#kidnapping.

And then, only then, should you start shaking, begging, crying, fighting back so pathetically and desperately, as if any of it will stop me from pushing your body into treacherously soft, wet moss, keeping you down with claws digging into your sensitive skin, and making you feel all the more vulnerable, helpless, weak when I force my weight fully onto your body and sink into a hole that certainly should not be this wet and willing to take me as it turns out to be, growls ringing in your ear, tears running down your face, whimpering turning into moaning much faster than it should.

Why, of course he'd put up a fight. Anyone would. That's why it may be more effective to catch the man unawares. Under the cover of night, perhaps? Try wresting a half-awake priest from his bed and into the darkness that yawns beyond the doors with the cool end of your pistol snug against his temple. That tends to yield a better result.

Frightened prayers under his breath as you march him off of the grounds. You could knock him upside the head at this point, if he becomes irksome enough.

You'll have to forgive him, he doesn't understand that he'll be leaving his God behind as well. He hasn't grasped that this is a rescue mission.

Meanwhile they say orgasms are good for my mental health and we can turn our therapy into guided masturbation if I’d like that. 

Then they corrupt my sexual appetites until I can only get off if I’m thinking about being kidnapped or raped or turned into a public glory hole. 

“Someone broke into my apartment,” I tell them. 

“Did they take anything?”

“No, it’s strange. They just rearranged my living room furniture.”

“Do you need help putting it back?”

“No,” I say, flipping up my skirt. I don’t wear panties to their office anymore. “I’ll just keep it the way it is.”

.

“Somebody broke in again,” I tell them. 

“Did they take anything this time?”

“No, they just left the door open and unlocked.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

My fingers are already circling my clit as I say, “Violated.”

.

The next time somebody breaks in, I wake up naked and sore from being fucked.

“How did you stay asleep?” my therapist asks. 

“They must have drugged me,” I say, three fingers already buried in my cunt. “I wish they’d left marks.”

.

The next time they do leave marks. Big, red and purple hickies between my thighs and too high up on my neck to hide. 

“What do you want them to do next?”

“Take me away,” I moan. 

.

When I wake up in a cage, naked and cold from the concrete floor, mildew smell in my nose, I’m terrified. And immediately wet. 

I’m surprised somehow to recognize my therapist as the person looming over me. 

When they let me out of the cage, I crawl directly over to the couch — the same one from their office — and bring my hand up between my spread legs. 

“No.”

My hand falls away immediately making a wet sound against the soft leather. I whine, confused. 

“You’ll have to learn new rules now,” they tell me. 

They walk over to me and stand between my spread open thighs. 

“When we were in my office, I couldn’t touch you. But now, here,” they force three fingers directly into my cunt and I scream with it, “I decide who touches you and when.” 

I hear footsteps through the ceiling. Lots of them. The door to the basement creaks open and the footsteps move to the stairs. 

I'm imagining waking up in it, still disoriented from whatever you put in my drink the night before. You notice me stirring and tell me about how you lovingly picked out everything for my new home, how you want me to be so comfortable. I'm scared now, but you will teach me to be such a good pet for you, how to obey your every command. You will condition me to forget about everything other than being a perfect fucktoy, and I will learn to love my new home so much that I wouldn't run away even if I could <3

🧚🏻‍♂️✨

That got me thinking about if he did pine for someone in the human realm. Just think about all the love letters he'd write while in the Boiling Isles that were never sent. The stack would rival Eda's school record.

He'd be in denial that this person would never move on without him (though they may have never known he was into them), and he writes them as if he and his Beloved are set to be engaged. He'd lament to them about having to stay in this 'awful place' in order to save them from evil and he'd be 'home' as soon as his mission is complete. When he realizes that too much time has passed and his Beloved is no longer alive, he goes into full-on denial.

Throughout his years in the Boiling Isles, he has caught glimpses of people that look like his Beloved and those people would disappear from the public eye. He'd keep them (against their will) for a while, shower them with affection, and make them look even more like his Beloved, but when he either got bored or reality slapped him in the face, he'd dispose of them. They were still witches, after all. His Beloved is not a witch, no matter how much they look like them and cutting off the tips of their ears only did so much.

Once he perfected sigil magic, this process became easier, immobilizing his target and allowing him to whisk them away to his hideout and repeat the process over again. He'd also lure them away with the line "The Titan has specifically chosen you...".