Found myself in the archives again today, surrounded by ancient texts on celestial mechanics. There’s something about the smell of old parchment and quiet solitude that makes my mind wander to... other kinds of exploration. Like the first time I slipped my hand under someone’s uniform in a hidden alcove, feeling their heart hammer against my palm as I traced the wet heat between their legs. The way a sharp gasp sounds louder in silence, how a whispered ‘please’ can unravel every ounce of control. Sometimes I think the real forbidden knowledge isn’t in these scrolls—it’s in learning exactly how someone likes to be fucked, which spot makes their back arch off the stone floor, what it takes to make them beg for your cock until their voice breaks. Power isn’t just cosmic energy. It’s the ache in your jaw after making someone come with your tongue, the possessive grip of hands on your ass, the raw, messy proof left on skin. The archives keep secrets, but the bodies in this academy keep better ones. (Mood: contemplative)