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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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Under The Blood Moon

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

M I N D T H E T A G S

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

#yes i did write the word 'cunt' 27 times and no i won’t apologize #dear lord this is the filthiest thing I've ever wrote #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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diaphene · 9 months ago

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enjoy ·˚ ◌༘₊· ͟͞꒰➳nsfw / MDNI

his hands were locked on your ass in a bruising grip, as he continues to rock back and forth inside of you. his face buried in your chest, slowly losing his mind, overwhelmed by how perfect you feel

you could've sworn he stopped breathing with the way his face was completely smushed between your breast. you bite your lip with a lop sided smile... but you didn't have much room to talk about him, with your own climax quickly approaching

he lets out a desperate moan and begins to pump faster, hitting that spot that makes you become light headed. your mouth widens as you throw your head back, chanting yes, yes, yes as you are brought to tears

with him still thrusting, you gather the energy to look down again, and are met with intense, electrifying eyes and a dark look, right before he releases inside with a groan. too far gone, he had completely lost all control

it was so powerful, the energy surged off of him, causing the power to go out all around you

you both froze in place, still in bed. slowly uncovering your faces, you cautiously looked around, assessing what had just happened

he knew before you did, swearing under his breath and plopping his head on your stomach in defeat with a huff. you had to cover your mouth to stifle the laugh that was inches away from bursting through. he was silent for a moment, already well aware that tomorrow he's going to get an ear full of this from... well... everyone

"its not funny" he said with that infamous frown

that just made you laugh harder

unable to resist, he cracked a smile himself, in disbelief

what was he going to do with you

#we n i tell you i was zoned tf out for th e longest time w/ this shit #lord deliver us #or me #shadow smut #shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shth x reader #shadow the hedgehog smut #shth smut #𝓭𝓲𝓪 ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀˏˋ°•*

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kurtsmellsliketeenspiritt · 2 months ago

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Fantasy readers of tumblr please help me. I’m a huge fan of epic fantasy like wheel of time, lord of the rings, game of thrones and just about anything brandon sanderson. But all these incredible series that i love are always written by men and the female characters tend to fall short.

I want to support female writers and have some well written female characters but the fantasy genre has been almost entirely usurped by “romantasy” which i truly cannot stand and I’m struggling to find anything i would enjoy. Does anyone have any epic fantasy recommendations by women???

#if anyone says fourth wing i’m going to lose it #no hate to romantasy readers #fantasy #fantasy writing #fantasy books #lord of the rings #wheel of time #book recommendations #readers of tumblr

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illyrianbitch · 10 months ago

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Of Our Own Devices

For @erisweekofficial Day 1: Bargains

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.

Warnings: some mentions of death & injury, swearing, spitfire reader and a cunty eris. <3

Word Count: 3.2k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The storm had rolled in with frightening speed.

It was one of the rarer, powerful storms of Autumn. The type that caused the sky to turn to charcoal, produced lightning that illuminated the canopy of fall leaves and made them seem like flickering, live fires.

You stumbled into the dimly lit cabin, drenched from the rain that had come pouring down in sheets. The cabin was one you had never seen before— a hidden refuge of Eris’s that you weren't aware existed. Despite its small size, it was surprisingly beautiful, furnished with deep, velvety fabrics. Eris had pulled you into the home without a word.

Crossing your arms across your chest, you turned to him, watching as he shed his outer layer and hung it on a hook near the door. He moved to the cold, empty fireplace next, and with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a flame from his hand. The flame danced briefly in his palm before he extended it toward the blackened wood in the hearth.

Seconds later, a crackling sound filled the room, bringing the fire to life and filling the space with a warm, golden glow. Eris watched the flames for a moment. Then he stood up, facing you once more.

"You promised me I'd be in Spring by tonight," you said.

Eris tsked, brushing past you as he sat himself on a velvet, red couch. His scent lingered in the air—a smoky, strong aroma. A shiver ran through your body. You attributed the reaction to the influence of the rain on your warm skin.

He didn't bother to meet your eye as he responded. "I promised no such thing. I said I'd take you to Spring tonight."

"Then take me."

He raised a brow and for a moment, you almost expected him to make a childlike comment, a brutish joke about the sentiment those words could hold outside of the context. But he didn't. His eyes, however, told you that he was thinking about it. It was unnerving, how you could read him so well, how years at Lucien's side had come with an unexpected consequence: becoming familiar with his brothers, too.

"It's a storm. Winnowing is risky in this weather," he said smoothly, voice as cool as ever. "I’m not risking both our lives just because you're impatient."

The wind howled outside the cabin, rattling the wooden shutters as you took a deep breath— in through your nose, out through your mouth. The eldest Vanserra noticed the frustration immediately, and your efforts to calm yourself dissipated as a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I’m not staying here,” you snapped. “I’ll walk if I have to.”

At first glance, the couch appeared almost pristine, but as the firelight grew and you paid closer attention, you could make out traces of dark grey, black, and brown hairs—the hair of his hounds. The detail settled somewhere inside you. You weren't sure where.

“If you do that, you’ll either die of exposure or run into my father’s men. Either way, not a great plan.”

You froze, your hands tightening around the fabric of your cloak as you grasped your arms, fingernails digging into the material. “So my options are to stay here with you or die?”

He shrugged lazily, but the motion still held a sense of regality to it, an eerily elegant form. It made you even angrier.

“Seems so," he said, a smile forming on his lips. It was as warm and genuine as a snake’s kiss, much like the disarming charm you had come to expect from Eris.

You'd never spent this long with him alone, never needed to manage his calculated gaze or purposely chosen words without the buffer of Lucien. You would've gladly gone your entire immortal life without doing so. But you missed Lucien— your heart ached without him, longed to be near him, to have his laugh echo in your ears. And this was the only way to be with him again, even for a few days.

And Eris knew that. He knew it all. You assumed it was why he bothered to take you in the first place. It gave him the pleasure of knowing he had power– control.

Your blood boiled.

“Are you enjoying this?” You stormed toward him, standing over the couch as he stretched, clearly unbothered by the storm—or your anger. “Trapping me here, knowing I have no choice.”

“Trapping you?” He laughed softly, sitting up slightly to meet your gaze. “You came to me, Vixen. If you want to go, the door’s right there.”

The sound of the wind howling through the trees outside made his offer ring hollow. You struggled to rummage through your thoughts, through the anger, frustration, and disgust that he managed to stir in you.

The stupid, stupid nickname was all you could focus on, now. Memories of a younger you flooded your senses, memories of a younger Eris, one much less rigid, much more open, almost. An Eris you crushed on. You'd never admit the truth to anyone— that the reason you and Lucien had become so close, despite your natural connection, was because once upon a time, he was glued to his older brothers hip. And so you'd glued yourself to Lucien's.

Eventually, the years evened things out, and your feelings flowed from the eldest Vanserra to the kindest one. To Lucien.

Lucien. Your mind reminded you. This was for Lucien. Don't piss Eris off, don't ruin your chances at seeing him again. Don't engage—

"Stop calling me that, you arrogant prick."

Your hands dropped to your sides, instinctively curling into fists as Eris peered at you with a burning, amused stare. His amber eyes gleamed like a predator toying with its prey.

"I see Lucien's absence has impacted your ability to maintain that temper. Those breathing exercises not working well for you?"

Something twisted deep in your gut.

"Now that I think about it, I think I'll take my chances with the storm."

Before you could make a move to leave, Eris was standing, his chest now inches away from you as he peered down at you. You didn't move, then, only straightened your shoulders and met his gaze.

Eris wasn’t the beefy, broad-shouldered type that other males in the court might have been. He didn’t have large, bulging muscles meant to intimidate. Instead, he was a lean kind of strong, with a pointed nose and sharp features that cut through the dim light of the cabin. He exuded a different kind of intimidation, one that stemmed from his inherent authority and the staunchness of his posture. He carried himself like a prince—elegant and commanding, every inch of him a testament to his future role.

Beron was merely keeping the throne warm until Eris was ready to claim it for himself.

"We both know you're not going to do that."

You tightened your fists further. "And why not?"

"Because you aren't stupid, Y/n."

Eris cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face with a cold, calculating gaze. His features were sharp and chiseled, the faintest freckles dotting his high cheekbones.

"You're not going to risk losing your chance to see Lucien."

He leaned down and his breath fanned your face, warm and mingling with the scent of cedar and smoke. His eyes danced across your face, moving from holding your gaze to traveling further down, lingering on your lips—on the scowl you wore on them—before he met your eyes again. The fire's flames grew larger, consuming the oxygen in the air that had already seemed to be thinning.

You said nothing as he continued, "Uncurl those fists, take that soaked cloak off, and wait. "

You stayed quiet, taking a deep breath before you stepped to the side, purposefully brushing your shoulder against his broad chest as you moved. Despite your urge to resist him out of spite, you reluctantly removed your cloak and tossed it on the clean floor of the cabin.

Eris scoffed. "Really? Must you act like a child?"

The floorboards cracked as he walked and, faintly, he mumbled something about how his hounds were better mannered. Eris picked up your cloak, dusting it off with a gentle hand before hanging it up next to his own.

"I'm curious," he began, glancing over his shoulder as he walked towards the couch. "Does Lucien know?"

You glared at him. You were growing tired now, the exhaustion of the trip slowly growing deep in your bones.

"What are you talking about?"

Eris smirked, his gaze lingering on you with a knowing glint as he settled back on the couch. "I'm talking about how you're in love with my sweet, sweet little brother."

You stiffened, a wave of emotion crashing over you—cold and awakening, a nauseating mix of embarrassment and fury.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Eris's face remained insufferably composed, a cocky grin playing at his lips. His eyes gleamed with a self-satisfied spark.

"No need to lie. It's just us two here," he purred. "I've always enjoyed how honest we can be with one another. It's why I preferred you over Jesminda."

A sharp, uncontrollable heat seared through every nerve in your body, a wave of anger surging like a wildfire.

"Keep her name out of your mouth."

It felt like a disgrace to have him say it, to hear her name immortalized on the tongue of the brother that allowed her to die. The brother that had killed her, according to Lucien. His sobs still echoed in your mind, the image of a broken male etched into your memory. You'd had only five minutes with him before he fled, five minutes of frenzied packing, desperate promises, and anguished confessions of what his father—and his brothers—had done.

Eris's gaze lingered as he analyzed you.

A beat passed.

Then another.

You were beginning to feel naked, as if he had stripped you of every defense you'd managed to muster around him. You turned away, unable to bear the weight of his stare any longer.

"I didn't kill her. I didn’t help.”

Your face went slack, caught off guard and momentarily confused. You pulled yourself together quickly, straightening your back, hoping he hadn’t noticed your reaction. As you turned a little, your face almost sad now, you could’ve sworn you saw something in his eyes—something akin to regret, maybe even compassion.

Your voice was low, not bothering to hide the sadness, mourning, the raw anger, as you responded.

“I don’t believe you.”

The trace of care in his gaze vanished as he shrugged, the same indifferent gesture he’d made earlier. “Have I ever lied to you?”

You stared at him, taking him in with the same analyzing gaze he'd offered you.

It was strange how alike he and Lucien looked, how alike yet so different all the same. But the longer you stared, the more you began to feel stuck— hypnotized, tempted to walk closer to him, to ask him what it was that went on in his mind, what caused those flickers of emotions you couldn't name across his face.

But another moment passed, and all you could see was a male who Lucien hated, a male who was selfish, who reveled in the pain caused by chaos. Your mind drifted to other rumors and stories you’d heard about him. You settled on one in particular.

"You left an innocent female to die in the woods because she didn't want to mary you. Butchering your brother's lover doesn't seem outside of your past-times."

A cold shift washed over Eris’s face. His disinterested expression hardened into a mask of disappointment, then flared into a simmering anger. It was a contained fury, like a finely tuned flame.

"Don't tell me you believe the lies of Night Court trash. Surely you're smarter than that. I know you are."

"Fuck you," you snarled. "You know nothing about me. I'm not going to let you play some twisted mind games with me. I'm not a doll."

He shook his head. "You are not."

A beat. Then a smirk grew on his lips. "But you are just as pretty as one, if we're still being honest. You're wasted in your one-sided love, Y/n."

You said nothing, turning to walk to the other side of the cabin. The corner held a bookshelf with carefully arranged volumes, a finely crafted wooden table, and a collection of artifacts on the windowsill.

Eris just laughed behind you, a sound so smooth and soothing that it felt sinful against your skin.

You resisted the temptation to snoop, to explore the cabin and bask in the rare vulnerability of the brother who had always captivated you in the most wretched of ways. It felt strange seeing him like this—relaxed, almost at ease— as if simply crossing the threshold of this modest cabin had stripped away the invisible chains and burdens only a prince could bear.

You stayed still and stared out the window, focusing on the sounds of the storm. You hoped that the rain would drown out the sounds of his breathing— sounds that rang too loud in your mind. You didn't want to know why he seemed to do that, why he lingered so deeply in your head.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The storm raged on for a few more hours.

The time was spent in tense silence—at least for you. Eris remained on the couch, reading through a novel about the history of the continent. You would've never thought him to enjoy such a thing, to want to know about those outside of his court, of mortals, humans, no less.

And when the rain finally stopped, he rose wordlessly. With a brief gesture toward your cloak, he led you out, winnowing you the rest of the way in silence.

When you finally reached the border of Spring, a wave of relief washed over you.

The vibrant greens of the new season were almost blinding after the gloom of the storm. You took a step forward, eager to escape the tension that had gripped you for hours. You'd be with Lucien soon, be able to hug him, to tell him of all the things he'd missed in your life since his exile.

But before you could move any further, Eris's hand closed around your arm. You turned to him with a glare, meeting his glowing gaze and infuriatingly calm smile.

“Are we forgetting payment?”

You strengthened your glare, gritting your teeth before you pulled yourself out of his grasp, reaching for the small bag hidden within your layers.

Eris stopped you with a casual wave. “I don’t want your money.”

You stiffened, straightening your posture. The sounds of Spring echoed behind you, their vibrant melodies almost taunting as you lingered on the border. Eris’s smile shifted into a smirk, his eyes glinting with something dangerous, something that made you swallow instinctively.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner.”

You thought back to how he had offered to take you to Lucien, how this entire arrangement had been his idea. You should've held back, should've been more wary of his motives. But you'd been too excited, been too blinded by the joy of being with Lucien once more.

“What do you want, Eris?”

He took a moment to take you in fully, eyes scanning you from head to toe, and then he took a small step back.

“A bargain,” he finally said.

“A bargain?”

He nodded. “You will not tell Lucien it was me who brought you here.”

You frowned, a crease forming between your brows as you blinked at the male before you. Perhaps you'd heard him wrong. “What?”

“If he asks, you’ll say you bought off a hunter in Autumn, a mercenary. Whatever you’d like,” Eris continued.

You drew your brows tighter.

“I thought you'd want to revel in the fact that he might somehow owe you. Prove your power, even."

Eris shrugged nonchalantly. “Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you’d like to think.”

He extended his hand, his palm open and the gleam of his ring-clad fingers catching the light. You hesitated for a moment, body still stiff with unease, with confusion.

You scanned his face. Eris loved played games. This was no different. There was no point in reading into it. So you rolled your eyes and prepared to shake on it, reaching for his hand. He pulled it slightly out of reach.

“What now?” You groaned.

He hummed in amusement.

“And when I come to get you to return to Autumn, I want your help.”

You raised a brow. “My help?” you asked, incredulously. "How the hell would I ever be able to help you?"

Your family had no title, no powers beyond a tame ability to fight and heal. You survived in Autumn because you were ordinary—and ordinary meant no one looked for you. Noticed you.

“I want to call in a favor,” he clarified.

“What favor?"

"We'll see," Eris said with a smile and a tilt of his head. “I think you could help me out dearly."

You let his words settle for a moment. His eyes, glistening with a dangerous glow, seemed to hold something predatory, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There must've been an underlying threat in his proposition, something sinister you had yet to notice. After all, he was a male known for his ruthlessness—

You stiffened.

He was a male. There was one easy way for males to assert their dominance, to gain pleasure, to accept payment.

You took a step back instinctively and Eris’s gaze tracked your movement before returning to meet your eyes. A shadow flickered in his eyes, reminiscent of the dark, unsettlingly soft gleam you’d seen in his cabin when he first glimpsed your saddened expression. Seconds later, his face shifted to one of mild amusement. He rolled his eyes with an empty chuckle.

“Settle yourself, Y/n. Not that kind of favor. I can bed females without resorting to bargaining for their affections,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension.

A flush of embarrassment crept up your cheeks. You looked to the ground for a moment, taking a deep breath as you regained your composure. When you finally met his gaze again, he was already extending his hand towards you once more.

“A favor in the future in exchange for this time with Lucien,” he purred smoothly. “And your silence. Consider it our little secret.”

The smirk that grew on his lips was maddening and you could feel the heat of his gaze, the flickering fire of his amber eyes urging you to comply. Every instinct told you that binding yourself to him was a terrible idea.

You glanced back over your shoulder, looking to the green, sunny expanse behind you. Lucien was there, somewhere amongst the greenery, and with a simple bargain you'd be with him again.

Without a second thought, you turned back to Eris and took his hand.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

happy eris week yall!!! rising from the dead specifically to post this lol, i fear i love this pairing so lets see if i decide i wanna write anything else for them. thank you for reading!! (i miss writing so so so much)

i might make this into a miniseries, so lmk if you’d like

to be tagged <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

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doverstar · 7 months ago

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can't express accurately how happy it makes me that c.s. lewis did not leave room for many interpretations in narnia. it's christian and you can't get around it. susan chose to care more about worldly things than what matters and he said what he said. the lion is Jesus. evil is evil and good is good and people have to choose. and that makes some readers angry because it's nearly impossible to ignore and they want to ignore it. they want it to be something else and they can't make it something else without making it not narnia. love that. that is doing it right

#that's. how. it. should. be #if there's room for interpretation in your writing as a christian you are doing it wrong #if people read your work and get to pick and choose what it means and you left it OPEN to interpretation-#-and they can divorce your fantasy world from the truth? you are doing it wrong #looking at you john ronald reuel #readers you're upset because susan cares more about “nylons and lipstick” than Aslan? 1. that's not really what lewis said #2. you should be upset because she made the wrong decision #and if you're upset because you can't get around the christianity in narnia let me share something with you - that's the point #it's a christian series #it's telling you christian things. this is not lord of the rings. this is not Cool Fantasy World open to interpretation #you can't worship the fantasy world and ignore the christian truths #you can't separate the two. that's what it should be #that's what all christian writing should be #if you write something amazing and centuries later people host parades for your fictional world and there's no God in it? no truth?#wrong. you did it wrong. they should not be able to separate the two - unless the point of your writing was to write a cool story #congratulations you wrote a cool story. but did it point people to the truth? unavoidably? no? then what a waste of freaking time #what a waste of a beautiful God-given talent #okay I got off on a tangent #my point is: be upset because Narnia is Christian and you can't get around that with ease #I am so. glad. you can't get around that with ease #this is why Lewis is my favorite author in the root of me #he did it right. this is what we as christian authors should aspire to #not LOTR. Narnia. NARNIA.#christianity #narnia #the chronicles of narnia #thoughts in the tags #doverstar's thoughts #writing #authors

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loomka · 3 months ago

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sam and his poney <3

#im at this point in the books where frodo just woke up in rivendell and is cathing up with gandalf.#i read the books like 6-7 years ago #and i don't remember much - mostly because i don't think i was really looking for what the books are about.#i was looking for something else and did -unfortunatly- miss the point.#it might have been me being younger and the language being a bit more on the complicated side - though i was an avid reader. Or rather i th #that i didn't take the time to enjoy the rest of the story.#lotr #sam gamgee #tolkien #lord of the rings

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jasontoddsmommyissues · 11 months ago

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How I sleep at night knowing that every time a new Joseph Quinn project comes out, at least one of you hoes will photoshop Eddie’s hair onto pictures from it:

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iidilio · 3 months ago

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୨୧ — so... welcome to my thirst talk ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

I only know that their fingers would make you see stars because they reach deep into your pussy...

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rottiens · 1 year ago

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What are your thoughts on Choso having mommy issues AND oral fixation? 🎤

cw. mommy kink, oral fixation, fingering sucking, choso calls you mommy, fem reader, modern au, praising + petnames (for choso), 18+

notes. this is not me, please look away,,, im not even into mommy kink guys please but this made me turn into a wild animal. divider creds: cafekitsune.

oh, you know exactly what i'm thinking about. your fingers in his mouth all the time, choso needs to suck or have something in his mouth whenever he's stressed or needs to concentrate, often he does it unconsciously. he grabs your hand in his, plays with your fingers first in an innocent way and the next thing you feel is his teeth grazing the pad of your fingertips, followed by his tongue licking the bite and finely, his lips curling around these and sucking down to your knuckles.

at first he finds it strange to himself that it makes him so hard to be called a good boy, it embarrasses him every time your sweet praise reminds him of the good job he is doing. however as your relationship blossoms this leads him to become more indulgent in this behavior, one step closer to being the good boy you say he is so much.

"can I suck on your tits?" he asks often without you expecting it, sometimes he just stares at them through your shirt until you offer it to him. "I need your nipples in my mouth..." he whispers another day in a cuddle section while watching a movie in your room.

"where are your manners?" you remind him, giving him a look and teasingly wrinkling your nose.

"please?" he says with puppy dog eyes.

choso pulls down your top, and immediately curses as soon as he sees your beautiful tits and perky nipples. his mouth waters and he cradles it from underneath with his full hand and takes it into his mouth without another word. choso sucks desperately, sucking as if he really believes he can make you lactate.

his tongue twists your nipple, his teeth bite down gently making you moan, getting you to break your gaze from the screen to look at him.

"don't get too eager."

"sorry," he says with a mouthful of your nipple, raising his eyebrows from below to admire you better. choso releases your breast to rub against it, eyes closed, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. "i love these fucking tits, they are so sweet."

"choso..." you warn him, you warn yourself, feeling the arousal overflowing from your own pussy lips until it wets your panties.

"I want to put my cock inside you, mommy," he whispers almost embarrassed at how he just called you for the first time, you decide not to tease him this time, pushing his jet hair away from his forehead to get a better look at him.

"let's finish the movie first, baby."

"I'm so hard, please..."

"behave yourself and I'm going to reward you later. you can be patient and bear it just sucking on mommy's tits, right?" his breathing becomes ragged and a reddish hue overflows like paint from the tip of his nose, he pouts briefly before nodding. "atta boy."

#wr #cw mommy kink #choso x reader #choso smut #jjk smut #same with your pussy; he needs it in his mouth all the time #lord please have mercy #wr.choso

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blueteller · 7 months ago

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Introducing Character Trope: STEBS (Stoic Traumatized Epic Bastard Softie)

I have tried to look this up on TV tropes, but it does not exist. Not officially, at least. So I decided – I'm introducing new trope. It already exist, someone might as well try and give it a name.

And yeah, this acronym SUCKS, feel free to come up with a better one! But let's talk about what a "STEBS" character is for me, because I've come to the conclusion that it is actually my favorite character type.

First, context. Ever since I've read TCF, I have come across other medias and I was often like, "Hey, this character is basically just like Cale!" – which I feel like, it isn't really fair? I mean, Cale is a great and complex character, but making this comparison constantly makes me feel like I'm undermining the complexity of OTHER characters. Just because Cale shares similarities with other characters doesn't make them copies of him.

So, what exactly is a STEBS?

1) Stoic

This character has a very specific way of acting in non-confrontational situations. It can be respectful, it can be casual, but it is neither extremely friendly nor extremely rude. It's in a calm, pleasant zone, where the character treats others like... well, people. The character doesn't make themselves superior nor inferior, it doesn't matter to them if the other is a beggar or a king. They just are, calm and casual. That's what makes them stoic - NOT lack of expressions or emotions, or lack of humor. It's the way they carry themselves on the regular. This character type makes others feel relaxed because of it, and subconsciously encourages trust and friendship (much to the character's confusion). They will also make a great educator because of it, and will likely act as a mentor or a teacher more than once.

2) Traumatized

Despite the stoicism in their behavior, they actually have a complicated background. Commonly an orphan, even though not always, this person has been through a LOT. But, they don't usually express it. Seeing this character cry or break down is EXTREMELY rare and always a very important scene in a story. It's not that they're not emotional or they always try to bury their trauma, although that does usually apply to them; they're just not vocal about it due to their personality. But oh boy, are they traumatized! Wait for that reveal later in the story though, when it actually becomes plot-relevant.

3) Epic

Despite the character being a stoic type, with a backstory that makes them crave very simple things – be it retirement, respect from their peers, a safe house to live in, a stable job, a family, a specific successful career – they are actually freaking epic where it comes to things they do. They either have great knowledge, memory, or skills in a particular field and they always manage to surprise others with just how competent they are. It can be literal combat skills, magic, being a life-saving surgeon, or even a therapist. But whenever they get their chance to shine, they become a real star.

4) Bastard

A trait that adds a surprising amount of charm and humor to their other traits. Being stoic makes them likeable, being traumatized makes them sympathetic, being epic makes them cool – but being a bastard? It actually just means they're mischievous and have a penchant for chaos. Because this character is meant to make changes in the narrative, like an accidental revolutionary or a transmigrator, they have to possess a cunning streak that might seem mean or selfish at first, but actually never crosses the line into making them despicable. It just makes them an occasional manipulator, but it's usually portrayed in a way that still makes it impossible to make you hate them. In fact, it makes you love them more for it. They are not naive, even if they can be oblivious or silly at times; being a bastard to those who deserve it means being able to get out of sticky situations that would be problematic for paragon heroes. It includes stuff like acting, pranks, cheating, manipulation, shady deals, gambling, stealing, and even criminal behavior, that is actually very understandable due to their specific circumstances.

5) Softie

And if all the previous traits haven't convinced you to love this character yet, the last one surely will. This character, despite having a mean streak, is in fact never mean to innocent people. Actually, they are surprising soft and/or sentimental, especially towards the helpless and children. This character will probably have at least one animal sidekick, at least one paragon protagonist type on their payroll, and most importantly an adopted child - if the previous two don't already fill that spot. This character will make excuses of course, they will claim that they are taking care of others for their own benefits. But you will see quickly that they don't treat others like a heartless manipulator, but more of an overprotective mother-hen. This character, no matter their gender, will eventually become the typical Mom Friend. They will make sure everybody eats well, sleeps well, they get their allowance, pack their lunch before heading out to participate in the plot and probably try to sacrifice themselves for them more than once. They will of course become the mentor figure on top of it, and possibly even be a straight up legal guardian and/or teacher to other important characters.

And this, my friends, is what I call a STEBS character. While it outlines a general, it's not a strict definition, mind you. Even if a character exhibit one trait less than the others (for example not being much of a bastard, or not being very stoic), it still counts as long as you still recognize them as fitting in this "category".

Characters in this category include:

Cale Henituse from Trash of the Count's Family

Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars

Aizawa Shota from My Hero Academia

Kakashi from Naruto

Remus Lupin from Harry Potter

Faramir from Lord of the Rings

Kim Dokja from Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Rimuru Tempest from That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime

Park Moondae from Debut or Die

Won Hwabu from I Reincarnated as a Legendary Surgeon

And many, many others.

Let me know if you have a better name for this very specific character type!

#character analysis #writing #tropes #stebs character #tcf meta #trash of the count's family #star wars #my hero academia #naruto #harry potter #lord of the rings #omniscient reader's viewpoint #that time i got reincarnated as a slime #debut or die #i reincarnated as a legendary surgeon

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foolbehavior · 1 year ago

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[@orvwomenweek] JHW & URIEL + Faith

#orvww #orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #jung heewon #jhw #uriel #very much inspired by @silly_chaotic (on twitter) amazing art and the “spare me great lord” donghua opening #god that op lives in my head rent free everyday #kinda messy attempt but this has been stewing in my head for a long time #finally had the time to spew it out #fooldles #its supposed to look like measurement scales hee hee hooo

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frownyalfred · 13 days ago

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it is Sunday morning, I am again wringing my hands over r/ao3 and feeling my blood pressure rise

#they’re so WRONG #all the time #so confidently #today it’s all about how writers aren’t significantly grateful enough if they don’t reply to every comment #and that readers expect a certain level of gratitude #I’m sorry what???#the writer just wrote FOR YOU FOR FREE #the readers comment is to signify gratitude for THAT #an author’s reply is the cherry on top at that point but it is NOT. a requirement #and good lord writers don’t need to be ‘properly grateful’ to readers in order to receive comments #you comment because you liked the fic #not because the author is prostrating themselves on the ground for you #god I fucking hate that sub so much #they’re misleading an entire generation of writers and readers #and nobody questions it #agh #rant #morning rant

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illyrianbitch · 10 months ago

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Of Our Own Devices — Part Two

For @erisweekofficial Day 2: Legacy

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Eris Vanserra carries a legacy of cruelty, a reputation forged in whispers and fear. But something doesn't quite fit anymore. You’re beginning to think that the male doesn't truly match the legend he's left behind.

Warnings: brief mentions of abuse, cruelty, injury, battling to death, introspection? like a lot, readers head is soooo big from these big thoughts

Word Count: 3.1k

did someone say eris week mini series???? technically can be read as a stand alone, just squint

Part One | Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

When Eris Vanserra was born, his mother wept in the bathroom for hours after.

Her trembling hands muffled her soft cries as her handmaidens swaddled a newborn Eris in fine cloth. Beron hadn’t been there for most of the birth—hadn’t held her hand the way her father had held her mother’s. He came only at the end, just in time to praise the heir as he left her womb, presenting him like a trophy before promptly leaving for court business.

She was still young, felt like a child herself— at least in her own mind. So, while she loved her son dearly, his birth had cemented her fate to a male she didn’t love, a male whose hands she feared more than death itself.

His mother loved him, this Eris knew. Even at a young age, he felt that love. It burned in him like a comforting flame, the same warmth as the heavy blanket she would tuck around him at night or the sunlight that seeped into his skin on warm afternoons.

And yet, even surrounded by that love, Eris grew up lonely.

His loneliness led him to finding a home in curiosity, in sticking his pointed nose into matters that often didn’t concern him, picking out small details he'd unconsciously store for later. He was a collector from the beginning—of people, of excuses, of emotions he had yet to name.

Perhaps that was why he was so sickeningly fond of you, so starkly different from the others, equally curious, equally lonely.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It wasn't Eris who people met first.

It was his reputation.

Eldest son of the High Lord, equal parts cunning and cruel, a loyal soldier with the venom of a viper. Anguish seemed to follow him, seemed to follow any with Vanserra blood, but there was something distinct about Eris, something divinely alluring. Terrifyingly sinful.

It was all true. So you weren't sure why it bothered you so much when your patrons talked about him, when his name was thrown into conversations surrounding the High Lord.

Your family's tavern was always filled with stories. Its dimly lit, worn wooden tables had overheard more whispered secrets and slurred confessions than you could ever count. Most nights were like this, with drinks spilling over into the laps of locals, the hum of conversation swirling in the air like smoke from the hearth. Tucked in a corner of the court’s lands, it was a place for those not high enough to feast in grand halls but not low enough to beg in the streets. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home. A comfortable middle ground.

You placed a handful foaming drinks before the three males at the bar, taking a moment to analyze their appearance. They were relatively large, muscular builds hinting at some form of laborious profession. The callouses on their hands told you that they handled weapons often. But their clothes weren't nice enough to be one of Beron's men, weren't tailored enough to be one of Eris's either. Perhaps they were border patrollers, the lowest and grimiest of the forces.

They thanked you with lingering, appraising eyes as you moved away to fetch more drinks.

“I heard,” one of the them said, leaning closer to his companions, “that the eldest boy has a new game he plays with those who cross him. A real spectacle.”

The male next to him, the oldest of the three, nodded eagerly. “They say he’s got a private arena where he forces traitors to fight each other to the death. It’s supposed to be brutal—nothing but blood and screams. And Eris just sits there, like it’s a grand show.”

You clenched your teeth, turning around to face the wall behind you, forcing yourself to attend to the pile of glasses waiting to be wiped down. You tried to focus on your task, hoping to drown out their disturbing conversation, but it was no use. You could feel your grip tightening on the material of the rag, knuckles white as they continued to talk, their voices growing louder and louder with every drink they took.

It was a lie. A rumor. Nothing more.

Yes, Eris was cruel. He was manipulative and calculated. But you'd seen slivers of something else, something brighter, kinder, even. While you believed that a male should face the consequences of his actions, there was no honor in perpetuating lies that simply weren’t true.

It made no sense, anyway. Eris had done plenty of questionable things. There were multitudes of actions to choose from, many things worthy of criticism. There was no need to indulge in falsehoods. The image they painted of Eris—a male reduced to a sadistic spectator in a grotesque spectacle—seemed far removed even from him.

“A grand show?” the third scoffed. “He’s not just watching. He’s placing bets on who’ll survive, like it’s some sick sport. It’s all for his amusement. I’ve heard he gets pleasure out of the carnage. Let's his hounds ravage the bodies.”

A knot tightened in your chest and you gripped the glassware harder, cloth bunching in your grasp. Before you could register the motion yourself, you spun around, the movement abrupt enough to make the males flinch.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you sneered. The males stiffened, large angry eyes boring into yours. You continued. "Bold of you to traverse around spreading rumors of a High Lord's son. Be grateful he isn't around to correct you himself."

You blinked, the anger draining away as quickly as it had surged, leaving a wave of embarrassment in its place. You took in the male’s faces—initially stunned, then quickly morphing into anger. It was an expected reaction from those who felt their pride wounded, especially from males who had just been scolded by a low-court fae like yourself.

You straightened, trying to regain your composure as you cleared your throat.

The largest of the men leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a sneer. “Well, well, boys,” he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. “I think our pretty little bartender might be one of the Princeling’s whores.”

You weighed your options as you stood there, hand still gripping the glass. For a fleeting moment, you were tempted to shatter it over his head. The thought of the glass breaking, of the shards embedding themselves in his skin, was almost satisfying.

But you didn't. Your father would be angry, would be disappointed above all. You needed the business.

You took a deep breath and your grip on the glass loosened.

“Allow me to apologize,” you said. “It seems I’m more sensitive about our court’s reputation than I realized. I don’t know what came over me. How about a round on the house?”

Their faces shifted to smug satisfaction as they accepted the offer with eager grins and, soon, their cups were filled once more. As they happily downed their next round of drinks, you slipped out from behind the bar.

The door’s bell chimed softly as you stepped outside, itching to find the heir that was imprinted into your mind.

Strangely enough, you knew exactly where he'd be.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You found him in a clearing south of The Forest House, an expansive area bathed in the warm light of the afternoon sun. It was a dedicated space for the hounds, adorned in various obstacles that Eris used during their training—wooden jumps, tunnels, and agility courses set up with careful precision. You'd seen the area of land a handful of times before, times when Lucien found Eris to argue or hurl curses.

You approached carefully, watching as Eris kneeled by one of the hounds, gently tending to what seemed to be a cut on its paw.

After a moment, he finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards and a playful glint manifested in his eyes.

"Even after all these years, a vixen without a fox at her side is still a strange sight."

You gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath as your eyes roamed the face of the male before you.

It was an unnecessary jab.

Lucien hadn’t been by your side for centuries now. Though you had visited him as often as you could, the friendship you once shared had changed. He had changed. You had, too. You'd grown into your life at Autumn—managing the tavern that bore your family’s name and living vicariously through the stories that came your way.

The last time you had seen Lucien was marked by a change. You'd looked into his eyes and somehow understood that things were different beyond what had been anticipated.

"Why do you do that?" You asked. "Be a dick when you don't need to be?"

Eris stood, brushing his hands clean as the hound trotted away to rejoin the rest. He narrowed his eyes at you for a moment, a scrutinizing, analyzing moment. Then he offered you a shrug, something so casual and dismissive. You were sure it would've warded off anyone else, that his disinterestedness would have begun to tired them already, turn them the other way.

"Maybe it's part of my charm," he finally responded, "Or maybe I'm just a dick."

He made no attempt to hide the amusement in his voice as he emphasized your insult. Eris had been called many things— you'd heard them, even delivered a few of the titles. But so far, you were the only one to call him two things: a dick, and a prick. Perhaps it was delusion, but you swore that he seemed to enjoy it when you said such things, seemed to smirk in a way that wasn't just cruel, but impressed.

You rolled your eyes. "Most wouldn't wear that title with such pride."

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "What's the use in denying my nature?"

You sighed, a sound of frustration, of annoyance. "Do you not grow bored of your little games?"

Eris rolled his shoulders and straightened his back. He always had immaculate posture, his stature was often so perfect that it was almost uncomfortable to witness. It emphasized his wealth, somehow— emphasized his power. He towered over you even more now.

"Did you seek me out solely to criticize me?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. "No."

"Then why?"

You still weren't entirely sure why you had come.

"Perhaps I was bored."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "Do you not have any friends?"

You bristled. "I have plenty." You paused, allowing your gaze to settle on the view before you, on the open land and the animals that in the open expanse. You turned back to Eris. "It's you that doesn't seem to have any. Your only companionship recently seems to be those hounds. I'm surprised you're not running on all fours."

Eris's expression shifted. He let out a small chuckle and you fought against the twitch in your lips, cursed the warmth that blossomed in your chest. But the amusement dissipated from his face soon after, replaced be a resolve of cold indifference. His eyes seemed tired in this light.

"As much as I…enjoy our little talks," He began after a moment, "I didn't ask for company. You should find someone who wants it."

A small sense of rejection passed through your skin like a cold, morning chill. You were never foolish enough to think Eris would welcome your presence with open arms and a smile, never naive enough to consider yourself anything more than semi-peaceful acquaintances. But still, there was something deep within you that wished he’d show you something beyond the disregard he showed others.

That wasn't a fool's wish— because you knew it was possible.

You'd seen it.

Strangely enough, you had. In the stolen glances when he thought no one was looking, how he lingered after you stumbled, offered a hand before quickly retracting it. There had been flowers at your door after your mother passed of Autumn fever, an unusual number of wealthy patrons who had frequented your father’s tavern for months afterward, tipping generously despite only having a drink or two. They all adorned attire of a specific, deep green that you’d come to recognize easily—the shade often worn by Eris’s personal guard.

His name was never attached to any of it, but you could trace it back to him. You'd always wondered why he'd never taken credit, never basked in somehow proving your presumptions about him wrong.

Twenty-nine year old you, freshly bonded to Lucien after he'd stumbled across your father's tavern, would be shocked that centuries later, she'd be spending more time alongside his cruel brother than Lucien himself.

You’d had an image of Eris back then—an image painted by Lucien’s words. It was accurate, to an extent. You never doubted your best friend’s judgment, never questioned the stories of cruelty and ambition that followed Eris like a shadow. He had, indeed, made Lucien suffer. There were reasons he disliked his brothers so deeply, reasons you knew were valid.

But you were curious by nature, always craving to understand things deeply, intricately. And Eris Vanserra called to you like a riddle from an ancient tale—dangerous, alluring, and impossible to ignore.

Above all else, you wanted answers. Throughout the years, Eris had never called upon your bargain, never asked for a favor, never even mentioned the price you’d paid for that first visit with Lucien. Not once.

It unnerved you.

"I don't understand you," you said, without realizing the words had fallen from your lips.

You hadn't intended on voicing it so blatantly. You weren't quite sure how Eris would respond, how he would interpret your words. It was a tossup, really, between a snarky response or something condescending, something to make you feel silly, naive.

Silence.

Eris shifted, turning his body to look out into the horizon before him.

"Not everything in life is meant to be understood."

You paused.

Eris was complicated. Unfortunately for you, you loved complicated. It wasn't boring. It made you think, made you wonder. You gravitated towards the eldest Vanserra more often than you'd like to admit. It was easier now, you decided, since Lucien's watchful eye wasn't around. He didn't have to witness your betrayal first hand, didn't have to see as you attempted to find something in his brother. You weren't sure what that something was, but you were certain you were searching for it. You had been for years.

"That's not true. I can understand things if I try hard enough."

Eris played idly with the rings on his hands. "You set yourself up for disappointment, Vixen," he said to the empty air before him, not turning to look at you. "Why does everything need to have a deeper meaning?"

You studied his face further. Noting the lines etched around his eyes and the set of his jaw. He was beautiful. You weren’t one to deny it—all of the Vanserras were. But where Lucien had been handsome, radiating a gentle charm that made you blush with every lingering gaze, Eris was more akin to the sharp edge of the season’s chill—striking, with an air of regal severity. His amber eyes alone seemed to hold the crisp, unyielding essence of autumn itself—beautiful, but not without its bite.

"It doesn't need to," you replied. "But it often does. I think details are important."

He didn't respond as he turned to face you. You glanced up at him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that seemed almost tangible.

"You've never lied to me," you stated. It was a statement more than it was a question.

"No," Eris replied.

His gaze didn't waver. You were almost impressed that you'd managed to hold his stare for so long. No one had ever looked at you like this before—so deeply, so penetrating. You understood now how his mere gaze could make people crumble, understood the rumors of how he only took his partners from behind, how he never made eye contact.

You pushed away the burning thoughts that arose.

"Is it true?" Your gaze bounced around his face. "Do you force your traitors to fight for your amusement? Place bets on them like animals?"

Eris's eyes flickered with something dark, but he didn't move.

"Do you think it is?" he countered.

You shook your head. You were certain of your answer, but you needed to hear his. "No. I don't."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Then it’s not," he said simply.

His expression revealed nothing more as you scanned his face. He didn't seem startled by your question, didn't seem confused at the context. He was aware of the rumors, of the stories circulating like the last morsels of food at a feast—passed around, savored, and eagerly consumed.

"It doesn't bother you? That these lies exist?"

A hint of confusion crossed his features, as if the question itself was somewhat absurd.

"Why would it?"

You blinked, momentarily retracting into yourself.

As a hound trotted up to Eris, his attention shifted. He crouched down, meeting the beast at its level. The gentle manner with which the hound regarded him, the affection in its eyes, stirred something inside you, deep within your gut. Your father had always said that a male’s nature could be understood through how animals responded to him.

Eris clearly cared for his hounds, and they, in turn, cared for him.

You found yourself wondering if, deep down, Eris was ever troubled by his reputation.

Lucien always had been.

He cursed the blood than ran through his veins, spent every moment trying to prove himself to be better than the legacy of his family— he did everything he could to avoid the curse of a wicked kin.

But then there was the male before you.

Eris, the rightful heir and firstborn son, was different.

You had always assumed he was bestowed with the legacy of the kingdom, that he was born for the role of High Lord, eagerly embracing the title and its accompanying glory. He seemed built for it, seemed to thrive under its weight.

You watched as more hounds approached him, watched as they surrounded him like a loyal fleet.

Could it be possible, you thought, that perhaps it wasn't all gifted. That it was possible Eris was burdened with the legacy of a Court?

You realized, then, that you'd never truly acknowledged that what he had become allowed for a kinder brother to grow in his wake.

The thoughts came faster, hazy, so many that your vision began to blur. It all made you itch, made you uncomfortable, made you overwhelmed and desperate for more.

None of this felt right.

You stared at Eris for a few more moments. When he stood up straight once more, about to turn toward you, you turned and ran to your horse.

You could feel his stare burning into you as you left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

reader panicking when she has deep intellectual thoughts about sexy man as he tends for his dogs. shes so me fr

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weclassygirl · 8 months ago

Text

bewitched

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: years of hidden yearning and need and a night to remember

warnings: smut (fingering, semi public) light choking, slight voyeurism kink, exhibitionism

word count: 2,2k

author’s note: had to add it in before a real work begins (my first smut so...). they needed it for sure or they would have done it in front of Celebrimbor once they couldn't take the tension anymore. enjoy! (previous part -> scheme)

It was rare to see him like that, in his element, focused only on his work. You found yourself captivated how he moves around the workshop, how Celebrimbor valued his work. The forge worked day and night, trying to work with mithril, each smith has made their suggestion, offered every metal known to the peoples of Middle-Earth and yet none of them wished to connect with the stone.

They work for weeks, an attempt is made at stretching out mithril but with no desired result. A crown for the High King became a task kindred to that of creation of the Silmarils. You’ve worked nearly without rest, aiding in empowering the precious metal, Celebrimbor notices your vigor and the way Halbrand moved with ease around you, like two flames lit up to reach the same purpose. He would propose any idea his mind came up with to Celebrimbor and then to you, always to you.

The Lord of Eregion found it unusual how quickly the two of you made connection, after all these years you’ve opened up to someone and he wasn’t even an Elf. He did not interfere in this, you seemed to work better because of Halbrand, even if it was possible.

He came to you each night, overseeing your progress in your craft closely, being in a physical form made the contact easier. You couldn’t be by his side all the time, people would have noticed, he found moments he could talk with you, not about his plans or your craft. A simple conversation shared by two people with the same ambitions.

You’ve known him for years and yet he came up with ways to surprise you. You were glad he was in Eregion, not the shadow in your mind, you felt yourself drawn to him and he to you. Like, call to like.

His enthusiasm for work showed, a bit too much for your liking sometimes. You’ve seen Galadriel sneaking around Eregion, conversing with the librarians, which made you uneasy.

Something was wrong.

You saw him by the pond, a long day of work visible in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Only a dim light illuminated him but you could still see his brow adorned by dust and shards of metal and you wondered how long he would look like this. A mortal man, handsome in his own right, who wouldn’t fall for his charm?

The feeling in your gut lingered, his identity was bound to be discovered. He knew you worried and assured you that he had a plan.

“And what if it fails?” you ask as you come down the steps. Many would have stopped being his collaborator, but not you, not when you’ve been by his side for so many years, whether at first you hated the very thought.

“Do you truly think so little of me?” he counters.

You huff, this man… “I think that it is a risk, staying here longer than you need to. This…” you gesture toward his appearance “will not fool everyone. They will notice.”

He steps closer and places his fingers under your chin, he likes to see you try and tear your sight away from his. He knows that you’re not the one to walk away from a challenge.

“With time, they will see and believe whatever I want them to.” he pulls away but the feeling of his fingers lingers.

“How long do you plan to retain this form?” you ask. He tilts his head and looks down at his clothes and hands.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“I didn’t say that.” you tease. You look over the trees to the towers. “Eregion is the realm of the Elven smiths not men. You're a King, they’d expect you to be with your people.” he takes your hand, the illusion from it lifted in the comfort of his presence. He traces the scar absentmindedly.

“And would my queen join me?”

Queen… He never called you that before. “We’re not bound.” you remind him.

“And yet the idea entices you, after all these years.” he lets go of your hand and places his on your shoulder. “Shame to let it go to waste.”

“Why not have it all for yourself?” you ask genuinely. He could have it all, Middle-Earth, all of the races under his rule. His hand snakes up to your cheek, making you look up at him again.

“I’ll burden myself with the crown and let you cherish in the light of it. No one to command or put you through suffering again.”

“On my deathbed.” you whisper as he leans closer, his breath on your neck making you shiver.

“I’d prefer little death slipping from your mouth.”

Despite your defiance, you lean into his touch as his lips place kisses on your neck and for a moment you believe it to be an illusion, another vision conjured up by him, far away from your reach. He reminds you of the realness of this moment when his hand cups your jaw and closes the distance between you.

You’d make a fool of yourself if you pushed him away, especially when he’s been on your mind for so many years. He would have reveled if he knew the many sleepless nights you’ve spent trying to get rid of the revenant feeling of his touch. How with every disappearance from your chambers you longed for nothing more than to ask him, beg him to stay. Perhaps he knew with how he looked at you right now, eyes dark with desire, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss.

You push him back onto the stone bench, his hands wander to pick up as much fabric as they can when you straddle him. He grabs the back of your neck to crash your lips onto his, you bite at his lips, wanting more and accidentally draw blood. He pulls away and swipes his thumb over the cut, black blood spreading over his lip. He looks up at you and brings the thumb to your lips, he brushes against them once until you open your mouth and lick away the blood from his finger. The sight would have sent him to the Undying Lands that very moment, but he couldn’t part just yet until he had his fill of you.

His hands slither under your dress, his touch like fire lingering on your skin. Carved by Morgoth and worshipped at Sauron’s hands. He takes your hand in his and kisses each darkened finger, his lips linger on the scarred one.

“I take it it’s to your liking then.” he teases and you grab his jaw, his stubble softly digging into your skin.

“Your shadowed form was quite pleasing as well.” you retort and kiss him once more. You’d let him swallow you whole, let him corrupt you even further just to have him near you.

He hand slips between you two and dips into you, the intrusion welcomed as you draw a breath between your lips. The bundle of nerves that ached for him, falls apart at the simplest touch. Your head tilts back as he withdraws his fingers only to push them back in, his rhythm increasing slowly, he would not have you out of his grip yet.

Your cunt clenches around him when he adds another finger and Sauron grabs at your throat, putting the smallest pressure that could bring you to the edge. He chuckles as he watches you, his lips kiss up your throat.

“So willing.” he taunts and you return from your bliss state at his words. Your hand sneaks under his robe to return the favor, he groans as you grab his cock, your hand moving in time with his fingers deep in your cunt.

There’s a wicked smile tugging at your lips and he wishes nothing more to let you have your way with him. He knows he’s done for as he takes your appearance, breathless and wanton.

A witch that bewitched his body and soul.

You gasp when he pushes away the fabric covering your breasts, his mouth dives to devour. Black Speech slips from your mouth when he pulls at your nipple and oh, how cherishes the sound. He taught you it, even if you picked it up from the Orcs guarding your cell in Forodwaith.

“Fuck.” you breathe out as his hand picks up its pace and another tugs at your nipples. You moan against his neck when your hand on his cock begins to falter, to blissed out to form a coherent sentence. You kiss up his neck and move to brush your lips against his.

The night settles over Eregion and he wishes to stay in this moment, create an illusion of the two of you to roam and work in Eregion while he fucks you endlessly in your chambers. Your mind drifts again but is snapped to reality when the two of you hear people approaching. You pull away but his fingers stay inside you, his pace dying down but not fully.

“Mairon.” you warn him and a corner of his lips lifts up.

You never called him Sauron, the Abhorred, and he was grateful.

The chatter grows and you feel a soft wind around you, Sauron’s hand continues its ministrations. You realize he’s cast an illusion over the two of you. To anyone looking it would appear as if the two of you were having a simple conversation on the bench. Any wiser would see a scandalous scene and you wish you could see their reaction.

You recognize them, the smiths you worked closely over the years, they call out your name. “Still awake?”

You nearly curse Sauron when he adds another finger. You try your best to respond under the illusion. “Yes.”

“Discussing new ideas.” he adds and flicks over your bud with his thumb. You nearly smack him but the pleasure is too great for you to care.

You’re too far gone to continue the meaningless conversation, Sauron takes over your voice until the smiths leave. Your hand squeezes him ever slightly, moving faster with each stroke and he grabs your hair.

“Careful, witch.” his threat is interrupted by the moan that follows. You smile mischievously, oh how you could just stop the time to feel him bring you to your pleasure over and over again.

“Would you let them see?” you question against his lips. You on display as he laps at your folds and sets a relentless pace with his cock buried deep inside you. Doing whatever he pleases with you, whatever you wish to do with him.

His pace quickens and you spiral close to your release. His breathing becomes labored with each pump of your hand.

“I would make them wish they were you.” his words set you ablaze as you spill around his fingers. You moan into his mouth, body shuddering with release and he does not let go until your body completely gives out. Your head falls into the crook of his neck when his fingers leave you and immediately miss the feeling.

He brings up his fingers to your mouth and lets you taste yourself from them. You lick them clean like a starved woman and the sight arouses him even more, his cock straining against his robes again. He licks up your hand, swallowing every last drop, truly worthy of each other.

He lifts you up from him and kneels before you, you arch your eyebrow when he lifts your dress once more. His tongue darts out to clean every drop that has not coated his fingers, the heat pools inside you as he slowly laps at your folds. You arch your back, in too fucked state to form a coherent sentence. His hands travel back to your breasts and you whimper in pleasure.

You feel your second orgasm coming in waves and he lets you ride it out on his face, gladly cleaning you up again. His moans reverberate against you, Black Speech on his tongue as he praises you. You look down at him as he comes up, your need for him still growing but you hold yourself back, you’ll have him completely another day.

There’s no turning back now.

He kisses your neck, jaw, cheek and finally lips. Your tongue makes its way into his mouth, his passion burning brighter with each touch. Years you’ve longed for this and won’t feel satisfied until you have him all.

“Bind yourself to me.” he whispers against your lips and you consider this time. He brushes away strands of your hair and you melt into his touch when it lands on your cheek.

“Not yet.” you respond, the words he so often spoke to you when the matter was brought up. You knew that if you did and he was no longer within your reach you would have gone mad. He would have loved to see the havoc you would wreak in his name.

You lean closer to him as he kneels before you. Your hand cups his jaw before pulling it to you. Your words a threat and a promise.

“Make sure your path to glory doesn’t lead to a grave and I will.”

He smiles.

You were perfect.

next part --> wonders

#i need her to become more corrupted #he will gladly make it happen #had a bit of writer block with this one and changed it a few times so....#either way enjoy #sauron x reader #sauron smut #lord of the rings #rings of power #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader

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marsi-is-depressed · 15 days ago

Text

Fainting spell

Summary:

11th doctor x time lord wife reader, y/n has known the doctor since childhood and have been married for centuries, during her husbands speech to Akhaten, y/n goes unconscious due to the amount of energy. This fic feautures amy and rory instead of clara.

Eleventh Doctor x Time Lord Wife!Reader | Set during "The Rings of Akhaten"

The stars of Akhaten gleamed like shards of memory, suspended in the velvet canopy of space. The wind carried songs of the past—notes strung together by sacrifice and belief—and somewhere, at the heart of it all, stood a man with an ancient soul and wild eyes.

The Doctor.

And not far behind him, wrapped in soft cerulean robes that shimmered faintly with stardust, stood you—his wife, his oldest companion. Y/N, the Time Lady who had once raced him through the copper hills of Gallifrey, who had flown beside him when the sky burned red with war, and who had married him beneath the twin moons of Castallan IV in a ceremony only the stars could understand.

The bond you shared was unshakable. A union of minds, hearts, timelines. Centuries together, through regeneration and ruin. And still, even after all this time, he looked at you like you were new.

But today… today felt different.

You stood near the back of the amphitheatre as the Doctor stepped forward, his long coat trailing like the cloak of a hero worn from battle. Beside you, Amy and Rory exchanged a glance, sensing the swell of something great and terrible rising from the ancient god that slept at the center of this system.

The Old God. The parasite that fed on stories, on devotion. On souls.

And the Doctor… he was about to give it everything.

You knew what he was doing before the words left his mouth. You could feel the energy in the air shift. Something stirred in your chest, something raw and tangled in golden timelines. A thrum of the vortex itself.

"He’s going to offer it his memories," you whispered, staggering slightly.

Amy reached out, steadying you with a worried frown. "Y/N?"

You blinked, feeling the weight of time pressing down on your bones. It wasn’t just his memories. It was yours, too. Bound together in time, in soul, you were a mirror to his past—and when he offered himself, when he opened up his heart and mind to feed the Old God…

You felt it.

“Come on, then! Take it! Take it all, baby!”

The words rang out, furious and defiant, echoing off the ancient stones.

You gasped.

It felt like the air had been ripped from your lungs, like someone had cracked your chest open and poured molten starlight into your veins. Memories flashed through your mind too fast to hold—your wedding, Gallifrey's fall, your husband's laughter, the birth of time itself—rushing through you with a force no mortal could endure.

Your knees gave out.

Amy lunged forward with Rory right behind her. Together, they caught you before your head could hit the stone. Your eyes rolled back, lips parted in a silent cry.

“Y/N!” Amy shouted, gently cradling your head.

“She’s burning up,” Rory muttered, feeling your pulse racing like a warp drive at full throttle. “What’s happening to her?”

“She’s—she’s connected to him,” Amy realized. “He’s giving everything to that thing—and she’s feeling all of it!”

Back at the altar, the Doctor had no idea.

“I’ve seen whole worlds end. I’ve watched universes burn like paper. And I carried them all with me. Every moment…”

His voice cracked.

“Every second…”

Your fingers twitched weakly in Amy’s grip. You whispered something, barely audible.

“Stop… he has to stop… it’ll take too much…”

“I remember it all.”

A wave of psychic energy blasted through the amphitheater, knocking dust and debris into the air. Amy shielded your body with her own, Rory leaning in close to keep you from convulsing.

Then silence.

A soft, hollow silence.

The Doctor stood trembling, sweat on his brow, eyes wide and glassy.

“Did it work?” Amy called out, voice breaking.

The Doctor turned slowly.

And then he saw you.

Limp.

Unmoving.

Cradled in Amy’s arms like a fallen star.

His hearts stopped.

“No—no, no, no, no…” His feet moved before his mind caught up, tearing across the stone steps, leaping over ancient carvings. His hands found your face before he’d even dropped to his knees.

“Y/N,” he breathed, “no, please…”

You weren’t unconscious—you were deeper than that. Lost in the echoes. You had shared his burden for centuries, linked by time and love, but this…

This had broken through even your formidable walls.

“Wake up,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Come back. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Amy looked away, tears in her eyes. Rory’s jaw tightened.

“I felt her break,” the Doctor said, his voice shaking. “The second I gave it to Akhaten… she took the hit, too. I didn’t think—I should’ve—”

“She’ll be okay, right?” Amy asked, almost afraid of the answer.

The Doctor didn’t reply.

He just took your hand.

Held it against his twin hearts.

And did what he always did when he thought he might lose you: he told a story.

“Do you remember the Temple of Stillwinds?” he whispered. “You were so cross with me. Said I was flirting with the High Priestess just to get the last key. You hit me with a vase, and I regenerated two hours later. Thought I was being dramatic, but I really liked that face.”

A flicker of breath passed your lips.

He smiled faintly.

“We built a treehouse in the upper boughs of the Singing Forest, just to hear the lullabies at night. You said that was the closest thing to peace you’d ever felt. Even the TARDIS liked it. She still hums the tune sometimes when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Amy and Rory exchanged a glance, feeling the weight of his grief hang in the air like mist.

“Come back to me, Y/N,” he whispered, closing his eyes tightly. “Please. I don’t know how to be without you. I’ve forgotten so much—but I could never forget you. You’re the reason I kept going. You’re my constant.”

And then—

You stirred.

It was faint. A twitch in your fingers, a flicker of golden light beneath your skin. Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

“…Doctor?”

He let out a shaky laugh that cracked halfway through.

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

You tried to sit up, and he helped you, one arm supporting your back, the other cradling your hand as if afraid you might vanish again.

“I felt everything,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “All of it. You gave too much…”

“I had to,” he murmured. “It was the only way to save the girl. To save the world.”

“You should’ve let me share it properly,” you chastised gently. “Next time, don’t block me out.”

“You nearly died.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“I’m a Time Lord, love. It takes a lot more than an angry god and a few million memories to take me down.”

He chuckled softly.

“Still… don’t scare me like that.”

Amy cleared her throat, stepping back as Rory helped her. “We’ll, uh… give you two a moment.”

As they left, the Doctor pulled you fully into his arms, burying his face in your hair.

The two of you sat like that for a long while, wrapped in silence, surrounded by the ashes of belief and the weight of eternity. It didn’t matter how long you’d lived, how many times you’d been broken and rebuilt. In that moment, the only truth was love.

“I never want to see you fall like that again,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

You turned your face toward his, brushing your nose against his. “Then don’t give yourself away without me next time.”

He nodded, lips ghosting over your brow.

“Deal.”

A pause.

Then he smiled.

“I did a pretty good job back there though, didn’t I? With the whole shouting at the god thing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You scared the entire system into submission.”

He grinned. “Just another Tuesday, then.”

And together, beneath the light of a dying god and a reborn star, the Doctor and his wife rose slowly, hand in hand, two eternal souls forged in time, memory, and love.

Even gods could not consume them.

The air in the amphitheater had grown quiet. The songs had faded, the Old God silenced, and the golden glow of the Akhaten system was soft again—calm after the storm. The Doctor helped you to your feet, his arm firm around your waist as he kept you close.

“Let’s get you back to the TARDIS,” he said gently, still watching you with that same wide-eyed worry he always had when you were hurt. “You need rest. Proper rest. Time Lord or not, you were almost—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in softly, your voice rasping with fatigue.

He nodded, lips pressing together.

Amy and Rory followed behind silently, casting glances at you every few steps, still shaken by how close you’d come to falling into the void for good.

But you were alive.

You were always strong—but this had pushed you to the edge.

Back aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor led you to the console room, settling you gently on the jump seat. The TARDIS dimmed the lights instinctively, the soft hum of her engines lowering to a lullaby as if she too understood the fragility of this moment.

He knelt before you, hands on your knees, eyes scanning you for anything—anything at all—that seemed wrong.

“Pulse?” he murmured, tapping two fingers to your wrist.

“Still there,” you mumbled.

“Eyes?”

“Both present and accounted for.”

“Memory?”

You blinked slowly. “You once shaved your eyebrows off in your fourth incarnation just to see if it improved aerodynamics in high-speed chases.”

He smirked. “Yep. You’re all there.”

But as he started to stand, you swayed.

The jump seat seemed to tilt sideways and lurch beneath you. Your vision shimmered with threads of gold, fractured memories flying past your consciousness in a rush—visions not just of Akhaten, but of Gallifrey, of the Death Zone, of Earth’s future. Too much.

Too fast.

And then—

Darkness again.

This time, the fall was gentler, but no less frightening.

The Doctor caught you mid-collapse, sliding to the floor with you cradled in his arms. “No, no, no, come on—Y/N…”

Amy shouted from the corridor, “Doctor? Did something happen?”

“Stay there!” he called back, urgency threading through his voice.

He lowered your head into his lap, brushing your hair from your forehead as golden pulses of memory visibly flickered beneath your skin. The threads of time itself were swirling too fast inside you.

You were unraveling under the weight of it.

He laid both hands on your temples and closed his eyes.

“Shhh. Slow down, love. You don’t have to carry it all at once. Breathe with me. Anchor with me…”

His voice was soft, gentle, the rhythm of it syncing with your own scattered thoughts. Gradually, the storm in your mind began to settle. You weren't alone in the timeline—you never had been.

You had him.

When your eyes fluttered open, the Doctor was still beside you, seated on the floor of the console room with your head resting against his chest. His hearts beat steadily beneath your cheek.

“…Doctor?” you whispered.

His head jerked down in relief. “Y/N. Oh, thank Rassilon.”

You looked up at him, your body still trembling slightly from the overload. “I didn’t mean to scare you again.”

“You’re lucky I don’t regenerate from sheer stress,” he said, stroking your cheek. “What happened?”

You blinked, swallowing hard. “The memories… they came too fast. Not from now—but from before. I think Akhaten’s energy pulled something loose. Maybe your speech... the force of it knocked the vaults open.”

He nodded. “We’ve lived too long. Sometimes the mind forgets how to sort it all.”

You touched your temple gently. “I saw Gallifrey. I saw us as children. I saw you wearing your Academy robes backwards just to make a statement.”

He chuckled. “I was a statement.”

“And… I saw Akhaten. Again.” Your voice trembled slightly. “But not from my eyes.”

He paused.

You sat up slowly, still held in his arms. “I saw you. Standing there. Alone. All that pain in your voice… and then I saw you cry.”

The Doctor inhaled sharply.

“You never cry,” you said gently, fingers trailing up to his face. “But you did then.”

He looked away.

“I wanted to go to you,” you continued, reaching to cradle his face and guide his eyes back to yours. “The moment I saw that first tear, I tried to reach for you. But the energy hit me too fast, and I couldn’t…”

Your thumb brushed along his cheekbone. “You gave so much. Too much.”

He swallowed thickly. “It was the only way.”

“You never should have had to stand there alone.”

“I wasn’t,” he whispered, his hands tightening around yours. “You were there. Even if you fell, even if you couldn't reach me—you were still there. And somehow, that made it bearable.”

You leaned forward slowly, gently pressing your forehead against his. “We’ve carried the weight of time for so long. But you don’t always have to be the one to bleed first.”

He closed his eyes, letting himself fall into your embrace.

“You saw me cry,” he whispered, almost ashamed.

“I did,” you said softly. “And it broke my heart. Not because you cried—but because you tried to hide it. From me.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

“Doctor,” you breathed, taking his face in your hands, “that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen you do. You gave every part of yourself to protect a little girl, to protect a planet. That isn’t weakness. That’s who you are.”

A long pause stretched between you.

Then you gently tilted his head so you could press a kiss to his forehead.

He shivered at the contact.

Your hands moved slowly across his face—fingers ghosting over his brow, tracing his jaw, thumb brushing his lips. Each movement was soft, grounding.

“I remember our first century together,” you murmured, “when you still hadn’t stopped grieving for Gallifrey. You used to wake up screaming, saying you didn’t deserve peace.”

“I still don’t,” he murmured.

“You do. And you always did.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes now, and this time, it was you who let them fall freely.

“You are the most extraordinary being in this universe, Doctor. Not because of the battles you’ve won or the legends they sing—but because of your heart. And I’ve loved it across every incarnation. Every wound. Every tear.”

He looked at you as if seeing you for the first time.

And for the thousandth time all at once.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you fully into his arms again.

You curled into him, resting your head beneath his chin, your arms around his waist. His fingers wove into your hair, and yours into the lapels of his coat.

Time bent gently around you.

Even the TARDIS was still.

Hours passed like moments.

Amy poked her head in once, saw the two of you curled together on the floor, and silently backed away with Rory in tow, offering you peace.

In the quiet afterward, you pulled back slightly to look into his eyes again.

“No more giving everything unless we both agree on it,” you said firmly.

He gave a wry grin. “Agreed.”

“And next time you cry, don’t hide it. I want to be the one who holds you.”

He nodded slowly. “You always were.”

You smiled faintly, then rested your forehead against his again.

“And next time I fall over from a memory overload, you are not allowed to blame yourself.”

He snorted. “Can’t make that promise. But I’ll try.”

You cupped his cheek again, gazing into his eyes. “We’ve lived through the worst things time has to offer. But we’re still here.”

“We’re still here,” he echoed.

And in the center of that console room, surrounded by the stars and the song of a healed system, the two of you held each other—not just as lovers or Time Lords, but as the only two people who could ever truly understand what it meant to live forever.

And still choose love.

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