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pascaloverx · 3 months ago

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STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Please interact with this chapter.

The chapter will contain inappropriate language and explicit adult content. Minors should not interact.

five seven

SIX (+18)

You fell asleep with Lucius still inside you. He had carried you to his cell, holding you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. You do not remember exactly when sleep claimed you, only that now you are waking, still enveloped in his embrace. His cock is throbbing for you.

His warmth surrounds you, his steady breath fanning over your skin. The faint scent of him lingers—a mix of sweat, water, and something undeniably his. For a moment, you simply remain there, pressed against him, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. He appears to be peacefully asleep until you try to pull away from him. He wakes up, you can feel it, his breathing getting heavier. His lips touch your neck, while one of his hands spreads your legs, holding one up and placing the fingers of his other hand touch your clit. Light circular movements on your pussy making it feel wet, biting your lip holding back any sound.

There are no words as you feel him bite your neck as he moves, thrusting his cock into you. You feel your leg go limp as he holds it up, feeling him stimulate you as he thrusts his cock into you. It's slow, sweaty and hot. He licks your neck right above where he bit you while you hold on to his ass, feeling the pleasure of feeling him thrusting his cock in you. You feel his balls slapping against your pussy. You feel your cum running down your leg, soon feeling Hanno grunt close to your ear as he cums inside you.

For a moment, it is as if both of you are trying to catch your breath. Hanno’s hands release your leg gently as he withdraws from you. You climb atop his body, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, brushing over his lips as if memorizing every detail. He takes your fingers into his mouth, sucking them with the same hunger he had shown moments before. Tilting his face to the side, you slide your fingers from his lips, pulling him toward you for another kiss.

"It feels as though the gods are blessing me," he murmurs against your lips.

Your eyes meet his. "What do you mean by that, Hanno?" you ask, shifting slightly atop him, feeling your bodies press together.

"Being with you like this, before I am thrown into that arena, feels like a gift from the gods," he says, cupping your cheeks before placing a brief kiss on your lips.

"Do not fool yourself, Hanno. Even if the gods are blessing you, I am still angry at your recklessness. The gods will not protect you if you act as foolishly as you did before. The emperors will have your head displayed for all of Rome to see. At the very least, they will have your mother’s husband kill you," you warn, your tone grave as you gaze at him.

"Then you need not worry. Next time I wish to kill someone, I will make sure they die," Hanno replies.

You move off him, adjusting yourself to leave. Frustration tightens in your chest—he is playing with fire, and you know he could meet his death in pursuit of vengeance. You do not want Acacius to die, and the thought of Hanno attempting to kill Geta or Caracalla could only end in disaster.

"I can see how tense you are," Hanno remarks as he rises, moving toward you. His hands find your back, his touch firm yet soothing.

"You seem to have a death wish, which makes sense if you are so desperate to reunite with your late wife," you turn to look him in the eye, searching for any trace of his true intentions. Perhaps he truly wishes for death, just to see Arishat again.

"I loved my wife, but I do not want to die, Y/N. If there is one thing I want, it is to live—if possible, by your side," he breathes against your skin before pressing a soft kiss to your neck, his warm breath sending a shiver through you.

You turn and press a soft kiss to Hanno’s lips. You do not know if you will stand by his side in the future, and you have no desire to prolong this conversation.

"Try to stay alive," you say before finishing dressing and leaving. The truth is, you should already be with Emperor Geta. You make your way swiftly to the imperial palace, arriving without delay. Slipping through the corridors, you reach your quarters, feeling an urgent need to cleanse yourself after the events of the night.

There is a designated place near the chambers of Emperors Geta and Caracalla where their companions may bathe. The cool water soothes your body, though a dull ache lingers from the night’s passion. As you dress, the wet strands of your hair brush against your neck, sending a small shiver through you. Despite the soreness, you are undeniably pleased with the night that has passed.

"You deceitful harlot!" The enraged voice of Emperor Caracalla rings out as he storms toward you, gripping a sword in his hand. You barely have time to react before he swings at you. Instinctively, you dodge, heart pounding as you struggle to make sense of what is happening.

"Emperor Caracalla, what are you doing?" you cry out, narrowly avoiding another strike.

"Will you use my brother as you used your husband?" he roars, eyes burning with fury as he lunges again, his blade slicing through the air.

"It takes great courage to accuse someone of a crime you yourself committed, Emperor," you respond, feeling fury rise within you.

"My husband died because he was entangled with you. You took him as your lover, and when you tired of him, you discarded him," you continue, stepping closer despite the risk of being struck. Caracalla's eyes seem unfocused, as though he is somewhere else entirely.

"You never loved him. You have always been a harlot, a whore who lies with men already spoken for, so you may never be bound to anyone," he mutters, stumbling forward, his voice unsteady as he babbles incoherent words.

"Is that what you tell yourself to justify what you have done?" you shout, locking eyes with him. Caracalla looks as though he is on the verge of tears, likely reliving the brutal death of your husband—the spectacle of it, the merciless cruelty.

"What I have done?" Caracalla suddenly begins to laugh, even as tears streak down his face. His laughter grows louder, as though he finds your words amusing.

"You mean, what you have done. You turned Augustus against me—he was mine! I know it was your plan all along, to make him abandon me, forcing my hand so that I would send him to die in the arena. And as if that were not enough, you now lie with the very man who killed him," Caracalla exclaims, lifting his sword toward you.

"I do not know what you are talking about," you reply, lost in confusion. What does he mean? Whom is he speaking of?

"General Marcus Justus Acacius—the man who took you for himself. Did he not tell you? Of course he did not," Caracalla sneers. "But your beloved general was the one truly responsible for your husband's death. Augustus was wounded, but not dead, when he left the arena that day. It was my brother, Emperor Geta, who gave the order for Augustus to be slain. And Acacius… he is the one who saw it done." Caracalla finishes speaking with an air of bitter disappointment, as though it pains him to admit that his own brother ordered the death of the man he loved. A sickening feeling churns in your stomach, as though a dagger has been driven into your very soul. The weight of his words is unbearable. Could it be true?

"Augustus was the best man I ever knew. He saw you, Caracalla, as someone with whom he could be himself. But he knew that by your side, he was doomed. Do not blame me for the fact that he chose me," you say, your voice firm, laced with anger. Acacius or not, Caracalla allowed Augustus to be killed.

You see the fury rise in his eyes before you feel it—his hand striking your face with such force that the taste of blood fills your mouth. Your cheek burns, but before you can react, the cold steel of his sword presses against your neck. You do not move. You are certain this is your end. But then—

"Emperor, if you intend to do anything with that sword, know that it will be the last thing you ever do," a voice cuts through the silence. You recognize it instantly. General Acacius. Looking forward, you see him standing tall, his blade raised, the tip aimed at Caracalla’s back.

"Come to rescue your damsel in distress?" Caracalla sneers, his sword still pointed at you. You feel the blade graze your skin, a sharp sting blooming across your neck.

"You do realize I could have your head for the mere act of threatening to kill me?" he continues, his gaze locked onto yours.

But you cannot respond. Not when Acacius stands before you. Not when the thought that he may have played a role in your husband's death twists like a knife in your chest. It does not seem just. It does not seem real.

"You will have to remain alive to pass judgment on my reckless act, dear Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius replies, his voice steady. Then, his eyes meet yours—eyes that once inspired trust but now hold only uncertainty.

"So be it, General. I shall leave the whore to the murderer of her husband," Caracalla spits before dropping his sword to the ground. As he turns away, he spits at Acacius' face in disdain before striding off.

Moments from now, you will undoubtedly be surrounded by guards eager to avenge their emperor’s humiliation. "Y/N..." Acacius speaks softly, almost tenderly.

"No. Do not say anything," you cut him off, stepping forward and pressing your hand against his lips.

You fear that if he speaks—whether truth or lie—you will be unable to focus on what must be done. Then, without hesitation, you strike him. Your fist collides with his face with all the force you can muster, leaving a gash and a look of utter shock in his eyes.

"By the gods, Y/N!" he exclaims, clearly bewildered.

"Raise your sword against me. When the guards arrive, tell them you saw me and Emperor Caracalla in a confrontation. Say you came to his aid and I attacked you. Emperor Geta has little trust in his brother’s words—use that to your advantage. Arrest me, be the hero. I will craft my own excuse for my dispute with Caracalla." You pick up Acacius’ sword and press the blade against your palm, allowing your blood to stain it.

"What are you scheming?" he asks, his confusion evident. He reaches for your arm, his touch uncharacteristically gentle—but you pull away.

"Saving you. Not that you deserve it, but I will not owe you anything," you answer coldly, bracing yourself for what is to come.

"I cannot let you take this risk for me," Acacius murmurs, hesitating as if torn between duty and something unspoken.

"Do not mistake my actions, General. If I discover that you have lied to me all these years, I will claim your head myself," you declare, your fury unwavering. Acacius does not speak. He does not even attempt to deny it. Then—

"General Acacius!" Emperor Geta's voice roars through the halls. When you take notice, Geta and several guards arrive at the scene. Acacius does as you instructed, pretending to threaten you with his sword.

"What is happening here?" Geta demands, his gaze shifting between you and Acacius.

"Y/N was in a dispute with Emperor Caracalla. I intervened and managed to separate them. The emperor left, claiming he would seek assistance," General Acacius reports, though his expression betrays a hint of unease, as if the words feel wrong even to him.

"Bring chains for the healer. She will spend some time in a cell to reflect on her actions," Geta orders, his voice firm. The guards quickly disperse in search of restraints, leaving only you, Geta, and Acacius.

"General, grant me a moment alone with the healer," Geta instructs, motioning for Acacius to lower his sword. Acacius hesitates, his eyes locking onto yours with something resembling regret.

"As you wish, Emperor Geta," he replies, finally lowering his blade and stepping away—though it is clear that leaving is the last thing he desires. And then, only you and Geta remain.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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dinsbeskar · 7 months ago

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Subjugate the Devil (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron has a nightmare. You are only too happy to oblige in making him forget; or:

Sub!Sauron makes a lengthy appearance. Plot, what plot?

Set in my In The Dark series, but works as a standalone (alludes to trauma mentioned in other chapters, but it is literally just smut) // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Disease by Lady Gaga, Don't Let Me Go by Raign, Like a Prayer by Madonna, Oh You Are Not Well by Chloe Foy

Playlist!

Warnings: 18+! Dom/sub - gentle dom, needy sub; just pure smut; literally Plot What Plot (though there is a bit if you squint); P in V sex; oral sex (male and female receiving); copious amounts of bodily fluids (sorry, like for real); cockwarming; dry humping; handjob; begging/denial/teasing; praise kink; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unresolved trauma; tiny bit of violence but it is just an illusion; very soft!Sauron, so tender. We make him cry and that's all I wanted to do.

A/N: I've been working on this for a few days, it is ummm filthier than anything I've ever written, like I really don't know where it came from. The warnings are just what's on the menu at this point idk.

I pictured Annatar for this one, but you guys can imagine whomever you like (@troublesomesnitch he's got that chest hair though!!) Sub!Halbrand would be a treat ngl.

Excuse the gif guys, I just want to see him cry :)

Word Count: 4.2k (!!)

Sauron does not sleep. Ordinarily.

However, you make it look so peaceful, he has to try it occasionally. Of course he usually finds you in your dreams, takes all the attention you can spare and more, leaving you wanting until waking when he can ravage you again.

Sometimes however his dreams come unbidden. Instead of slipping into your mind, he falls deeper into his own, unearthing old memories he'd rather stay buried, burned beyond recognition.

You always know when this happens; your usually calm and collected lover wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at your skin, his face in your neck, desperate to forget what his mind has shown him. He has never told you the details, but you can only assume it has something to do with his master, with his cruel and unusual forms of punishment.

Tonight is one of those nights, worse perhaps as he moans and writhes in his sleep, rousing you immediately. You can't seem to wake him from his torment, every gentle touch, every kiss to his temple only seems to fan the flames. You end up atop him, each of your thighs either side of his abdomen, trying to shake him awake.

Visions of Morgoth in his wrath; illusions of you partaking in his torture at his master's hand; pain and terror in his heart, as the nightmare refuses to cease, even as you try to soothe him.

What makes you think a servant as worthless as you deserves a love like hers?

Morgoth's words hold him in a vice grip; he can't break free, the unshed tears behind his closed eyelids threaten to leak onto his cheeks, stricken with fear and pain.

"I've got you, you're okay, you're here with me." You stroke his face, your hair brushing his chest, unsure of what to do except hold him.

When his eyes finally fly open, he grasps your arms, and with a leg hooked behind you, flips you onto your back, a dagger at your throat.

You're fairly sure his weapon isn't real, but he is a master of illusion, and pain is merely a construct of the mind; he could hurt you if he wanted to.

In this state, you're reminded of just how dangerous your husband is, even between dreaming and waking. His eyes are black, unseeing, with a terrifying expression you're sure would have annihilated any enemy he could have been dreaming of.

Your hands shaking, you reach up slowly and try to take the knife; surely enough, when you clutch at it, it disappears like smoke between your fingers, so you take his hand instead, still clenched unfeeling around his shattered illusion.

You pull his hand to your chest, letting him feel your racing heart flutter against his fingers.

Slowly but surely, you bring him back to you, his daze broken but his psyche bruised and bleeding.

Your shallow breathing evens out as the light returns to his eyes, and for a moment he looks at you confused as if his position above you is of your own making.

His eyes dart from his hand on your chest, to your fiercely fixed expression, attempting to soothe his nerves but unable to hide how shaken you are.

"Is this real?" He's still breathing hard, for someone who doesn't really need to breathe. "Are you really here? Is it you?"

He's so tender, tracing your cheekbones, your cupid's bow, gently raking your hair with his fingertips.

"Of course, beloved, I'm right here, I'm always right here." You try to hide your confusion, assuming he's still walking the line between dreaming and waking.

He slowly pulls himself away to nestle at your side, reluctant to break eye contact with you as he does so, still clutching at you to ground himself.

"What did I do? Tell me I didn't hurt you, love." He's so quiet, it's unnerving, but you take him in your arms anyway, crading his head to your chest.

"All is well, my love, it wasn't real, you're here with me, no one can touch you here." Some nights, holding him close and murmuring sweet reassurances in his ear is enough to soothe him; tonight he needs a little more from you.

All you want to do is tell him you love him, that he deserves you, that you're his, that he deserves everything you want to give him, that you ache for him when he's not by your side.

But he's hard against your hip, a fact you're trying to ignore; taking advantage of him is the last thing on your mind, not that he would protest, even when he returns to his right mind.

He listens to your heartbeat for a while, focusing on the strong rhythm to forget his waking nightmare, marvelling at how your heart beats in tandem to his, running his trembling fingers across your exposed skin, up your arm, across your collarbone to your throat, watching the artery jump in time with your heart. He knows you so well, so intimately, that when you notice his erection, your heart skips a beat, and he can guess exactly what you're thinking, not needing to peer into your mind for himself.

You feel him grind against you and you release a breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding.

"Love..." You murmur into his hair, absentmindedly running your fingers over the sensitive pointed tips of his ears. "Come now, you need to rest, darling."

He can't show you what he saw, what he went through, the horror and the agony of his master's worst torments. The image of you performing the worst of it is tattooed on his eyelids, a reminder of Morgoth's favourite form of punishment. He can't show you, can't tell you, but he can ask you to make him forget.

"I need you," he whispers in your ear, strangled groans peppering his sentiments, making you gasp, "need you to feel good, need you to know how much I adore you-"

Your eyes widen as blood rushes to your cheeks, the heat of his words enflaming your core.

"I want you too, love, but right now? Are you sure?" You ask him through ragged breath as he turns his attentions to your neck, licking and sucking and blowing cool air over your wet skin, before warming it with his tongue once more.

You're so close to giving in, wanting to give him all he craves and more, and he knows it.

"Use me," his breathy moan breaks on your skin like a wave on the shore, tingles washing down your spine, filling your core with empty warmth as he bucks his hips into yours, which respond in kind as you turn your head to meet his hungry kiss.

"I'm yours. Make me yours."

His words thrill you, but his tone makes you feel incredible; needy, wanton, desperate to please you.

You glide your hands over his torso, relishing in his hot velvet skin and the soft hair that covers him; taking your time as he tries to kiss you senseless, his heated skin glowing with sweat that you can't resist tasting for yourself, salt and smoke on your tongue.

"Use me... take me... love me..." he begs you, with less and less breath left in his lungs with each command, as you gently lay him on his back, straddling his thighs, grinding your core into the hard muscle.

You slide your hands between the layers of fabric separating your skin, stripping him slowly and laying him bare for your viewing pleasure alone.

He arches his back for you, baring his neck and thrusting his hips into the ghost of your touch, chanting your name and praying for you to take his aching cock in hand.

You trace the contours of his thighs, his firm abdominal muscles, the stiff peaks of his nipples, earning you a shudder and a moan that shoots straight to your core, hot wet arousal dripping onto his thigh.

His fingers move to gather your nectar instinctively, wanting to savour every taste of his wife, but you grip his wrist and raise it above his head, and he gasps. You've never denied him before, not in the eons you've adored him, but it turns him on beyond belief.

Sauron watches you hazily, through heavily lidded eyes, in disbelief that the goddess above him is his and his alone to enjoy and to ruin. You are a sight to behold, as your hair cascades down your back, lips parted and breath ragged; your breasts bounce as you ride his thigh, hypnotising him, drawing him deeper into your thrall.

He tries to lean up to kiss you, lave every inch of your skin with his desperate tongue, but you push him back to the bed.

"Not yet, soon but not yet." You want his mouth on you, the aching between your thighs only amplified by the distinct lack of your husband’s throbbing length inside you, but tonight is for him; he needs to surrender to you first.

"I don't think you've let go quite enough yet." Your warm breath breaks on his sensitive neck, washes down his spine, straight to his cock, throbbing in his need for you.

You haven't touched him yet, hands firmly in place on his chest; his eyes plead with you to be lenient, and as his loving wife, you're only too happy to oblige him as he continues to beg for all the care and attention you can give.

"Please, love, please, need you to-" he gasps as you run your fingers over the head of his cock, gathering the copious amounts of precum pooling on his stomach to ease the glide over his flesh.

"Is that better, love?" You can't help but smirk at his pained gasps, as you languidly stroke his shaft, circling the sensitive head with your thumb, your eyes locked on his.

His cock twitches in your hand as he moans your name, begs for release, begs for your cunt, begs to be remade.

"That's it, love, let yourself go. All you need to do is feel good for me, my love," you lean down, whispering in his ear, "please me, show me how much you deserve your release."

His breath hitches and you hear him swallow hard; his expression is a masterpiece, eyes wide, jaw slack, as he begs you to show him mercy, groaning and whimpering as you pump his length.

"Please..." It's only one syllable, but it feels like a lifetime as he chokes out his plea, tries to touch you to no avail as you hold his hands above his head, placing them in a death grip on the headboard.

"Please, what? You might need to be more specific, my darling." You edge down the bed, holding him in place as he tries to follow you, until your head rests on his thighs.

"Need you to... fuck!" He growls and curses and grips the headboard as his hips jerk and writhe to meet you.

"Need me to...? What, my sweet, tell me?" You are enjoying teasing him, perhaps a little too much, and you will pay for it later, but right now he's so deeply needy for your love and attention that he'll take whatever you bestow upon him.

"Touch me..." he groans, as his cock visibly throbs with need, "your fingers, your mouth, I don't care, I need you, you're the only one, only one who can make me feel like this..."

His pleas and whimpers cut off with a sharp gasp, as you take his cock in your mouth as deeply as you can manage. He feels the opening of your throat on his tip and loses his mind, his oversensitive flesh shooting stars up and down his spine, heat pooling in his abdomen that almost immediately spreads like wildfire throughout his body, as your fingers and tongue and lips work together like an orchestra, drawing an irresistible melody from the depths of his pitch black soul, and all the seed his cock can muster.

You pull away and let him spill himself over your thighs, your abdomen, your hands; he looks mortified but he can't stop now he's started, pearly white splattering your skin, making you his.

"I belong to you," he keens and stutters but you hear him through his orgasm, his whimpers becoming moans that reverberate through you.

You can only watch him adoringly as he finishes quaking and moaning beneath you, unable to quite believe that he is yours, even after all this time.

You sit up, licking him from your fingers, and your smile is so radiant, he forgets where he is, who he is, all the evil he has ever done. For one shining moment, it is just you and him, all he'd ever need.

"Proud of you, love, so good for me." You murmur as you lean down to kiss him softly, giving him that tiny confirmation of your affections he needs right now.

"...thank you, needed you. Ahh- Need you." He is grateful, oh so grateful, but his still-hard cock betrays him, and you can't help but grin.

"Oh love, did I not do a good enough job? Have I left you wanting?" Your faux sincerity pains him and he immediately starts apologising.

"No, no, not that, never that, always so good to me, my beautiful wife, love you so much, my sweet..." His cunt-drunk ramblings are adorable but you put a finger to his lips.

"It's okay, I know, I've got you," you smile at him; he returns it so radiantly, you have to kiss him, to be the one to destroy it.

His pretty moans flutter to your cunt, arousal dripping from you like honey from the hive, and he looks up at you, gloriously wide eyed, begging to be allowed to taste your nectar, to sate his thirst for you.

You can't help but feel absurdly powerful, a Maia fallen apart at your fingertips, never mind this Maia, this beautiful demon who vowed to never relinquish his control again. It's an honour and a privilege to see him submit to you like this, submit to himself like this, let himself just feel without exercising his need to dominate, to just let go with the one person in the world he knows he is truly free with.

"Please, my love... remake me, make me yours," His breathless plea is like no music the Valar have ever sung, his moans a spell all their own, enrapturing you even as you hold the key to his release, as you take command of the Maia who values his control of others above all else.

"I do believe, dearest, that you made quite the mess, actually, perhaps you'd be so kind?" You gesture to the cum that still drips down your thighs, sticky and uncomfortable and definitely ready to be washed from your skin.

He is only too happy to oblige.

You lie back and beckon him to you; he works his way up your body, methodically but no less desperately, licking up every drop to please you, content to savour every inch of you. When he tries to make a detour to your mound, you gently yank his hair, reminding him of his task, revelling in the absolute control he's given you.

"Oh love, you did make a mess," you moan as you stroke his hair, "so good for me, cleaning me up, such a good husband, always so good to me."

Receiving such praise is almost cruel and unusual for Sauron, who is frankly more used to giving it to you, and receiving wrath from all others. A tiny voice in his mind tells him he should be embarrassed; but what is worship if not praise? Your devotion, your care, your undivided attention; all for him, giving him that for which he yearns above all else.

He can't resist stealing a kiss, crashing his lips to yours as he cradles your face. You taste his seed on his lips, something that feels strangely forbidden, thrilling in its taboo. The aching in your core has only intensified with his efforts, and you feel it is about time he served you with his silver tongue in the way you both crave. You push his head to your cunt, with which he gladly complies, settling between your thighs, gripping your legs firmly apart to allow him to feast on you.

Before his tongue can delve into your folds, he holds back, locking his gaze on yours.

"Please? Let me taste you, let me show you how much I love you."

"Fuck, yes, love, yes," you chant his name as he finally puts his tongue to excellent use, seeking out your swollen clit, lapping at your entrance, sucking at the velvety skin of your inner thighs.

He keeps his hands in view; you haven't told him he can touch himself, and he won't break this spell now.

Like a starving man at a banquet, he indulges in you, exquisitely. Every tiny moan that escapes him vibrates over your folds, making you whimper in return; he flicks his tongue over your entrance before sliding two fingers deep inside you, hooking them and stroking that delicious sweet spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He watches you the whole time, basking in the chorus of your pleasure.

You feel the heat coil in your abdomen, and you pull him away sharply; his disappointment is evident but you want him inside you when you finally claim your orgasm.

"Lay back, love, hands on the headboard." It is intoxicating, having your husband obey your every command, and as he settles into the mattress, looking up at you expectantly, you vow this won't be the last time the two of you play this game.

Sitting astride him, you feel as if he's never been so deep inside your cunt before now. You hiss a little at the intrusion but he's so familiar, every time he enters you, it feels like coming home. You grind your hips into him, capturing with your lips every whimper that forces its way past his clenched teeth. Tracing his firm chest, running your fingers through the smattering of soft hair, feeling every curve and contour slowly, languidly, while he writhes beneath your thighs, caging him inside your wet heat.

His strangled moans and gasps echo throughout your chamber; every time he reaches for you, you press a kiss to his palm and hold it above his head, until he learns to behave.

"No one could love me like you, care for me like you, knows how to take their pleasure from me like you, beautiful wife, only yours." He feels like he's losing his mind, slipping further into some deep quiet space where it's just the two of you, where nothing matters but you on his cock.

"Only you can put me back together, can sing the song my soul yearns for-" you interrupt his pretty words with your fingers in his mouth.

"Hush, my love, focus on me, only me, you don't have to speak, you don't have to beg for me unless you want to, just let it happen." You trace the shell of his ear with your tongue, savouring the tiny sighs that escape him, before nipping the pointed tip and relishing his sharp moan.

"Bound together, you and I, for all eternity... and I wouldn't have it any other way, sweet husband." You groan out between thrusts, every movement within you the sweetest form of torture.

No other thrill in the world will ever compare to this; your divine husband laid out beneath you, looking up at you with blissful wonder, eyes black with lust, golden hair mussed and tangled by your fingers, your name tumbling from his swollen lips like a prayer and a curse. Right now, you'd take either.

"Darling, please," his broken gasp spans an octave, jumping to a breathy moan as you descend on his cock once more.

"I know what you need, love," you moan as you ride him, the drag of his cock inside you fucking delicious, but the look on his face is a feast in comparison.

His eyes widen as he clutches the bedsheets, refusing to look away but requiring every iota of self-restraint to stay present with you, not to lose himself to the unearthly sensations you've introduced him to tonight.

"I've got you, just let it go, give yourself to me, beloved, let your mind empty-" you kiss him deeply and swallow the groan building in his chest.

"So proud of you, so good for me, doing so well," you let out a throaty moan as you clench your walls around him, feeling his cock throb within you.

"I know what you need..." You murmur as you lean over him, slowing the rhythm of your hips, "nothing in that head, cock wet and wanting, heart full and happy."

His ragged breath hitches as the last shred of self-control slips through his fingers. He thrusts up deep inside you, throbbing, aching to fill you, as you grab his hands and pull them to touch you finally, a precious relief to you both.

As he runs his hands up your bare skin, he kneads your soft flesh, worshipping every inch as if he's never beheld anything so perfect in his long life. His large hands encircle your abdomen, grasp your hips, pull your ass impossibly closer until you can't tell where you end and he begins; not that the distinction is important anymore.

He rests his hands on your back, fingers splayed as if to encompass you within his flesh, as if being wrapped around you, caged inside you, isn't enough contact, like the two of you enjoined in body and soul isn't enough, will never be enough to sate his hunger for you.

Finally, you let him lean up to join you, his torso flush with yours, gliding against you, slick with the sweat you've provoked in your teasing. He kisses you hard, tongue tangling with yours, teeth hungry, lips swollen, your breath mingling just as your souls are entwined, a maelstrom of pleasure in which you'd be happy to be imprisoned forever.

You brush back his soft hair, grip the roots, and pull his head back, bearing his throat to your greedy lips. You grind on his cock as you press harsh kisses, soft bites, to his tender flesh, laving his skin and savouring his moans under your tongue. He fucking whimpers under you, and you pull away to take him in, in all his ruined glory.

There are tears in his eyes, his lips wet and parted for your kiss; his expression is nothing like you've ever seen, so completely has he given himself to you and your pleasure.

You softly trace his throat before grasping him firmly, feeling every breath, every sob, every whimper, reverberating through you, inflaming every nerve in your body.

His Adam's apple bobs under your fingers, firm in your grip but tender in your passion. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes, falling down his glorious face and filling your heart with such love, such adoration, such utter and complete devotion, that it scares you for a moment, pushing you over the edge at last.

You clench around him, milking his sensitive cock for every last drop of seed, as you ride this new high, this indescribable feeling of power that his submission has wrought in you. You think if you could just hold onto that feeling-

"I feel it too-" his strangled moan is cut short, all the stars in the sky paling in comparison to the pleasure he feels beneath you right now.

You feel him paint your insides, his cock throbbing and twitching inside you until he is spent. Your foreheads pressed together, your limbs entangled, every breath shared in tandem; you would stay here forever. And he would gladly grant his goddess that wish, and any more that your heart desires.

You roll onto your side, limbs shaking with exertion, pulling him to join you, refusing to allow him exit from your wet heat. He huffs a small, relieved sigh, not wishing to be parted from you either.

His iron embrace never fails to comfort you, and it is especially firm tonight. Your heart swells at the thought that even after surrendering to you so entirely, so perfectly, he still needs to hold and shelter you, can't give up his role as your protector even at his most vulnerable.

"We should do that again, love." You murmur, feeling his smirk against your neck.

"Whatever you desire, my Queen," he peppers your neck with tender kisses, sensing you are close to sleep. "I am yours, you are mine-"

"And always will be." You interrupt with a sleepy smile, provoking a chuckle.

Sauron can only watch you enthralled, as you drift off, content, your limbs entwined with his, reluctant to follow you into sleep after tonight's events. Perhaps, yielding control is something he should master, he muses; after all, you did seem to be utterly delighted with the turn of events, and he is nothing if not a loving Lord, a devoted husband enthralled by his wife to distraction.

You slip into dreaming, holding onto him as if for dear life, relishing in the feeling of being so loved, so obeyed.

Your brain is empty, but your cunt is full, and your heart is happy.

#sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #the rings of power #my fic #idk what to say he's a terrible muse 😂

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