#'The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege'

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Well we know Sauron does end up killing the captain so he was perfect to use as the reader’s equivalent of a Mirdania. These two are so in love and it’s everyone’s problem😆

Thank you very much for your kind words❤️

Theatrics (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Celebrimbor tries to expose you and your husband to the people of Eregion, but you play the role of the innocent maiden to perfection

Warnings: evil!reader, murder, manipulation, mentions of wounds, smut, light choking, blood licking, fingering, p in v, slight roleplay, slight voyeurism kink

Note: part of the evil!reader collection of fics. okay I finally said fuck it and wrote smut *throws it into the wild and runs away*

Mature content below the cut—minors DNI!!!

Chaos roars around you as you step out into what were once the beautiful streets of Eregion. Walls are crumbling, arrows are flying, Elves are scurrying about every which way.

You suppress a smile. All is going according to plan. But what pleases you even more is that at long, long last, the moment which you had been most eager to savour has finally come to pass.

Celebrimbor has learned the truth.

No more tiptoeing around him, playing the unassuming Elven smith. No more taking orders from him, no more assisting him, no more pretending like you are anywhere close to kind and innocent and sweet.

Well, with him, at least. But he is the one you had most strived to fool, ever since you came to Eregion all those years ago, not knowing how long you would have to endure the life you would craft for yourself there until your husband regained his form. When the moment came that you were finally able to stand at your husband’s side in the crumbled forge as Celebrimbor realized who ‘Annatar’ was and what you were to him, when you took in the horror in his eyes as he pointed accusingly to your beloved’s pitch black blood only to watch you lick it hungrily off his hand instead of running in terror...

It nearly made up for all the times the words ‘my lord’ had tasted foul on your lips, spoken to the smith in false submission. You serve no one but your husband—and even that can hardly be called service, when he serves you in return with equal devotion.

You wonder how much of a fool Celebrimbor will have already made of himself even before you find him, wherever he has run off to in the wake of his terrible realization. You and your husband had ensured that by the time Celebrimbor manages to speak against you, all ears would be shut to his words. The Elves once loyal to him now believe him fatigued to incoherency at best, dangerous in his madness at worst. When you had last emerged from the forge, it had been crying and holding a bloody hand, claiming that Celebrimbor had brought Fëanor’s hammer down upon it in a moment of cruel impatience with your work. An illusion, of course, conjured by the part of your husband’s power which lives within you. You have bandaged that hand now, mindful to keep up the charade.

You make sure to fill your eyes with as much dread as any other Elf’s as you run through the chaos, searching for Celebrimbor. Your husband is out here as well, but not with you—it would serve you better to arrive separately for this little special occasion.

By the time you find Celebrimbor on the rampart, he is already quite the pitiful sight—he and Mirdania stand near a section of the parapet which had been wrecked by an Orc boulder, leaving it horribly easy to fall over the edge through the resulting gap. He is screaming at Mirdania that she has to believe him, over and over. She eyes him warily, drawing ever so slightly away, no doubt unsettled to find herself in the proximity of such a disturbed individual and a dangerous fall, all at once. Of all the Elves he could have run to, it had to be the one most taken with your husband’s charms. Oh, this is too perfect.

“My Lord, there you are!” you exclaim. His eyes widen in horror at the sight of you. Yours are awash with concern as you reach for his arm. “It really is not safe for you to be out here—”

Celebrimbor recoils, so violently he nearly knocks Mirdania off her feet as he stumbles into her. She yelps, rushing to your side instead.

“Don’t you dare come near me, you witch!” Celebrimbor spits out, jaw trembling as he yells at the guards, “Seize her!”

You don’t need to see your own face to know you have made it into the perfect picture of confusion and hurt. You exchange a glance with the guard closest to you, Captain Malendol. You’ve shared some laughs over the years, the occasional friendly conversation, even a dance or two at celebrations and the ever-so-subtle flirtation under the supposed influence of a wine glass or two. He likes you quite well, if you do say so yourself. Which makes the bafflement on his face, unlike yours, genuine.

Celebrimbor swallows painfully as realization dawns on him—his own guards no longer obey him. “She is no friend of yours,” he insists, “she never has been! She—”

The words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of your husband. He has finally joined you, silently making his appearance on the steps behind Celebrimbor, and now the smith is effectively caught between the two of you, even if the trap is utterly invisible to those around you.

“Seize him,” Celebrimbor scrambles to order, “seize them both.”

Malendol stays put. All eyes around Celebrimbor regard him with nothing but sympathy.

“He is Sauron,” he claims desperately, as truthful an attempt as it is fruitless. “Seize them! They have been lying to you all along.”

“No,” Mirdania shakes her head at your side. “Lord Annatar has been protecting us.”

“While you’ve been in your tower, giving orders that might have been the end of us all,” Malendol adds reproachfully.

You allow yourself the slightest raise of a gloating eyebrow, visible only from the angle of Celebrimbor and your husband. As intended, it fuels the rageful despair in the smith’s eyes.

“No,” he all but pleads to be believed. “No, that was him. He is Sauron! And she...” he points a finger which trembles with anger at you, “His foul lover! His depraved mistress! I saw it! Before my eyes, she tasted his blood as if in some... deranged coupling ritual!”

“By the Valar,” you breathe out, swaying on your feet. Such vulgar words would weaken the knees of a faint-hearted maiden. So, accordingly, you begin to fall in Mirdania’s direction, leaving her to scramble into a hasty attempt at holding you upright. Malendol is at your other side in an instant, helping her to support you with a firm arm around your waist.

“My Lord, please,” Malendol says, appalled. “She has been a loyal friend to us for a long time, one who cares for you greatly. How can you say such degrading words about her?”

“Was it not enough,” you burst out tearfully, holding up your bandaged hand, “that you crushed my fingers with Fëanor’s hammer? I believed it to be an accident, but... To have you question my virtue as well...?”

You dissolve into sobs. Your supposedly wounded hand flies to cover your face. The other one, Malendol takes in his, endlessly sympathetic.

The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege.

A chuckle bursts from Celebrimbor’s throat, the sound of one driven to insanity. It is funny. All of it. The trouble for him is that you, your husband and Celebrimbor are the only ones who get the joke. And the poor smith is the butt of it.

“Let not yourselves be fooled by her false tears,” he strives, in vain, to convince them. “She has no shame, no care for any of us! Her heart is black—black as his blood.” He turns to your husband as if in sudden realization. “His blood... Cut him open!” he orders. “Look at his hand, see for yourselves!”

He’s nearly gleeful as he says it, genuinely believing he has found the answer to ending his torment. Some of the pity in your eyes is genuine as you look at him with the same dismayed expression as the others’. Your husband knits his brow, as innocent as ever—and lifts his hand to reveal a cut smeared with what appears to the others as utterly natural, perfectly ordinary red blood.

Any trace of hope is drained from Celebrimbor’s eyes. He stares, wordless, jaw quivering as your husband speaks in that calm and composed tone of his.

“You may speak of me as you wish, Celebrimbor. But I will not have you besmirch a kind Elf maiden’s honor, even out of frailty of mind,” says with great sadness Annatar, the divine messenger who has most certainly never laid one pristine finger upon your most demure self. “Please,” he addresses the guards, “escort him back to the forge.”

But the guards exchange glances, hesitating. It was one thing taking orders from your husband when it came to defending the city, but it appears they do not yet dare lay hands on their supposed true lord. They are very close, though, merely in need of the slightest nudge over the edge. Such as a word from their captain, but Malendol wavers, just as torn. Ensuring that you are indeed steady on your feet, he releases you and lays a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip as if to ready himself, but hesitates to give the order. You exchange a nervous glance with Mirdania, who is still at your side, hands on your arm.

A nudge... over... the edge.

You wouldn’t even need the bond between your minds to know that you and your husband are thinking the exact same brilliantly awful thing.

You release a shuddering breath, leaning on Mirdania only the slightest bit more. At once, her hold on you tightens reassuringly.

“Come,” she says, beginning to tug you away, “let us get you some water.”

You nod, visibly grateful to follow her. You halt after a couple of steps, however, just as you are passing Celebrimbor, and turn to him as if with sudden determination. At your back stand Mirdania, a gap in the wall and the field of raging Orcs below, and before you is the smith glaring daggers filled with more disdain than you even imagined he possessed. You meet that scornful gaze with nothing but a pained smile.

“I forgive you, you know,” you murmur, only just loud enough for the guards to catch your words as well. “Get better soon, my dear friend.”

Whether it’s your words, imbued with such sickly saccharine affection, or the hand you lay upon his shoulder with utmost gentleness, Celebrimbor loses his last shred of restraint.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars.

It happens quickly, much too quick for anyone to notice exactly what occurred (as was, of course, your intention). Celebrimbor shoves you away with all his strength, causing you to crash into Mirdania, and—perhaps she might have been able to catch herself, if not for the flick of your husband’s wrist which makes her trip over her feet and tumble over the edge of the rampart, screaming all the way down into the Orc-riddled mud field below.

You certainly possess the power to keep your own balance, but you still yelp and stagger through the couple of backward steps that have you nearly slipping off the edge as well. Malendol, however, manages to catch you in the nick of time, as you had seen he was already desperately rushing to do. He yanks you toward him, and you collide with his chest only for your legs to play the part of finally giving out. The heroic captain keeps his hold on you as you crumble to the ground, hyperventilating.

Celebrimbor’s “No!” rings out as he stares down at the fallen Mirdania, but she is just as lost as any sympathy the guards still held for him. You scramble on your hands and knees to look over the edge just in time to see an Orc bring a hatchet down upon her, and shriek her name as you burst yet again into sobs. You keep them coming, loud and miserable, as Malendol helps you to your feet and you fall into his arms with enough force to push him a few steps back, burying your face in his neck.

Discreetly glancing over your shoulder, you see your husband speaking with Celebrimbor. But so loud are your cries, and so intent is Malendol on offering you words of comfort over them, that the others cannot hear their trusted Lord Annatar strip Celebrimbor of the last of his fight with a final threat. Finish the Nine, and I will spare your city.

This time, when your husband turns to the guards and repeats, “Escort him to the forge, please!” they comply without question.

It’s only once Celebrimbor is out of sight that you begin to quiet your sobs, pulling away from Malendol.

“It’s all right,” he comforts you, releasing you from his embrace but still resting his hands on your arms. “He shall trouble you no longer.”

“He meant to throw me over that wall,” you whisper, voice laced with terrible guilt. “Poor Mirdania died because of me!”

Your husband is standing a few feet away, gazing sorrowfully down to where Mirdania lies dead. He had, after all, made his preference of her quite apparent to the others. It would seem odd if he did not spare a moment to mourn.

“No, not because of you,” Malendol insists. “It was but the doing of Lord Celebrimbor’s troubled mind. You must not hold yourself responsible for anything he has done or said.”

“What he said... Oh, what he said!” you whisper, mortified, and lean closer to Malendol as if to conceal your words from your husband, “How am I to face Lord Annatar now?”

“Please,” your husband speaks, and you turn as if startled to find him coming to you with a most sympathetic gaze. “You have not the slightest reason to be ashamed. I only regret that you had to endure such vile accusations, and witness such tragedy. You must not blame yourself for it.”

“Such is her nature, my Lord,” Malendol says, his hand now at the small of your back in a gesture of kind support. “Of all the Elves in Eregion, she is least deserving of such scorn, and suffers the most for it.”

Oh. Between embracing you as you cried on his shoulder and the sheer affection in his voice as he sings you praises, he might as well have gone for a little tea with the Orcs, too. Forget the whole siege—now you doubt your husband will let him survive the hour.

Lord Annatar, however, offers the captain a most gracious smile.

“Thank you, captain,” he says, “for being a most loyal friend when your friendship was most needed. I shall see to it that your honourable deeds are well rewarded.”

Malendol bows his head respectfully, blissfully unaware that his ‘reward’ will very much resemble Mirdania’s.

“Performing one’s moral duty is a reward in itself, my lord. Come,” he turns to you, “let us bring you to safety.”

“No,” your husband says—a fraction of a second too quickly. The slip is much too brief to be caught and the recovery utterly seamless. “You are needed in battle, Captain Malendol. I shall see to it that she makes it safely back inside.”

Malendol exchanges a glance with you, and upon your slight nod, he says, “Of course.” As if on a sudden impulse, he turns to face you, taking your hand in his.

“Fear not, my friend. We shall prevail,” he vows. And leaves a gallant kiss on your knuckles before he takes his leave.

It’s all you can do to school your expression as you are left alone with your husband—well, ‘alone’ in the sense that no one’s focus is trained on you at the moment, but you can hardly risk one of the soldiers catching a glimpse of your triumphant smile when you had gone through so much trouble to earn their sympathy. As such, you meet your husband’s composed gaze with a somewhat shy one, quickly lowering your eyes as though you do not dare hold it for long.

He does not speak a word as he walks you back into the tower, never once attempts to place even so much as a guiding hand at the small of your back. There is the sound of destruction around you, the screams of Elves, but loudest in your mind is the tumultuous blend of emotions within your bond. So proud, so satisfied, so hungry for each other the high of victory in your wicked plans has made you, the very air thrums with the vibrancy of it.

And as if that was not potent enough, there is also that sweet possessive ire you love to rouse within each other, even when you are well aware that no being in existence could ever truly come between you. For them, to merely glance in longing at one of you is a death sentence from you both. Mirdania had sought out your husband’s touch, Malendol had dared embrace in comfort one who belongs solely in her husband’s arms. It matters not that they were allowed, even led into it. When you and your husband play such games, collateral damage is a given.

The moment you are inside the tower, you expect some kind of climax to the tension—you are most eager to be ravaged by its force, whether he should devour your lips to celebrate your flawless performance or crowd you against the wall to thoroughly replace the captain’s innocent touches with his ruinous ones.

But he does neither. He remains as impassive as though you are still being watched. Provoking you into lighting the fuse of the impending explosion yourself. Very well, then. You shall do so gladly.

“Pity about Mirdania, though,” you remark nonchalantly as you ascend the steps to the forge. “I would have liked to see her face when she realized the object of her little infatuation was the Dark Lord himself.”

“Fear not, my love,” your husband says, eerily calm and without looking back as he walks ahead of you. “We shall soon have the pleasure of a similar realization on Captain Malendol’s face, right before I run him through with his own sword.”

Unseen by him, you smirk.

“Well, he was rather eager to save my life,” you goad. “Perhaps he has earned the privilege to die in blissful ignorance after all.”

Only your footsteps fill the following silence until you reach the top of the stairs. You’ve barely climbed the last step when he turns around and—you yelp as your husband quite literally sweeps you off your feet, whisking you bridal style towards your bedchamber, instead of the forge. A giggle escapes you as you cling to him, quite pleased with the reaction you have elicited.

“Tell me, my love,” he says, kicking the door shut behind you, “what need have you of a common Elf captain to save you from falling,” you are unceremoniously released onto the bed, with your husband climbing over you not a moment later, “when you are bound to one of the Maiar who would sooner destroy the foundations of the earth than let you slip from his grasp?”

His hand is sliding up your thigh, lifting your dress on its way. He is a Maia possessed, caught between the high of triumph and the thrill of the chase at which you two so like to play, and you can hardly think of a witty answer when his fingers are only a breath away from where your flesh aches for his touch the most.

But a wicked thought prevails, and you shove him away with all your might. Still, it’s the shock of it rather than your force which knocks him to the side, allowing you to scramble off the bed. It’s almost comical, the half-confused, half-enraged look he gives you.

“Lord Annatar!” you gasp, ostentatiously doe-eyed and quite scandalized as you smooth down your dress in haste. “Surely you do not mean to lure me into some... ‘deranged coupling ritual’?” A little smile flashes through your little act while you savour Celebrimbor’s earlier words on your tongue. “And in the midst of a siege as well!”

You back away from him with slow, tantalizing steps, watching in delight as his gaze darkens in a deliciously sensual threat.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” he says, standing from the bed to walk towards you with all the patient grace of a wolf stalking prey. “Acting the innocent little maiden. Prone to fainting at the merest... suggestion of impropriety.”

His strides are larger than yours, and before long he is close enough to surge forward, swiftly closing the distance between you and grabbing hold of your neck with his blood-coated hand. You gasp as your back suddenly hits the wall, closer than you had realized it was, leaving you pinned between the cool stone and your husband’s body. Your hands fly to his wrist and his lips hover close to yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss. You chase it just to be cruelly deceived as he evades your mouth, a wicked smile upon his as he lightly but decidedly pushes your head back against the wall.

“Be grateful, my innocent little smith, that there is a siege,” he says in a lurid whisper, releasing your throat to bunch up the skirt of your dress with both hands, “for your fellow Elves are far too distracted to hear you fall apart beneath my touch.” Your undergarments are pushed to the side, and you are so wound up that even the maddeningly light press of his fingers between your legs draws a loud whimper from you. Your husband leans into your ear as you shut your eyes, hips helplessly chasing the slow little circles he makes around your aching bud. “I should hate for anyone to ‘question your virtue’.”

His tongue makes a mockery of your own words from earlier, just before you feel its warmth at the hollow of your throat. You arch your neck as he licks upwards, long and slow, towards your jaw, gathering the blackness his wounded hand had smeared onto your skin. That same hand is now splayed over your rampant heart, holding you down as you fist your hands in the fabric of his garments and writhe with the pleasure he languidly stokes between your thighs. He kisses you, and when his tongue plunges past your lips, your mouth fills with the sweetly metallic taste of his blood, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. You moan, long and wanton, whining for the firmer, faster, deeper touch he is withholding.

Your husband chuckles. It infuriates you.

“Oh, but you loved it too, didn’t you? When he—ah!” You suck in a sharp breath as he slips two long fingers inside you. Your wetness makes it easy, your body welcoming the familiar intrusion with nigh unbearable delight. It takes great willpower not to shut your eyes, to hold his gaze as he curls his fingers expertly, right where he knows it feels the most divine. “Did you not like it when he called me yours?” you insist, breathlessly. “Did you not want to show them yourself?”

If possible, his eyes darken even further, and his fingers pump inside you with more vigour. “Had it not been utterly counterproductive to our purpose,” he says, voice low and gruff, “I would have taken you right there upon the rampart and proved him right.”

The image is so sudden and vivid before your eyes, it pulls a pitiful mewl from your throat.

“I would have let you,” you gasp, and crush your lips to his with desperate abandon. “I want them to know.”

A guttural sound escapes his throat, and all of a sudden he withdraws his fingers, leaving you achingly empty. You think your legs might give out if it weren’t for his firm hold on you as he pulls you to the nearby window, twisting you around so that your back is against him and you plant your hands on the waist-level windowsill for support.

“Look,” he rasps out in your ear. “Do you see our soon-to-be army, my love? The very first of our devoted subjects?”

In the distance, Orcs holler crude names at each other, ready battle devices, send an endless rain of arrows over the walls of Eregion. It isn’t a pretty sight, but the terror it strikes in the hearts of their enemies and their power of destruction shall be wielded by you and your husband in the near future—and that is no small thing.

You nod, letting the thought sink in and add to the onslaught of elation already driving you wild. Your husband coils one arm around your stomach as the other wraps around your throat once more and he pulls you into him. Your bare folds meet his clothed erection, and you push back against him with a wanton moan, desperate for the friction.

“They shall be followed by Men,” he continues, rutting against you with animalistic greed, “and Dwarves, and Elves, until every single soul in Middle-Earth has been brought to their knees to worship at the feet of their King and Queen. Then, we shall at long last stand together before them all.”

“A love greater than ever was or ever will be,” you say, high-pitched and breathless, as if you are repeating words you have told yourself a thousand times. “All shall aspire to be us, yet none shall succeed.”

You are released abruptly. You hear the shuffle of fabrics, and sure enough, the swollen tip of him is soon nudging at your entrance.

“And how beautiful you shall be, my love,” your husband whispers, the sheer reverence in his voice a stark contrast to his lurid words, “with a crown upon your head, and my cock buried deep within you.”

He slides in to the hilt, quick and powerful, and you cry out. You could take him a million times, in a million different ways, and yet the perfect fit would never cease to steal your breath. He withdraws only to thrust back in, then again, setting a punishing rhythm which is nearly enough to obliterate any semblance of coherent thought from your mind. It would be so easy to let him plough into you just like this until you come undone, yet you crave something else. More.

“Wait,” you plead, planting a hand onto his hip to push him away. “Let me... let me...”

He does, letting himself slip from you with a rueful grunt. You turn to face him on unsteady legs, to look upon his face as you had so longed to—the only reason which had given you the will to interrupt your pleasure as you did. Your eyes never leave his as you seat yourself upon the windowsill, lifting your skirts once more. “I want all that,” you confess as he nestles his hips between your spread legs. “But I want you more.” He groans as you stroke his length, then guide the weeping tip back to your entrance. “I want it with you, or not at all.”

Your voice is so thin, it nearly chokes out at the end, your chest constricted with emotion—with the fear of being forced to let go as you have been before, always present in the deepest corner of your hearts. Something flickers in your husband’s gaze, the same anguish which wrenches at your soul.

“My love,” he breathes out the words as though they are the last thread by which his very existence hangs. “My love,” he vows and prays and fiercely claims as he nestles himself in your tight heat once more. You don’t know which sinks deeper into you—his swollen cock or the look in his eyes, which remain devastatingly locked with yours as he joins your flesh. Perhaps there is some innocence left in you to be ruined after all, for so raw and disarmed you are left by this union, tears spring in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. Your husband gathers them with his lips and tongue as he rocks into you anew, far from gentle but less brutal than before, with deep, long thrusts that leave you too weak to sit up if it weren’t for his arms holding you to him.

Outside, the battle rages on. Inside, you fight to prolong this, to wring every last drop of the sweet torment that is your ascent to the peak of your pleasure. You lay a hand over your husband’s heart, feeling it hammer on in tandem with yours as he drives into you with increasing urgency. You are reduced to a string of incoherent mewls as you bury your face in your husband’s neck, mindlessly licking and biting at his skin.

His sounds of pleasure are less loud, but much deeper as they reverberate beneath your lips. You want more—so you fist your hand in his hair, with no mercy for the carefully-crafted bow at the back of his head. Crafted by you, on a playful whim the very morning before the siege began—he’d teased and claimed you were sure to ruin your own work the next time he would bed you. You don’t even think of that now, consumed by pleasure as you tug and pull with abandon, feeling the fair tresses come apart beneath your fingers. It drives your husband even wilder with lust than he already was, and he grabs your face to devour your lips as he spirals closer to his release.

Your own takes over you in an abrupt instant, right as your husband reaches between you to rub your swollen bud above where you are joined. You sob into his mouth, trembling as your hips thrash in a confused attempt to both escape and chase the unbearable height of pleasure thrust upon you.

Your husband fucks you through it, pulling you close and cooing in your ear, calling you his and ‘love’ and all sorts of adoring things in Black Speech through his own heavy breaths. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged moan as he finds his pleasure, and you feel it echo through your bond with nearly as much power as your own. His seed will not take unless he wills it so, and neither of you wish for that, but you still clench around him longingly, greedy to draw every last drop of him as deep within yourself as possible, because it is him. You’d spend each second of your life with him inside of you, if not for the impracticality of it.

Once spent, your husband remains as he is, simply holding you to him. He cradles your head in his hands, pressing sweet kisses to your hair, and you are too weak to do anything but sag against him whilst you regain your breath.

“Why, Lord Annatar,” you whisper, smiling tiredly, “I’m starting to suspect you might have impure intentions towards me after all.”

He gives a soft chuckle, pulling away to look at you. “Whatever gave you that idea, my lady?”

The innocuous words are followed by your husband gently withdrawing himself from you, leaving a great, leaking mess between your legs. The only response you can give is a soft groan as his fingers gather some of his spend from your sensitive folds, and gently press it back inside of you where it belongs. With a small, satisfied hum, he steps away to tuck himself back into his garments. You press your legs together, sighing contently at the delightful ache left in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

“However will you keep up this innocent act of yours,” your husband muses, “now that I shall be dripping down your beautiful thighs with every step you take?”

“Please,” you say coyly, standing up and fixing your dress as though your undergarments are not soaked beyond hope beneath it, and your legs don’t still feel a bit unsteady. “I’ve managed before.”

He smiles knowingly. “Indeed, you have.” He pulls you close by the waist, as if you haven’t just parted from one another. “Always so eager to wear me,” he praises, and there is nothing insincere about your flustered little smile now. It’s true that you delight in wearing what he gives you, whether it be his spend nestled between your legs or a less secretive gift. Which reminds you of the gift you had given him to wear. You lay a hand on his cheek and coax him to turn his head silghtly, pouting when you glimpse the mess of tangled tresses you have made in his hair.

“You were right,” you admit, somewhat regretful, “I did ruin the bow.”

“Like the merciless creature that you are,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. When you pull back, his appearance has already been restored. It isn’t quite as meaningful, now that his power did the work instead of your hands, but you suppose you’ve been gone long enough already. Now that your hunger for each other has been sated, your husband shares that sentiment.

“Come, now,” he says, taking your hand and making for the door. “I believe Celebrimbor is in need of encouragement with his work.”

“What are we, if not encouraging?” you quip, and gladly follow his lead.

Previous fic with same reader -> Reveal

Next fic with same reader -> Old wounds

[rubyinasnuggie]

Rosegarden Week Day 2 — Wedding

Something old

“Ohhh, Ruby! You look beautiful!” Yang rushed up to her sister, but was suddenly stopped. She glanced down to see a glyph under her feet, gluing her to the spot. She looked up to see Weiss staring her down with ice-cold eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Yang Xio Long,” Weiss said. “Do you know how long I’ve spent doing her hair?”

“It’s been hours, Yang. Please help me!” Ruby whispered, a mischievous smile on her face.

Weiss rolled her eyes. “Oh shut up. It’s not my fault your hair refuses to curl.”

Blake rolled her eyes with a smile.

Ruby’s eyes drifted to the small box in Yang’s hand. “Did you bring it?” she asked, voice uncharacteristically small.

Yang smiled and held out the box for her.

With shaking hands, Ruby opened the box. Inside, resting on a red velvet cushion, there was a tarnished silver hair pin, with an intricate rose inlaid with rubies and diamonds. The very same pin Summer Rose had worn at her wedding.

“Oh, Ruby,” Weiss whispered, seeing the pin. “It’s lovely.”

“Will it work?” Ruby asked. Her silver eyes were extra sparkly with tears.

“Absolutely.” Weiss carefully took the pin from the box and began to pull hair back to place the pin.

Something new

“Fortunately, this makeup is cry-proof,” Blake said, setting up her deskspace.

Ruby laughed and wiped her eyes. “That’s good.”

As Blake began to brush on makeup, Weiss and Yang worked together to attach the veil. The beautiful thing had been sewn by Kali and Willow. The two mothers had bonded over mutual love of embroidery.

Ruby thought the embellishments were a tad excessive, but she couldn’t deny the end result was gorgeous.

Something borrowed

The moment Nora walked through the door, she had to turn back around to cry. When she finally composed herself, she walked back in, followed by Ren. “I can’t believe little Ruby is getting married! And to cute boy Oz!”

“You look lovely, Ruby,” Ren said. His smile wasn’t wide, but his eyes were sparkling.

“Thank you.”

The constant compliments were starting to make Ruby feel a little anxious. Sensing this, Nora skipped over to her, holding out the red sash. “We tried to repair it as much as we could, it’s still pretty beaten up though.”

“That’s okay,” Ruby replied. “Thank you so much for letting me wear it.”

“It’s the least we could do,” Ren assured her.

“I’m sure Pyrrha would love that you’re wearing it,” Nora said. “Do you want me to help you tie it? Or is that reserved only for the ice queen of honor?”

“If you think you can do it without ruining her dress, be my guest,” Weiss replied. “I’ll fix it afterwards.” There was a slight twinkle in her eye as she said it, and Ruby giggled.

“I’m going to go back to Oscar, if that’s all right,” Ren said.

“Gonna use your semblance on him?” Nora joked.

Ren shook his head. “He’s surprisingly relaxed. I can tell he’s very excited though.”

“Bye Ren!” Blake said, waving.

“See you soon!” Yang called.

Something blue

“What’s that?” Ruby asked, glancing at the small jewels in Weiss’s hands.

Weiss held them out to her, showing a small sapphire, amethyst, and topaz. “The final touches.”

“For Team RWBY?”

“Obviously,” Weiss answered with a smile. “Is that okay?”

“I love it,” Ruby said, beaming.

After placing the three gems in her hair, Weiss stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Well, Miss Ruby Rose, I think you might actually look presentable.”

“You look so perfect!” Yang cried. She just barely shifted her weight before Weiss shot her another glare. “I can’t wait to hug you after the ceremony.”

xxx

Oscar rocked back and forth on his heels, stomach full of butterflies as he waited for his beloved.

Ren and Nora began to walk down the aisle, scattering flowers on either side. Nora beamed at Oscar and winked, acting charismatic as if she hadn’t been sobbing most of the morning. Ren’s expression wasn’t much different than usual, but Oscar could tell he was tearing up.

Next, Penny skipped down the aisle, her eyes literally glowing with excitement. She carried the rings; a golden band set with an emerald for Ruby, and a silver band set with rubies for Oscar. They each had vines engraved in the metal.

Yang and Blake followed, arm in arm. He noticed how Yang had painted her arm red for the occasion, and he held back a laugh.

Following the bees, Weiss and Jaune emerged. Despite her ridiculous heels, she barely reached his shoulder. Still, they held hands as they walked towards the altar. Weiss and Jaune were maid of honor and best man respectively, which meant the next person to walk would be...

Finally, Ruby emerged, with Tai and Qrow on either side.

Oscar felt his breath whoosh away, just like it had the very first time he saw her. Her hair had been curled and pinned back with a silver rose pin, and loose strands framed her face. Her beautiful eyes shimmered. She was already tearing up. It was only when she suddenly blurred away that he realized he was crying. He let out a breathless laugh. It felt both like the briefest moment and the longest eternity as she walked down the aisle. The rest of the crowd faded away as she drew closer.

The moment their hands intertwined, he could think of nothing else. He was sure he said all the right things, and at some point he successfully put the ring on her finger. But he didn’t really snap back into awareness until he heard the words, “You may now kiss.”

Ruby bounced on her toes and threw her arms around his neck. He looked his arms around her waist and pulled her close, hoping he could communicate the deep well of love he had for her through this kiss. Even if he couldn’t do it with this one, his chest fluttered at the realization he had the rest of their lives to show her how much she meant to him.

xxx

“I bet if we slip off no one will notice,” Oscar whispered. Their reception had been going on for about an hour, and the socializing was clearly taking a toll on his bride.

“I think they might, actually,” Ruby replied with a giggle.

“I mean, it’s our party,” he countered. “We can do whatever we want.”

After considering it for a long moment, Ruby relented and let him lead her outside to the gardens.

They found a huge hammock and curled up in it, letting the wind rock it back and forth.

The shattered moon looked full, and Ruby's eyes reflected the dazzling light.

“Have I ever mentioned how lucky I am to have you?” Oscar asked.

“No, never. Wait, do you like me or something?”

“Or something.” He leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss. “You know, after the whole… Ozpin thing, I was worried this may never happen. I thought it’d be too weird to ever marry, considering I was sharing my body with an ancient man.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Do you ever miss him?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Part of me wishes he could have been here to see this. He was always rooting for me. He… obviously knew I liked you from day one.” He nudged her playfully. “And I bet he would’ve been impressed with how much better a dancer you are.”

“I think he’s proud of both of us,” she said, looking up at the constellations. As if to confirm it, the alpha star of the Ozma constellation twinkled. She smiled.

Oscar nestled his head into her shoulder. “We’re married.”

“We are,” she agreed.

Just as they were leaning in to kiss, voices caught their attention.

“I knew she was going to sneak off!” Yang declared, marching over to the hammock.

“And after all the work I put into planning this party,” Weiss huffed.

Ruby winced.

Her expression softened. “I’m just teasing, you dolt.”

“Mind if we join you?” Jaune asked, grinning.

Ruby and Oscar exchanged a look before smiling.

The groups settled down together in a semi-circle, leaving the married couple in the hammock to keep Ruby’s dress from staining. They talked for a little while, but mostly gazed at the stars. When a group of fireflies danced by, Penny impressed everyone by communicating with them via Morse code.

As Ruby looked around the group, at her family, she felt love well up in her chest all over again. She didn’t think she was going to live to see this day, to have a future of any kind. But she had made it. Oscar squeezes her hand as he laughed at something Nora had said, and her heart fluttered. She looked at her new husband, and she felt certain that her future was bright.

//ring idea credits to @littlemisssquiggles

@rwbyrosegardenweek

[birger-wuvs-elsa]

Моя пещера, твоя пещера.

I actually wrote this one up early and scheduled it, just in case my forgetful mind lost this day in the midst of sleep, work, and school. ;3 @shardsofarendelle

This uh...got...longer than I planned...Birger had input, it would seem.

Elsa was in the midst of filing paperwork when she felt him. Her dragon, Birger, had ever so gently brushed her mind; over the years, their bond had grown, and the ways they were able to connect varied as they strengthened. Even when Alarik’s arrival came about, and all the...unique situations that entailed, and the pair’s own bond was tested, all came out well. They didn’t need questions or permissions with one another, and to outsiders, it would seem as if the queen and her fluffy companion were as one unit.

So it was with a perplexed frown that Elsa set down her pen, and absently glanced at her window. There were no words to Birger’s contact just now, no clear cut thoughts or anything. It was merely a feeling...a subtle guide to meet him outside. Elsa hesitated, as she knew that Birger understood she was in the middle of work. He normally respected her “foolish duties”, and their importance; so why on Earth would he disturb her now?

The queen stood from the chair, and walked around her desk as she approached the window. It was cool outside, and the nippy temperature beyond the castle’s warmed walls caused a conflicting fog to cloud the glass. But she didn’t have to be able to see through the windowpane to know that her dragon sat just beyond it, in the castle’s vast courtyard, which was just barely able to contain his now grandiose form.

Come...

A word, this time, to come with that same soft caress to her spirit. She could feel more to it now, a warm beckoning...he wanted to take her somewhere. Out of habit, out of instinct, her body moved to go out and meet him. But as she thought of her family, of Alarik, and the thought of letting herself be spirited away without warning...she hesitated. But no sooner then she did so, and the doubt began to prick at her heart, had she felt an even warmer, soothing balm come from her dragon.

Fear not, heart...please, come...

Elsa only remained still for the briefest moment before she continued her original path. Before long, she was garbed as her dragon strangely requested her to, and met with Birger in the courtyard. The large, fluffy beast near reverently crouched down as she approached, one foreleg held out to make her climb up his fur a less harsh angle. Hood up and mask on, Elsa nestled in the teal mane that pooled between his shoulder blades as the huge beast bounded out of the city. Though Birger said nothing, and his heart betrayed nothing, Elsa knew immediately where he was headed.

She could never forget the way to her dragon’s cave.

As the icy pair approached the clearing that, to this day, held fast against the forest, Elsa noticed something odd. The large, gaping hole in the mountainside—carved out by expert miners and Birger’s own paw to accommodate his growth—glowed from deep within by was seemed to be flickering firelight. The blonde frowned and tilted her head; there should be no one here, Birger would’ve told her if there’d be a plan regarding his cave. As she thought so, the strong form beneath her began to shake with clear laughter.

Elsa looked up just as Birger had turned his head down to meet her gaze.

You were not told the plan, for it was not mine to tell, heart.

Elsa frowned, pulled back her hood, and tugged down her mask. “What...Birger, what do you mean by that?”

He didn’t answer, merely smiled, and crouched down to allow her ease to dismount. As she did so, Elsa heard boots in the snow, and looked up at the cave’s entrance. Her eyes widened and she gasped softly, as the last person she expected to emerge from Birger’s cave did so.

“Hello, min elskling.” Alarik said, and smiled from beneath the furred hood that protected his magic-less body from the cold.

“Alarik...” That was all Elsa could manage to say before the stun was too great, and she turned to stare, shocked, at Birger’s smug grin.

You two are in dire need of some quality time, heart. You need somewhere quiet, secluded; and, well...

His grin shifted to a gentle smile.

Mоя пещера, твоя пещера.

It was one thing that Birger dared to allow himself to share Elsa, his heart, with Alarik. But that he would share his very cave, the place where the dragon and the queen first met? Tears pricked at Elsa’s eyes, and almost as if in expectation, Birger had already brought his head down. She threw her arms around his mighty snout, and the beast thrummed softly.

Stay here with him, enjoy your time together unbothered and unburdened. I promise you won’t be gone long, but you two deserve this. Stay here, and cherish one another...I will keep watch, as always.

Elsa nodded into his fur, and didn’t so much as make a sound when she felt gentle hands on her shoulders.

“Honored guardian, if I may have this lovely lady’s precious time?”

As Elsa released his snout, Birger lifted it to brush the tops of both their heads at once with his large chin. The smitten pair laughed at the gesture, and the blonde queen eagerly followed the redhead gentleman into the dragon’s den. The inside was, as always, comfortably prepared should Elsa stay a night with her dragon. But on this night, it was softly lit, densely cushioned, and overall terribly romantic. Shocked for the third time in just a few short hours, Elsa turned to her husband, speechless, as he smiled bashfully.

“I uh...I might’ve had this planned out for a while. Thank goodness Anna’s a very proficient interpreter for your dragon, or I might’ve never–”

He was able to say no more when Elsa hugged him fiercely about the shoulders, and before he could speak again, captured the would be words in a kiss. The utterly twitterpated pair’s world quickly shrunk to the confines of the cave. Neither of them paid any heed to the crackling of ice being sparked to life at the cavern’s entrance. Not a one of them noticed the shift in the air as a wall of ice, thick enough to be opaque but with slits in the top where it met the rock, settled into place and safely ensconced them within. They certainly did not hear the thuds of heavy steps that steadily grew quiet as a certain someone made his way to the opposite end of the clearing about the cave’s now sealed entrance.

Even the sun’s rising the next morning went unnoticed...