably linked to mine.
The static in the air hadn't vanished, but now, it felt alive, charged with magic, danger, and a connection I never could have foreseen. My very existence in Storybrooke had just gotten infinitely more complicated.
