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baddybaddyadardaddy · 2 months ago

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a knife in the dark, pt. 3

[adar/oc]

read part 1 | part 2

Set in the "Awake, Arise"-verse (I'd recommend reading at least chapters 1-9 if you haven't already to get the history of these characters) PREMISE: Erenyë is reembodied in Valinor, but Mandos shrouds her memories of Utumno, hoping to spare her pain in her new life. But she is restless in Aman, sensing that something is missing... She boards a ship heading for Middle Earth, hoping to discover just what that is.

OKAY PEEPS AS PROMISED, HERE'S THE SPICE. [cw: blood, knife-play, implied previous dubcon/noncon, related to the creation of the orcs]; M rating applies.

ENJOY. (don't look at me.)

Cuiviénen.

Her blood sings at the sound of the word. She does not know how it could be true, only that it is. She begins to pick up the scattered pieces, the visions that she had seen: a lake under stars… water flowing over stones… tall, primordial trees…

With eyes full of questions, she lets the dagger fall away from his throat. “And you…”

“I was yours,” he says, tremulous and yearning. “And you were mine.”

A breeze moves gently through the glen, and in her mind’s eye, she catches a glimpse of him, young and uncorrupted—his skin unblemished as he steps into a patch of moonlight, breathless after chasing her through the wood.

She remembers how she’d led him through the trees after he’d caught her, down to a secluded place by the waterside. She remembers how they’d spent blissful hours discovering one another beneath the stars, how much she’d hungered for him.

She realizes then that she knows his name—for it is an inextricable part of her own: Eren.

“Oh,” she gasps, struggling to reconcile that vision of Eren with Adar who sits before her now, still bound to the tree. She can still make out unmistakable traces of his elvenness—his pointed ears, his high cheekbones—but his terrible transformation from elf to orc is clear.

She squeezes her eyes closed, overwhelmed suddenly by more memories of her own—of time spent in darkness and torment. For she had not escaped a similar fate…

Despite the strengthening sunlight, she is suddenly pulled down, plunged into icy waters—she is drowning in cold, swimming in a sea of terrible truth.

“I was with you,” she says, discovering it slowly. “In that dark, nameless place. They brought me to you, after I had been changed… after I had forgotten your name, and mine.”

She lets out a strangled sob, remembering the chamber, remembering being held down, remembering Morgoth, watching. “He forced us.”

As quickly as they’d returned to her—those blissful memories of starlit Cuiviénen—they are eclipsed by this single, horrible fact. As quickly as everything had come together, it now smashes, like a pane of glass against stone.

Erenyë crumbles with a terrible cry, wrenched from the depths of her soul as she comes to full understanding. They had been used—both of them—by Morgoth, to create the race of the orcs. She hearkens back to the hordes of snarling creatures that had attacked her party earlier. With a wave of nausea, she realizes that they are descended from her.

She looks back at Eren—Adar, she reminds herself. He is Adar—an orc, an enemy. She considers leaving him there, bolting off into the forest, returning to Pelargir, forcing the ship to turn around and return her to Valinor.

But Valinor is not her home…

At last, she understands the reason why she’d always felt incomplete. She never belonged in Valinor, not truly. She belongs with him—he is her purpose, her place in this world.

But she does not know how to have him now, after everything.

She is no longer the wild elf-maid who had danced carefree through the forests at Cuiviénen. Now, she feels broken and afraid—and she senses that he is, too. They are both changed, though her body bears the physical scars no longer.

“Erenyë.” His voice, barely a whisper, pleads with her. “Á cene ni.”

Look at me.

His unlovely face is bathed in golden sunlight. As the moments slip past, she allows everything else to fall away, piece by piece, until she focuses only on him. She allows herself to see him—to see in him that which Morgoth could never destroy, and what even the turbulent storms of ten thousand years could not weather away. She feels a hunger stirring deep within her, a hunger that only he has the power to slake.

She is utterly at a loss for how to proceed, but she feels a faint flicker of the boldness she’d once possessed, and it helps her to take the first step. She returns, kneeling over him, straddling his legs, reaching out with her free hand—the one not still clutching the dagger.

To her great surprise, he recoils from her, shaking his head.

“I do not deserve your touch,” he says, his voice thick with self-loathing. His eyes fall to the knife in her opposite hand, and she understands that given the choice of pain or pleasure, his preference now is for the former.

With a terrible pang, she wonders if he can even remember what tenderness feels like.

A part of her is angered by his denial, but she strives to accept it. They are neither of them who they once were, she reminds herself. They must forge a new path through the ashes.

She raises the dagger, letting it rest lengthwise against his cheek. Taking a steadying breath, she digs it into his skin enough to make him wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

“How are you here?” he murmurs, incredulous, as a single tear escapes.

She leans in, tilting her head toward him until they are almost nose to nose. She breathes him in, her body slowly relearning how to be close to his. She shifts, rolling her hips tentatively, experimentally against his legs, feeling heat kindling to life deep within her core. Her lips move close to his ear. “I am here,” she replies.

He shivers, leaning into the blade like a caress. Angling it carefully so that it will not rend, she traces it down the side of his face. His eyes open, and they are tinged with the haze of deep memory.

“I watched you die,” he says, laying his anguish bare before her, and it is a gaping chasm so wide and deep she fears her own heart to be in danger of splitting into and falling into it.

She had been so caught up by her own harrowing discoveries, she had not yet fully contemplated that while she had lived long in ignorance of their torment, he had wandered the world carrying the full weight of everything that had befallen them under Morgoth’s hand.

“I came back for you,” she breathes, seeking to reassure him, to assuage his anguish as best she can. She wishes he could accept softness, and she offers up a silent prayer that in time, he might come to do so. But for now, she drags the blade again, letting the tip of it settle at the center of his lower lip. He is trembling now, and his breathing is heavy as he begs her silently with his eyes.

She lets the dagger pierce him, splitting his lip in two and drawing blood. And then she dives, hungrily, unwilling to wait any longer, swallowing his gasp of surprise with her mouth. He resists at first, but she moves the blade to his throat—a gentle but direct threat. He acquiesces, opening himself to her kiss. She does not try to be sweet; she devours, letting their teeth gnash together before moving to nip and suck at the wound she’d made.

He moans against her mouth, and she remembers the thrill of being needed by him. How, she wonders, had she survived for so many years without this?

She twists the fingers of her free hand into his hair, pulling his head back so that she can assail his neck. She nicks him with the dagger several times in succession, letting him feel pain for only a moment before allowing him the balm of her lips. His black blood tastes bitter on her tongue, but she savors it, nonetheless.

With a sharp intake of breath, he shifts beneath her and she grinds herself down hard against the cradle of his hips, the heat between her legs blooming until it is slick and wet and impossible to ignore.

She pulls back, lowering the dagger to the cord of elven rope that binds him. Hesitation flickers across his face, but she grips his chin in her free hand, jerking him toward her to claim his lips again. “Grant me this,” she says when they are both breathless, resting her forehead against his.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the base of his throat, and she prepares her argument, but he interjects before the words reach her lips.

“Grant me one thing in return.” He leans back ever so slightly, his eyes raking over her face, coming to rest on the long, dark braid draping over her shoulder. “Your hair,” he implores. “Undo it.”

Warmth floods her chest. It is such a simple request, but as she moves her hand to undo the cord, he watches her with a startling intensity, and as she begins to finger the strands free from the braid, she realizes that she had never worn her hair this way back in Cuiviénen, and that his request is born out of a desire to see her as she had been then.

His breath hitches as he watches her, and she slows her movements, taking deliberate care as she unwinds the rest, combing through her dark locks carefully until they fall free at last, framing her face.

“There was starlight in your hair on the night of our awakening,” he murmurs, his voice dreamlike. “I have never forgotten it.”

His desire for her is so guileless, so open, as it ever had been since their earliest days, and she feels a sudden burst of incandescent joy amid all the anguish that had passed between them during their reunion.

She takes his face between her hands, heedless of his earlier talk of undeserving, and kisses him fiercely, thumbing over his scars and broken skin. Then, with haste, she reaches down for the dagger she had dropped, and slices cleanly through the elven rope, freeing him, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms enveloping her.

But he does not match her fevered pace—and when he does reach for her, it is to lightly stroke her hair. He does so with reverence, as though handling a holy relic. She leans into his hand, placing her palms upon his chest to brace herself, for even under this lightest of touches, her knees grow weak.

His armor is firm and solid—an outer shell that she longs to remove. She wants nothing between them, just as it had been when they had lain together in the eldest of elder days. But as she gropes for the fastenings, he catches her wrists, and the pained look in his eye tells her no.

She wants to ask if he means never or not yet, but she is frightened to learn the answer, so she leans in soundlessly, winding her arms around his neck, knitting her body against his, coaxing his lips to part for her once more.

She is confused by his unwillingness and wracked by feelings of selfishness for wanting him so recklessly. She prays he will not notice her hot, anguished tears as they begin to fall. But she soon tastes their salt, and she knows he can, too. He pulls back, and she drops her eyes immediately, ashamed.

She feels the cold kiss of metal as his gauntleted hand tips her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His face is contrite yet pained—he hides nothing from her.

“For you, it was once,” he explains, and she knows immediately that he is speaking of their violation in Utumno. She clenches her jaw, feeling the icy, sick sensation overwhelm her again as he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “For me, it was… many times. Always at Morgoth’s command.”

Her heart shatters at his confession. The death she had suffered—it had been a mercy. She understands that fully now. Her tears fall faster as she aches for everything she imagines he’d endured, alone. Without her.

She yearns to comfort him, but to her distress, she realizes that she does not know how—she does not know anymore what will soothe him, or if there is anything that can.

With a shuddering intake of breath, he continues. “Being lost to lust—I fear it now.” He looks to her mournfully. “But I do long for you.” His unclad hand caresses her now, sliding slowly down her neck, between the valley of her breasts, over her belly and down to the cleft between her legs. “Oh, how I long for you,” he growls low, stroking her there.

She cannot contain the cry of pleasure that breaks free, and to her surprise, he smothers it with a sudden, scorching kiss.

His hands move to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall away behind them. Snatching her around the waist, he tips her back, laying her out on top of it, a silken barrier between her and the ashes that lie beneath it. He kneels carefully over her, and she watches a silent struggle play out upon his face. He breathes in deeply, finding steadiness within himself.

She waits, as patiently as she can manage, though every inch of her feels raw, and in desperate need of his hands. One by one, he undoes the fastenings of her tunic, unfolding the fabric gently, unwrapping her, letting the morning sun soak her pale skin. A ripple of delight courses through her as she watches him look down upon her, followed by a surge of impatience. She thinks she sees the edges of his lips curl up ever so slightly as he slides his fingers beneath the hem of her trousers, as he begins to tease them slowly down her legs.

His unhurried pace is maddening. She bucks her hips as he strips the garment finally away, releasing a pathetic whimper. He returns it with a satisfied growl that sounds from deep at the base of his throat, before lowering his head, planting a chaste kiss on the skin just above her hip. His bare hand moves to cover her breast, fingers sinking into a slow caress as his lips forge their own path across her abdomen and lower.

When he reaches the place where she needs him most, he delays no further—her legs part as his tongue finds her center. She undulates in pure, simple, velvet-soft ecstasy, as half-conscious sighs and moans fall freely from her lips.

The sensation of his mouth upon her sex makes her deliciously weak, but she summons enough strength to raise her head enough to look down and watch him, his dark head between her thighs, eyes closed in concentration, his grey hand kneading her breast, his iron gauntlet gripping her hip, the sharp spikes of his fingers sinking into her flesh.

Within a few moments, she is finished, reduced to quivers and cries as she comes undone beneath him.

His face swims into view above her, wan and satisfied, his green eyes cloudy with arousal. She clasps him around the neck, pulling him down to kiss her, catching the trace of her own tang still upon his tongue. Finding more strength, she rises somewhat clumsily, moving to straddle him once more, so that his back is against the tree.

They are both breathless, and for a moment, they linger in stillness. Her hand drifts to his forehead, brushing strands of dark hair away from his face. Then she leans forward, kissing along his jawline before teasing at his ear with her teeth. He gasps at the sensation, hands digging deliciously into her bare back.

She presses her body close to his, flattening her breasts against the hard plate of his armor, rocking so that she feels the friction of his mail against her flesh. Her hunger for him—having been momentarily sated—comes roaring back, and her motions grow more frantic as she confronts again a deep sense of emptiness between her legs, aching to be filled. She trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, each an invitation.

Please, she begs in between them.

His hands abruptly leave the base of her spine, and for a moment she fears that they have reached the end—that she has asked too much, pushed too far.

She buries her face in his neck, unwilling to tear herself away. But then she feels something brush against her—something hard that teases at her still-weeping entrance. She sucks in a sharp breath, glancing down at the space between them. He is holding the hilt of the dagger against her slit, clutching it in his own hand by the blade, and she can see a thin rivulet of black blood running down his fingers. He winces, but she reads in his face just how much the pain grounds him, and she remembers his earlier words, his fears of being fully lost to lust.

This, she realizes, is what he can offer her now. All she can do is accept it and be content, and live in hope that together, they might conquer the rest in time.

It is a challenge that she is more than willing to accept for him, and she tells him so with a deep, passionate kiss. Pulling back, she locks her eyes onto his, letting herself sink down onto the hilt, as a breathy moan begins at the back of her throat. He manipulates the dagger gently, pressing it inside of her as the sound deepens and lengthens. His forehead droops against hers and they breathe in time together with each thrust until she comes, and his hand is covered in blood.

With her body still quaking from the aftershocks, she wastes no time in tending to him. Reaching for her cloak, she tears a strip of fabric and binds his mangled palm. When she finishes, she holds his hand carefully in both of her own.

Where will we go now, she asks him, suddenly fearful of what may lie ahead.

Home, he answers. To Mordor.

...y'all still with me?

want more?

[i have some ideas]

lemmeknowkthanksbai

#the godless smut has arrived #adar #adar fic #rings of power fic #smut and angst angst and smut #with a side of hurt/comfort #your standard issue memory wipe fic with a side of knifeplay #oc: erenye #awake arise #ficverse adar #no beta we die like a bunch of orcs inevitably will during the siege of eregion

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lumireis · 3 months ago

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"Nobles are the bad but nobles from the empire are worse. And they crammed me in a house with a whole bunch of them... *sigh* It's the worst. Hey, do you think you could ask Seteth to let me swap houses? He won't let me talk about it anymore."

The eldest child of Count Ahlgren, whose territory borders the Kingdom of Faerghus and is a vassal of Arundel. After the death of her mother as a child, Sieglinde took up permanent mourning. She blames the political scheming of the Adrestian Empire for her mother's death and has a strong dislike for most of her fellow Adrestians.

More info under the cut!!

Academy phase -

Sieglinde is a crestless noble enrolled by her father into the Officers Academy to get rid of her. She's put into the Black Eagle's house, much to her dismay. Her attitude to her housemates is aggressive and standoffish, with very few exceptions. During her entire time at the monastery she petitioned to be transferred to the Blue Lions house with no success. Her requests were little more than a flurry of insults and demands.

Along with her standard uniform, Sieglinde dons a mourning veil that she refuses to take off. She can often be encountered praying for forgiveness, though will not tell Byleth what she's asking forgiveness for.

If Byleth is in charge of the Blue Lions house, Sieglinde can be recruited immediately.

War phase -

During the five year timeskip and following Edelgard's war campaign Sieglinde escapes from the empire and into Faerghus. Finally being where she wants to be allows to experience some happiness though she never abandons her mourning blacks. During her time wandering as a mercenary she encounters Gilbert and joins up with him.

Her fate can vary depending on which path Byleth has taken. If on the Azure Moon route, Sieglinde will be an ally regardless of whether or not she was recruited during the academy phase.

If unrecruited during Crimson Flower or Verdant Wind the player will find out she was assassinated by Hubert for her treason against the empire. Though if recruited during Crimson Flower route Sieglinde is miserable. She's devastated to be back in the empire after trying so long to escape and certain that Hubert or someone loyal to Edelgard is going to kill her. She's glad to at least spend time with Byleth before that happens, however.

If she fails to get an A support epilogue or an S support with Byleth after Crimson Flower, she will end up dying. It's unclear if it was Hubert, her father, or someone from Faerghus wanting revenge for her helping Edelgard.

Background -

Sieglinde is a daughter born from political marriage between a noblewoman from Faerghus and a nobleman from Adrestia. Following shortly on the coattails of the Tragedy of Duscur, Count Ahlgren received an order from Arundel to kill her wife to loosen to the hold that Faerghus had in their territory. All too happy to do so but afraid of the consequences if he were to be caught he slowly poisoned her over time through her tea, that he had his daughter bring to her.

By the time that Sieglinde's mother had died, the story was that she had accidentally put honey in her mother's tea, triggering an allergic reaction but she knew better. Wracked by guilt that she had been complicit in the death of her own mother, Sieglinde grew to hate the empire for murdering her mother and using her to do it.

Supports -

Dimitri - C support: Dimitri is training when he's approached by Sieglinde who has a question. She asks him about Fhirdiad and what he thinks of it. He explains everything he loves about it and she grows wistful, wishing to see it for herself. Dimitri recalls that her mother is from Fhirdiad and asks if she had ever taken her when she was younger. She says no and that her mother was trapped in the empire until her death and could never see her home again. Dimitri is surprised but offers to show her around if she visits in the future. Sieglinde says she would like that, before departing.

B support: Dimitri is training once again when Sieglinde approaches him. She asks Dimitri if he believes in spirits or ghosts which causes him to pause before asking for clarification. She tells him that wants to know if there's a chance that if she offers prayers or "something else" to her mother if she would receive it. They go back and forth, toeing around what they would do to appease their late loved ones before Sieglinde is satisfied and swears that she will offer something her mother would love to see when she's able to visit Fhirdiad. The implication is her father's head.

A support: This time it's Dimitri who approaches Sieglinde while she trains. Dimitri asks if she was able to finally give her mother the present she'd hoped to. She replies that she's still working on that but the war is bringing her closer to her goal. She goes silent for a moment before asking if Dimitri can really hear the voices of all the people he's lost screaming at him, which he confirms. Sieglinde apologizes for how cruel it sounds but she can't help but envy him. She can't remember the sound of her mother's voice anymore and would give anything to be able to hear it, even if it was hateful words for not avenging her and atoning.

The two share a quiet moment, thinking on the horrors they've seen and vile things they've done glad that there's at least one person as wretched and understands.

Yuri - C support: A new member of Yuri's gang mistakes Sieglinde's room for Yuri's and leaves a letter there. The support begins with Sieglinde approaching Yuri to return it and him asking if she opened it. She didn't and says that she doesn't want to be wrapped up in whatever he has going on. A clever choice since it was from his mother and if she had read it he would have had no choice but to kill her. Sieglinde grows quiet at the mention of his mother and leaves but not before urging him to write back as soon as he can and be "a good son."

Yuri comments how odd she is and remarks that she had a wild look in her eye for a moment.

B support: Yuri has been trying to find information on Sieglinde's mother but keeps coming up to dead ends. He's in the middle of rising frustration when Sieglinde walks up and asks him what he's grumbling about. Yuri dodges the question and thanks her for bringing him the letter as his mother needed a little extra money for her treatment. Sieglinde once again starts acting odd at the mention of his mother and worse since finding out she's ill. Before Yuri can say anything about it, she forces him to take her entire satchel of gold and orders him to give it to his mother before leaving.

A support: Yuri approaches Sieglinde while she's praying for forgiveness and tells her that he's figured out her secret. Sieglinde doesn't respond until Yuri expresses his sympathies at her being used in such a cruel way which finally gets her to stop praying and face him. She asks who he had to torture to get that information but he informs her that for a bit of gold, an old maid is willing to give up all kinds of secrets. Sieglinde expresses a deep desire to be forgiven by her mother wouldn't dare ask for it from her so she begs Sothis instead.

Yuri asks if she hates him for being as scheming as her father but Sieglinde denies it saying that for all the backstabbing Yuri does, she trusts him enough that if he wanted her gone he would give her the grace to look her in the eyes as he does it. Yuri remarks that he doesn't see him removing her from the board any time soon.

Hubert -C support: The two of them are locked in a stare-down with neither speaking. Hubert breaks it by calling her disrespect towards Lady Edelgard treasonous which Sieglinde responds to by saying it can't be treason if she was never loyal to her. The two snipe each other back and forth with thinly veiled threats and trying to gauge how much of a danger the other is. Eventually getting fed up, she urges him to return to his master's feet like a good dog before storming off. While alone Hubert comments that there's no way that attitude can be tamed out of her.

B support: Sieglinde calls out Hubert for following her for days and feeling sick that his eyes are on her. Hubert laments that if he had an ounce of loyalty to her homeland she could be a great asset for the future plans of the country. She gags at the idea and says she would rather die than be a part of the "Cult of Edie" which Hubert ominously says can be arranged. She points at him and says that's exactly what she can't stand about Adrestians before warning him that if he follows her again he'll get acquainted with her hammer.

A support: Hubert and Sieglinde can't reach support level A, even during the Crimson Flower path.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #fe3h oc #fe #oc #yuri leclerc #dunno how many fe3h fans are still around but I wanna share my beautiful gal sieg

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