#the spine looks like the eye of sauron

[veterinaryshitposting]

hey guys heres half a cow

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

Perfect illusion (Sauron x Celebrimbor’s daughter!reader)

-> in which you have to sit by your father’s side as Sauron coerces him into finishing the Nine, realizing just how blind you have been all along

Warnings: No romance, just angst. You marry Annatar (+ implied smut) when you don’t know he’s Sauron, so there’s all the emotional torment and consent issues that come with that. Uncomfortable touching (not smut) after you find out he’s Sauron. Manipulation, mind control and victim blaming as per canon

You sit in your chair, watching your father work. A familiar thing, which you have done a million times before. Before, however, there had never been a shackle around his wrist, or blood marring his brow. There had never been rubble scattered about the workplace, or the sound of battle coming through the window. Before, there had never been The Dark Lord standing behind you, his hands weighing you down as though the ceiling had collapsed upon you.

That is not to say that they are forceful. No, his touch is soft, as it has always been, his fingers brushing your hair gently, almost absent-mindedly. At times they reach your neck or your cheek, grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. You dig your nails painfully into your own hands to keep from trembling. It’s the least, even if the most inconsequential thing, that you can still do—to deny him this small satisfaction.

“Stop that,” Sauron says, his voice deceivingly gentle as he gives your shoulder a warning squeeze. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Of course, that only makes you want to clench your fists harder. But you force yourself to open them, mindful of what might happen if you disobey.

“You once took comfort in my touch,” he says. If you knew no better, you’d believe the sorrow in his voice is genuine. “It is only comfort I wish to give you now as well.”

His knuckles brush your cheek, painfully tender and excruciatingly familiar. Though you’ve been trying to keep as still as possible, you cannot help but turn your face away, if only just an inch.

His hand stills mid-air, then returns to your shoulder. He takes a breath, quiet but long and deep.

“I have caused you suffering. That is true,” he admits, patiently. “But I assure you that this too shall pass. Once Middle-Earth is healed, and the people will see what we did here... your feelings will change.”

You can’t help how your breath quickens, chest trembling with anger. It only becomes worse when Sauron puts his fingers to your chin, coaxing you to twist your neck and look up into his piercing eyes. “You must know it pains me,” he says, “treating you like—”

“Like you have treated countless others?” your father intercedes in haste.

Sauron’s attention turns to Celebrimbor then, as your father had no doubt hoped it would. The whole time he’d been working, his eyes kept straying to you, as if to make sure you are still alive and whole. To your relief, Sauron removes his hand from your face. To your dread, he is now moving towards Celebrimbor, displeased with his remark.

“Like Morgoth treated me,” he corrects, hovering over your father.

You are not bound. You could, in theory, try to run. But you are not foolish enough to believe you could escape. Any such attempt would only earn you a shackle of your own, similar to your father’s. Though, you’re starting to believe that the cold bite of metal might just be more bearable than the silent imprisonment of your husband’s touch.

Your husband. The word twists in your stomach, carves holes into your heart. It all came so naturally to you when you spoke the vows and sealed the bond. Now, you can’t imagine how you got here. All you know are the facts of what happened, and even those no longer seem to make sense in your weakened mind.

You know who you used to be, when the world still made sense: daughter of Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven smiths. You think his talents mixed with your mother’s magic may have resulted in your gift to manipulate materials in particular ways which do not necessarily come naturally. You know the mithril had refused to be coaxed into joining with the other metals without your intervention. You know Halbrand had been the one to suggest that you try it.

You know how easily he had endeared himself to you from the moment you met, and how confusing and sharp the pain had been when he disappeared without a trace. You know how quick you had been to let him into Eregion when he returned, despite Galadriel’s inexplicable request that you refrain from doing so.

You know the transition from Halbrand to Annatar had been unexpected, if not jarring, but in the end the pull you felt towards him was unchanged. You know there were touches, desire... trust.

You no longer know why. Because there never was a reason—not a true one, anyway. Only his deception, his mind games. But at the time, you didn’t know. At the time, it had made perfect sense when, one night, you had found yourself at the dining table, anxious about giving your father the news of what had happened a mere few hours prior.

Annatar was to your side, sitting at the head of the long table, while your father was across from you. He may be the Lord of Eregion, but he had insisted that an emissary of the Valar should take the most important seat. Yet despite your father’s deep admiration for Annatar, you were not sure how he would react.

“As you know,” you began tentatively, “Lord Annatar has been a close and trusted friend to me, these past few weeks. As he has been to you.”

“Indeed,” your father nodded. His unsure smile and knitted brow told you he was at a loss for what you were leading up to. You opened your mouth, but found yourself quite tongue-tied. You glanced at Annatar, who graciously took over.

“However,” he continued, lips forming a gentle, almost bashful smile, “after a time, we found that there were... deeper feelings between us.”

Though he was speaking to Celebrimbor, his gaze sought yours. You met it, heart fluttering as he wrapped your hand in his, resting them on the table in such a way that the new ring on your finger was in your father’s line of sight.

“Annatar has proposed marriage, father,” you finally say, turning to him. “And I have accepted.”

Your father blinked, eyebrows lifting in an expression of wordless surprise. When words failed to leave his mouth, Annatar took it upon himself to break the silence once more.

“My friend, I...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant in his choice of words. “I am well aware I should have asked for your blessing beforehand. Especially since things have progressed with such unusual haste, but—”

“Oh, nonsense!” your father burst out, as if finally regaining his senses. “Nonsense, my friend, this...” A short laugh bubbled out of him as he turned to you with a face-splitting grin. “Such wonderful news! Oh, my dear,” he took your hand in his, gazing in wonder upon your betrothal ring before he pressed a kiss filled with fatherly love to your knuckles. “You could not have found a better match,” he praised.

“The same is true for myself,” Annatar said, giving you that kind smile of his that never failed to have you return it.

Relief washed over you. All was well.

You’d be lying to say there isn’t a part of you that resents your father for giving you away so eagerly. He could not stop you no matter who you chose to wed, but with anyone else, he’d have at the very least warned you that the engagement had happened much too quickly. He’d have been more cautious of your betrothed, tried to determine whether or not their intentions towards you were true. But Annatar, in your father’s eyes, was of divine nature, and the thought of becoming kin with one of his kind had filled your father with such pride, it overshadowed all else.

You wonder if he is as ashamed of that moment now as you are. And of everything that came after.

You’re not sure if speaking the wedding vows had somehow allowed Sauron better dominion over your mind, or if you were simply too far gone by then. Little by little, more and more over time, you came to depend on your husband. When your father began acting strange and ill-tempered, Annatar alone knew of his ailment, and he alone could help him heal. He alone could provide the comfort you needed as you watched your father lose himself by the day, unaware that the same was happening to you.

He always knew when and what to say to bring you peace. He never seemed to leave your side, whether in the presence of others or alone. And you craved being alone with him more than anything else. He was an expert lover, so attuned to the needs of your flesh, it was as though he could slither beneath your skin and discern for himself which of his touches felt the most exquisite. Being near him was a delight in itself, but intimacy with him was simply addictive.

Warm morning light flooded through your window, and you wondered how you were supposed to ever leave this bed. Lying on your husband’s chest, skin to skin in the afterglow of your love-making, everything else in the world seemed so inconsequential in comparison.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked, wondering suddenly how it had never crossed your mind before. He was always by your side as you drifted to sleep—most often spent from yet another passionate exchange—and he was there to greet you each time you awoke. Yet he was not of your kind, and an emissary of the Valar seemed to you above such things as sleep.

“It is not in my nature to sleep,” he admitted, fingers tracing gentle lines up and down your spine. “But I rather enjoy laying by your side as you do.”

Your heart soared at the quiet adoration in his voice. And before long, you found yourself aching for him once more. You brushed his neck with your lips, lightly at first, and then with more insistence, making your desire known.

“Again?” he asked, faintly amused.

You lifted your head, the smallest furrow in your brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least,” he replied. If that wasn’t reassurance enough, his lips caught yours, and he moved so that your body was safely beneath his, and even the thousandth time would not have been enough.

You can still taste his kisses—and they feel like ash. You remember how each time you became one, it felt better, but only now can you see how it made things so much worse. A corner of your mind, growing larger by the day, was always occupied by him. Each time you aided in the making of one of your father’s Ring designs, you did so with thoughts of Annatar. You know now why he wanted it that way—your craving for his touch, your utter devotion to him, seeping into the Rings the Power, one by one. You think you might have known even then. But he was always careful not to push you too far, to bring you back from the brink of suspicion before it ever started to take shape in your mind.

Even when the reality of things was undeniable before your eyes.

Your last night before finding out had been spent in a dreadful haze. Sleep felt more like a waking prison as you dreamt of terrible, yet distant things, hearing screams without seeing where they came from, seeing blood and ashes on streets you felt you should but could not recognize. You were grateful to wake up and see the sunlit sky beyond your window. Its light adorned your husband’s hair beautifully, the familiar sight of him sitting on the edge of your bed bringing you further relief.

“There you are,” he greeted softly, brow creased with a trace of concern. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“What—?” Your attempt to speak ended in a cough, as if you’d been breathing dust instead of air. Annatar left your side in haste, returning but a moment later with a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, putting the glass to your lips. You took it gladly, relishing the water soothing your throat. Once Annatar had helped you sit up and settle against the pillows, you asked, as you had meant to, “What happened?”

There was pity in his gaze. “Don’t you remember, my love?”

You shut your eyes, trying to grasp at figments of blurry images. “I was outside, I think. Mirdania was there. And you. And...”

Annatar shook his head, speaking as softly as if to a frightened child. “Earlier in the day, perhaps. When you collapsed, you were in the forge, with me and Lord Celebrimbor. When you sought to aid your father in merging the metals for his latest attempt at the Nine, your efforts over these past weeks took their toll on you.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, fingers brushing your cheek. “You fell right into my arms.”

“I did?”

His words did evoke images. The memory was there, somewhere. But the more you tried to reach for it, the more your insides churned.

“Be at ease,” Annatar soothed. “You merely slept through the night. I have watched over you all the while, and I shall do so until you are better.”

Better. Yes, you would get better.

But you knew, deep in your bones, that you were not well. The sense of dread within you refused to recede, lingering in the furthest corner of your mind even in the moments where you felt the safest. Something deeply rooted in you wanted it all to be over—the work, the forging, the ailments, your father’s as well as yours. You wished so desperately for things to return to the way they used to be before the Rings, it felt as though a great fist had clenched around your heart and refused to release it. But then again, before the Rings, there hadn’t been Annatar. And your need for him hurt just as terribly.

In the end, everything hurt. Everything.

“Are you in pain?” your husband murmured. You hadn’t realized tears were already sliding down your cheeks.

You broke into sobs.

He slipped beneath the covers and wrapped you in his arms. It became even harder to breathe, and you clung to him all the harder for it, desperate to find that peace that he had offered you time and again.

“Hush, my love,” he cooed, holding you close to his chest as you wept for reasons unknown. “All will be well soon.”

You had fallen into his arms, just like he’d said. Only, you hadn’t been inside the forge, but outside, just as your mind had fruitlessly struggled to remind you. You were there when the siege alarms began to blare and chaos erupted in the streets. When you saw your husband walk amongst it, you had run to him at once. Asking where your father was, wanting to stand united with your kin amidst the unfolding madness.

Darkness had engulfed your vision instead, shrouding your memory as well. He must have carried you back to your chambers himself, crafting an illusion within your mind to match the one in which Celebrimbor was already trapped.

It makes sense now. How desperately you had clung to the very source of your misery. One cannot satisfy thirst by drinking sea water, but you, in your foolishness, had drunk enough to drain the sea.

“You chose it,” he now tells your father, speaking of the suffering he had inflicted, “not I.”

And there’s a part of you that believes him, even as another screams inside you that his words are poison. You cling desperately to the scrap of reason within you which recognizes that his claims are atrocious—that it is Celebrimbor who forced Sauron to torment him, that he is the true author of his own torment. You watch in disbelief, feeling as though you’re falling through the floor, waiting for your father to refute Sauron’s lies as if hearing the truth spoken out loud will save you from shattering to pieces at the bottom of the abyss.

And you can tell he wants to. There is defiance in Celebrimbor’s eyes as he glances to you, the fire of his will still burning beneath the burden of his torment. But, slowly and surely, he tames it. Averts his gaze in shame.

“Very well,” your father says. “Give me the blame. Punish me as you see fit. You have already taken my city. But I beg you,” his voice trembles, tears gathering in his eyes, “let my daughter leave.”

A smirk tugs at Sauron’s lips. “Your daughter...” He returns to your side, gathering your stiff hand in his and thumbing your wedding ring. “...is my wife, Celebrimbor. It is only natural that she should remain at my side.”

You and Celebrimbor exchange a despairing glance. Your father, determined to plea for your freedom—you, fearing the consequences he might bring upon himself.

“Please—”

“Father, don’t—”

“No!” he cries out. “I all but pushed you into his arms.” Tears slip from his regret-filled eyes. “That is my fault.”

Sauron takes a seat next to you, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t possibly grasp the reason for such grievances.

“She has given herself to me freely,” he says, your hand still trapped in his as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Have you not?”

You glare daggers at him.

“How could I have chosen you freely, when I never knew who you were?” you hiss. It does nothing to deter him.

“Why do you lie to yourself? You knew.” You shake your head. He nods his, insisting, “Yes. Deep within your heart, you knew.”

“Don’t say such things to her,” Celebrimbor pleads, “I beg you—”

“Such things as the truth, Celebrimbor?” Sauron asks roughly, irritated by the interruption. “Tell him, my dear wife,” he challenges, “that you never once suspected I was more than what I claimed to be. That you never felt the caress of darkness within my touch.”

You cannot look at him, or at your father. You cannot speak those words, however desperately you wish you could.

“Tell him,” Sauron insists cruelly, squeezing your hand to the point of near pain.

“I did,” you murmur miserably. Sauron loosens his threatening grip on your hand, pleased.

“Yet even as you cried yourself to sleep in fear of it,” he goes on, “it was within my arms that you took comfort. Because, in truth, you were not afraid of who I was—you were afraid of how little it mattered to you.” A last spark of defiance drives you to make the mistake of meeting his gaze, and his sickly sympathetic smile makes you shudder within his hold. “He needed to create,” he reasons. “You needed to be desired. And I needed you both.”

His arm is no longer around you, but the relief is meager and short-lived as he then cups your cheek, thumb catching the tears that have begun to fall from your eyes. He insists to hold his hand there as you flinch, screwing your eyes shut. A small sigh leaves him.

“Have I not treated you well?” he asks. “Was I not kind to you when you most needed it? A caring husband, a most... generous lover?”

“Hold your wicked tongue!” you all but growl, your head jerking with enough force that he retracts his hand. Your eyes fly to Celebrimbor, and see that he has shut his in great pain. Shame crawls under your skin. Sauron smiles in a mockery of bashfulness.

“Forgive me for speaking of such matters before your father, but it is only the truth. You must admit that. And it need not change.”

His hand returns to your cheek then, pressed more firmly to it, and you only now realize it’s the one he cut. You feel a warm wetness on your skin, and know that once he removes it, his blood, black as the pitch, would be smeared there, marking you even further as his.

“The Rings are nearly finished,” you say through gritted teeth. “You never truly desired me. What more use could you have of me?”

“Who says I never desired you?” he whispers, almost as if wounded. “I would not have made you my wife, if it hadn’t been my wish to make you my Queen as well.”

His voice is so alluring, so saccharine and familiar to your ears, it takes everything in you to remind yourself that every word is a lie. And if you grasp at reason, you can tell why he speaks them. Because of your involvement in making the Rings, you would always have some measure of influence over them, so it serves him well to have you under his control. But not only that. He would relish knowing he has subdued you to his will. That he not only ensnared the mind of the greatest of Elven smiths, but also claimed his daughter as his prize.

A storm brews in Sauron’s eyes as he senses your persisting reluctance. His fingers grip your chin, pulling you close so that his breath falls on your cheek as he speaks.

“You will say yes to me once more.”

You hate how determined he is to make it so. You hate how helpless you are to do anything other than glare back at him.

But what you hate the most is that you are not certain he is wrong.

[notreallythatlost]

DRESS

➴ halbrand/sauron x female!human!reader

summary: it’s your last evening on númenor and you decide to wear a special outfit for the man you love.

warnings: 18+, MDNI, acting silly because of alcohol, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving)

word count: 1.4k

note: well, do i have to say anything more about this? no. 🙂‍↕️ inspired by one of my favorite taylor swift songs. this is my first time writing smut, so i really hope it turned out well. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. xx

inspired by: this song

THE RINGS OF POWER MASTERLIST

It wasn't your intention to draw everyone's attention when you appear. You only wanted the attention of one person.

And you can feel his gaze on you, so hot that it literally burns your skin, but you don't let it show.

The dark red dress clings to your body and sparkles silver in the light of the fire. Your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulders and you know that everyone would fall to their knees at the sight.

But you only want to see him kneeling in front of you. With his hands and lips on your naked skin.

After a brief moment of silence, conversations start again and you slowly turn around, only to meet Halbrand's gaze, who is standing next to Galadriel a few meters away from you.

You know the effect you have on him, you can see it in his eyes even from the distance.

“This time you really surpassed yourself,” a voice sounds next to you and you tear your gaze away from Halbrand.

Smiling, you take the mug filled with ale, that Isildur holds out to you and take a sip.

“Someone told me to come out of my shell,” you reply and you both laugh.

“Since when have you been listening to my advice?” he asks, still with a smile on his lips.

You just shrug at his words and look at him with a grin as he puts an arm around your shoulder and pulls you towards the others.

The evening continues and you have stopped counting how many mugs of ale you have already had. You are just about to take another sip when someone takes the mug out of your hand.

“Hey...” you protest and look up at Halbrand, who is now holding your wrist. “That was definitely enough ale for today,” he says as he pulls you to your feet.

You giggle softly and sway slightly against his firm body. “I won't let you boss me around, handsome,” you say and pat his chest before you try to pull away from him again, but he doesn't loosen his grip.

“Oh, yes. You will,” he whispers and a shiver runs down your spine as he looks at you like a wolf that has finally caught its prey.

Without another word, he pulls you with him, away from the drinking soldiers and to a place where you would be undisturbed.

Before you know it, he's pressed you against the nearest wall and buries his nose in your hair. His hands wrap around your waist, caressing your skin through the fabric of the dress.

“You have no idea, how much control this evening has cost me. I wanted you the second I saw you in that dress,” he growls, now tucking your hair behind your shoulder, to give himself access to your neck.

His lips brush the sensitive skin there, making you hum as you close your eyes.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Halbrand whispers against your skin and you shiver, a reaction he’s only too happy to see.

“That was your intention, wasn't it? You wanted to drive me crazy?” he continues and gently bites your neck, eliciting a soft moan from you.

“It's our last evening on Númenor, I thought a little distraction wouldn't hurt,” you whisper now, the effect of the ale suddenly replaced by the desire that shoots through your veins like fire.

The sound that comes from Halbrand is like that of an animal and he presses you a little harder against the wall.

“Did you see the looks they gave you?” he says close to your ear and lets his lips slide over your jaw. “Everyone wanted to rip that dress off your body.” With these words he lifts you up and turns with you.

Your lips meet in a wild, longing kiss, as if you were about to starve. You feel him take a few steps until your back hits wood. You moan, the sound swallowed by his mouth and his grip on you tightens.

The kiss becomes wilder, your tongues in an endless dance for dominance.

A surprised sound comes from your lips as he takes your lower lip between his teeth and pulls on it.

Finally, he turns away from the wall again and gently lays you down on something soft moments later.

You are apparently in his room. You don't know how you got here and you don't care, because all that matters to you at this moment, is Halbrand leaning over you.

“The only reason I'm wearing this dress is so you can take it off,” you breathe and place your hand on his chest. But Halbrand wraps his fingers around your wrist again and looks you in the eyes with a mischievous smile, before he takes the other one and holds both of them above your head.

“Oh, my sweet little girl. We're not there yet,” he whispers and starts to push the skirt of your dress up with his free hand.

Your breath catches and you try to turn your hands out of his grasp, but he holds them too tightly.

“Halbr-,” your words are cut off by a moan as he runs a finger through your wetness. Another growl escapes him and he nuzzles his nose against your cheek so that you feel the scratch of his stubble on your skin.

Without further warning, he pushes two of his fingers into you, making you moan loudly. He doesn't seem to want to make any secret of what's going on, just encourage you.

“Let me hear you,” he whispers, moving his fingers until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

Then he releases his grip on your hands and slides down your body. Knowing what would follow, you bury your fingers in his long hair and close your eyes.

As his tongue slides through your folds, you moan and your hips jerk forward. Halbrand grabs you with his hands and holds you tight, so you can't move while he eats you out.

You long for release, you can hardly think straight anymore, but he doesn't seem to want to give it to you.

Just as you wanted to tease him with this dress, now this is him paying you back.

“Halbrand...” you moan his name loudly and he raises his head, leaving your throbbing cunt full of desire.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice sounds and you hear the rustling of fabric. “Tell me what you long for,” he continues and you sit up slightly.

“I want you,” you whisper, with all the strength you have left. Then Halbrand holds out his hand to help you up. His fingers immediately find the back of the dress, where he quickly unties the laces. As soon as the fabric loosens around your body, he pushes it over your shoulders, until it slides down of its own and reveals you to his gaze.

“You are…” he doesn't say anything else, just stares at you in awe as he pushes you back again and you look up at him.

His hand finds yours on the mattress and he laces his fingers with yours. With his other hand, he positions himself in front of you and slides the tip of his cock over your entrance.

With one fluid movement, he sinks into you and you can't help but let out a breathless gasp. The air leaves your lungs and you feel Halbrands' hand resting on the side of your face.

“You belong to me. Don't forget that,” he says with such devotion and yet so firm that your heart clenches in your chest.

“Forever,” you reply breathlessly as he starts to move. The feeling makes you moan and your eyes roll back as you arch towards him.

“Fuck,” he moans and lets his head fall forward. In this moment, there is only him and you and nothing could ever come between you.

Halbrand starts to move faster, hitting a spot that makes you moan whenever he moves his hips. It doesn't take long before you're screaming his name as the orgasm flows through your body like a wave.

The sight of you must have been enough for him, because not a second later he empties himself into you with a rough gasp and then sinks down on you.

“You're perfect,” you hear his voice between bliss and satisfaction and smile weakly.

You want to say something else, but you're too tired.

But you got what you longed for.

It was your last day on Númenor, after all. Soon you would be going to war.

2024 notreallythatlost

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Alliance of Shadows (10)

A/N: This one was a doozy. It took me FOREVER to get it to read the way I wanted to. Let me know what you think! The end approaches my lovelies...

Pairing: Adar x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.6 K

Taglist: @annatartastic @oakenshielq @perse-cora @eowyn7023 @passionofthesith @zoya-olenko

Previous - Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fragile peace you shared with Adar did not last long. You were up with the dawn, though not before Adar himself. When you woke he was seated at the war table, staring at you, deep in thought. Had you more humility you might have blushed. Instead you stretch, hissing slightly at the pain in your side, but well aware of his eyes on you. Settling on your side, you smile at him lightly. A faint grin lights up his face, though it quickly diminishes as he speaks. 

“Maela has advised me that Elrond anxiously awaits our answer.” His voice is deeper than usual, as if he hasn’t spoken yet today. It sends a shiver down your spine. You sigh and sit up gently. 

An hour passes, with you and Adar discussing your options- to barter for peace or fight your way out. It is true you have the stronger army, but how many lives are you willing to risk in open battle again with the elves? 

You pace gingerly across the space, your thoughts swirling.

"We should offer up Galadriel’s ring," you finally say, turning to face him. "In exchange for safe passage back to Mordor and the Southlands, and the freedom to trade with the race of men. It's a chance for peace."

Adar shakes his head slowly, his dark eyes unwavering as they meet yours. "It is unwise to give up a ring of power so easily," he counters. "It is our greatest bargaining chip. With it, perhaps we don’t need the elves’ permission to thrive. The power of the ring could grant us all we desire."

You sigh, weary, memories of the past weighing heavily. "I have seen what rings of power can do. Celebrimbor... Sauron..." You pause, the darkness of their ambitions casting a shadow over your words. "They consumed themselves in their pursuit of power. Once, I would have jumped at the chance to wield it, but I don’t trust any ring of power, Adar. You’ve seen what these creations can do. I fear it would undo all we’ve worked for."

Adar’s lips press into a thin line, his frustration evident, but something shifts in his expression. Without a word, he reaches into his cloak and retrieves the ring—Galadriel’s ring of power. For a moment, it seems innocuous, just a small band of metal. But the air around it seems to hum with ancient energy.

"Let me show you," he says softly, slipping the ring onto his pinky finger.

In an instant, you feel it—a surge of power rippling through the space. Adar’s form shifts before your eyes. The scars that marr his face and body fade, his pale, weathered skin regaining its warmth, its vitality. His eyes brighten, his features no longer twisted by centuries of pain and battle. He stands tall, as he once had been—an elf of great beauty and strength.

"We could have everything," Adar says, his voice thick with a yearning that pierces through the cold resolve he so often wears. "Whole, together. Like this."

For a moment, the temptation lingers, the promise of something more, something easier. But you step closer to him, your eyes never leaving him. "I do not need you to be an elf, Adar," you say, your voice steady but soft. "I have fallen for the father of the Uruks—the leader they have come to know. The one they look up to for strength and resilience. I don’t want you to give that up for me, or for anyone."

Adar’s gaze falters, doubt creeping into his features. "You... love me?" he asks, incredulous. "As I am? Scarred, broken?"

Without hesitation, you reach for the ring on his hand, your touch gentle but firm. You slide it from his finger, feeling the magic unravel, watching as Adar’s form reverts back to his Uruk self. His scars reappear, the marks of battles fought and endured, but to you, he has never seemed stronger or more beautiful.

"I love you, Adar," you whisper, stepping even closer, your face mere inches from his. "I love the Uruk you are. The one your children look to with hope. The one who’s fought for them, scarred or not."

He stares at you for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. You surge forward, capturing his lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. The world around you melts away, leaving only the two of you—bound by something far more powerful than any ring.

The kiss deepens, his hand tracing the line of your jaw, your fingers gripping the fabric of his cloak. The tenderness, the heat of it, is overwhelming, and when you pull away, panting slightly, the fire that burns between you is undeniable. 

You smile gently and pull his forehead to rest on yours. “My Uruk,” you say softly. Tears fall softly from his eyes and yours as you pull him close once more. 

______________________________________________________________

Adar had convinced you that using the ring to heal the wound in your side would not be disastrous. Reluctantly you had agreed and you tried to ignore the smug look on his face when you were able to complete a few sword maneuvers with no pain. 

You had sent Maela to retrieve Elrond, anxiously awaiting the elves' arrival. Adar sits next to you in a chair of his own, his hand lingering near yours, protective. Elrond stands before you, flanked by his companions, his brow furrowed in thought.

You gesture to the empty seats before them and Elrond hesitantly takes a seat. Once they are settled, you stand: tall, proud, and regal. 

“Elrond, herald of High King Gil Galad, you stand here today asking us to retreat—to turn away from the world, to remain hidden as if we are lesser, unworthy of the lands we fought for. You look at us and see only darkness. But let me tell you this—if we desired it, we could have all of Middle-earth under our rule. The mages possess powers that shift the very fabric of reality, that can break the will of even the strongest minds. And the Uruks, the children of Adar, are relentless, born of both fury and resilience. Together, we are more than capable of taking whatever we wish.

“If we marched with the full strength of our combined forces—Uruks, mages, and wildmen alike—there would be no city that could stand against us. No army strong enough to halt our advance. If we wanted the White City, we would take it. If we wanted Lindon, it would be ours. And we would not ask permission.

“Yet here we stand. We come not to conquer, but to negotiate. Because unlike the warmongers of the world, we value our people’s lives. Every Uruk, every mage—we are not here to spill their blood without cause. We are here to preserve them, to protect them. It is not out of weakness that we negotiate but out of wisdom. We contemplate peace, Elrond, not because we lack the power to destroy, but because we understand the cost of endless war."

Your eyes flash as you lean forward slightly, your tone growing darker. "But do not mistake this for complacency. This truce we have is fragile, and it rests on a thread easily severed. We have shown restraint, but should you continue to look down upon us, to question our right to exist, you will see just how swiftly that restraint can vanish. Remember who truly holds the upper hand here. Tread lightly, son of Eärendil, for you deal not with creatures cowering in the shadows, but with those who could claim the daylight itself if they so choose.”

Silence hangs in the air, your final words settling like the weight of a storm about to break.

"You propose we allow you to return to Mordor and the Southlands, to live freely," Elrond begins, his voice calm but skeptical. "But what assurances do we have that your kind will not rise against us again?"

You exchange a glance with Adar. 

"We offer the ring of Galadriel," you say, pulling it from your robes for Elrond to see. "Galadriel’s ring and a promise of peace, in exchange for our freedom. And we ask for the right to live, to trade with the men. We have no interest in more war."

Elrond’s eyes flick to the ring, his hesitation clear. "And what of the darkness that resides in your people?" he asks. "That resides in you, Adar?"

Adar’s jaw clenches, his voice sharp as he replies. "We have already established trade routes with the wildmen who have acknowledged my reign. We seek to live in peace, not to be cut off from the world. We deserve that chance."

Elrond's doubt is palpable. The tension between the two of them crackles like a storm about to break. "You speak as though you are owed anything," Elrond says, his tone cutting.

Before Adar can respond, you place a hand on his arm, calming him. "We have nothing to prove to you, Elrond," you say firmly. "But… perhaps I may be able to offer some assurances.” You turn to your guard standing in the corner, “Maela, bring in the scryer."

Elrond startles at your command. While rumors of your scryers have circled Middle Earth, nothing has ever been proven and no one outside of your mountain has witnessed their magic. 

Moments later, the scryer stands before Elrond, her eyes glowing faintly with magic, holding a large bowl of clear, cool water. "I offer you this display of our abilities as further proof of our willingness to compromise," you say coldly, "Given a specific set of decisions or scenarios, my scryers are able to show the potential outcomes."

Elrond nods, his eyes not leaving the woman standing before him. You can see his curiosity and desire for knowledge bubbling to the surface. It is with no small amount of amusement that you also catch his gaze lingering on your scryers face, studying her features.  

“Show us what the future may hold should the elves allow us to live in peace and make our way in the world. The Uruk’s and mages shall not rise up against the elves should they not provoke us, and the elves shall allow us our home undisturbed.” you order, addressing the scryer. She nods and holds her hands out over the bowl of water in front of her. 

The scryer’s power unfolds before Elrond’s eyes, revealing a vision of a thriving city in Mordor, but it is not a city like any he has seen before in Middle-earth. This city comes to life not during the day but under the veil of night, where the moonlight mingles with the glow of torches and flickering lamps. Uruks, mages, and men walk side by side, their voices blending in laughter and lively conversation. The streets are vibrant, alive with the hum of community, where differences melt away in the warmth of shared existence.

Music floats on the cool evening air, soft melodies carried by strings and drums as fires burn brightly in community pits along the walkways. The smell of roasting meats and fresh bread wafts from the bustling market stalls, where vendors offer fruits, meats, spices, and finely crafted wares. Children dart between the stalls, playing games, while families gather around the fires, sharing stories and meals. Merchants haggle with eager buyers, and artisans display their work—beautiful trinkets, magical artifacts, and weapons, gleaming in the firelight.

You can almost taste the smokiness of the meats and hear the clinking of coins exchanged as the vibrant rhythm of life pulses through the city. It is a place of energy, community, and peace—something unheard of for the children of the dark. The vision lingers, and you can not deny the undeniable brightness and harmony that thrives in this dark land, a future unlike any city ever imagined in Middle-earth. Adar grips your hand in his and when you look back at him, his eyes shine with tears that run down his face. Hope, for the future you have shown him. 

Elrond falters, shaken by what he has seen. A glimpse of gratitude flickers across his face. "I have seen many wonders in my time," he says, his voice low and almost reverent. "But this vision you have granted me—it is a gift beyond measure. To see what could be... It is a triumph of magic, unlike anything I have known."

He opens his mouth to say more, perhaps to offer some gesture of respect or thanks, but before the words can escape, one of his elven companions bursts through the tent flap. The elf’s expression is frantic, eyes wide with urgency as he rushes to Elrond’s side. He leans close, whispering hurriedly in his lord’s ear.

Elrond’s face pales as he listens, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant. The calm, composed exterior he had worn just moments ago seems to crack, giving way to something more unsettled. His gaze flickers briefly to Adar and then back to you, though his thoughts are clearly elsewhere.

A tense silence stretches across the room as the conversation continues in hushed, hurried tones. Your ear strains to catch even the faintest hint of the whispered exchange. Adar’s eyes narrow, and you feel the air grow thick with unspoken questions, your mind racing to decipher the meaning behind this sudden change in Elrond’s composure.

The elven warrior finally steps back, his message delivered, but the weight of it lingers in the space between them. Elrond’s face has hardened, shadows of concern etched into his brow. He stands straighter, composed once again but more guarded now.

"Forgive the intrusion," he begins, his voice measured but tense. "In light of your new terms, with the offering of Galadriel’s ring, and your trusting display of magic, I will accept your offer," he says reluctantly. "Your people may go. Though I urge you to move quickly. I cannot speak for the race of men and their approval of your actions. We will not aid you in making your way home, though you have my word that the elves will not impede you." Elrond lowers his head in respect, and you lower yours in return.

The elves' departure is swift, with the exchange of the ring and a promise of a signed document from the High King as they leave.  When at last you are alone with Adar and the small gathering of Uruk and mages around you, Adar turns to you, his eyes searching. "What did the elf whisper to him?"

You smile, the messenger had not even thought to mask his thoughts in your presence. While he was anxiously speaking to Elrond you had snuck into his mind, revealing his every thought. "Galadriel has been found. But she is fading. She needs healing, the high king was unable to heal her alone with his ring of power…"

Adar’s eyes widen in understanding. "He thinks her ring will spare her," he murmurs. “He is willing to risk our betrayal to save her.” 

“Can you fault him?” you ask softly, grazing your hand along his cheek. “If you had the cure for someone you loved lying in front of you, would you not take it?” 

Adar leans his face into your hand, gently kissing your palm, “I cannot fault him. Though it is perhaps an example of the elves folly, it has granted us what we seek.”

You nod, leaning into him. "We did it," you say softly. "You are going home."

“No,” Adar whispers, and you look up at him confused. “We are going home.” He smiles as he tucks your hair behind your ear and places a gentle kiss upon your lips.

[lady-adaneth]

Romantic Inclination

To whoever finds this, hello friend! I’m super excited to be sharing my first ever fan fic with you! What an incredible thing that we’ve found each other on this vast platform. I’m looking to improve my writing, so if you have a moment I’d be very grateful if you shared any criticisms or requests. I hope that this little one-shot brings some tranquility to your day!

Synopsis:

You and your betrothed sneak away from the wedding festivities for a romantic moment alone.

Legolas x gender-neutral elf!reader

No use of y/n

One-Shot (but if you’d like more don’t hesitate to send a request)

Meleth Nin = My Love

Content Warnings:

Spice scale: Mild kinda smoky salsa

Physical/romantic touch

Word Count:

500+ words

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧‧₊˚ ✩°｡

The forests of Mirkwood were fabled for the ghastly creatures that lurked beneath its thick canopy. The treacherous floor remaining untouched by the glow of stars nor the suns kiss; the darkness teeming with monstrous spiders and unforgiving elves…

The centuries old fable had kept your elfling self from wandering at night, much to your father’s relief. If only he could see you now, dancing amongst the Mirkwood elves in their sacred forest; marrying a Mirkwood elf under thousands of glimmering stars.

Your steps faltered as your mind wandered to your betrothed; and your dance partner took notice. Gimli and you had fought side-by-side against Sauron and his hoard. Combat was a dance in itself, and Gimli’s ax was a perfect complement to your blades. So it’s no surprise that he was privy to what troubled you.

“You’ve suddenly got lousy footwork for an elf, what’s on your mind lassie?” A smile graced Gimli’s face, however his eyes betrayed true concern. Your mind had been wandering to Legolas ever since the ceremony. Tradition mandated that both of you greet and dance with as many guests as possible, reuniting hours later for a final dance. However, as much as you enjoyed the company of others you couldn’t help but scan the motley crowd for his circlet-adorned hair.

“Well,” you began, eyes still searching.

“I have so many more guests to thank…” Gimli cut you off in an explosion of laughter.

“Screw tradition, I’ll keep these unruly guests in check. You go find that damned elf, wherever he may be,” before you could muster a retort, Gimli twirled you in a surprisingly artful spin, abruptly letting go of your hand and launching you into the open. You opened your eyes, searching for any sign of your beloved dwarf friend amongst the crowd, to no avail. Rolling your eyes, you took stock of your immediate surroundings. To the left, the merriment continued; with Pippin and Gandalf leading a rather humorous waltz that had everyone hollering. To the right, you found yourself flanked by the seemingly endless Mirkwood forest.

Suddenly, a set of encompassing arms wound their way around your waist.

“Meleth Nin,”

The whispers warm air lingered by your ear, a firm chest pressed up against your back. Despite his choice of words, you could recognize his intoxicating scent of fir and amber anywhere.

“And who might you be?” You say coyly. “Are you my savior, prince?” Legolas chuckled, his voice inches from your ear.

“I’m here to rescue you from the endless dancing and idle chatter, my princess,” you spun to face him, a mischievous smile on his saintly face. Heavens, that face. You could feel his heart rate accelerate with your own as your hand found his jawline. His arms still encompassed your body. You felt yourself melting as he gently leaned down to meet your lips. The rhythm of the kiss was gentle-familiar, and you melted farther into his touch. His arms tightened around your figure as the kiss deepened. His teeth gently grazed your lip, sending a chill down your spine. You pushed farther into his chest in an almost primal effort to meld into one. Your heart rates grew louder, your shared breath drowning out any sound. His right hand ascended to rest in your hair, carefully grasping the roots. Suddenly, you pulled away, gasping for air as the sounds of merriment returned to you. His eyes found yours, a combination of adoration and worry; searching yours for any sign of injury.

“What are your thoughts…” your forehead found his as he held you tightly. “On taking our leave from the festivities, only for a moment of course?” His reverence shone brightly in his eyes.

“I’d be honored to steal you away for the night, Meleth Nin,” he smirked, pulling you hand-in-hand through the glistening forest of Mirkwood…

—————

Thank you for reading! If you have any criticisms or would like a part 2 please let me know!

[elffics]

⊹𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒇

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ʜᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʀɪᴘ, ᴍᴀᴇᴅʜʀᴏꜱ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇʟᴅ ᴄᴀᴘᴛɪᴠᴇ ʙʏ ᴍᴏʀɢᴏᴛʜ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪʀᴇ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴍᴀᴇᴅʜʀᴏꜱ x ᴏᴄ

The elf rode gracefully through the dense forest on his steed, the leaves whispering their secrets as he passed by. The moonlight filtered through the canopy. Maedhros took this trip alone just to clear his mind from the dark thoughts.

As he listened to the soothing sounds of nature around him, a sudden piercing scream shattered the tranquility. It was an ugly scream that did not sound like for an elf or human, sending shivers down his spine.

Curiosity piqued, the elf urged his horse forward towards the source of the commotion. As he drew closer, the sound of swords clashing filled the air, the metallic clang echoing through the trees.

Guiding his horse through the trees, Maedhros emerged into a clearing to find a figure covered with dark armor and a cloak, slicing through the Orc bodies with their long sword. what stunned Maedhros was that the mysterious figure used not only their Sword but also their hand that seems to have long nails.

he stayed hidden behind the trees, his gaze never left the cloaked figure. as an experienced warrior himself, he can tell that this person is a skilled fighter but also their moves were unnatural, they were fast, very fast and deadly. there is no way that's even an elf.

Maedhros did not know what to feel about this person. they were killing the Orcs that makes them not with the dark side but still, they were different...

Fire surrounded the figure as they sliced and killed more Orcs, the fire prevented The orcs from escaping. it was like the figure enjoyed this very much, making the Orcs suffer, making them bleed heavily before they die. it looks like the figure was just playing with them, not caring much.

When the figure finished them all, their head turned to the place where Maedhros was hiding. he immediately hid himself behind a tree. his body moved quietly but quickly, reaching his horse, although before his hand reached his horse, a sudden force slammed his body against the floor, pinning him down, which only confirmed Maedhros suspicious that this figure in not an elf.

Maedhros's eyes met with striking golden eyes. those eyes he can recognize anywhere, the same beautiful golden eyes that he saw back then in Angband dungeons.

his body slowly calmed, a grin formed on his lips as he observed the beautiful female face. "we meet again, although this meeting is better than the last one", he said to her.

"hello little elf", her voice came like a whisper but deep, a little smirk appeared upon her lips making her sharp teeth appear, as she was still pinning him down. slowly she stood and helped him up. the fact that she calls him little elf yet he is taller than her is quite hilarious.

"I am quite relieved to know that you are alive and well, dear friend". he said to her, observing her figure. she looked well. the last time he saw her was before he was hanging in that cliff by Sauron.

"glad to see you alive as well, little elf". her eyes tracked every scar on his face then went to his right arm. his right hand was missing.

"well, almost". they were silent for a few seconds then both began laughing at eachother. "still the same you". "so what a powerful vampire like you doing in such a place, killing Orcs?".

"I was traveling, not really knowing where to go but it seems wherever I go there are Orcs everywhere. those ugly things keep spawning everywhere". a deep sigh left her mouth, she hated them a lot. "I found that they had a bounty for me, they want me". her eyes returned to look at Maedhros's face."Sauron wants me".

Maedhros felt his body shiver as she mentioned that name. that name gave him nightmares. "come with me, stay in my land, you have helped me before when we were trapped together in Angband". he stepped closer to her as he spoke.

she smiled and shook her head. "I'm a vampire, little elf. people don't trust me, people fear me. while it warms my cold heart that you care for me, I cannot accept your offer".

he sighed then smiled, he knows she is quite stubborn and won't accept easily. "then how about we camp together now since it's night and share our stories together?". "well, this seems a good idea, yes let us make a camp. the forest is safe since I got rid of the danger", she said. Maedhros laughed and nodded, "yes, you did well, although you seemed like just playing with them. come, I know a good spot to make our camp".

as Maedhros led her to that place, they spoke a few times before they arrived there.

[hopeforchanges]

Welp

... my first wip wednesday on tumblr and I missed it, blame it on work and probably adhd, but here's a lil' something to make up for it, an excerpt from the upcoming chapter titled 'Absolute Evil':

***

Though Galadriel's eyes were closed, she could still taste the sweetness of the warm honey tea she had just sipped before settling into bed. The flavor lingered on her tongue. She was a queen in repose, a flower blooming in the soft twilight, her spine straight and her breath steady as the world around her descended into a hushed and golden stillness, her child resting peacefully within her like a precious gem in a golden setting. 

Her eyelids fluttered open at the sensation of a familiar presence. 

Her breath caught in her throat.

Sauron reclined beside her on the bed, his spirit form as tangible as flesh. A smile played across his sensuous lips. Soft brown curls framed his face, falling into piercing green eyes that regarded her tenderly. 

“Atalrun soothes elven women,” he said. “Yavanna secretly supplied your mother back in the day.” 

Summoning her resolve, she spoke. “Heliarnos drank it first, in case you whispered poison into his ear.” 

Offended, Sauron turned to his side, glaring daggers at her. “You do not honestly think -” 

“What am I supposed to think?” 

He scoffed. “That I would never wish to harm you.” 

She hummed, turning on her side as well to face him properly, to look into his eyes and see if he would ever whisper to her servant where to find the gods’ special plant and how to grind it, with what to combine it in order to soothe and not kill. 

The smooth silk of her sheets began to burn against her skin when just moments ago, it was cold as ice. 

"You've been away. I thought perhaps..." Her words faltered. "I thought you tired of haunting my mind."

Sauron reached out, his ghostly fingers stopping just shy of her cheek. "Never. I feared you despised my invasions, so I stayed away. Then your librarian friend mentioned you were not well.” 

“Where is Elrond? I have not seen him in days,” she said.

“Making sure I get a new forge. This time, a more durable one.” 

“No more dragons, please.” The memory of his lips flooded her mind, making her mouth water. 

As he smiled, a low chuckle escaped his lips. Galadriel could feel the heat radiating from his body, as if he were a living flame. She imagined his skin would feel as smooth as marble, yet warm to the touch. She longed to reach out and touch the smooth planes of his face, to feel the warmth of his skin against her fingertips.

"The mirror." Galadriel shuddered at the memory, nausea rising like bile. "The visions it showed me...I've been unwell ever since."

His brow furrowed, eyes darkening. "You should not have gazed upon such things. Some knowledge is too terrible to bear."

"Then help me understand."

But Sauron turned away. Pushing him towards honesty was as exhausting for her as her distrust must have been for him. 

A constant uphill battle.

[skyeet-the-writer]

Lady of Enmond

Chapter Two: Fire and Blood

omg not me writing two chapters in one day bc i have nothing better to do??? that's crazy

legolas greenleaf x female!reader

summary: with the ringwraiths on their tails, strider, y/n, and the hobbits trek through the wild, slowly making their way to rivendell with little trouble. but one should never leave hobbits unsupervised with food and firewood

word count: ~4.1k

warnings: violence, hunting, mentions of death, mentions of blood

<previous next>

You can't even have a good sleep, because what feels like minutes later, you're startled awake, nearly falling out of your chair. Screams are coming from across the road, screams that are very akin to a pig squealing before a slaughter. Somehow, though, this one is different. It sends a chill down your spine and makes your hair stand up on end.

They're here.

Aragorn is sitting beside the window, staring outside. The Hobbits are awake as you stand and walk beside him, peering out the fogged-up window.

"What are they?" Frodo asks in a hushed voice as if they could hear him.

The Ringwraiths continue to scream in anger. You did trick them, after all.

"They were once Men," Aragorn answers. "Great kings of Men. But then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question. One by one, falling into darkness. Now, they are slaves to his will."

Looking out the window, you see them. Great tall beings, wrapped in black cloaks, mounting their horses, dark as night, with red eyes that pierce through the darkness. Just looking at them terrifies you.

Aragorn turns back to the Hobbits. "They are the Nazgul. Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times, they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you."

At this, Aragorn says that you all must leave by morning. The Ringwraiths have left Bree, likely to go scout more.

"Rest up," he says to the Hobbits. "We leave in the morning."

As the Hobbits settle back down, you look at Aragorn. "I'll take this watch. You need sleep."

Aragorn sits back in his chair. "I do not."

You roll your eyes and take off your bow from around your torso. "Yes, you do. You haven't slept since last night. The sun rises in a few hours, you need to get it while you can."

Finally, your friend nods reluctantly. "Fine. I can't argue with you." He gives you a sly smile as he takes his scabbard off of his belt.

With a smirk, you sit back down in your own chair. "I am a Lady, after all. My father taught me to negotiate the second I could speak."

~*~

The sun rises much quicker than you would have thought. You had been drawing in your journal and writing a letter to your father, explaining your journeys, leaving out the part about how Sauron might have risen again. You just tell him how you and Aragorn met Hobbits in a bar. He doesn't need to know everything.

Your company is set out soon, hustling out of Bree and in the direction of Rivendell. The walk is long and by your calculations, it would take just over four days, possibly five. You know that you and Aragorn can walk for days, but you're not quite so sure of the Hobbits.

As the sun rises higher in the air and late morning approaches, you finally approach the woods. You've been pulling along a pony, Bill, what one Hobbit told you. The Hobbits seem kind enough, of course, weary of you and your friend. You don't blame them. The horse seems to like you, though.

"Where are you taking us?" Frodo finally asks after jogging for a few hours.

You sniffle, your nose slightly runny. Curse this cold morning air. "Into the wild."

When you enter the woods, you hand off the pony to a Hobbit in the back. This one is slightly bigger with blond hair. Sam? Is that his name?

With all the rain last night, the ground is still wet and slightly muddy. This is the kind of weather you like, especially in the forest. It's where you were raised, after all. The smell of fresh air and pines always brings you home. You know the forest like the back of your hand, knowing which trees are which, the names of all the animals. Though you're less familiar with these woods, they're still just as comforting.

You walk alongside Aragorn as the Hobbits begin to mumble to themselves. You catch a snippet of their conversation.

"...servant of the enemy would look fairer, and feel fouler."

"They're both foul enough."

With your mouth slightly open in faux shock, you whisper to Aragorn, "Are they calling us ugly?"

There's a ghost of a smile on his face and you swear he chuckles under his breath, pushing you forward.

"But where is he leading us?"

"To Rivendell, Master Gamgee," Aragorn answers loud enough for them to hear. "To the house of Elrond."

The Hobbits gasp and murmur. "Did you hear that? Rivendell! We're going to see the elves."

As you keep walking, the air gets colder as you climb the hills. You break through the forest and walk through clearings. Patches of snow litter the ground. You scoop a bit up into your hand, form it into a ball, and throw it at a tree, watching it smash with a small smile.

After a while, you begin to hear the Hobbits mumbling among themselves. You turn to see what the matter is and pause. They're unloading and sitting on the ground. You poke Aragorn's arm to get his attention.

"Gentlemen," you tell them politely. "We don't stop until nightfall. We need to keep moving.

"What about breakfast?" asks one of the Hobbits, Pippin, you recall, his accent thick.

You tilt your head, a hand resting on your knife casually. "We've already had it."

"We've had one, yes," he admits. "But what about second breakfast?""

With a roll of his eyes, Aragorn turns and keeps walking. Second breakfast? What even is that? Slowly, you turn away and continue walking.

"Don't think they know about second breakfast, Pip," says another Hobbit, Merry, slinging his bag over his shoulder to follow.

Pippin follows him, asking, "What about elevensies? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? They know about them, don't they?"

"I wouldn't count on it," answers Merry.

With a small smile, you pull out an apple and toss it to Merry above the bushes. He catches it and hands it to Pippin, patting him on the shoulder. You toss another one and it hits Pippin in the face. With a gasp, you cover your mouth. "Sorry!"

As you continue to walk through the bushlands, the snow begins to melt more and the sky gets cloudier. You don't think it will rain again, but you can never be sure. Eventually, you end up in marshlands, with wet, murky water up to your knees in spots and flying bugs and mosquitos.

You're soaked to the bone and your legs are cold, but you keep going. You've always loved adventure, no matter how gross to messy. Your cloak protects you from the biting bugs, but you shoo them away from your face.

The Hobbits aren't having any more luck. Sam is slowly encouraging the horse to follow along and the other three are slipping and sliding. Probably because they don't have shoes, but then you suppose none could ever fit their feet.

Loudly, you hear one complain, "What do they eat when they can't get Hobbit?"

You persevere through the marshlands until nightfall. The lands are a bit less mucky through here, and Aragorn finds a spot to camp for the night. You're all hungry, only having had breakfast this morning.

"Shall I go hunt?" you ask, already taking your bow from your torso.

Aragorn nods. "If you would. You've always been better at it."

"Yeah, I have." And then you head into the woods. It's almost a full moon, so light should not be a problem.

Another good thing about living in the forest for your entire life is how quickly you learned to hunt as a girl. Your father took you when you were old enough and you immediately found your flow. It was one of your favorite things to do, even if it was a bit boring.

You trudge through the forest quietly, minding the branches and sticks on the ground. You're looking for a deer, only something that big will feed the six of you. A doe will work, but you wouldn't pass up a buck.

When you're looking for a deer, almost everything else seems to pop out. Squirrels run across your path carelessly and birds sing above, getting ready to rest for the night. Finally, you approach a small creek and decide to wait there for something. Even deer get thirsty.

You crouch down behind a bush but still with enough of a view. To be prepared, you draw an arrow and nock it so you're ready when anything pops out.

You wait for a while, longer than you would have thought. The woods are still and quiet down as the moon rises higher and your breath comes out in a fog. Your knees hurt and you shift.

A twig snaps from the other side of the creek and you perk up, peering through the woods. Slowly, a pretty doe approaches the creek and bends down to drink.

Slowly, you draw back your string and aim. You want to aim for the heart or lungs for an easy kill. You never want an animal to suffer.

So you wait until she's done drinking. You'll have a better shot and if you stay low, she won't hear you. So you wait. She takes a while, she must have been thirsty. But finally, she slowly stands extending her neck too look around.

Before she can leave, you release your arrow, and it thunks right into her heart. She falls and quickly stills.

Your feet splash in the creek as you make sure she's dead before hoisting her up over your shoulder to get back to the group. She's heavy and you grunt, but you can manage.

They are still right where you left them, as you expected.

You skin it as Aragorn gets it on the fire and roasts it in chunks. You cook all of it, wrapping up the leftovers for the rest of the journey.

The Hobbits fall back asleep soon and you lay on the ground, hands behind your head as Strider softly sings a tune in Elvish while smoking from his pipe. You're looking up at the stars, knowing they're the same ones as above your village. Maybe your sister is looking up at them right now?

"Who is she?" Frodo asks out of the blue and you nearly shit yourself, clutching a hand over your heart. You sit up and realize he's talking to Aragorn. "This woman you sing of."

Aragorn hesitates to answer, you knew he would. He's always hesitant to speak of her. "'Tis the lady of Luthien. The Elf-maiden who gave her love to Beren, a mortal." He sighs heavily and you feel bad for him.

"What happened to her?" Frodo asks quietly.

Aragorn sighs again and shakes his head. "She died," and he turns away.

You look at Frodo and say, "Get some sleep, Frodo. We still have a long way to go."

He nods and settles back down, pulling his blanket over himself. You look at Aragorn. He's still smoking and you lay back down, counting the constellations once more.

You're not sure when, but eventually, you fall asleep. And, like always, you dream. You always dream. Most of the time, you can't remember them. When you can, however, they're important. And this one seems like it is.

In your dream, you're standing in the dark, the grass wet beneath your feet. You're not wearing shoes because, for some reason, you never do in your dreams. To one side of you is a great black tower you know is the Orthanc, the great tower of Isengard. To your other side are trees, far and as wide as the eye can see. Tall trees, great and old ones.

For a moment, you wonder why you're here. You've never been to Isengard before, you've only heard stories. Suddenly, you hear a crack and a crash and look back toward the forest. A tree has fallen. And then another crack, a creak, and a crash. Another tree has fallen. No. Not fallen. It's been pulled down.

You're too far away to see clearly, and you can't move. You can never move in your dreams. But you swear you can see men beside the great trees, tying ropes around them and pulling them down. You can hear their grunts and shouts from here.

But something about them seems...different. Their voices sound different, not human.

Another tree falls to the ground and you wake up.

~*~

You keep walking all day. Through the marsh a bit more then through the woods again before finally breaking out into open land just to climb up some more hills. You've been through this land a few times, but it's still just as unfamiliar to you.

Part of you considers bringing up your dream to Aragorn. Oftentimes, your dreams have deeper meanings. Sometimes, even, what happens in your dream comes true in real life. One times, you dreamt your cursed mother burned your brother's arm with a hot ember. A few days later she did.

But another part of you decides to wait. Surly it can't be that important. And besides, you all still have much to worry about.

As you travel, you attempt to make conversation with the Hobbits. By now, you've learned their names. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. The pony's name is Bill, something you found amusing.

"What's so funny?" asks Sam, still hesitant to trust despite how many chunks of deer he had the night before.

You still your laughter and say, "Oh, nothing, nothing! I just think it's quite cute, Bill." You rub the horse's ear and he whinnies.

As evening approaches, your feet are killing you. Looking back, you should have gotten a new pair of boots before you left Bree. You knew it.

Aragorn slows and you nearly run into him, stopping just before you run into his back. "Hey."

He's looking at something and you follow your gaze, breath hitching in your throat. "Oh."

Before you is a great ruin on a hill. Nothing too fancy, but you know better. It's the ruins of a watched town, Amon-Sul.

"This was the great watchtower of Amon-Sul," Aragorn says, somewhat forlornly. He turns to the Hobbits and says, "We shall rest here tonight."

After trecking halfway to the top, Aragorn states that it's as good a spot as any. The Hobbits quickly take off their packs and sit down heavily, panting. You sot on the edge, swinging your feet. It's windy up here, and the clouds are moving fast.

Aragorn steps away from the edge and takes off something from his back. You turn to see what's going on to see him handing the Hobbits small swords, four of them. Though you'd call them more like daggers, they're the perfect size for them.

"These are for you," he says. "Keep them close. We're going to have a look around." He looks at you.

You turn your eyes away from the Hobbits googling at their new weapons to look at Aragorn with upturned brows. "Come on, Aragorn, can't I just sit?"

He holds out his hand.

Reluctantly, you take it and haul yourself up, feet immediately hurting again. With a sigh, you leave some of the deer meat with the Hobbits. Aragorn begins to make his way back down. "Stay here," you tell them. "And be quiet and careful." Then you turn to follow your friend back down.

~*~

"How are you doing, Y/N?" Aragorn asks as you both do a perimeter check around the fortress. He said it was to make sure there's nothing around, but part of you feels like he needed to get away from the Hobbits. As sweet as they are, they had never been on a journey like this before, even you knew that. It was hard. And they let you know every second.

You sigh, trudging along. Honestly, you've been better. You haven't bathed in several days, your hair is a mess, and your feet are killing you. So, you answer, "Pretty good, considering. You?"

He just sighs instead of answering. You laugh.

You both walk around in silence like you both normally do. You're both similar in that way. You sometimes prefer silence over the conversation.

In fact, your silence is quite nice until a faint scream ruins it.

It's that same scream you heard two nights before. Your nerves are set on fire again and you exchange an urgent look with Aragorn. They found them.

Quickly, quicker than your feet liked, you both raced back the way you came, dodging branches, and jumping over rocks. Aragorn's sword is drawn and your bow is loaded as you run back up the ruins of Amon-Sul. Above you, the sounds of struggle are steadily getting louder. Clanging of swords and grunts of Hobbits. You pass by the camp, where you note the embers of a fire still smoking. You shake your head and click your teeth. Hobbits.

Finally, you reach the top and you're not prepared for what you see.

Five of the Nazguls, tall and dressed in dark armor are standing, crowded around something. Three of the Hobbits are down, but look unharmed. Merry, Pippin, and Sam. Then where is Frodo?

A scream cuts through the air, this one mortal, nothing that the Wraiths could produce. Your blood runs cold and for a moment, you're frozen. Frodo.

But then Aragorn lets out a cry, he leaps and slices at the Nazguls, a torch in his hand. Where'd he get that from?

After that, your mind jumps into action mode and you let loose an arrow and it flies towards a Nazgul's empty face. Literally, empty, you can see nothing but pitch black beneath his hood. It screams and reaches towards you, but you've already knocked another arrow and it sinks into its face again.

You can't see Frodo still, but you know where he is. The air seems to ripple just a bit behind where you're now standing and part of you knows it's him. You've drawn another arrow while Aragorn waves the torch in front of you. The Ringwraiths don't seem to like that, as they cringe away from it. Is that their one weakness?

Firing another arrow that clangs off of one's armor, you don't let that deter you. You haven't been in too many battles, much less against these things, but your body knows what to do. Stay focused, keep moving, and be aware of everything at all times.

There's a scream of agony behind you and you risk a glance. Frodo has reappeared, but he's much paler now. He's shaking and shivering and his shoulder is bleeding as he cries out.

There's a clang of metal and you turn to let fly another arrow, deflecting against a sword.

Sam is up and rushes to his friend's side as you and Aragorn push them back. You shoot another and it sinks into a Nazgul's hood. They're all screaming so loud you feel like your ears will soon bleed.

Aragorn's torch makes contact with a Nazgul's rope and it lights on fire, the being itself screaming in pain. You laugh and shout, "Nice!"

The Ringwraith on fire now stumbles back into two of his friend, also setting them on fire. Aragorn pushes one back to the edge where it has no other choice but to fall. You, however, are out of arrows. You throw your bow to the side and duck the swing of a blade, stumbling backward. "Aragorn!" you cry, screaming and rolling out of the way as a blade clangs at the stone where you just were.

Something hurdles through the air and the torch lands smack in the center of the thing's face. It screams and falls over the edge. Your friend rushes over and hauls you up, touching your face gently. "Are you alright?"

You look up at him and nod. "Yeah," you say breathlessly.

Frodo cries out again and you both break apart to rush over to him. He's on the ground surrounded by his friends. He's just as pale and still writing in pain.

"Help him, Strider," says Sam, on the brink of tears.

Something glints beside Frodo and you pick it up. It's a dagger and you know what it is just off of stories. "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade." The blade itself disintegrates into the air and you throw the hilt down angrily.

Frodo cries out again.

Hurridly, Aragorn picks him up again, despite Frodo's wails. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine."

Quickly, you pick up your arrows and bow and stow them back on your person, running to catch up with the others. Aragorn has made the Hobbits pick up camp and you assist them before running after Aragorn, who is already halfway down the hill by now.

You make your way into the forest, knowing that the wraiths are still very much out there, very much not dead, and very angry. You're kneeling beside Frodo, hushing him and pushing back his sweaty hair. Yet his skin is cold to the touch. His cries quickly get quieter as he tiers out. He's not bleeding, but with this, he wouldn't. No, he's been poisoned. There's still a shade of the blade inside him.

In the clearing, you're surrounded by stone trolls, but you barely notice. Poor Frodo, you bet he didn't ask to do any of this, he didn't want to get involved in this.

"Look, Frodo," Sam says, sitting beside you. "It's Mister Bilbo's trolls." He touches his friend's face and cries out, "He's going cold!"

"Is he going to die?" asks Pippin, also on the verge of tears. Your heart breaks.

Aragorn turns and says, "He's passing into the Shadow World. He'll soon become a Wraith, just like them."

Frodo gasps and you scowl. "Strider!"

A Ringwraith screeches in the distance and you look around. It's too close for comfort. For a moment, Frodo's gasps match thairs.

"They're close," you say.

"Sam." Aragorn walks towards the Hobbit and touches his arm. "Do you know the Athelas plant?"

Sam nods quickly. "Aye, Kingsfoil, that's a weed."

"It may help to slow the poision." He hands him his torch and says, "Quickly. Khaya, you watch them. Be on guard."

You nod and look back down at Frodo as the two of them run into the woods to look for that plant. "Hang on, Frodo, you'll be fine, I promise."

Frodo closes his eyes, his breathing becoming slower. He's tired, you know that, but he must stay awake.

Gently, you pat at his face. "Come on, Frodo, stay awake. There."

His eyes meet yours and for a moment, you see your brother in them. They were the same color.

The minutes seem to stretch longer. Merry and Pippin sit beside you, but none of you speak. You cradle Frodo's head in your lap, trying not to worry. You all were so close, just a few more days and you would have been at Rivendell.

"Will he be okay, Khaya?" asks Pippin.

For a second, you forget that that's the name Strider gave you to hide your identity. But you nod, hastily. "Yes, he will be. We just have to wait for Strider and Sam, they'll have some medicine. Then we'll get a horse and ride him off to Rivendell."

"What about the Ringwraiths?" asks Merry in a hushed voice as if they would hear him.

You huff and scowl at the ground. "I--I don't know, Master Merry, but Strider will. He always does."

Gently placing Frodo's head on the grass, you stand. You need to move, you need to stand, you need to walk. You wonder what's taking Aragorn and Sam so long as you wander towards a towering stone giant. What did Sam say? Mister Bilbo's trolls? What did that even mean? And what is taking Aragorn so long?

You hear a twin snap in the distance and the gallop of hooves. Your heart drops to your feet and you turn faster than you ever have before, your dagger drawn.

But it is no Ringwraith. No, this is the opposite. A fair lady with dark long hair rides atop a white horse, dressed in a green cloak. She's beautiful, the most beautiful woman you've seen. And you've seen a lot. Immediately, you know she's an Elf, not just from her grace from dismounting a horse or how she seems to float through the air, but by her pointy ears.

You don't even put your knife away, just watch with an open mouth as she kneels beside Frodo and speaks in Elvish, a language so beautiful you nearly cry on the spot. Her voice is light and airy, and you're sure, if it were possible, she'd be radiating white light.

"Who is she?" asks Merry, having come to stand beside you with Pippin.

Aragorn comes from the clearing with Kingsfoil in his hands. You know her name, only by the stories Aragorn had told you.

"Frodo," the Elf says in the common tongue. Aragorn chews up the Kingsfoil in his mouth and Sam appears beside you.

"She's an Elf," he says.

"She is Arwen," you whisper, finally sheathing your dagger. What good would it have been against a Nazgul anyway?

Aragorn lifts Frodo's shirt and places the paste on Frodo's wound. He gasps and his eyes widen.

"He's not going to last," Arwen says. "We must get him to my father."

Hastily, the two of them pick Frodo up and Aragorn carries him to Arwen's horse.

"I've been looking for you for two days," Arwen says.

Merry steps forward quickly. "Where are you taking him?"

"There are five Wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know," she continues on.

Aragorn says something in Elvish, but Arwen counters back at him. They have a conversation while you and the Hobbits watch in curiosity.

"What are they saying?" Pippin asks.

You simply shrug. "I don't know."

Arwen says something that makes Aragon pause. Then, now back in the common tongue, she says, "I do not fear them."

Aragorn gently takes her hand. He says something in Elvish and she smiles before mounting her horse. Frodo moans. "Arwen. Ride hard. Don't look back."

Exchanging one last look, Arwen speaks to her horse in Elvish and they take off into the night.

Sam looks up angrily at Aragorn and shouts, "What are you doing? Those Wraiths are still out there!"

Aragorn hesitates, and for a moment, you see him regretting his choice. But you touch his arm and he looks at you.

"She'll be fine," you tell him and that seems to make him feel better.

He turns to the rest of the Hobbits and says, "Come, we must go. Rivendell is much further and we can waste no time."

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Of Princes and Witches (Rewrite) Chapter 21- Legolas Greenleaf x OC

Legolas Greenleaf x Alphine Barrowes

Description: The Fellowship travels to the Black Gate to cause a distraction while Frodo and Sam grow nearer to Mount Doom.

Word Count: 2.6k

“Alphine,” Legolas’ voice woke the Witch up. She jolted awake in slight panic, forcing herself to calm down so the Elf wouldn’t worry. Once she was sure she was okay she looked at him once again. 

“Yes?” She asked after wetting her lips. Legolas offered her a small smile as he rested his hand against her cheek gently. 

“Come, Gandalf wants us in the Great Hall.” With that, he stood and held out his hand for her, helping her up once she finally forced herself to take it. 

Alphine stood with Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli and Eomer in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith the next morning. Gandalf had allowed everyone a night of reprieve to clean up and properly dress their wounds the previous night, but he called upon them as soon as they were all up and dressed

“Frodo has passed beyond my sight,” the Wizard informed them as he walked across the hall. “The darkness is deepening.” 

“If Sauron had the Ring we would know it,” Aragorn pointed out. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Gandalf retorted. “He has suffered a defeat, yes, but behind the walls of Mordor our enemy is regrouping.” 

“Let him stay there!” Gimli suddenly exclaimed, nearly scaring Alphine to death. “Let him rot! Why should we care?” 

“Because 10,000 Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom,” the White Wizard answered fiercely, then his tone softened. “I’ve sent him to his death.” 

“No, there is still hope for Frodo,” Aragorn said. “He just needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.” 

“How?” The Dwarf questioned. 

“Draw out Sauron’s armies,” he answered. “Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.” His response made Gimli choke on his pipe and the Witch’s eyes widen in shock, almost gasping if she hadn’t caught herself before Eomer intervened. 

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms,” he pointed out. 

“Not for ourselves, But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s eyes fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves,” Aragorn responded simply. 

“A diversion,” Legolas realized aloud. 

“Certainty of death, small chance of success, what are we waiting for?” Gimli asked in a weirdly cheerful way considering what he was saying. 

“Sauron will suspect a trap,” Alphine pointed out. “He will not take the bait.” 

“Oh, I think he will. But you must trust me,” Aragorn said, tone almost begging. The Witch was silent for a moment as he considered the Man’s words. She looked to Legolas to see what he thought about it, receiving a reassuring nod in response. She sighed. 

“Very well, we will do what you say.” 

Alphine sat atop Talysan outside the Black Gate to Mordor. What was left of the armies of Gondor and Rohan were behind her and the rest of the Fellowship, who all sat on horses of their own (aside from Gimli, who rode with Legolas, Merry who sat with Aragorn, and Pippin, who rode with Alphine). The gate was closed to the rest of the world, with no life sounding on the other side. Everyone watched it in silence, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. 

“Where are they?” Pippin asked nervously. Aragorn glanced at the Hobbit, sharing his unease (albeit subtly), before riding towards the gate. Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Eomer and Alphine followed him. 

“Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth,” Aragorn shouted at the gate. “Let justice be done upon him!” As if on cue the gates opened just a sliver, forcing the horses to back up a bit. Out came Sauron’s Lieutenant, whose face was little more than a large mouth with disgusting yellowing teeth and a helmet atop his head. A shiver shot up the Witch’s spine. He was horrific to even look at. 

“My master Sauron the Great bids thee welcome,” he started, voice hissing like a snake grew vocal chords. “Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?” 

“We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed,” Gandalf responded. “Tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart with these lands, never to return.” The mouth laughed, and what a horrid sound it was. 

“Old Graybeard! I have a token I was bidden to show thee.” He held up what looked to be a silver shirt to the Wizard. Was that…

“Frodo,” Pippin gasped. It was Frodo’s mithril shirt. The mouth threw the shirt to Gandalf, who caught it with ease. 

“Frodo!” Pippin repeated, more panicked now. 

“Silence,” demanded the Wizard. 

“No!” Merry cried out, receiving the same response from Gandalf. Alphine’s arms wrapped around Pippin in an attempt to calm him down as the mouth spoke. 

“The Halfling was dear to thee, I see. Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host Who would’ve thought one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf, he did.” The Witch’s eyes clenched shut in order to not tear up at the thought of Frodo being in any amount of pain. She bowed her head, nearly burying her face in the Hobbit’s hair. 

“And who is this?” Asked the mouth, looking at Aragorn. “Isildur’s heir? It takes more to make a King than a broken Elvish blade.” The Man unsheathed his sword without a word to the creature, but it spoke before he could do anything else. 

“And, of course, the radiant Alphine Barrowes,” the Mouth continued, which caught her attention. “You are more mesmerizing than my master told me. I have been asked for your answer before it is too late for you.” 

All eyes turned to the Witch in confusion, but Alphine’s eyes remained on the lieutenant. Rage began coursing through Alphine like never before and it took all she had not to kill the disgusting creature then and there. She shot him the most scathing and hate filled glare she could offer before speaking.

“To live in a world full of such wickedness, such evil… I pity your master. For there is no love in his heart, and he wishes for the world to be rid of it just so that he may not feel so alone. I would rather die than live in such a world. That is my answer.” The mouth, despite having no other facial expression, became enraged. Just as he opened his mouth again Aragorn finally swung his sword. Next thing the Witch knew, the Mouth no longer bore a head. 

“I guess that concludes negotiations,” Gimli muttered. Aragorn looked at the mithril short that still sat in Gandalf’s hands, then shook his head. 

“I do not believe it. I will not.” 

“What did it mean when it asked you for an answer, Alphine?” Pippin asked curiously, looking back at his riding companion. Once again the others looked at her, also curious about whatever it was she had been talking about. The girl looked down shamefully, not wishing to admit what she had been experiencing over the last eleven months. 

“I shall take my leave,” Eomer informed them, seeming to understand that whatever was going on was not his business. Without another word he turned his horse around and rode back to where the rest of their army stood in wait. Once he was gone Alphine felt someone take her hand. It was Legolas - she recognized his touch immediately. 

“Alphine, if something has happened to you, we all wish to know so we may help you,” he muttered softly. The Witch could practically feel everyone nodding in agreement. Her hesitant gaze met the Elf’s, and the genuinely concerned look he held was enough for her to break. Her eyes went back to the ground and she took a deep breath before speaking. 

“Sauron has been visiting me since the beginning of our quest,” she started, and she could hear Pippin gasp quietly while everyone else just stared at her in shock. “I didn’t know it was him at first, for he went by the alias Annatar. Of course now that I know it was a ruse I feel like a fool for not realizing it sooner. He first invaded my dreams the night we camped on the Eregion Hills, when I was vulnerable and still scared of humans, and he offered me revenge on the ones who took my wings and ruined my life as a Fairy. 

He attempted to turn me against Aragorn, Boromir and even Gandalf in my first dream. But at that point I still hadn’t even gotten a name from him so I trusted him even less than I trusted the Fellowship. But he took his time with me, attempting to break down my walls as he continued to visit me. He came to me three more times: on the journey to Helm’s Deep, after I passed out during the battle, and the night before the battle in Pelennor Fields. 

Each time he arrived he attempted to woo me by telling me that I was much more powerful than anyone realized - even myself. He made me promises of revenge and a life of glamor where everyone would love me and wish for my favor.

He tempted her every time she was at her weakest, and when I still begrudged the race of Men. The fiend fed into my pain and anger in an attempt to seduce me to the dark side, mentioning that I’ve been alone and hated so long and he offered me the chance to be Queen over Middle Earth and be loved beyond belief. 

But over time she realized that I am not alone, and I never was. Not only was I not hated, but I had friends to take care of her and help her. Friends in the form of this Fellowship. The world that Sauron promised me had no love, only fear. Fear that if those below me didn’t love me, they’d be killed - or worse. That is not something I wish upon anyone, and I have grown happy with where and who I am.”

As she finished speaking she became acutely aware that she had begun crying. Whether they were tears of shame or just her being emotional in general, she didn’t know. She looked up when she felt Legolas (who she’d forgotten was holding her hand at that point) lift their clasped hands to his lips to press a kiss to the back of her hand. 

“We never hated you,” he informed her softly. “None of us.” 

“We have cared about you since you joined our company and became one of us,” Aragorn added in complete sincerity, which made her smile as her free hand lifted to wipe away any stray tears that managed to slip down her face. 

“I know that no, and I care about all of you as well,” she responded softly. The group shared a tender smile with each other as the Witch hugged Pippin close to her, a gesture that he quickly returned. After a moment she pulled away from him, took a deep breath then faced the gate they all still sat in front of. 

“What do we do now?” Alphine asked, voice nearly cracking before she cleared it. She’d been desperately hoping that Frodo was okay, but now she wasn’t so sure. Aragorn didn’t have an answer. They sat there for a few minutes as they attempted to figure out what to do, but then the Black Gate began to open again. Thousands of Orcs began marching through, which admittedly made the Witch gasp. 

“Pull back,” Aragorn instructed. “Pull back!” They rode back towards the army they brought, the Orcs following them. The soldiers looked uncertain (borderline scared) at the sheer number of their enemy. 

“Hold your ground!” Aragorn yelled, beginning to ride across the front of the army to address them. “Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see it in your eyes, the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!” 

The soldiers unsheathed their weapons and stood ready, looking much more encouraged than they were before. Aragorn nodded in approval and wheeled around on his horse to face the oncoming enemy. No one moved as the enemy surrounded them, all waiting for Aragorn’s instruction. Soon enough they were completely surrounded. Alphine stood between Merry and Legolas, trying to keep herself calm as her eyes grazed over the many Orc faces. 

“Never thought I’d die fighting side by side with an Elf,” she heard Gimli grumble from the other side of Legolas. 

“What about side by side with a friend?” The Elf suggested, glancing down at Gimli with a smile. The Dwarf looked up at him, a small smile forming on his face. 

“Aye, I could do that.” 

Alphine smiled at his response as her hand reached out, brushing against Legolas’. He met her the rest of the way and gingerly grabbed her hand, interlocking their fingers and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. They shared a weak smile, and Alphine felt much better knowing that if she died, it would be with him by her side. She faced forward, then paused when she heard a hissed whisper of her name. 

“Alphine…” It was Annatar’s voice, though it was much deeper and more menacing than she remembered. Flashes of her alternate life (the one from her dream) flashed through her mind, mostly showing her sitting atop the throne with praise being thrown at her from all angles. 

For a moment she felt tempted to leave her friends’ sides, but then she felt Legolas squeeze her hand again. On the other side of her she felt both Merry and Pippin touch her arm, showing that they were also there for her. And on the other side of Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf leaned over to offer her reassuring expressions, and those were enough to snap her out of her stupor. No, it wasn’t Annatar, it was Sauron. In front of her, she noticed Aragorn freeze in place in the same manner that she had. 

“Aragorn…” It was the Eye of Sauron likely attempting to tempt him just as it had with the Witch. “Elessar…” The Man’s sword slowly dropped to his side as he stepped forward, almost as if mesmerized. 

“Gandalf,” Alphine muttered quickly, letting go of Legolas’s hand and holding out hers to him. He seemed to know what she was asking for because he handed over Frodo’s mithril shirt without a word. Aragorn, who had apparently heard her voice above the Eye’s tempting voice, turned to face her. She didn’t speak anymore but instead held up the mithril shirt for the Man to see. Aragorn smiled. 

“For Frodo,” he announced softly. And with that he raised his sword and ran forward towards the Orc army. Merry and Pippin were the first ones to shout and run after him, their own swords raised. That was enough to kickstart the Gondorian and Rohan army to follow them with their own battle cries. The two armies collided in a fit of slashing swords and clanging metal and the battle had begun.

[naamah-beherit]

I posted 3,253 times in 2022

That's 2,205 more posts than 2021!

145 posts created (4%)

3,108 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@darlingofdots

@voxofthevoid

@cath-sith

@andromedamirtle

@threegoblinsinatrenchcoat

I tagged 829 of my posts in 2022

#the locked tomb - 129 posts

#tgcf - 79 posts

#hualian - 57 posts

#tian guan ci fu - 51 posts

#hua cheng - 47 posts

#xie lian - 47 posts

#nona the ninth spoilers - 34 posts

#sauron - 33 posts

#mairon - 33 posts

#天官赐福 - 32 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#and now i remember how people always scowl and sneer when you wish them a pleasant time off instead of echoing merry christmas! after them

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I got a Milker sticker for my laptop 😌

Every time I look at it, I remember the good ol' days of the Angbang fandom. He also compels me to write more Angbang, OR ELSE.

56 notes - Posted October 18, 2022

#4

Sure, "You can't take loved away" hits right in the feels, but I think the biggest punch in the gut is Pyrrha's "Painted a nursery. Mint green". It makes you think what else the Ninth House has lost.

59 notes - Posted September 27, 2022

#3

TGCF microfics #3: post-canon mishaps

[written on 9 December 2021]

Post-canon Hualian AU in which Xie Lian gets hit with a curse that makes him forget the last 100-200 years, which means he's back to his "smile, don't annoy anyone, try to make people happy", but most importantly "FIGURE OUT EVERYTHING LATER WHEN YOU CAN."

So here he is, in a wrap-up meeting in Heaven after a mission he can't recall, with a bunch of gods he doesn't know, but also Feng Xin and Mu Qing? And they act like his friends again?? And everyone is treating him with respect??? Which is very nice but also mildly terrifying.

As the meeting drags, he keeps fidgeting, trying to gauge the state his body is in. There are a few scratches (which is understandable, because he came back from a mission after all, whatever it might be), some aches at the base of his spine, which he can easily neglect.

Apart from those, he's... fine. There's no hunger or thirst, no weariness deep in his bones. If he were to describe it, he'd say he's... content. Maybe even happy. (what a foreign concept that is)

...and then he notices Mu Qing rolling eyes at him.

MQ: "Yes, yes, we know, you want to go home. Tell your husband it won't take much longer."

XL, externally: (✿◕‿◕)(❁´◡`❁)

XL, internally: I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON, WHAT HUSBAND, HOW CAN I HAVE A HUSBAND, OUR CULTIVATION PATH PROHIBITS HUSBANDS, DON'T YOU REMEMBER???

Once the meeting ends, he kind of... loiters around his palace, because what else is he supposed to do? How does one go back to a life they don't remember?

So he sits down. Gets up. Walks around. Sits down again. Tries to remember things he can't even imagine.

He's so wrapped up in his own head ("What husband, I can't have a husband, this must be a joke, but what if it isn't, what does he look like, nononono, don't think about that"), that he doesn't hear the steps or the tinkling of bells.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when an arm snakes around his waist and a cold, moist something lands behind his ear.

"Gege," a man purrs into his ear. "You've been gone for so long."

XL: blue screen of death before a speedrun to reconsidering his vows

XL, a few hours later, very quietly: What just happened???

HC: Gege is thinking so much tonight. Has something happened? Should I provide more distractions? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

XL: AHAHAHAHAHAHA [XieLian.exe has stopped working]

(HC does, in fact, provide more distractions)

XL isn't sure what he expected of a hypothetical husband, but his apparently actual husband who's also incredibly powerful ghost on the side pampers him, showers him with affection, and also brings him breakfast to bed, so fuck them vows, XL will take a husband over them any day.

(it would be nice if Xie Lian knew his name, though)

67 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

#2

KEITH, JIM, PLEASE

See the full post

83 notes - Posted May 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Every time I see claims that Hua Cheng stalked Xie Lian during the 800 years that passed between the end of book 4 and the beginning of book 1, I feel like fucking screaming. I’ve had enough of this nonsense for the past 4 years to last me a lifetime.

Sure, Xie Lian does have a stalker. His nickname is Bai Wuxiang.

239 notes - Posted October 29, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

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

Further inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

❕but also Sauron x Celebrimbor + slight Celebrimbor x reader❕

-> in which you discover Annatar aiding Celebrimbor in his work with the same unconventional method he used with you, but that doesn’t mean he has discarded you

Warnings: smut, voyeurism kink, exhibitionism kink, tease and denial, handjob (Annatar x Celebrimbor, Annatar x Reader) oral (R + C receiving from A), mutual masturbation (C x R), p in v (A x R), manipulation cause you still don’t know he’s Sauron, Sauron will have more influence over the Rings if he soft doms their creators or something, I just wanted to write pure filth

Note: sequel to Inspiration. I wasn’t expecting to write something like this but the idea wouldn’t leave me alone so I experimented a little🤭

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

You are not proud of the disappointment you feel knowing Celebrimbor has returned to his work. You should be glad that he has recovered enough to carry on with forging the Rings—using the designs with which you provided him, no less—and you are happy. Truly. It’s only that part of you wishes you still had the forge room to yourself and Lord Annatar.

You had not been alone with him since he had... aided you to finish the designs, and you are driving yourself mad with thoughts of what might happen when or if you shall find yourselves in an intimate setting again. Will he be poised as ever, as though you had never known each other most intimately? Or will there be recognition between you? Connection.

Repetition.

The thought sends a pleasant shiver racing down your spine, right as you reach the forge room. You stop to breathe. Even if Annatar is inside, he is there assisting Celebrimbor with his work, and that is your purpose as well. Nothing more.

Before you can push the doors open, just as your fingers nearly reach the wood, one slides ever so slightly ajar, as if moved by the wind. Except there is no wind, and the doors are too heavy to be simply blown open, and so quietly no less. But you cease to ask yourself how such a thing has happened the moment you catch a glimpse of the sight revealed by the small opening.

From your angle, you can see Celebrimbor at his worktable, Annatar sitting beside him. There would be nothing unusual about that, if they were not sitting so much closer than you have seen them do on previous occasions. If Annatar’s arm were not wrapped around Celebrimbor’s shoulders, as if to cradle him close. And if that may yet pass for an exceedingly warm gesture of friendship, there is no mistaking the rhythmic movement of Annatar’s other hand in the area of Celebrimbor’s lap beneath the table, or the nature of the smith’s tortured groans as he struggles through the finishing touches of a Ring.

You cover your mouth to prevent an audible gasp. So, you had been right to assume you were not the only one for whom Lord Annatar performs such unconventional acts of... creative encouragement. Your first, panicked thought is that you need to leave before they sense your presence, pretend as though you never witnessed such a thing. But your legs simply refuse to move. Your eyes will not, cannot turn away from the sight. You watch, heat blooming within your belly, as Annatar’s fingers pinch and fondle the tip of the smith’s pointed ear, and Celebrimbor shudders almost violently.

“Please,” he begs, barely above a whisper, “I can bear it no longer.”

“You are capable of much greater feats than you know, my friend,” Annatar encourages, ever so trusting. But Celebrimbor shakes his head in utter defeat. His hands cease their trembling work and lower the utensils on the table as he turns to Annatar with an anguished gaze.

“I beg you,” he all but whimpers, “grant me release.”

Annatar smiles, a tinge of disappointment in his eyes, and releases Celebrimbor altogether, standing from his seat. The smith cannot help but whine, looking down at what is sure to be a most helpless state of arousal, but makes no attempt to touch himself, either. He must have understood by now, as you did before, that he is not to act without Annatar’s permission.

A trembling breath escapes you. Your hand is on your stomach, having come to rest there you know not when, and you stifle the growing urge to reach lower, between your legs, if only to ease the light throb that has begun there with a quick press of your fingers.

You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut, and turn away to press your back to the wall by the door. It’s Lord Celebrimbor, you remind yourself. Your mentor. Your friend. If anything, you should be mortified that you have witnessed him in such a state of arousal, or envious that he is receiving the same attentions as you did from Annatar. And, to some extent, you are, but... seeing Annatar’s hands upon him only reminds you how they felt upon you, and Celebrimbor’s pleas for release remind you of the torturous stretch you had endured with Annatar keeping still inside of you, of the ache of helplessly unfulfilled pleasure and the beauty that had come from it.

Celebrimbor must have gathered his will, same as you did back then, and resumed his work, because his moans reach your ears again. You will your legs to carry you away, but all they do is take you back where you can peer through the crack in the door once more. Annatar is now hunched over Celebrimbor, mouth on his neck and hand back to stroking him beneath the table, and when the smith wavers anew in his feeble attempts to work, the cry he gives out at the loss of stimulation sends a bolt of pleasure to your clit. You press your thighs together, in vain. You cannot touch yourself in the hallway, where anyone might see you.

Just as you think you have gathered the resolve to flee to your chambers, where you may indulge in the pleasure of your own fingers without risking your dignity, Annatar says your name. It happens in an instant—a flick of his wrist, and the door slides all the way open, leaving you exposed to their sight.

Every cell in your body freezes.

“I am glad you have joined us,” Annatar greets politely, standing to his full height at Celebrimbor’s side.  “You need not linger at the door.”

Celebrimbor, on the other hand, goes into a wide-eyed panic that matches the one no doubt written on your own face. His jaw drops, trembling, and he fumbles beneath the table to make himself decent again before he shoots to his feet.

“I-I assure you,” he stammers, awfully flushed in the face, “this is not at all what you might imagine—”

“Do not fret, Celebrimbor,” Annatar intercedes, mildly amused. “She is quite familiar with my methods.”

A small gasp leaves you as you avert your eyes, heat flooding your skin. It is one thing to catch Lord Celebrimbor in the act, quite another to admit to your own. His eyes dart between you and Annatar as he blinks, stunned at the revelation.

“Come... come inside,” he urges you. “Shut the door.”

You do so in haste, but remain standing in the doorway. You cannot tell whether Celebrimbor is more angry or ashamed. Though he hardly has the right to judge your behaviour, given that he has engaged in similarly improper acts himself, if he were to banish one of you, it will not be the emissary of the Valar.

“Is it true?” he asks, thankfully seeming more curious than scandalized. You glance at Annatar, unsure, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod of his head. It serves as a balm to your nerves.

“Lord Annatar...” you begin, willing your voice to be steady as you look at Celebrimbor. “He helped me to finish the designs, my lord.”

Celebrimbor’s brows shoot up. His mouth opens, then closes. Then he scrambles to pick up the sketches by which he had been guided as he worked—your sketches—from the table, and holds them up to you.

“You made these, while...?”

“Indeed,” Annatar says, the sole word imbued with such pride and admiration, your knees weaken.

“But they are excellent! Flawless!” Celebrimbor protests, his tone raised in disbelief. “It cannot be that... Under such torment...?”

It is plain to see, from the distress in his eyes, that he truly does not understand how such a thing might be possible. This must be the first time Annatar has tried this with him, catching him as off guard as you had been, and he has yet to learn how to accept the gift as you did. A gift which is too precious, you realize, to be kept only to yourself, especially with the fate of all Middle-Earth at stake. Sympathy for Celebrimbor fills your heart, and you meet his questioning look with a slight nod. Once again, your gaze briefly meets Annatar’s, and something in his eyes along with your own inner realization gives you the boldness to go on and confess, “It helps, Lord Celebrimbor. If you allow it. And... it does not go unrewarded.”

Celebrimbor releases a stunned huff, and puts the paper back on the table with a small thud of his fingers against the wood.

“She is right,” Annatar speaks when Celebrimbor seems at a loss for words. “But then again...” His brow knits, and he ponders something. “No two creative minds are alike,” he muses. “And yours, Celebrimbor, I’m afraid is in a rather fragile state. Perhaps a less... direct approach would suit you better.”

Celebrimbor eyes him warily, but his interest is visibly piqued, your words having eased his reluctance to believe such a method might prove fruitful. Slowly, he returns to his seat.

“And... what might that be?” he asks, cautiously.

Annatar gives him a rather cryptic smile before he turns his gaze to yours, extending a hand towards you in invitation.

“Would you come here?” he beckons.

For a moment, you hesitate, glancing to Celebrimbor to find him as puzzled as you, then looking back at Annatar in silent question. He gives no answer, only waits patiently. Waits for your trust, as you have given it before.

And as before, you give it. Holding his gaze, you go to him, and place your hand in his. Your skin tingles pleasantly as he takes it in his gentle hold, reminding you how you had longed to feel his touch again. He pulls you close to him and wraps his other arm around your waist with elegance, almost as if preparing for a waltz. You are transfixed by his eyes as he speaks in that wise voice of his, close enough that his breath touches your lips.

“There are more ways to open one’s mind to their most natural instincts than touch itself,” he says. “Sometimes, one needs only to be reminded... shown... how fulfilling it is to cease denying oneself.”

The last words are spoken just as he presses his lips to yours, and you sigh into the gentle kiss. His mouth’s caresses are so languid, so patient as you follow their lead. He takes his sweet time tracing your lips with his tongue, then sliding it against your own, allowing them to intertwine and dance together at leisure, savouring each and every sensation. But that is not all he means to do, you realize as a sudden intake of breath reaches your ears, one which belongs to neither you nor Annatar. This sensuous display is meant for Celebrimbor—who is still sitting right at your side, though the haze of desire had all but erased that knowledge from your mind.

When Annatar removes his lips from yours with a softly wet sound, you cannot help but glance a bit self-consciously to the smith. His eyes are clouded with an emotion you have never seen in them in all your years working together—yearning of the purely carnal sort. Though he flushes at being caught eyeing you so, the look he sends Annatar holds a glint of ruefulness.

“You can hardly expect my eyes to not stray from my work,” he warns, “whilst you engage in such... titillating behaviour a mere glance away.”

“And yet,” Annatar says, looking at him but leaning into you, “I expect you to not only finish your work,” you give a soft gasp as he presses his lips to your neck, “but to craft your greatest creations yet.”

“I do not think—”

The protest dies in Celebrimbor’s throat as Annatar engulfs you in his arms and swiftly lifts you onto the table, close enough to Celebrimbor that you could reach out with your leg and rest a foot in his lap if you so wished. You make no move to do anything but remain right where Annatar has placed you, your breath quickening as he reaches to your ankles and begins to draw the skirts of your dress slowly up, up, over your knees, until they are gathered gracelessly around your waist and all that covers your modesty is your undergarments.

You can’t help but squirm lightly, adjusting to the most unusual exposure. It’s already more than you had ever imagined Celebrimbor would see of you, and now Annatar is running the palm of his hands gently along your thighs, coaxing you to part them and reveal the damp fabric between your legs. His piercing gaze won’t let you look away. He holds such power over you, willingly given yet ruinous in its might.

And he is no less in control as he lowers himself to his knees before you, in the space between your legs. The realization of what he means to do, and in what circumstances, punches a small mewl from your chest. But perhaps you should know better than to think you can anticipate his actions by now. You must only take what you are given, and at the moment he gives you feather-light caresses of your legs, from your ankles to the sensitive skin at the back of your knees, whilst his lips begin a trail of kisses upon the inside of your thighs. A few on the left, a few on the right. Languorous, attentive, drawing ever upward.

If you were aching before, you now crave him with devastating force. You want to moan, but some deeply rooted instinct within you still tries to clip the sounds in your throat, sharply aware of your audience. Unbidden, your eyes drift to Celebrimbor. His are glued to the spot where Annatar’s lips meet the soft flesh of your thigh, his lips slightly parted in silent desire, and his fingers digging into his own thigh as he no doubt withholds from seeking his own relief. You shudder with a sudden burst of bashfulness... but also the thrill of it. Of behaving yourself in such a scandalous manner, leaving all thoughts of propriety aside and wearing your pleasure on display.

Lifting his head from your leg, barely a few inches from where you need him most, Annatar gives Celebrimbor an encouraging look. “Go on, then,” he instructs, much like he had done when coaxing you into resuming your drawing whilst impaled on his length. Celebrimbor’s throat bobs with what looks to be a painful swallow, but he does as he is asked and picks the object of his labour back up.

Satisfied, Annatar aims a wolfish smile at you, then works to free you of the only fabric covering your wetness. Once he has pulled it down your legs and tucked it safely within his own robes, leaving you quivering in anticipation as the cool air meets your soaked center, he parts your legs once more and looks up at you.

“Would you be so kind,” he says, caressing your thighs, “as to share with Lord Celebrimbor exactly what transpired between us upon our past encounter? From beginning to end. In as much detail as your sensibility allows.”

He says it with as much ease as he would request that you bring Lord Celebrimbor some tea. You’d scoff at the absurdity, at the word ‘sensibility’, if not for his thumb, which begins to massage your clit with small, slow circles as he awaits your compliance. You are helpless to do anything but whimper as you nod, and will yourself to speak through stifled sounds of pleasure as your swollen bud sings beneath his touch.

“Lord Annatar... he touched me,” you begin, egged on by his approving gaze. You can hardly make the story sound as coherent or vivid as it felt at the time, but you do your best to at least remember the sequence of events. “First, he massaged my shoulders. Then, he traced his fingers along my cheek and... my hair... and then he... touched the tip of my ear. Tugged at it with his fingers. I-I was surprised, but... I let him, because it felt... so good.”

The word melts into a moan, for Annatar has replaced his finger with his lips, pressing them gently to your clit before giving it a firm lick. All inhibitions set aside, you lay your hand on Annatar’s head and hook your fingers into the bow at the back of it, marvelling at the softness of his tresses. He raises his eyes to yours as he continues to kiss you between your legs, and by the Valar, he is the most divine sight you have ever laid eyes upon.

“What then?” Celebrimbor asks, nearly as breathless as you feel. When you glance at him, his eyes are painstakingly glued to his work, obeying Annatar’s command. The Lord of Gifts gives your thigh a soft pinch, silently instructing you to do the same.

“Then, he kissed my neck,” you go on, in between mewls and little gasps of pleasure as Annatar makes a meal of your most intimate flesh. “And touched my breasts. He kneaded them and... pinched my nipples through my dress.” Almost absent-mindedly, your own hand which isn’t in Annatar’s hair does the very same now, overwhelmed by the combined elation his mouth offers at present and the memory you are recounting out loud. “Then... his hand went lower and... touched my— between my legs.” You avoid the word, and immediately find it laughable. Annatar’s face is buried in your cunt right now, so close to Celebrimbor that he can no doubt hear the wet sounds of his tongue lapping at your folds—why on Middle-Earth would you shy away from something as harmless as a mere word now?

As if to further emphasize that point, Annatar’s kisses turn more vigorous, and he slips a long finger past your entrance, adding to the squelch. You gasp and tighten your grip on his hair, writhing on the table.

“Then, he stopped,” you go on, and your voice might as well be one continuous, obscene whine. “Told me to stand, and sat in my chair instead. And then... I sat in his lap... with my back to him... with him inside of me.” You mewl as he slips in a second finger, and begins to curl them into your sweetest spots with ravaging precision. “And it felt so good... and I wanted to move so badly... but he said I was to finish the designs first... and I trusted him... so I obeyed. When I had him in me... I could finally let go and just... create.”

He groans into your cunt, and you quake with the overwhelming sensations. It’s too much, how he sucks your clit into the heat of his mouth, how his fingers put relentless and heavenly pressure to the parts within you where it most wrecks you to feel it. Your already breathy voice grows in pitch, littered with desperate mewls as you pant and writhe your way to your peak.

“Once I finished, he lifted me from the chair... and into his arms... and he took me against a wall... hard and deep... until, finally... finally... My lord!”

You grip his hair mercilessly as you clench around his fingers, lost to an onslaught of pleasure that leaves you gasping and panting without shame. Annatar laps at your folds all the way through it, until your hips begin to twitch with too much sensation to bear.

“Until, finally,” Annatar continues, calm and composed as he rises to his feet, “she found her well-earned release.” He cups your cheek, admiring your pleasure-dazed expression with a blend of pride and hunger as you lean into his touch. “And looked as splendid as her creations whilst she clenched around my cock.”

He kisses you, and you moan as you taste yourself on his tongue. You feel so light and so wonderfully tired, all you want is to fall into his arms, rest your head upon his shoulder and close your eyes. So you do, breaking away from his lips to melt into his embrace, where he welcomes you with utmost tenderness.

“She does,” Celebrimbor agrees. You open your eyes to find his gaze has strayed toward you after all, and is filled with a soft kind of awe. “You do. Together.”

Annatar coaxes you to part from him with care, and a pleased smile graces his lips as he looks down at Celebrimbor’s hand.

“As does the fruit of your labours.”

You notice then, too—Celebrimbor now holds a finished, most exquisite Ring.

“I suppose I have begun to understand what you meant by... surrendering,” he admits, contemplating the precious jewel before he sets it carefully into one of the nine ring holders on the table. He knits his brow, somewhat nervous as he turns to Annatar. “Am I to finish all the rest before...?”

“That would be rather cruel, would it not?” Annatar says indulgently. “To craft none rings is more time-consuming than to draw them, after all. Stand, Celebrimbor.”

Hope sparks in the smith’s eyes as he obeys. Annatar rearranges your dress, allowing it to fall over your legs once more, and leaves a tender caress on your cheek before he turns to Celebrimbor.

You are not sure what you’re meant to do, but you don’t feel strong enough to stand yet either way. It’s almost as though you’re peering through the crack in the door again as, without further teasing, Annatar parts Celebrimbor’s robes and unfastens his trousers, releasing the hard and swollen flesh beneath to the air as well as your sight. It’s strange to think you and the Lord of Eregion have now officially seen each other’s private parts not only bared, but also evident with arousal. Celebrimbor is already weeping at the tip as Annatar wraps his elegant fingers around his cock and gives it a tug.

“Oh, my friend,” he coos, cupping Celebrimbor’s cheek. The smith whines softly, leaning into his touch. “How you must be aching.”

Celebrimbor nods, beyond words as Annatar begins to stroke his cock. The Lord of Gifts claims his mouth, and the smith clings to his shoulders desperately. You remember how it felt, to have gone so long without release and finally have the promise of it within reach. Arousal stirs anew within you, as though it had not been thunderously relieved barely a minute before.

At the same time, however, you are beginning to feel quite out of place as the kiss unfolding before your eyes grows deeper, more intense, Annatar’s tongue dominating Celebrimbor’s. His movements are still teasingly slow, despite the promise that he would finally relieve Celebrimbor’s suffering, and the more self-conscious part of your mind is beginning to wonder whether you are not hindering Annatar’s plans, somehow.

“Should I...?” you say, hesitating to interrupt. “Would you prefer if I left you to...?”

“No, please,” Celebrimbor blurts out, breaking the kiss and flushing as he meets your eyes. Remembering himself and to whom he must submit, he turns to Annatar, and somewhat bashfully asks, “Would it be all right if she stayed?”

Annatar nods, pleased by his deference. “If that is her wish.”

They both look to you then, awaiting your response—Celebrimbor with hope, Annatar with patience, and perhaps a tinge of expectation. You nod, a welcome one for all three of you. Now that you have become a part of this creative process, you wish to see it through to the end, whenever Annatar deems that may be.

“Good,” Annatar smiles. “There are eight more Rings to be crafted, after all.”

The implication thrills you to the core. Only the first of the Nine is finished, and it had mostly been completed by the time you had joined Annatar and Celebrimbor in the forge. How many more sensuous games will the emissary of the Valar invent until all the Rings are finished? In how many ways will he have you unravel, mind and body? The creamy sensation between your legs grows ever more persistent as you realize Annatar is unlikely to let it recede any time soon.

Under your gaze, Annatar returns his attentions to Celebrimbor’s neck, nipping and sucking at his skin in rhythm with his still-languid strokes. Celebrimbor says your name, practically moans it, and he wears a deep frown as he looks at you, half from pleasure and half from guilt.

“I do not wish for you to think that...” he falters when Annatar’s teeth find his ear, “in all our time together, I was harbouring improper thoughts towards you...”

“It’s quite all right, my lord,” you reassure him, watching as Annatar’s thumb gathers the bead of arousal blooming at his tip before you give him a fond smile. “There were many things I did not understand about myself and the act of creation, until Lord Annatar helped me to discover them. There is no shame in sharing in such knowledge. I do not think so,” you add, a bit more quietly. If one of the other smiths were to go against Celebrimbor’s wishes for some reason and come inside the forge now, surely they would scorn the three of you for engaging in such apparent depravity together. But you are equally sure that Annatar would help them understand the importance of your endeavours, just as he had you and Celebrimbor.

Annatar pulls away from Celebrimbor’s neck, caressing his cheek as he wears an adoring smile with which he then graces you as well as he speaks. “It brings me such joy,” he says, “to see the greatest of Elven smiths working in such harmony. Learning from one another.”

“We learned from you, my friend,” Celebrimbor is quick to return the praise. “We have you to thank for everything.”

“Let us say that we should thank one another,” Annatar insists. And as if in his own gratitude, he kneels before Celebrimbor, though he does so in that same manner he did with you before, without losing an ounce of the authority he commands. If anything, having his gaze meet yours from below has a way of making you feel as though you are standing on a precipice, dangerously close to toppling into the abyss, and he is all that keeps you upright still. Celebrimbor certainly seems to share that sentiment, his fingers brushing Annatar’s smooth cheek with deep reverence, as if he barely dares to touch such beauty.

Annatar begins with small kisses peppered to Celebrimbor’s cock, tongue darting out ever so teasingly to flick against the straining length and sensitive tip. The pleading sound that escapes the smith’s throat combined with the sight has you crossing your legs where you are still sitting on the table, to better press your thighs together.

“Oh, by the Valar,” Celebrimbor rasps out as his length is all at once engulfed in Annatar’s mouth, not a trace of discomfort on his face as the smith’s cock sinks deep into his throat.

“Lord Annatar,” you breathe out, unable to contain yourself any longer, “may I touch myself?”

You expect—hope—to be given a hum of approval, the rumble of which in Annatar’s throat will surely prevent Celebrimbor from begrudging you this small interruption. But Annatar releases the smith’s cock abruptly, pulling a strained groan from him.

“You shall take your pleasure when I see fit,” he replies before returning to his task. His voice is soft, yet the command in it is clear. It only serves to highten your arousal. And really, you should not interfere with Celebrimbor’s long-awaited pleasure again, but you fear the wooden table might begin to splinter within your white-knuckled grip unless you do something.

“May I touch you, then?” you entreat.

This time, when Annatar frees his mouth, a mischievous smile is tugging at its corners. “So long as you do not interfere with my task,” he says, looking up at the trembling smith before him. “Our dear Celebrimbor might be quite upset if you do.”

Celebrimbor caresses Annatar’s hair, giving a slight shake of his head. “I shall gladly take whatever I am given.”

You, on the other hand, waste no time to take that which you have asked for and were generously granted. You leave your seat to go and kneel behind Annatar, humming with delight as your fingers caress the soft strands of his beautiful, long hair. You brush it to the side to reveal his neck, and begin to leave your own kisses there, laving the skin between his jaw and shoulder with affection as he bobs his head while sucking Celebrimbor.

How ironic that he should warn you about interfering with his task, for a change. But even now, you seem to be the one in more difficulty as you reach around his waist, seeking to gain access to the part of him you have been missing inside you for every second since your last joining had ended. It’s an awkward position, with him kneeling and you trying to work through the layers of his clothing from behind, and however you try, you cannot seem to figure out how to even part his robe enough to reach the fastening of the trousers beneath.

He groans impatiently, and you soon find out why—when, in a few swift movements and shuffles of fabric, he frees himself from their confines and takes your hand to wrap it around his cock. He is hard and eager, practically pulsing with need within your grip, and you are reminded that to offer you these gifts requires his own sacrifice, his own desire going unfulfilled.

His hands return to Celebrimbor whilst yours remains on his cock, and you marvel at the heat and firmness of him in your grip as you begin to stroke it. He is leaking generously at the tip, and you smear the wetness along his length as you hasten your pace, and you moan as though the ridges of him are catching on your inner walls instead of the palm of your hand as your cunt aches helplessly.

But you focus solely on him. Your lips travel up the curve of his neck, trying to adjust to the movements of his head as you lick a stripe up his ear, and catch the pointed tip between your teeth as you had been longing to for so long. He groans, a low, hoarse sound that must scrape against Celebrimbor’s cock oh so wonderfully. Or torturously, if the smith’s broken whimper is any indication. With Annatar, it tends to be a blend of both.

It isn’t a coincidence, you think, but rather Annatar’s perfectly controlled timing, when they both find their end at once. It’s plain to see, from the way Celebrimbor bucks forward with a sob of relief, that he is spilling inside Annatar’s mouth, who keeps it firmly closed around him, receiving every drop—whilst Annatar’s own hips give a tense jerk and he throbs in your hand, some of his spend landing on Celebrimbor’s pant leg and some dribbling down your fingers.

It’s nearly enough to have you coming yourself. Alas, you clench around the emptiness within you, gently stroking Annatar until he pulls away from both of you. Releasing Celebrimbor’s spent cock and removing your hand from his own length, he rises from the ground, poised as ever, leaving the smith stumbling back into his seat and you panting on your knees. It isn’t long, though, before Annatar’s hand is held out within the line of your sight, and you raise your eyes to find him looking down at you like a blessing sent to be your salvation—which he, in fact, is.

“Come, now,” he urges tenderly. “The floor is hardly the place for an Elf of your talents. And generosity.”

Touched by his compliments as always, you place your hand in his and let him pull you to your unsteady feet. Though he praises your generosity, the result of it hardly shows—his cock still appears to be as furiously rigid as ever, and you frown slightly as it catches your gaze.

“Have I not satisfied you well enough, my lord?” you ask, barely a whisper. He lifts your chin, having your gaze meet his.

“You have satisfied me wonderfully,” he reassures you. “However, I shall not be truly finished until I will it so. And we still have long hours of toil ahead of us. Do we not, Celebrimbor?”

The smith gives a small chuckle. He had tucked himself away, and is now leaning on the table, resting his chin on his fist as he looks at you and Annatar with a hazy gaze.

“I am afraid I do not possess your prowess, my godly friend. It shall be a little while before I am able to endure such wonderful torment again.”

“How fortunate, then,” Annatar says, “that our dear friend is willing to share in your burden.”

You think you would share in any burden he might ask you to, so long as he kisses you all through it the same as he does now. His tongue plunges past your lips, and your eyebrows raise slightly as you realize both that the musky taste you feel is Celebrimbor’s spend, and that he must have felt your taste as well when Annatar had kissed him after feasting on you.

You are tempted to reach for Annatar’s length again as you feel its inviting weight on your belly, but then his arms surround you and you are being swept in his embrace effortlessly. You wrap yourself around him as he carries you back to the chair right beside Celebrimbor’s, sitting down with you astride him. He makes quick work of lifting your dress to expose you to him once more. Nothing would have made you happier. The moment you are able to, you cant your hips so that your moist folds caress his cock, moaning softly as your clit catches on the tip of him.

Annatar murmurs your name, gaze trained on your mouth as he traces your slightly parted lips with his thumb, “So needy,” he muses. “You neglected to mention, when you told our little story, how you came undone with barely a few grazes of my fingers, right before I took you fully.” He leans into your ear, “Should we see if we can achieve that once more?”

He grips your hips, preventing you from seeking friction much like he did the last time you had been seated in his lap. But at least then, you were achingly full instead of empty.

“Please,” you whimper, pulling away so he may see the plea within your eyes as well. “I’ve missed you inside me. So much.”

Annatar regards you tenderly, as though genuinely touched by your sentiment.

“Very well, then,” he says, running his knuckles down your cheek. “When I next bring you to the height of your pleasure, it shall be whilst we are most intimately joined.”

Your eyelids flutter shut in relief, and you turn your head to press a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“Whether that is to be now, however…”

You open your eyes to find a now familiar glint of mischief in his.

“Celebrimbor.” He turns his gaze to the smith, who seems quite surprised to be addressed in the midst of your exchange. “If you were to choose,” Annatar begins, voice honeyed with promise, “would you like me to keep you full while you work... or to hear me fill her?”

Your heart all but stills in your chest. It was one thing to put yourself at Annatar’s mercy, but for him to have Celebrimbor decide your fate is a turn you had not expected. Perhaps it is only the illusion of control which he offers, a choice he asks Celebrimbor to make only for him to do the opposite instead. Either way, it’s a new flavour of the same addictive torment you have known at his hands, and your heartbeat practically echoes between your legs as you await Celebrimbor’s answer.

For his part, the smith seems at an utter loss. He meets Annatar’s expectant gaze, then your pleading one. “Both,” he confesses in the end. “Only... might you see to her first? I am quite sated for the moment, and she…” His eyes drop to your glistening folds. “Oh my dearest, look how wet you are.”

He forgets himself for a moment, resting his hand on your thigh. It’s nice and warm upon your already heated skin, but tenses when Celebrimbor notices Annatar eyeing it with a slightly raised eyebrow. Realizing he had failed to ask for permission, the smith bows his head in apology and begins to retreat.

Annatar, however, lays a hand upon his, keeping it pressed to your skin. He must have deemed, in the end, that the touch was tentative enough to count as a plea for more rather than a claim to it. He meets your gaze with a searching look and, finding nothing but the heat of anticipation there, he slides Celebrimbor’s hand further up your thigh, guiding it to the aching flesh between your legs.

A breath escapes Celebrimbor as he feels you intimately. Annatar ensures the tips of the smith’s fingers find your bundle of nerves, and guides them into circling it with torturous slowness before leaving him to carry on with the touch on his own. Your eyes fall shut, relishing the stimulation even as it worsens the emptiness you feel within.

“Wet indeed, is she not?” Annatar murmurs. Celebrimbor nods, unable to look away from the sight of your flesh beneath his fingers. You’ve never had two pairs of eyes trained on your exposed sex, drinking it in at the same time, and the rush brought by that fact alone pulls a whimper from you. Celebrimbor’s pace increases slightly as your hips chase his touch, but Annatar puts a tempering hand to his. “Not too much,” he instructs. “Not yet.”

Looking down, the sight you find is most frustrating. Annatar’s cock is so close, lying rigid and eager right before your core, yet your cunt weeps helplessly under much too tame a touch. You feel like you might cry if you don’t get to come soon, but you remind yourself to breathe and leave yourself to Annatar’s care, knowing his ways will leave you more fulfilled in the end than what you think you need in the heat of passion.

To your partial relief, Annatar takes himself in hand, teasing the tip of his cock at your entrance, below Celebrimbor’s fingers. He leans closer, as though he means to kiss your cheek, but before his lips touch your skin, he gives Celebrimbor a meaningful look, tapping a suggestive finger to the side of your neck closest to him. Here.

Celebrimbor’s eyes brighten with understanding and eagerness. They both lean in, and then there are two sets of lips, two tongues, wet and warm and soft on the sensitive skin between your neck and both shoulders at once. All whilst Celebrimbor caresses your clit, and Annatar soaks his cockhead through your folds, and you moan as you tremble under their combined attentions.

Then, all at once and at long last, Annatar tightens his hold around your waist, and pulls you onto him. You gasp and mewl, your hand flying to grip Celebrimbor’s sleeve as you are finally filled to the brim. Celebrimbor pulls away from your neck to look down, a shuddering breath escaping him at the sight of Annatar’s flesh engulfed by yours. His fingers falter on your clit.

“Tell me,” Annatar murmurs in your ear, “is our friend still ‘quite sated’?”

You lock eyes with Celebrimbor, then lower them to his crotch. He opens his legs slightly as you reach out to return his intimate touch, and groans as you feel the renewed hardness between them.

“He is hard, my lord,” you reply, breathless, as Annatar retreats from you enough to watch you fondle Celebrimbor through his clothes for himself. You would like to relieve him, and you wish to begin riding the cock within you more than anything, but you know better than to do either before Annatar has allowed it. Your brow knits in apology as you remove your hand from Celebrimbor. He catches it in his, though he doesn’t return it to where he aches most.

“Please,” he breathes out, gaze shifting between you and Annatar. “Would you...? Could she...? If only for a while?”

Annatar smiles, wickedly. “We’ll see later if she feels inclined to return your generosity. For now, Celebrimbor,” he gently removes the smith’s hand from where it was still working slowly between your legs, “I believe the skills of your fingers are needed elsewhere.”

Celebrimbor deflates somewhat, releasing your hand. But he is no longer a stranger to this game, nor does he question Annatar’s judgment. “Yes,” he agrees, shifting in his chair to face the table. “Yes, of course.”

“Excellent,” Annatar praises, his voice coated in the sweetest honey. “As for you…” He takes hold of your chin, turning your head so you meet his gaze. “You may take your pleasure. Once. Then, you shall lend your talents to the making of the Rings, along with our friend. Under my instruction,” he adds with the kind of gentle firmness only he can manage. You nod at once.

“Yes, Lord Annatar,” you promise breathlessly, already beginning to fuck yourself onto him. “Oh, thank you.”

He takes on a most humble expression, though you are too busy seeking the right angle at which to ride his cock to notice his carefully crafted façade. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

It truly is—for your pleasure, as well as Celebrimbor’s, belongs to him. The smith performs his craft with a faint smile as he listens to your pretty moans, his mind no longer muddled by the toils of the past weeks, both of you trusting blindly in your beloved emissary. And your sweet surrender to his will shall bleed into the Rings through the fingertips with which you bring them into being, and bind them to their Lord all the more closely.

He claims your mouth, your moans melting on his tongue as his cock throbs in pleasure with each eager roll of your hips—and creation has never tested sweeter, indeed.

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

Damn this was a rollercoaster okay here we go

Almárea was not scared of them, which surprised you. In fact, she approached them and kept asking them a million questions as the Orcs were growing a little frustrated with her curiosity. They were, however, answering all her questions patiently. You cracked a smile at that. She was still a child – curious and so full of life.

I’m just imagining the Orcs sweating their asses off thinking ‘must not upset the boss’s daughter if we make her cry we die be nice be nice’. She’s such a little menace just by existing and she doesn’t even know it🤣

“I shall not allow him to hurt you, uncle. I shall not, I promise,” you kissed Celebrimbor’s forehead and your uncle looked up at you with hazy eyes and a loving smile. “You have endured and suffered so much because of him already. But no more, no more, uncle… Now you must rest.”

THANK YOU for not killing Celebrimbor in this one. This is still tragic af but honestly I don’t see how reader would have forgiven Sauron if he had done to her uncle what he did in canon.

Long silence occurred. Sauron laid his cold and empty eyes upon you, sitting on the floor with your back pressed to the wall and crying silent tears.

“It is her choice,” he answered, softly, “but I doubt she wants to go with us.”

AAAA when I got here without knowing the end of the fic I was like: is he genuinly hoping she will follow him for him as well as their daughter? Is there quiet yearning in this or do I just want him to be yearning so it hurts me more in all the best ways??

“It was the only moment when I felt that I should, perhaps, abandon my old life and remain in Eregion as Annatar by your side forever,” he confessed.

Again I was like STOP DON’T GIVE ME HOPE. Same with when he kept leaving her little gifts on her bed. I would have folded so fast it’s not been funny😩

“A forge,” she answered. “I miss uncle Celebrimbor’s one and this place makes me feel as if I was back there. Oh, daddy, can you imagine all the beautiful things we could craft here?” She asked with a smile.

Sauron froze for a moment as you watched the scene with a raised eyebrow. He looked around as if he had just realised something brilliant.

Okay this is hilarious. Kid, you have no idea the shit storm you just started. Brilliant🤣

“I miss you,” you confessed. “I miss being close to you,” you added.

“You miss Annatar, not me,” he shrugged his arms and looked out of the window again.

*chanting to myself* I must not feel bad for him I must not feel bad for him

Fuck I feel bad for him😭 especially after THIS:

“Come here, my love,” Sauron pulled you closer and wrapped his arms around you. “Oh, how I have missed you, too, my darling. And even though it brought me great pain, I knew I had to wait for you to come to me out of your own free will.”

TELL ME HE IS HONEST MY HEART CANNOT TAKE IT OTHERWISE

I mean it seems like he is in this fic but I have such deep trust issues with Sauron I’m always scared he’s gonna flip the tables out of nowhere😅

“You are going to have many,” Sauron spoke as he reached his hand out to caress her hair. “And each of you will get their own kingdom to rule over in my name and their own Ring,” he shared his new plan as a shiver went down your spine. “And all Middle-earth will be healed at once for your mother’s light and my darkness combine like two precious metals; balancing and amplifying everything I could ever be on my own.”

Oh no there will be MULTIPLE MINI SAURONS RUNNING AROUND👀👀👀 but the balance thing is beautiful and I’m gonna pretend like maybe Middle-Earth isn’t still totally screwed (it is but who could resist him when he talks like that?😩)

His love is so twisted but all of this was delicious. We the Sauron girlies thank you for the good food🤭❤️

— BLESSED (III)

PART ONE || PART TWO

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!half-Elf!Reader

SUMMARY — You have no choice but to follow Sauron and your daughter to Mordor because you do not want to abandon her. As time passes, you find yourself being lured by your husband's charm once more as the memories of his cruelty in Eregion begin to fade away.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — And here we are go with the last part! I know I probably write Sauron's relationship with his daughter in a very idealistic way – that in canon he would be most likely way worse. But writing it like that would bring me no joy. 🤷🏻‍♀️ It's a fic for dad!Sauron and I want him to be at least a bit decent while we're at it! 😤

WARNINGS — Reader's father is dead (he was human, so she outlived him), manipulating, gaslighting, toxic and abusive marriage between the Reader and Sauron, Sauron being a very mid dad who manipulates his daughter and teaches her how to be evil like him, child in danger (nothing happens in the end), murder (of the Orcs), Celebrimbor has gone mad-mad, immaculate conception (yes, again!)

WORD COUNT — 4,450

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

BLESSED (III)

Celebrimbor was out of his mind again. Your heart ached for him as you were sitting next to him and caressing his hair softly as if he was a child. He had spent centuries taking care of you and now it was your turn to return the favour. You kept sobbing, feeling angry at yourself that you could not protect him.

Sauron was gone. After finding out where The Rings were, he had left in a hurry, leaving you with a few Orcs that had come to the forge in the meantime. They wanted to plead their allegiance to your husband and the very first task they had been given was to watch over you, your daughter and your uncle. To make sure none of you would escape.

Almárea was not scared of them, which surprised you. In fact, she approached them and kept asking them a million questions as the Orcs were growing a little frustrated with her curiosity. They were, however, answering all her questions patiently. You cracked a smile at that. She was still a child – curious and so full of life.

So full of light, too. You could not let the darkness win within her.

“I shall not allow him to hurt you, uncle. I shall not, I promise,” you kissed Celebrimbor’s forehead and your uncle looked up at you with hazy eyes and a loving smile. “You have endured and suffered so much because of him already. But no more, no more, uncle… Now you must rest.”

“Your daughter…” He mumbled out and you looked down at his face with a sad smile. “Is she not the most precious? She is the exact copy of you, sweet (Y/N). You were a girl like her once, running around this very forge.”

“I remember, uncle,” you sobbed. “I remember it vividly. My father and you working together, my mother still happy and full of life, before she began a lifetime of mourning. I remember…”

You pulled him closer and tried to come up with an idea how to save him. Even if Sauron would not kill him – he had made this promise to Almárea when she had revealed to him Lady Galadriel had been the one to have The Rings now and you wanted to believe he would keep that promise – you still had a feeling your husband would use Celebrimbor somehow or hurt him. 

“Almárea?” You called out for her and she turned around to lay her eyes upon you. You beckoned her over and she nodded at the Orcs before running up to you. “Almárea, do you want uncle Celebrimbor to be safe?”

“Of course, mummy,” your daughter’s eyes widened.

“Can you distract them as I walk him out of here? I will be right back,” you whispered as you pointed at the Orcs with your chin.

“I do not know, mummy… Last time I listened to you, daddy was very angry…” She looked down, nervously.

“Almárea, please. Do you love uncle Celebrimbor?” You asked.

“Yes, of course,” she nodded.

“Then, please…”

“But will you come back to me? Truly?” She lifted up her eyes and looked into yours with a hint of anxiety.

“My darling, always. I shall never abandon you,” you promised, truthfully. Your heart ached at the thought she was not as sure of it as you were.

Eventually, she nodded as she turned around towards the Orcs once more. She ran up to them joyfully and kept asking them questions. When you moved up, dragging Celebrimbor with you, they did not even flinch, which meant that your daughter’s deception was working.

You felt bad for leaving her with them even for a short moment but at this moment it was your uncle who was the most vulnerable and who needed you more. You owed him that, at least.

You walked him out of the forge and hurried to the secret tunnel below the city. The Orcs who had taken over Eregion were feasting now in havoc in the courtyard, which distracted them enough to make it possible for you to lead your uncle safely to the passage.

You walked inside with him and he was following you like a trusting child. In the middle of the passage, you bumped into Herald Elrond. Your heart was in joy to see him and to know that he was safe. He had been some sort of a cousin to you – his father had also been a friend of Celebrimbor and he also was a half-Elf. You had many things in common and you had been close friends in your youth.

“(Y/N), thank the Valar,” he sighed. “Where is your daughter? I was sent here by the High King to make an attempt to rescue you and–” He began.

“I must go back,” you shook your head with your eyes full of tears. “Take uncle Celebrimbor to safety. Heal his mind. Forget about me,” you pleaded and he furrowed his brows.

“What are you talking about?” He asked. “Where is Almárea?”

“Please, Elrond. You must not know,” you insisted before kissing your uncle’s forehead once more and caressing his cheeks to tell him goodbye.

“(Y/N)!” Elrond called out for you when you turned around to go back to Eregion and to your daughter.

“If you love me and respect me,” you began. “If you love Celebrimbor… Just take him away from here. That is all I ask for,” you insisted and hurried back to Eregion. “Do not follow me!” You exclaimed after hearing him trying to rush after you.

He eventually listened to you because he had a huge love for Celebrimbor and he could see the state of him was not the best. You heard the sound of their steps subduing as you went back to Eregion. 

You went back to the forge, feeling a bit more peaceful on the inside, knowing that you managed to save your uncle from Sauron. You nodded at Almárea and she nodded back at you, visibly relieved to see you coming back to her.

Her father came back not long after, too. He was wearing a breastplate and holding Morgoth’s crown in his hand, which was dripping blood – you could feel from afar its purity and light. It was Elven.

“Have you killed her?” You whispered with widened eyes.

“Sadly, no,” Sauron answered with a smirk. “But I got The Nine,” he added and you looked away, feeling defeated. “Speaking of, where is Celebrimbor?”

“Far away,” you mumbled out, expecting him to lash out.

Surprisingly, he did not. He shrugged his arms.

“Whatever. He is no use to me anymore. Almárea, we are leaving,” he extended his free hand and nodded at her.

“You cannot take her away from me!” You turned your head around again to watch what she would do. She hesitated but then she ran up to him and squeezed his hand, which felt like a punch straight into your heart.

“Where are we going, daddy?” She asked.

“To our new home,” Sauron answered and turned around, dragging her behind him but she remained still. “What is it?” He asked with an irritated sigh.

“We are taking mummy with us, right?” She asked.

Long silence occurred. Sauron laid his cold and empty eyes upon you, sitting on the floor with your back pressed to the wall and crying silent tears.

“It is her choice,” he answered, softly, “but I doubt she wants to go with us.”

“On the contrary. I have no choice,” you gritted your teeth, clumsily standing up. “I must go where she goes. Even if it is a path I hate to follow.”

“Do you truly realise who I am?” Your husband titled his head at your words. “All the stories they have told you about me when you were a child – I am worse than any of them.”

“I am fully aware,” you approached him and held Almárea’s free hand. “And that is why I must go to make sure you do not turn her into a monster like you.”

It took you a few days of travel with the filthy army of Orcs to get to Mordor. You and Sauron did not exchange a single word during this trip. Almárea was riding with you on your horse for half of the day and then she would go to ride with her father. You made no stops on your way, so after arriving in Mordor, you and your daughter were exhausted.

The land was dark and barren, full of fire and ashes. It looked like hell but you decided not to complain because you realised you were on thin ice already – Sauron did not treat you like his consort in any way. Apparently, you would be nothing but a mother to his child from now on. Any sign of disobedience could be punished with exile and that was the last thing you wanted. You needed to be close to your daughter.

He ordered the Orcs to build him a grand fortress but until then, you resided in a big mansion that had once belonged to a rich human family of The Southlands. You had an awful view of Mount Doom from there and the rooms were all beautifully decorated but also dusty and worn out.

Once again – you did not complain. You did not dare.

You followed Sauron to the chambers he had decided would be yours and Almárea’s. He was carrying her in his arms as she was half-asleep already. You watched him put her to bed and caress her head as you sat down on the chair next to the bed. You held her little hand and squeezed it lovingly, watching her drift off to the land of dreams. Those past few days had been difficult and exhausting for her.

Sauron straightened his back and looked down at you with a bit of contempt but also affection – mixed together, they made you feel deeply uncomfortable.

“Do you remember?” He asked, speaking his very first sentence to you in days.

You furrowed your brows and looked up at him, questioningly. Your husband extended his hand and touched your cheek with it.

At that moment, your vision got blurry and you felt yourself go back in time a few years to one, specific memory. One of the most beautiful days you had ever lived.

You were sitting by the river, in a field full of flowers. Almárea was about a year old and clumsily taking her first steps. You watched Annatar helping her and chuckling at her harmless but funny falls as she kept giggling and blabbering, excitedly. The sun was slowly setting and you felt at peace. You truly believed your whole life would be just like that.

When Sauron took his hand away from your face, you found yourself back in Mordor, stripped of any faith and any dignity.

“Why did you show me that?” You asked him, angrily, as your eyes filled with fresh tears.

“It was the only moment when I felt that I should, perhaps, abandon my old life and remain in Eregion as Annatar by your side forever,” he confessed.

“Perhaps you should have,” was all you answered, in a whisper nearly inaudible as you watched him walk away with tears streaming down your cheeks.

You had cried out so many of them recently that you were starting to feel hollow and empty.

Weeks passed, maybe months. You had lost track of time since all your days were the same. You were given quite a lot of freedom because Sauron was sure you would never leave his side as long as Almárea was there. You were allowed to walk around the mansion and even take walks although you did not crave them at all since Mordor was not the perfect place to spend time outside.

You were barely exchanging any words with your husband and you seemed to avoid each other. However, he was making sure you were not short on anything. Once in a while there was a package waiting for you on your bed. Inside it you would find gifts – books to read or new dresses. And yesterday you had found an embroidery set, which filled your heart with joy.

You missed embroidery and you even considered it quite thoughtful that he had remembered about it. So, you were sitting by the window and focusing on your craft, trying to recreate Mount Doom, which your daughter loved for some reason. You wanted to make her happy.

You were focused on your work when the doors opened loudly, making you misplace the needle and hurt yourself as you hissed and looked up at your husband.

“Where is Almárea?” He asked, looking around the room.

“Is she not with you? Are you not teaching her your craft of treachery and deception like every day?” You asked with a sigh, defeated.

Sauron rolled his eyes but decided not to comment on your remark.

“I told her to go back to her mother about two hours ago,” he informed you and your heart skipped a beat at that revelation.

“Why didn’t you walk her here yourself?” You asked.

“I had an important matter to attend to and it is not like she is a toddler, is it?” Sauron clenched his jaw but you spotted a glimpse of panic in his eyes. “Where is she?”

“How can I know?! I thought she was with you!” You stood up instantly and put your embroidery set down before rushing out of your chambers. “Almárea!” You called out. “Almárea!”

“Have you seen Lady Almárea?” Sauron asked one of the Orcs walking down the hall.

“N-no, my Lord Sauron,” the Orc shook his head and you watched your husband sit his throat just like that. Usually, you found this behaviour of his dreadful. But now you were too scared and worried for your daughter to care

You kept searching for her all over the mansion, calling out her name, leaving a pile of dead Orcs behind because none of them could answer Sauron about Almárea’s location.

“I think she must have gone outside,” you said after bumping into your husband in the corridor. You watched his eyes widen even further in terror and concern. You snorted at that. “What are you? Scared of losing your precious tool?” You asked him with contempt.

That only angered him further as he grabbed your arm and squeezed it so tightly that you were sure there was a bruise forming already.

“Do not ever say that again,” he drawled out through gritted teeth right into your face. “Do not speak of matters you have no idea of.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded. Despite everything between you two – it seemed like you shared a thread together and that was love for your daughter. And because you were a worried mother, you regretted inflicting any pain upon a worried father.

“Forgive me,” you whispered and he let go of your arm.

“Do you have any idea where she could go?” Sauron asked you and you shook your head before freezing as you realised.

“Mount Doom,” you whispered. “For some reason, she adores it,” you explained.

“We must not waste any moment then,” Sauron grabbed your wrist and dragged you behind him as you two ran out of the mansion.

The forsaken volcano was not very far away from your home but it still took you quite a while to get there. The air was poisonous around it, making you choke and tear up. You were no mortal, therefore you were in no danger, but it was still an inconvenience. 

“If anything happened to her, I shall be the one to kill you, whatever it takes!” You threatened your husband and he did not even say anything to this. He let go of your wrist and proceeded to climb up.

You followed him but in many places the ground was slippery and you needed his support. His hand would grab you each time you stumbled and pull you up.

Breathing heavily, both covered in dirt from the ashes, you stood there, petrified, seeing Almárea sitting by the edge of the volcano and staring at it spitting out fire. She seemed to be content with her position. You looked up at Sauron with terror in your eyes and he left you behind to approach your daughter with extended hands.

“Almárea, what are you doing here? Have you not been told to never go outside without me or your mother?” Sauron asked, carefully.

“Ugh, daddy, I know, I am sorry. I was just so curious about this mountain and guess what? It is even better than I have imagined,” she confessed with a smile. “Do you know what it reminds me of?”

“What, Almárea?” He asked, taking a few more small steps closer to her.

“A forge,” she answered. “I miss uncle Celebrimbor’s one and this place makes me feel as if I was back there. Oh, daddy, can you imagine all the beautiful things we could craft here?” She asked with a smile.

Sauron froze for a moment as you watched the scene with a raised eyebrow. He looked around as if he had just realised something brilliant.

“Yes, I can, my darling. And we will,” he assured her. “But please, come to me and mummy now, will you?” He extended his hand even further and she nodded, eagerly.

You both gasped watching her stand up because one little wrong move could cause her to fall down the volcano. She, however, seemed to be oblivious. She skipped along towards her father and Sauron picked her up in an instant, squeezing her tight and caressing the back of her head.

Your heart swelled inside your chest at the realisation that he truly cared for her and truly loved her  – even if it was not enough to save her from making her play a part in his schemes.

“Can we go back home, please?” You pleaded and it was the very first time you called that awful place your home.

Sauron nodded at you and you began your walk down the mountain. You were still shaking slightly and holding onto his sleeve to make sure you would not fall. Just like in the old days, he was bringing you comfort and safety – he was making you feel protected even if it was only being protected from a fall.

When you reached your mansion, Sauron took Almárea to the chambers she shared with you. Her skin and robes were dirty with mud and ashes, therefore you prepared her a bath and helped her to undress and get inside the bathtub.

“Call for me if you need anything,” you told her as you placed a new dress on the chair for her to dress herself into after the bath. “Be careful, my darling,” you smiled at her and left her alone in the bathroom, although you left the door ajar just in case.

Sauron was still inside your chambers and staring out of the window at Mount Doom. You sighed at the sight of his back turned on you and you decided to approach him softly.

Your hands acted before you allowed them to and they placed themselves on his arm softly. Your body ached for him and his presence; it was too used to his touch.

He flinched a little and turned his head around to look down at you with a puzzled expression.

“I miss you,” you confessed. “I miss being close to you,” you added.

“You miss Annatar, not me,” he shrugged his arms and looked out of the window again.

“Was Annatar not you? From the very beginning, my husband was Sauron. I only chose to be blind to see it,” you whispered and he looked back at you again, surprised to hear your words.

“Do I not repulse you?” He snorted.

“It does not change the fact I love you still,” you sighed and pressed your cheek to his arm. You both remained dirty from the ashes but you did not mind that all because today’s shared experience of fear and concern for your daughter had brought you two close together once more.

“Your love differs from mine,” he pointed out, a little harshly.

“It has not escaped me,” you let out a chuckle and nuzzled your face deeper into his sleeve. “But it is alright that we love differently. I do not want to be your Queen, I do not want you to share your power with me. All I want is to–”

“Have a family with me,” Sauron finished the sentence softly and you looked up at him, gently. It was the very first time in a long time when your eyes filled with affection for him again. “I was never keen on the idea of having offspring,” he admitted. “But then you made me realise what a blessing children might be,” he cracked a smile and raised his hand to caress your cheek. “I was terrified of my potential child stealing my powers and overthrowing me but Almárea… Her powers and her mind terrify me in the most exquisite way. Do you know why she is so perfect?” He asked and you shook your head. “Because she is half you. She is half light and half darkness. The perfect balance and what else could possibly heal Middle-earth?”

You hated yourself but you found yourself falling for his beautiful words once again. You could never be sure after everything that had happened if his sweet nothings, promises and love declarations were ever genuine. Perhaps, you would forever wonder about it. But despite all of that, the dreadful memories of Eregion’s downfall and his behaviour then were becoming blurry with time and you were ready to move on; to start another chapter with him.

And, as usual, you had an excuse for your husband, too. He had been nervous then. Of course he had been the worst version of himself. But it did not mean he would always be like this. Right now he was not.

“Come here, my love,” Sauron pulled you closer and wrapped his arms around you. “Oh, how I have missed you, too, my darling. And even though it brought me great pain, I knew I had to wait for you to come to me out of your own free will.”

“Here I stand,” you whispered and a single tear streamed down your cheek.

“Almárea asked me about us,” Sauron put his hands on your arms and moved away slightly to be able to look at your face. “She wonders if we still love each other. I told her it was complicated.”

“I told her the very same thing,” you smiled sadly.

“But it is not, is it?” He raised an eyebrow and you shook your head, laughing nervously through your tears.

“No,” you admitted. “It is not.”

“It is true that I had my reasons to choose you out of all Elven maidens. And it is true that I was scared of having a son with you because I thought that the chances of a son overthrowing me would be higher,” he admitted and you furrowed your brows. “But you have become the most dear to me, the most precious,” he confessed and turned you around, making you look at Mount Doom as his hands lowered themselves to your abdomen.

You knew what he was about to do. You flinched at first, torn on the inside if it was truly what you wanted. Last time you had been deceived but now you would willingly allow it, despite knowing the true nature of the man who was your husband.

You looked down at his hands resting on your womb. He was still wearing a golden ring on his finger that you had put there on the day of your wedding. And you were still wearing yours because you still loved him despite hating yourself for it. You still wanted to be around him as if he was something addictive that you could not live without. And your womb was still open for more of his offspring.

You relaxed and when he sensed your consent, you could feel the warmth radiating off of his hands and filling you up, forming a new life inside of you.

You put your hands on top of his and squeezed them for courage.

“A son,” he whispered into your ear with lots of satisfaction and excitement.

“Another tool for you to use,” you pointed out.

“Another child for you to love and spoil,” Sauron brushed your hair strand and leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Another thread of love binding us together.”

“Mummy? Daddy?” Almárea’s voice made you both turn around. She walked out of the bathroom in her new dress and kept looking at you two with a big grin. “Does it mean you are in love again?” She asked, full of hope.

“Oh, my darling, we have never stopped being in love,” you assured her and opened your arms to allow her to give you a hug. You did not want her to know all the details about the nature of your relationship with her father. She had already seen and witnessed way too much.

She wrapped her arms around you and hugged you tight, which only made her smile grow even wider as she looked up.

“I am going to have a sibling!” She exclaimed, happily, after sensing the new life inside of you.

“You are going to have many,” Sauron spoke as he reached his hand out to caress her hair. “And each of you will get their own kingdom to rule over in my name and their own Ring,” he shared his new plan as a shiver went down your spine. “And all Middle-earth will be healed at once for your mother’s light and my darkness combine like two precious metals; balancing and amplifying everything I could ever be on my own.”

“But… But you will still rule over us all, right, daddy?” Almárea asked hopefully, as if she was already scared of the responsibility that one day would be put upon her shoulders.

“Oh, of course, little one,” Sauron smiled lovingly at her. “I shall always bear the biggest burden of power for that is a father’s one to carry.”

He loved her – of that you were sure now. But no amount of his love could protect her from his schemes and his manipulations. Therefore, he had to love you as well and no amount of cruelty he had put you through contradicted it.

That was the way Sauron loved. It was a cursed devotion but also a blessed one.

MASTERLIST

[liz-allyn]

heat of the moment, pt 6 - carpe diem (finale) [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]

summary: everything ends, eventually.  angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - “mystery spot”

words: 11.6k

warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly. in this chapter: tw description of death by car accident, fire, drowning, asphyxiation, self h*rm, mass casualty event.

a/n - don't you hate it when stories just dump a ton of exposition in the last chapter? haha fuck

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

The sun had long set as you crouched down stealthily on a roof overlooking an industrial complex next to the Holland Tunnel. It was near the entrance on the New York side of the Hudson River, far from the dumpster you sought out. 

After leaving Claire, you had met Peter across town and inspected the burned-out site tediously. There wasn’t much left behind, save for a few singed sheets of paper nearby. Shipping invoices for an address on the other side of Manhattan. 

Alarms went off in your head at the perplexity of someone dumping their trash all the way over here. You were determined to follow this lead, and quickly. 

Working against time, you were now in pursuit. You gazed out over the street below as you studied the tall, rectangular, art deco-style, brick structure. The exteriors looked repainted and somewhat modernized, part of ongoing renovations to the Holland Tunnel, you figured. Now at the heart of the tallest building, a 50-foot-wide clock face doubled the size of ‘Big Ben,’ with golden dials that added to the aesthetic.

The clock face leered maliciously at you, like a hungry dragon perched on a tower. Like the hands would come alive, and spring out sharp teeth that gobbled you up.

What a way to go.

The face stares down at you, knowingly, like a proverbial ‘Eye of Sauron,’ meeting you at the edge of Mordor. The minute hand lurches past 10:50 to 10:51, reminding you of its quicksilver nature.

You’d never made it past 10:30 PM before. 

You’re deep behind enemy lines. 

Wearing the Spider suit, Peter swung to your position, his feet landing on the roof as gently as a cat’s. He crouched down to your level, lifting his mask from his sweaty face.

“Okay, so something is definitely off with that building,” Peter whispered. “It’s using a ton of power. Way more than any New York City building should.” He noted your distant look and silence, hypnotized by the ominous feeling the clock gave you. He eyed you suspiciously, “Exactly what are we looking for here?”

You pursed your lips, observing the slow crawl of vehicle traffic clogging itself into the tunnel. You could see the lights of a construction crew near the tunnel entrance. You smelled the heavy fumes of semi trucks trickling in between passenger vehicles. You felt the wind chilling the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Something bad,” you replied grimly.

Peter stared at you incredulously, brow furrowed, waiting for further explanation. The humor was beginning to evaporate from his mood, a heavy tension settling in between you. No further explanation followed.

“Okay,” he declared, more firmly now. “We’re done here.”

That caught your attention. He reached for you and you flinched back. “No, wait, we can’t leave!”

“Honestly, this has gone on far enough,” Peter replied with a serious tone, his mocha eyes filled with concern. “You start talking about time loops at breakfast and then you throw muffins at me and ghost me for hours, you won’t answer any of my questions, you can’t just lay shit out like that and not explain yourself—”

“We have to get inside that building.”

“Why?!” he snapped, temper flaring. You knew his frustration was branching from his anxiety, and you had to find a way to diffuse it.

“Something inside that building is affecting your abilities!” you whispered harshly. You were also losing control. “Why don’t you want to find out what it is?”

A deep crease formed in his brow, stubbornness feeding indignation. “Tell me why. Why can’t we just go home right now? Tell me the truth!”

You pulled your eyes away, dropping them to the ground. “We can’t go home, Peter,” you firmly stated, and it sounds like you’re admonishing a child.

“Tell me why right now, or I throw you over my shoulder—”

“Because I never make it back home alive!” you blurted out.

He blinks at you. Eyes narrow. Observes you. Brow furrows. Head tilts. Pupils go wide. Face pales. Heart rate increases. 

“What do yo—” the words trickle off, shrinking away as they leave his mouth. With them, they take the air from his lungs. His shoulders tense. “What does that— what are you talkin’ about? What’re you sayin’?” On reflex, he grasps at your arms. His face searches yours, betrayed.

You reach out for him, gripping his shoulders. It begins to ground him, but doesn’t release the building pressure. You steady yourself. Meet him in his own time.

“Peter, listen,” you softly cooed, “it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

He exhaled a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. His eyes looked like he was torn between the urge to argue, and the need to hold you. 

He swallowed hard, his fingers finding yours, gripping your hands like he used to hold his stuffed animals. “I don’t under—”

“What I’m about to say is going to freak you out, but we need to be on the same page about this,” you slowly explained. “Every day for the last... I don’t know how many... several-thousand Tuesdays... I wake up. And it’s Tuesday. And then, somehow, it ends with me dying. And then I wake up—and it’s Tuesday again.”

He stares. Eyes glazing black.

“Stay with me, Pete,” you pleaded, your hands cupping his cheeks. “I think whatever is causing this to happen is connected to something in that building.”

“No,” Peter said. Darkness enveloped his voice. “You’re not gonna die. Don’t say that.” He shook his head. An unsettling firmness crept into his tone.

“I have this feeling,” you explained, “that it’s all connected. The time loop. Your abilities not working right. The dying—”

“You’re not gonna die,” he asserted, with even more resolve.

You pursed your lips, falling silent. For a moment, you let yourself drown in the dark pools of his gaze. They’re like thick, dark storm clouds. Heavy blackness crackling with bolts of lightning. You read his face carefully, choosing your words delicately.

“I believe you,” you answered, finally. It was the truth. He studied your reaction too, and tension released from his shoulders slightly. “But we have to get into that building.”

He nodded once, swallowing back his anxiety, then took you by the shoulders. “But you’re not going in there. You’re staying put.”

You rolled your eyes. “Peter, we don’t have time for this!”

He shook his head, jaw firmly set. “I’m not doing this again.” He wasn't talking about last Tuesday.

“I am not Gwen,” your voice bellowed.

He went silent at her name, still dumbstruck by shame and grief. It was like you slapped him. He dropped his eyes to his feet, sorrow building steadily.

You softened your expression and your tone. “You aren’t the ‘you’ from then, either.”

The sharp, smooth line of his jaw quivered for just a moment, and you brushed your fingers along the freckles there. His lashes fluttered closed at the gesture. 

“I know that you’re afraid of what you’ll lose,” you whispered, featherlike. Like telling a secret. “I know you think it’ll break you. But I’ve seen the best and the worst of you, Peter Parker.” 

He looked up at you, and the utter endearment on your face was enough to take his breath away. It brought tears to his eyes. 

“I believe in you,” you stated. As certain as the sky is blue. “Every day. Forever. Even if you don’t believe in yourself. So please. Believe in me.”

Peter grimaced, fear piercing his chest. He pushed it down. He nodded. “Always.”

You held his gaze lovingly. Despite your predicament, you strangely wished you could freeze the moment.

“Okay,” you smirked, eyes bright. “Let’s do this. Remember, there’s no fate but what we make, right?”

You moved to stand, but he reached out and grabbed you. “Wait.” You glanced back at him, catching the puzzled look on his face. “When did you see Terminator?”

You quirked a brow, teasingly mysterious in your reply. “I’m a sci-fi nerd, now. What about it?”

11:14 PM

After careful effort, and more minutes than you wanted to lose, you made it inside to find your suspicions were correct. 

You were standing inside of a control room next to two knocked out, webbed-up security guards. You closely studied a vast array of CCTV monitors above you. Your boyfriend was hunched over a screen, listening intently to the conversations of plant workers—some of which he’d recognized as former science division employees of Oscorp. You recognized some of them too, from Alchemax. And Horizon Labs. And Roxxon.

“Okay,” you asked, glancing warily at the time. “Do we have any idea why these guys are all in this building? Was there a mad scientist convention or something?”

“Is it weird that I’m low-key, kinda offended that I didn’t even get an invite?” Peter grumbled, shaking his masked head bitterly. “Am I weird for thinking that? Is that bad?”

You gave him an incredulous glare. “I’m sure it’s in your spam folder.”

“It’s fine,” Peter flatly declared. It wasn’t fine. 

He uncrossed his arms to lean his weight on his palms, staring at one of the screens intently. “Here,” he noted, calling your attention to a computer screen visible on the security camera. “These are plans. They’re building something. We need to find out what.”

11:22 PM

Deeper inside the facility, you hid behind the door of a windowless office. Your palms were clammy, and sweat poured out of you. It wasn’t just the tension. It was the heat. A massive source of energy, Peter had explained, from some part of the building.

A bespectacled, bird-like, middle-aged man wearing a lab coat entered the office. You slammed the door behind him. Startled, he turned around and spotted you, a mix of confusion and growing alarm. He opened his mouth to yell just as two red gloves reached down around his head and clamped his jaw shut. 

You looked up at Spider-Man, dropping from his hiding place on the ceiling, as he muffled the screams of the captive. The scientist flailed uselessly in Peter’s arms, overcome with panic. You shuddered as you noted Spider-Man’s grip was little a rougher than normal.

“Spidey,” you soft admonished. He looked up at you and spotted the timid anxiety in your eyes. He took the hint.

Peter turned the captive scientist around and sat him down in his own desk chair. With a couple of webs he was bound to the fake leather padding. 

The man gaped up through wire-rimmed glasses at Spider-Man’s towering frame, his eyes wide with terror. Without being prompted, you reached into the pockets of the lab coat, snatching his ID badge off its lanyard. You pocketed several keys, metal and magnetic. You flipped through his wallet for clues.

Spider-Man kicked his leg up on the seat of the captive’s chair, leaning on his own thigh crassly. “Hey, buddy!” the vigilante greeted with a bright, cheery smile as you searched him. 

You glanced at the name on the scientist’s ID badge. “Joseph,” you supplied.

“Hey, Joe!” Spider-Man corrected. Despite the chipper tone, the muscles in his neck were pulled taught. He looked like a dog about to snap. “Whatcha buildin’ under here?”

Your boyfriend released the scientist’s mouth. His wild eyes darted anxiously between the two of you. ‘Joe’ attempted to calm himself down, stuttering as he sought out what’s left of his courage.

“Do you have any idea where you are?” he spat ferociously. “You two are screwed! You’re not getting outta here. You’re in way over your heads! I’m not telling you anything! You can’t make me talk—”

A web slapped over Joe’s mouth, gagging him. You shot your boyfriend an impatient glare. “We don’t have time for this,” you warned him.

Spider-Man kept his attention on his captive, shrugging his shoulders. “You heard the lady,” he said, almost apologetically. Peter dropped his foot from the chair and sidled up to the man, gripping his hair and yanking his head back. You flinched as you watched him brandish a blade and swipe at the webbing across the man’s mouth with cobra-like quickness. He sliced an opening in the gag, allowing his captive to breathe.

“Since we’re a little short on time, we’re gonna cut to the chase, yeah?” he explained, his pleasant-sounding demeanor coming short of masking the malice in his tone. “I’m Spider-Man. You’re a bad guy. And you caught me on a really weird day. So instead of hanging you by your ankles off the edge of a high-rise, or tossing you off the Statue of Liberty, or webbing you up over Fifth Avenue in nothin’ but your tighty-whities, I’m gonna fast-forward.” 

The vigilante tilted his head down until he was directly in front of Joe’s face, lowering his voice to a serpent’s hiss. “You’re going to tell me what you’re building here, or I’ll end you. Simple as that.”

You flicked your eyes to Spider-Man, shifting your weight between your feet. You squeezed your eyes closed, pushing images of Peter’s rage from your anxious thoughts. 

“Keep in mind, I can hear your heart beat,” your boyfriend sneered, looming over his captive. “I can tell what it sounds like if you’re lying. I can hear my own heart, too. Wanna know what it sounds like right now?”  

The scientist stared back blankly as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, eyes as wide as saucers. 

Spider-Man tilted his head, lowering the opaque lenses of his mask closer. “Murder.”

The single word hung in the air like the toll of a bell, or the echoing crack of thunder. Thick black toxic smoke that threatened to choke them. Your stomach twisted, recognizing that his teasing savagery was more than simple posturing. You’d seen him like this before. You had experience in keeping an eye on the pressure gauge.

You glanced at the clock on Joe’s desk. 

11:24 PM

“Please,” you blurted out, unsure to whom you were speaking. Maybe to anyone who would listen.

“Here it is,” Spider-Man declared. “The one and only time I’m gonna ask. What supervillain’s new gadget are you building here?”

The quivering man stared at him, dumbstruck, slowly turning so white he’d eventually camouflage into the walls. “You-you got this all wrong...” he stuttered.

“How so?” Spider-Man didn’t miss a beat. “Details, Joe.”

“...Claire?”

Your surprised tone snapped both men's attention back to you. You stood at the scientist’s desk, eyes fixed on a photo frame. You picked it up, gazing down at the faces in shock.

Joe’s demeanor changed instantly. Any sense of bravado he had evaporated. “That’s my daughter’s name,” he gulped, pulse thumping in his throat. “How-how do you know my daughter’s name?”

You stared down at the photo of your beautiful Grim Reaper, flanked by a woman you had come to recognize as her mother and the man currently webbed to a chair. The photo was taken on a bright sunny day, Yankee Stadium in the background. Claire looked much younger than she did now, as did both of her parents. Not just younger—brighter. More hopeful. More alive. 

Your mouth hung open as you glanced up at the captive. “Joseph Rivers? You’re Claire’s father?”

Dr. Rivers looked up at Spider-Man, his face going pale. “Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “She doesn’t ha-have anything to-to do with this mess. Leave her out of this. I beg you.”

Peter met your eyes, and although you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was confused. You didn’t tell him about Claire today, or any of the times she’d tried to kill herself.

Your gaze dropped down to Dr. Rivers. “Do you have any idea what your daughter’s been doing today?”

He looked perplexed. “I... I—” 

“Do you know she tried to commit suicide?” you snapped, marching up to his chair. He flinched at the information, a lightning bolt shooting to his heart. You crossed your arms, glaring down at him indignantly. “And where were you?” 

You know it’s judgmental. You know it’s unfair. But this was Claire. And Tuesday had given you enough insight into her life to feel like defensive, after everything.

“I—” Rivers was still opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “I don’t... They don’t let us have our phones—I mean, I-I knew she had troubles before...” His throat tightened, chest constricting, “Is-is she okay?” He looked heartbroken. Terrified. You saw Peter’s shoulders slump, head turning away.

You watched Rivers through narrowed lids, but you couldn’t deny the agony in his question. The fear in his face. “For now,” you answered. “Because I saved her. But she needs real help.” You leveled your gaze. “And so do we, Mr. Rivers.”

Rivers looked back up at Spider-Man, still observing the side of his mask. The masked vigilante was unable to meet his gaze. He looked over at you again, reading your resolve. His eyes dropped to the photo frame in your hands, his chin clenching. Eyes also filled with shame.

“It’s a weapon,” Rivers declared. “They tell us it’s not, but I’m not stupid. We all know what it is.”

“What kind of weapon?” Peter asked, facing him again.

“You ever heard of Havana Sickness?” Rivers asked him. “Well, that was version one.” 

Your eyes ping-ponged between the two scientists. “Can somebody translate?”

Peter explained, his gaze fixed on Rivers, as he provided you context. “Few years ago a group of diplomats started getting sick in Havana. Nausea, dizziness, ringing in the ears—all the way up to sudden, unexplained pain and trouble with cognition. Nobody ever found out what caused it. Some people think it was all in their heads, others think it was some kind of staged attack.”

“A directed energy weapon,” Rivers revealed, his voice grave. “And now it’s been perfected. This one is far more advanced than anything that’s ever been built. Electromagnetic waves charged by plasma. Its power is unprecedented.”

“Sounds rad,” Peter snipped flatly. “Probably worth a pretty penny to the highest bidder. Speaking of which. Whose bankrolling this, Joey? Is it Fisk? Is it the Osbournes?”

Rivers let out a bitter laugh. “You’re joking, right?” He stared at you incredulously. “You think you’re dealing with some greasy, mob boss? Some corporate shenanigans?” 

You and Peter glanced at each other. 

“Look around you, kids!” Rivers spat. “We’re in a secret underground base underneath the Hudson River, for godssake. This whole operation is run by Uncle Sam. It’s the fucking C.I.A., you dimwits.”

You stared at him, stunned and silent. 

Peter threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “I don’t believe it! Seriously?” He spun in a circle, hands landing on his head, then faced Rivers again, jabbing his finger in his face.

“Okay. Number one. Rude," he said, clipped. Just because I wasn’t invited to your little World of Warcraft campaign doesn’t make me an idiot, got that?” Your shot a withering look at the back of your boyfriend’s head.

“Second:” he continued, with a disgusted tone. “Billions of dollars and almost all of the greatest minds in the world and the G-Men are using this—for what—a new toy? What, did Santa not bring you guys enough guns for Christmas?!”

Rivers argued, “Technology like this would make nuclear war obsolete! It could stop any intercontinental ballistic missile—safely—miles above the Earth’s atmosphere.”

“Could also burst the eardrums of some unruly protestors,” Peter criticized with disdain. He crossed his arms, glaring down at the scientist suspiciously. “Destabilize a few unfriendly governments?”

“Burn the tiny hairs off a spider?” You asked, finally interrupting the quarrelling men. Rivers and Peter gave you a look.

You sighed, “This is exciting and all, but I can’t reiterate how much time for this shit I don’t have!” You glared at Rivers impatiently. “Congratulations, Doc. The weapon you’re building also tears a hole in the space-time continuum. Well done. Now would you please just tell us where it is, so we can pull the plug?”

The older man glanced back and forth between you. “You… can’t…?”

“It was a figure of speech, man,” Peter snapped at him. “She doesn’t actually think there’s a power cord—”

“No, what I mean is it’s already been built,” Dr. Rivers explained. “You’re too late. It’s on a truck leaving now.”

11:41 PM

This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’re certain of it. 

And it may very well be the last thing you ever do. 

You watch helplessly as the box truck carrying the Weapon of the Future is driven into the tunnel. Your boyfriend (who left you behind to stay put) is attached to the top of it, in an attempt to steal it. 

You think on that again. 

Your boyfriend, Spider-Man, is going to steal one of the most advanced weapons the world has ever known, from the C.I.A.

This is only the second stupidest thing he’s ever done. The top spot was recently awarded when he webbed you to Rivers’ desk and left you behind. For your safety. 

As if you didn’t have your own pocket knife on you, to free yourself from the webbing.

You had run outside just to see the unmarked white truck entering the tunnel. There was no way of catching up to it on foot.

So. Here you are, contemplating the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. 

You see a stationary police cruiser, brake lights on, engine running. Waiting in line to enter the tunnel. You recognize the single occupant in the front seat. 

“Y’know, Cage,” you declare as you saunter up to the open drivers’ side window, “you really gotta stop working doubles.” The rookie officer flinched at the sound of your voice, turning towards you in utter confusion. “Just because your wife threw you out doesn’t mean you don’t need sleep.”

He gazed at you, jaw falling open, white as a ghost. 

You reached forward and gripped the back of his head, slamming his nose into his own steering wheel. 

He hissed in pain as you opened the drivers’ side door and reached down towards his belt. You unclipped his service arm pistol, pointing it at him. Like you’d done it 1,000 times before. 

Officer Cage froze in horror, staring up at the barrel of his own gun, stunned at your speed and dexterity. Doing that never failed to give you a rush. 

“Out,” you ordered.

Hands raised, he pulled himself out of his seat and stood awkwardly next to his car. You hopped in the drivers’ seat and flipped the switch to turn on the emergency lights. 

Like you’d done it 1,000 times before. 

Perplexed, Officer Cage watched you incredulously, as you leaned out of the window and tossed his weapon back at him. 

The second it landed in his hands, he’d accidentally pulled the trigger. But no bullet was fired.

“I emptied it,” you explained. 

He looked at you like you were a witch. 

“Maybe spend some more time on the range first?” you offered gently, shifting the car into gear. “And maybe in some therapy, too?” You stepped on the gas pedal, leaving him in the dust. 

You swerved, driving around the heavy congestion of vehicles, entering the tunnel. Sirens wailing.

11:43 PM

Peter held on tightly to the roof of the cargo hold as the truck drove around the traffic, allowed by the tunnel construction crew to pass. He honestly started to wonder if the tunnel was really under construction at all, or if it was all some elaborate hoax.

Maybe you were right, he thought. Maybe everything is connected and therefore nothing is nothing and we’re all pawns living in some sort of simulated plan.

“God, I really need to touch some grass,” he groaned through gritted teeth, as he ducked his head beneath the overhanging signs of the tunnel. 

11:44 PM

You saw the truck ahead of you. You toggled the police car’s sirens, switching it to a piercer effect. 

The short bursting yelps must have caught the driver’s attention, because you saw brake lights flash. Then, they turned off as the truck sped up. Your stomach sank.

“No, no...” 

You could see the lanky limbs of your boyfriend flail as he struggled to get a better grip on the roof of the vehicle. You sighed, biting your lip with trepidation. The device wasn’t even on and already he was becoming less sticky. The truck dashed on, weaving around vehicles, disappearing from sight. You stepped on the gas and tried to catch up.

What you could not see, what Peter could not see, and—tragically— what the truck driver could not see, was the debris in the road. 

A six-inch steel ratchet that had fallen off of one of the construction trucks.

For any speeding vehicle, running over it would’ve resulted in a missing hubcap and a bent rim.

For a 26-foot box truck weighing 15 tons, traveling at 67 miles per hour through a crowded construction zone, the result was catastrophic. 

You watched, wide-eyed, as the truck jolted in front of you. 

It was simple math. 

Peter was knocked loose as the vehicle swerved like a serpentine from left to right, side-swiping vehicles on both sides. 

Every variable locked firmly in place.

Spider-Man was thrown into the hood of a stalled vehicle. You screamed as you watched his body crush the windshield. You slammed on the brakes. 

The unchanging constant. The outcome was inevitable.

Everything else that followed was like a choreographed dance.

A symphony written by fate. Every note falling into place, crescendoing to a deafening disaster.

The truck swerves. Pitches. Thrown off balance.

Road construction workers turn and shout. 

Another truck is stopped in the path. The cargo filled with flammable gasses.

There’s a collision.

A spark. A bright light.

A shockwave.

11:47 PM

Outside the tunnel, Officer Cage pauses from his frantic shouts into his radio. He turns and sees a bright light shooting out of the entrance. The shockwave that follows jolts cars, bursts glass, sets off alarms, and moves the Earth beneath his feet. 

The clockface of the Holland Tunnel ventilation tower is jarred, the hands jerking loose. The arms drop.

The time now says it’s 1:21. But it's wrong. Everything about this is so wrong.

There is no time left.

Cage turns pale as the tunnel entrance crumbles like a sandcastle, sealing all the vehicles inside. 

Another burst of light erupts. This one from the middle of the river.

11:47 PM

You’re gripping the steering wheel, and then you’re upside down, slamming into the roof. You taste blood and glass and metal.

Everything is white. You reach up to shield your eyes, but you can’t.

The light is blinding, shooting through your flesh like an x-ray. You can see right through your hands, observing every bone, vein, and capillary. 

Then.

Darkness.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

No.

“...Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

No, no, no, I need more time!

“...The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

Your eyes pop open as you are viciously ripped away from the darkness. They burn instantly from the smoke.

Your senses are assaulted by the smell of blood and gasoline and salt water. Screams and sirens invade your ears.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

Your bleary eyes struggle to adjust to the shadows, dark shapes taking form. You see an orange flickering glow. Punctuated with flashes of red and blue. Flames. Voices call out. Echoing. Steady horn blasts. Car alarms shrieking. The shrill cacophony of dozens of personal safety alarms—PASS devices, as Tuesday had taught you—magnify as they bounce off the concrete. 

There’s a roaring sound, too. Like a train passing. 

A sheet of crushed glass blocks your view. It looks like ice and snow, like you could reach out and wipe it off the windshield. 

You remember that you’re in the police car. 

You’re on your chest. You know your ribs are broken. You’re used to the pain.

“Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

Peter. You have to find Peter.

“The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You hate this fucking song.

You push yourself up, crawling over the inverted dashboard, pulling yourself along with bloody fingers. You kick the shattered windshield out, feeling the sharp heat of crushed glass cutting into your leg. It’s no matter. If you have air left in your lungs, you have to find Peter.

When you crawl out, you’re drenched in freezing water. Your feet slosh in it as it crawls up your ankles. You take a shaky breath, and immediately sputter. Your ribs are definitely broken. And the air burns your lungs when you breathe.

You look up, trying to get your bearings. Look around. 

This is the worst, you think. This is the absolute worst. 

But no one will ever have to take your word for it, you realize. 

History will be more telling.

Around you, it’s pandemonium. 

The lights in the tunnel have gone out, save for headlamps and flashing lights of work vehicles. The red and blue police lights from your overturned cruiser are among them. And there’s fire, all around you, at both ends of the tunnel. Pockets of blackness in between the bonfires. 

It reminds you of war. Of war movies depicting the aftermath of the Blitz. Of grainy film footage of napalm swallowing a landscape, like somebody took the Sun and poured it out on a jungle.

The smell is awful and it makes you want to gag. Burnt rubber. Burnt hair. 

Dozens of cars and trucks, some of them crumpled like empty soda cans, all of them burning thick pillars of black smoke. The smoke looms across the tunnel ceiling. You can’t even see the ceiling tiles. Above you, there’s a boiling sky of black clouds. 

You hear the chorus of shouts. Shrill shrieks reverberating off the cement and tile. It sounds like people are being tortured. Like giant Grizzly bears must be ripping people apart. Disembodied voices screech for help, for God, for missing loved ones. You think you can hear an infant crying. Selfishly, you just want them to be quiet.

In the distance, the deep rumbling roar continues, like standing next to a jet engine. You also hear the echo of a synthesized keyboard riff, the wailing of an electric guitar. Asia rings out over the tinny squawk of car speakers from a battered minivan nearby. 

Because of course it fucking would be.

Massive chunks of concrete and twisted steel litter the broken asphalt. The whole roadway is flooded. A steady icy current claws at your calves, threatening to push you off balance. 

Immediately, you hear shrieks at your left, louder than the ones in the distance. You spot the figure of a man who has just woken up from the blast. 

Awful timing on his part. 

He’s engulfed in flames, burning alive. His lower half is pinned beneath an SUV. He looks like the squirming wick of a candle. The screams tear at your soul. You yank your eyes away. Your first instinct is to look for a rock to put him out of his misery. He’d thank you for it. 

Another sound jars you, the crumbling collapse of a wall nearby. You hear several sharp pops. You struggle to see through the dark. Melted bodies clad in safety orange glow clothing are right beside you. The water crests over them.

You look up towards the popping noises. Ceiling tiles, you realize. Water shoots into the tunnel under the immense pressure.

You squint beyond the dark, your eyes stinging from the acid clouds. Through the smoke and shadow you can see a wall. It’s moving. Your heart nearly seizes as you connect it to the roaring sound. 

It’s the sound of the Hudson River, pouring into the tunnel, waves crashing into the new underground cavern.

“Peter!” you shriek. Eyes darting around, remembering that you saw him fall. You turn around towards the opposite end of the tunnel. There’s nothing but rock and ash and burning metal behind you. And more screams, echoing in the dark. 

The tunnel must have collapsed, you realize. You wonder how many cars were buried beneath the rubble. Could be hundreds.

Your heart slams in your chest. You wonder if Peter is buried among them.

“Peter?” you scream, more panicked. 

Your voice cracks, and you know you’re not hoarse yet. You know it’s the carbon monoxide, the formaldehyde, the cyanide—the fatal cocktail of poison billowing around you. You can taste it in the air. You have minutes maybe.

It’s getting harder to see. You don’t want the darkness. The hellish chorus bouncing off of the cave of the tunnel. You’re struggling to hear his voice. You don’t want the quiet. 

You hear your name. Like a ray of sunshine.

You hear it again. Your boyfriend’s voice rings out.

“Peter!” you call out to him. 

In the shadows, a lanky figure stumbles out. You can barely make out the red-and-blue of his suit. His mask is off, he clutches the remnants of it in his bloody fist. It looks like he’s been dragged underneath a vehicle. The space shuttle, maybe.

He limps, his suit filthy and torn. A mix of sweat, blood, and soot coat his face and hair. 

But you can see his eyes. Black holes ripping galaxies apart. You feel a rush of relief as you wade through the water towards him.

“Peter!” you sob, unaware of when you started crying.

He spots you, and he might as well have dropped to his knees with tearful praise. “Thank god,” he gasps. He darts to you, sloshing through the water with his limp. As soon as he reaches you, he grabs ahold of you like he’s never going to let you go. You don’t want him to. 

His hands expand around the sides of your face like blinders, blocking out horrors that he didn’t want you to see. “You’re bleeding,” he exclaims, studying you carefully.

Blood streaks down the right of your face from a gash at your hairline. It’s not as bad as it looks, but now you’re aware of the pain. You don’t mind it too much. You’re mystified by his freckles. Your thumbs idly come up to wipe away the mud on them, wiping away some of his tears as well.

“Bug, look at me, are you okay?” Peter pleads. He’s still searching your face, unaware of how bad the damage is. 

The terror in his throat snaps you from your daze. You nod, salty tears stinging your wounds, as you bury your face in his chest. Your voice shakes. “I thought you were gone—”

He pulls you upright, his hands planted on the sides of your head as he steadies you. “I’m here,” Peter declares. It’s a promise. “I’m gonna get you outta here, alright?”

Your eyes widen, remembering the futility of your situation. You glance around, sparing another look to the chaos around you. 

Peter lets go of your cheeks to grip one of your coat sleeves. With a yank, he rips the fabric of the arm at the seam, clean from the shoulder. You watch in a haze, as he rolls the torn sleeve off of your arm, dipping it in the water below.

“Put this to your mouth!” he instructs, handing you the wet fabric. He has to shout over the roar of the water. “It’ll help with the smoke. We’re downwind right now. We gotta get below the flames.”

You know that’s a gross oversimplification of your current predicament. And you want to protest, because what about his lungs? But you follow his orders.

You glance from left to right, as does he. It’s pitch blackness away from the fire and water. You’re pinned between rock and river.

He holds your hand, tight enough to hurt. The shouting has begun to diminish now, which brings you no relief. You realize you can’t hear the baby anymore. You can't stop crying. You wonder what Peter must be feeling, and hope that his senses are still dampened. 

“C’mon,” he pulls you closer to the water side. That way leads further underground, but you understand the physics of it. Smoke rises, and the tunnel is acting like a chimney. Choosing to instinctively go back the way you came, to try to dig through the mass of rubble closer to the exit, would mean death by asphyxiation in less than two minutes.

You sludge through the frigid water. It’s waist-deep now, swirling around you. The further you descend the higher it gets. Peter grips you tight. It’s the only thing that keeps you from losing your mind. 

“Please help! Somebody help!”

You freeze in your steps and need your whole weight to keep Peter from pulling you along. You search frantically, recognizing that voice.

“Please, somebody help! I’m stuck!”

You see a crumpled taxi tossed on its side, teetering dangerously on a pile of rubble. Water bubbles up around the cab. Chewed fingernails with chipped polish reach out through a small gap, waving frantically. 

“Claire,” you breathe, stunned. You watch with wide eyes as the woman you saved earlier that Tuesday flails, trapped in the crushed taxi. The steel cages her in. Black water steadily creeps up around her. “Claire!”

“Help, please, I can’t move! I can’t—!” You hear coughing, gargling. 

“Peter, she’s stuck!” You point, and look up at him. The look on his face breaks your heart. He’s overwhelmed. He’s terrified. He looks at you, looks at the cab. He’s being torn apart inside. You’re asking him for too much. 

You pull away, “C’mon, help me!” Reluctantly, he moves with you, releasing your hand. He moves faster than you through the water, standing taller in the depths.

You reach the taxi as Claire’s screams become more panicked. The car is beneath boulders of concrete. You attempt to climb up on the cab. 

“Stay back!” Peter tells you. “This whole thing’s unstable!” The water is swarming, rising. Boiling, frigid, black death threatening to swallow the cab up. 

“Please, please, please,” Claire is babbling. You can barely see her bloodied face between the bars of her cage. “I-I can’t move my legs, please… I can’t—”

Peter works quickly above you to clear the rubble. “Hey, it’s me!” You tell her, your voice bright and placating. “Remember me? It’s okay. We’re here. Spider-Man’s here and we’re gonna get you out—“

Claire’s voice is weak, she’s barely able to speak between giant gasps of air. “Please, don’t—donwanna die… don’t wanna die, please I don’t want—”

You grip her hand tightly in yours. Tears sting your eyes. “Peter!”

“I’m goin’ I’m goin’!” He’s using his whole body to lift and loosen the rubble from the taxi.

The ground beneath you quakes. A rumble. Suddenly, you drop. You fall backwards to the water as the mound that the taxi is teetering on collapses. The taxi drops beneath the waterline. 

A web snatches your shoulder, keeping you above water, though the vacuum of air caused by the displacement threatens to drag you under. Peter plucks you from the water, suspending you by the web. 

“Be right back,” he huffs, like it’s nothing. He dives back in after the submerged taxi. 

You watch him disappear into the blackness, and can’t help but feel overwhelming horror at being left alone. It makes you feel ashamed. After the longest few seconds of your life, he reemerges. A body with sopping corn silk hair flops over his shoulder. 

He climbs back up to you and you drop from the web onto the hood of a floating car. The space between you and the ceiling is dramatically lower. You’re barely able to see him through the smoke. He hoists Claire up and lays her on the floating car, and you crawl towards her, putting your face to hers.

Her eyes are wide. Still. You have to be inches from her face to be able to see her terror-stricken look. 

“She’s gone,” Peter tells you, his heart breaking a little more as he says it.

You’re leaning over her dead body, seeing her bluish face for the 10,000th time. And you’re shrieking her name. Sobs wracking your body. The whole tunnel vibrates with your howls.

And that song. The notes melting away. The chorus drowns as its pulled under the river.

“C’mon, we gotta go!” Peter pleads. He grabs you by the arm. It’s not a request. He’s getting you out of there. Somehow. “We gotta climb—”

A horrible groan roars above you. You look up to see a piece of the ceiling moving downwards. It’s hurtling towards you, like a giant asteroid. Your extinction is imminent.

Peter pushes you out of the way.

You plunge back into the water, and it feels like a thousand needles pricking your skin. You open your eyes, which was a mistake, because you’re nearly blinded by the chemicals and salt water. You kick for your life. Your shoes feel like bricks, but you kick until you break the surface.

You gasp and choke and sputter. “Peter!” You gag and cough. “Peter!”

You open your eyes and you're still in Hell. Only blurrier. Darker. So quiet. No more babies. No more anyone.

You hear your name again. His voice chirps out. You look up and see the devil in question. The sight of him reels you in like a gravitational pull. You crawl over broken glass and rock and metal until you’re beside him.

Despite being half dead, your heart flutters at the sight of him—a glowing freckled face. Sparkling amber eyes. Messy crown of brunette hair, sopping wet with saltwater, motor oil, and blood.

He looks at you from the side, deliriously dazed and huffing with exhaustion.

Once he sees your face, he grins wide. Soft. Reminds you of the bright warmth of your bedsheets.

“Sunflower…” he breaths. He sounds dreamy. He sounds exhausted. His smile dims. “You’re bleeding...”

“I’m okay,” you sputter and cough, trembling from the cold and adrenaline. You're higher up now, near the ceiling of the tunnel. You can feel the water creeping up your back. Your eyes scan his face, attempting to see his freckles through the building smoke. You wrap your hands around his face just to know he’s there. “I’m okay, I’m okay... We have to get out of here, baby—Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” he nods, but he isn’t moving fast enough. He looks so tired. “Need— n-need explos...ves.” He shutters, the cold piercing him. “C-cop car. Look—look in the trunk. Needa... explosion. Flash grenade. R-road flares...” He grimaces sharply. You can’t take your eyes off the softness of his lips. “Ch-check f-for pressurized can-canister—”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying—”

“Need to create an explosion... at the ho-hole, wh-where the water... C-create a vacuum—”

“There’s nothing, Peter, there’s no cop car, it’s underwater—”

“You need to go,” he states, and you fall silent. You stare at his lips. Blood tints them. You shake your head. Pull at his arms.

Your whole body shakes. Your eyes are hard. “We don’t have time, Pete. We have to get out—c’mon, we have to go—”

Your icy fingers grip at the warmth beneath his chest. They tug at him frantically. You mean to pull him up with just your thumbs if you have to.

“Bug,” he blinks at you. Tears fill in his eyes. 

Your hands are warm. Burning hot. You look down. And that’s when you see the spear lodged in his side. A half-inch wide black, twisted piece of rebar piercing his chest. Your mouth falls open at the sight. It’s needled through his ribcage, piercing the back, slicing through his lung in a way that you can physically feel. Phantom pain from past experience. 

Peter Parker’s blood coats your palms. You can’t handle this pain. It’s too much.

You look down at him, head shaking furiously. He silently mouths your name, a hopeless apology. You don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

“You ha-have to...go,” he chokes out. There’s more blood spilling from his lips. It’s harder for him to breathe. The water creeps up your shoulders, and threatens to drown you both. He’s going to drown before you, you realize, in his own blood.

“Pl-Please,” he says, voice breaking, “please ge-get out of here. Pl-please g-go.”

You shake your head. You grip his hands like holding onto the edge of a cliff. You hold tight, as if that could keep him with you. As if it could bring you more time.

“Ba-baby, please go... Please just go... Please, pro-promise me... you’ll get out of here...”

He’s fading, you realize, and you want to scream into the void. You want to headbutt the rebar and lodge it through your eye socket. Your chest heaves. You squeeze his hands tightly.

You nod your head. Realize that he doesn’t know what you know. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. There’s no way out of the tunnel. There’s no saving you. Either of you.

You nod. And he relaxes. “Just go... without me,” he pleads. His hard to hear him over the roar. You nod silently, tears roll down your face. 

“Mmm—m'sorry... so-so sorry—”

You’re still nodding as he fights to keep his eyes open. You pledge with your gaze. You promise him that you’ll survive. You lie. 

The light is gone. In his eyes, and in the tunnel. His grip loosens in your hold. The water crawls up your chin, and your head hits hard rock. You don’t want to let go. You don’t want to look away.

The water takes him, but you’re still holding onto his hands.

“It should’ve been me,” you cry. To yourself. Alone. In the dark. Underwater. It's the last thing you get to say.

You’re fighting to keep your eyes open, to see through the murky depth. You want to remember every freckle on his face, even as they’re drenched in tears. Darkness settles in anyway.

It’s hard to see how beautiful he is in the dark. 

Your lungs burn. There’s nowhere to go.

It should’ve been you. Not Peter. 

Every cell in your body screams at you, telling you it should’ve been you. You open your mouth to scream back. A heart-wrenching yowl. Water fills your mouth and your lungs.

You want to wake up. You want to go home. You want to go back. You want anything but this. 

Why aren't you waking up?

Elsewhere, above the Hudson.

A clock turns.

11:59...

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You opened your mouth wide and let the air fill your lungs. You can still feel the heat. You can smell the water. You gaze up at the stark white of your ceiling as giant tears flood your vision.

Tuesday.

Tuesday again.

You laid there. Shook with an odd mix of horror and relief. It was like waking from the most vivid nightmare of your life. Visions and sounds latched onto you like leeches. You cried silently like a child, cradled by your soft pillows and bedding. The only thing that keeps you from screaming out hysterically is the grounding feeling that comes with faith. Unquestionable. Undeniable.

You will die today.

It’s gospel. Inevitable. You’re supposed to die today. Not just you, you know now, through divine revelation. So many others. 

Regardless of how you meet your fate, nothing will prevent that horrific weapon from leaving that facility. The truck will drive into the tunnel. It will hit that debris. It will crash. And everyone in the tunnel will die.

Including Peter.

That is how the day ends, should you be alive to see it. That’s how his life ends. 

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” a pleasant voice rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter Parker’s head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of your gory last moments. 

Your heart shattered at the sight of him—a glowing freckled face, his sparkling amber eyes, a beautifully mischievous smile, and a messy crown of brunette hair. 

The memory of his dead face sliced through you. 

You looked away, grimacing. Sat up in bed, tears welling in your eyes.

You know what’s going to happen and you know what you have to do. No matter how painful. 

Today is the last day of the end of your life. 

“Babe?” he questioned, appraising you with a fading smile. He sensed your distress. He could smell your tears. “What’s the matter? You okay?” 

You stared at the blankets for a long while, your weight leaning back on the heels of your palms. You remained still, contemplative. The silence goes on longer than he is comfortable with.

You turned your face toward him, eyes sorrowful. 

“I’m breaking up with you, Peter.” 

It was quiet at the top of the Empire State Building. That’s why it was his favorite spot. Hair slicked with sweat, cheeks damp with salty streams of tears. Tragically, only sort of drunk. Peter’s mask was discarded beside him, next to an empty 3-liter bottle of McCormack’s. 

He took a swig from an identical bottle, nearly empty as well. Sourness set heavily on his tongue and it made him even more bitter. He couldn’t even afford the good stuff.

Fucking loser.

He swallowed down the acid water with disdain and self-contempt.

In his other hand, he toyed with the velvet box he kept hidden in his bedside drawer. Today, of all days. 

He was past the shock. Past the denial. Past bargaining. Somewhere between anger and depression. Actually, he was a mix of all of the emotions. 

You’d killed him. Crushed him. Murdered him in less than 100 words. A shot straight to the heart, without batting an eye. You were the deadliest assassin he’d ever known. You were savage, the cruelest villain he’d ever faced. 

You were his everything. He was the problem. 

That’s what you’d told him, swinging the axe down and cutting your ties. He was always gone. He was always late. He was always Peter Parker. 

Peter Parker would always be Spider-Man. 

And that was the nail in the coffin. That was reason enough. The killing blow.

As stunned as he was, he was almost… relieved. He knew this day would come. He knew you were too good for him, too good to be true, and this was a natural progression of that.

He always knew would lose you. He was grateful that at least he wasn’t standing over your grave this time. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been crying. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Time was meaningless.

The buzz of his phone was the first thing that broke him from his pity party. He flinched as he frantically dug for the advice.

Shamefully, he prayed that you were calling him to tell him you changed your mind. Or your conversation this morning was part of an elaborate hoax. The world’s greatest ‘punking.’ Ashton Kutcher springs out of nowhere. He’d happily laugh it off. He’d chuckle like a fool and rush home to scoop you up in his arms. Sick burns and all.

Fingers fumbling, he accepted the call and slapped the phone to the side of his face.

The whimper of his voice was pathetic. Truly. “Bug?” 

Fucking loser.

“Peter?” A middle-aged woman’s voice shattered his hopes.

Confused, he pulled the phone away to look at the screen: KIM MANNERS.

Fuck. Your mom had his number. He knew it was a risk, reaching out behind your back. She’d been calling him all week, adding steadily to the pressure of his upcoming proposal. No wonder she drove you crazy. She’s probably wanting details about when he was going to pop the question. 

Fuckkkk.

“Peter? Are you there?”

He put the phone back to his ear, and briefly considered throwing his phone off of the Empire State Building. 

With a flayed voice, he replied, “Hi, Mrs. Manners.”

“Peter? Where are you? What’s going on?” She sounded like a parrot. A parody of a typical New England voice. “What happened?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuckidity—

“Sorry, Mrs. Manners, I-I was gonna call—”

“Peter,” your mother interrupted with a sultry tone. If he wasn’t such an idiot he’d recognize the cougar purr of her voice, “you know I told you to call me Kim.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, his head pounding. Not just from the alcohol. “Ugh, yeah—” He tried not to make it sound like a gag reflex, but it crept out anyway. “Yeasshh, I, uh, sorry, I gotta little tied up—”

Ew! Gross, noo, fuckfuckfuck.

“Now’s not a good—”

“Is my daughter with you?” 

FAHHHHHK… She doesn’t know? Of course she wouldn't. She's not subscribed to the 'Watch Peter Parker Get Fucked Again This Week' Newslet—

Ahh! No! Gross! Ew! “Uhm… no, I—”

“Do you know where she is? She’s not answering her phone.” 

“I… I-I don’t think she wants to talk right now—”

“I think something weird is going on,” Kim blurted, still oblivious to the fact that Peter had spent the last few hours sobbing on roofs of several New York landmarks.

The concern in her voice pricked the skin on the back of his neck. He stiffened, his spinal column locking in place. Peter shook his head confusedly, “I’m… I’m not sure what you—”

“Peter, listen to me, I know my daughter. I think something is wrong.”

Peter felt faint all of a sudden. “Waddya mean? What’re ya—what’re you sayin’?”

“I think she’s in trouble,” she explained. “She left me a weird message. She can be so moody sometimes. She gets that from her father. I can sense these things, y’know. I’ve always told people I have a sixth sense about this stuff. You know, my grandmother said she could—”

His heart is pounding, threatening to break through his chest. “Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean ‘trouble?’ What message? What did she say exactly?”

Silence on the other end of the line. Peter felt like he was going to vomit.

“She said that she loved me, and she was sorry,” Kim finally said, with an exasperated tone. Equal parts embarrassment and concern. “And that she forgave me.” She said the last part with a growing sense of dread. 

“And she called me ‘Mom.’”

Peter’s mouth hung open, every cell in his body alerting him. Something was wrong. He pulled the phone away from his ear, glancing down. 

He also had a voicemail. From you.

This was the stupidest thing you’d ever done. But damn was it thrilling. You should’ve been a car thief in another life. 

“Hey, Peter,” your voicemail recorded a few minutes ago said, “I realize it’s probably hard to listen to this message, but it’s important that I say this, so I need you to listen...”

You’d hotwired the box truck carrying the weapon and detoured away from the tunnel. You stepped on the gas pedal, increasing speed steadily. 

Fifteen minutes before, you’d found Dr. Rivers. You told him urgently that his daughter was going to hurt herself, and that you would tell him when and where she could be found, and that information you were going to give freely, because it was the right thing to do. That despite his past absence, his daughter needed him more than ever. They both deserved a second chance. 

Everyone did. And that’s why you needed him to tell you how to destroy the weapon safely.

And he did. 

“I’m sorry that this is how things need to end. It’s not what either of us had planned, but life is like that. This isn’t your fault. You really need to know that. In fact, I have to thank you.” 

Now you were running. Driving a hot wired truck carrying one of the most powerful weapons ever created, stolen from the C.I.A. You pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. 

“You’ve taught me the meaning of life, how fragile and precious it is. How important. I want you to know that what you do matters. Even when it feels like it doesn’t.”

You glanced in the rear view mirror, seeing a flurry of red and blue light behind you. Sirens wailing. You smirk. You wonder if Officer Cage is among them.

You switched on the radio.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT…”

Your smile widens. You fucking love this song.

“You have no idea how many lives you touch. Including mine.” 

The pier is ahead of you. At the end of it, your watery grave. You were pleased as pie, knowing that at least you were taking this bitch down with you. 

You sang along, “Showed in your eyeeeeeeeeeeees—”

The pedal is on the floor. The truck launches off the end of the pier. Curves in an arch. Collides with the water. The windshield crumples in front of you as the frigid water pours in, surrounding you, submerging the truck, sinking the weapon. 

You feel so alive. Your heart is pounding. Your body is sizzling with energy, even as you’re dragged into the water. 

“Did you know that you have the prettiest fucking smile? I can wake up to that smile 10,000 times, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m so grateful for every second of it. Even the painful parts.” 

It’s getting dark. It was beautiful today. And now, darkness. Rising steadily. Coming up to cradle you in its arms as you sink further below. This is how it ends. You’re certain.

You look up out the window, enjoying the rays of sunlight poking down from the surface as they get further away. Your chest is burning, like a flaming sword through your heart. Lungs aching. Ribs threatening to implode. The pressure is unbearable. But you don’t mind. You’re used to the pain. 

It’s worth it. Just to say goodbye to the rays of sunlight. To thank them for keeping you warm. For rainbows. Sunsets. Sunflowers and pineapples. For lighting the eyes of the man you love, casting them in a golden hue. 

“Live your life. Be better than you were yesterday. And don’t be too hard on yourself, because you can be better tomorrow. Do good things.” 

Speak of the devil. A figure torpedos through the surf, descending lower. You see him in the murky haze of the water, the familiar red and blue catching your eye. 

Peter’s eyes widen as he recognizes you in the passenger seat. His mask is off. You smile at him. You wave, as water shoves itself down your throat. 

“And don’t worry about me. I think everything is gonna work out.” 

It’s time to go home, you think. Safe and warm. Where your ancestors await you. You’ll see Nana Manners there. You’ll see your old cats there. Your grandparents. Your parents. Maybe you’ll finally get to meet Gwen. Meet Uncle Ben.

Peter will be there too, one day. You’re certain.

“One way or another... I’ll see you later.”

Peter swims up to the window. He’s scared, but he needn’t be. You can still move your arms, even though they’ve gone heavy. You place your hand on the glass.

“Goodbye, for now. I love you. Forever.”

There’s a message written on your palm. You hope he can read it. Hope he sees it. Takes it to heart. Holds it there. Believes in it as you believed in each other. Forever.

Three simple words.

'SEIZE THE DAY'

The light fades from your eyes. 

This is how it ends.

Or so you’d thought.

Round, mellow notes fill the air. Clean, thick strings, weaving together. Vibrating with warmth. Delicately rising, like steam from a hot spring.

Over the hum of a vintage, six-string, acoustic guitar, peppered with banjo plucks, and the crisp ring of a distant electric hardbody, the gentle crooning of John Denver filled your ears.

“He was born in the summer of his 27th year

Coming home to a place he'd never been before

He left yesterday behind him, 

You might say he was born again

You might say he found a key for every door...”

Your eyelids creaked open, as dim lights swam in your vision. Your eyelashes fluttered. The ceiling foreign. The room cast in shadow. A machine steadily beeps, off-tempo from the music. Your eyelids are heavy. 

Why?

“...When he first came to the mountains his life was far away

On the road and hanging by a song...”

You drew back the curtains of your gaze again, going crosseyed for a moment as they attempted to adjust to the light. You focused on a single, blurry shape, willing it to be still and come into focus. 

You squinted, your head aching. Your chest felt sore. Like you’d worn a vise as a bra. Or spent a day as a shake-weight in a gym for giants.

Your vision sharpened. It’s Peter’s eyes—doe-like, dreamy, warm, and so, so tired—that pulls you from your slumber.

He’s so pretty, you thought, and your lip stung from the grin that stretched your face. He sat in a chair at your bedside, dressed in wrinkled clothes that were a little too worn to be clean.

You blinked a few times and really took in the sight of him. 

Dark circles colored heavy bags under his eyes. He’s even more pale than usual, you noted. His skin looked dry, like all of the moisture had been squeezed from his body. Through his bleary eyes, you assumed, observing how bloodshot they were. 

Peter was worse for wear. 

But he was so damn pretty. 

Your heart ached at the sight of him. And seeing your eyes illuminate had a similar effect on his. Despite looking utterly exhausted, like he’d been awake for a few millenia, his cheeks pinched up and he could no longer hide his teeth behind his lips.

He smirked at you, then glowed as he drank you in.

Despite this, there was a melancholy in his red-rimmed eyes.

You gazed around at your surroundings. A darkened hospital room. You were in a hospital bed. 

You remembered where you’d been and realized you weren’t where you were—the jarring discrepancy confusing and overwhelming you. 

“Hey, hey, hey, shh, you’re okay,” Peter whispered, leaning forward out of the chair. Instinctively, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair from your face. He shifted his body closer to you, scooting in the chair, like he was magnetically charged to gravitate to you. 

“You’re okay,” he cooed. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. You’re... you’re gonna be okay.”

You were dead, you recall. 

You were sinking, lungs filled with water, brain shutting down.

You glanced over to see an outdated clock radio plugged in on a table nearby, this one with a 30-pin dock meant for a first-generation iPod. You gaze at the retro white device, recognizing the music.

“...But the string’s already broken and he doesn’t really care

It keeps changing fast and it don't last for long...”

You blinked. Your jaw hung open. Tears pricked your eyes. 

“This song,” you breathed, and probably sounded crazy. You felt giddy. You felt like laughing and crying and screaming at the top of your lungs. “It’s... it’s not Asia...”

“Uhm, no,” Peter replied. He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s John Denver. Sorry. It’s lame. I, uh, I didn’t get a chance to make a playlist, or anything—”

He swallowed hard, his shoulders tense. He looked away from you—to the wall, to the floor, to the space on the pillow next to your head. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. It looked painful, like a rock is lodged in there.

“Wha-what day is it?” you stuttered, gazing up at him. You’re still trying to decide if you’re dreaming. If this is Heaven.

Peter’s brow quirks suspiciously. “Wednesday,” he replied, and you take pity on the exhaustion in his voice. “You’ve been out for almost 20 hours—”

You laughed. “It’s Wednesday?”

He stared at you, his concern growing. “Y-yeah...?”

You giggled uselessly, relishing in the sensation of hot tears streaking your cheeks. “It’s Wednesday!” Your chuckling grew louder, until your throat trips and you cough. Your lungs feel like paper mache.

“Easy, take it easy,” Peter softly admonished you, as he brushed his hands over your face possessively. He didn’t take them off this time. You don’t want him to. “You need to rest,” he replied. “You... got banged up... pretty bad...”

You gazed at the redness of his eyes, and realized what must have happened. You’re stricken with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Peter,” you muttered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

He shook head, refusing to make eye contact. “S’okay. You’re okay.”

“No, no—”

“You’re alive,” he bit off, a little more firm than he needed to be. “You’re going to be okay. That’s all that matters.” 

His thumbs rubbed circles into your jaw. You sensed that he was at war with himself, debating between pulling away from you and stapling himself to you. His fingers gripped you with a compulsive anxiety. A phobia that he would be forced to let you go, and this time, lose you forever.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you.” You looked up at him like you were staring through pearly gates. Like you could see souls being formed with the stars. “I didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated, but the tears welling in his eyes told you the opposite. “None of that matters,” he stammered, still unable to look at you. 

He felt so far away. You needed him closer. You needed to be wrapped around him, smothering him like a koala. 

You giggled and pulled at his arms, squirming in the hospital bed. The movement made you wince. You felt your pulse in your head. 

“Just relax,” he fretted, pinning your shoulders down gently. The weight of his palms felt divine. “You gotta rest, Bug. Doctor’s orders.”

He pinched his face, like he’d bit his tongue. That caught your attention. You stared up at him, noting the discomfort he was failing to hide from you. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Bug, listen. There’s—” He winced again. “You were out a while. The-the doctors, they ran some tests, and... um, they... Somethin’ came up on the MRI.”

You study the brown of his eyes. It reminds you of whiskey. Of chocolate. Of mahogany. 

He struggled to speak, failing to keep his voice calm. “They, um... They s-said there was, uh, a-a shadow of some kind. On your brain.”

You curved your eyebrow as you focused on his mouth. Simultaneously listening to the words on his lips, and watching how his lower lip quivered. You wanted to kiss it. To steady it with your own. Your fingers ached to pull him in.

You must have been squirming again, because before you knew it, Peter grasped your hands up in his, holding them tightly to his chest. He hovered over you, practically whispering in your ear.

“You were already under,” he quickly explained, the rest of the words tumbling out at once. “The-they did a biopsy. Just a little cut, and-and they said they were going to send the tissue off for a-a lab test. And... and when it comes back, we’ll know more about it, but... but the doctor said, he said it was good, whatever it is. Good that we caught it early. He said—” 

Peter’s voice broke, and then his eyes met yours. They welled up with tears. He looked deeply shaken, pulled taut. Like his limbs were made of matchsticks and he would crumble or go up in flames at any moment. 

He looked so afraid. 

He looks as scared as you should be. Your brain moves like molasses to catch up with the fact that it nearly caused your ultimate demise. 

Your mind spun with what-ifs and destiny and alternate universes and higher purpose and you have to stay focused on the chocolate of his eyes because that’s the only thing that mattered to you. 

Peter swallowed hard, digging out his voice. “They said that you coulda had an aneurysm any day now. Like, you’re there one minute and just... you’d be gone.”

You gazed up at him, spotting the tremor in his chin again. He bit down, to keep it steady. You wanted to pepper his chin in kisses for the next 100 years, or 100 minutes, or 100 seconds. Whatever you could get.

“I, uhm,” he struggled to continue. “I don’t know what I woulda done if... you... if you’d...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t, you realized. 

“Pete,” you softly replied. 

He looked up at you, and he’s so beautiful, it hurts. 

You gazed lovingly at him and showered him with adoration. Looking at you is too much for him. 

His brow creased with sorrow as he buried his face in your joined hands. Shoulders shaking. You felt him sob into your skin, tears soaking your hospital gown. 

“It’s okay,” Peter said with a sniffle, for both of you. He pulled himself upright. He was trying so hard to stay strong. “S’gonna be okay. You’re going to be okay. I-I promise, whatever happens. I’m not gonna leave your side. We face it together. I don’t care if I’m not with you, or we’re not together anymore. It’s—-this isn’t about me. I’m there for you. ‘Til the end, okay? I swear to you. It’s going to be okay.”

You watch him like you’re watching a sunrise. Like a rainbow is forming behind him. Sunlight piercing heavy rain clouds. You’re in exactly the right place. Exactly the right moment.

Time is meaningless. Time is priceless. Time is everything.

You cried happy tears. “I know.” 

If he asked you to marry him right now, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. 

You couldn’t help yourself—you ran your fingers through his hair. Across his chin. You wanted to map every freckle with your fingertips. Draw invisible lines in his skin. “I know it will, baby, I know. I believe you.”

His expression softened at your smile. He let himself get lost in it. Letting waves of hope crash over him and pull him along with the tide. His lips curved gently, and he returned it. The muscles in his body relaxed slightly.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise him, with no real way of knowing.

No way of predicting the future. 

And yet, no doubt. 

“Because today is Wednesday,” you explain, heart floating in your chest, swelling with gratitude. “And we have today.”

The End.

A/N: Thank you for riding with me for this story. I hope that it brings you peace and healing and happiness.

Take care of yourselves!

Did you like this story? Please share your thoughts with me via comment, ask, or reblog! Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting fandom and fandom writers!

[animatorweirdo]

The black serpent part 2

(Well, I decided to continue this after ages from the first part. This is like an Alien AU, so check the oneshot and series section for the part one. Hope you like it and do tell me your thoughts,)

Warnings; mentions of torture, Sauron being a dick, violence and chaos. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I won’t ask you again,” The voice said. “What did you see down there?” Maedhros resisted the urge to flinch as the maia walked around him. He remained silent ever since they pulled him out from the mysterious hole. 

“I suggest you do not test my patience, Maitimo. Silence will do little good to you if you do not tell what you saw down there,” Gorthaur pulled down on his hair, forcing him to look up. Maedhros resisted making any sound despite how hard his tormentor pulled his hair. He looked up to Gorthaur with controlled hate. “I do not know what I saw down there. It was just an empty room with a strange table,” He explained. “And besides. Isn’t it; your job to keep a check on everything in this rock pit of a fortress?” He asked back. The maia chuckled, releasing his hand from Maedhros’s hair. 

“That room below the mine is not one of ours,” Gorthaur explained, then turned toward his captive. “And I know there was something else down there,” He added, leaning down to Maedhros’s level. “There was something inside that shattered stone, which you are refusing to tell,” He said. “If you’re trying to protect it, don’t bother. We will find it eventually, so why won’t you be smart and tell us what it was,” He added.  

Maedhros’s thoughts returned to that moment when he met the serpent-like creature. Taller than him, skin dark as night and teeth silver-like metal. And the face, hidden underneath the layer like a mask. He couldn't forget that pale-skinned face with eyes like the darkest gems.

It was there; then it was gone. Maedhros did not know what it was or where it had gone. 

“Time is ticking, Maitimo. I want answers, or do you prefer the less delicate way of interrogation?” Gorthaur asked. “I do not know where it is!” Maedhros snapped but then grunted when his tormenter grabbed him by his neck. The maia leaned close to his face. “Then I guess we have to jog that memory then,” He said, cutting the elf’s airway for a moment. Maedhros struggled to maintain ground and suck air into his lungs. 

“But alas,” The maia suddenly released his throat, making Maedhros gasp and cough for air. The elf hunched over his seat for a moment. 

“If what you say is true, then it’s rather unfortunate for what you’re going through next,” Gorthaur picked himself off the ground and approached the doorway. The two orc guards stood firm when the maia passed them. “Take him to the torture chamber, make him sing, and take every information you can squeal out of him. He’s not done until he reveals what was down in the mines,” Gorthaur instructed, then left Maedhros in the hands of the two orcs. Maedhros groaned as the orcs grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the interrogation room. 

The travel didn’t take too long for the orcs to drop Maedhros onto the floor and capture the attention of the chief torturer. The big orc stomped toward the three, dressed in fresh blood from his former victim. Maedhros almost shivered, for he has been in this chamber far too many times. “Orders from the lieutenant. He wants the redhead to reveal whatever was down in the hole in the mine,” One of the orcs explained. “Thinks he’s keeping something important,” He added.

The other orc guard scoffed. “Like what? There was nothing down there,” He asked. The big orc grabbed Maedhros by the arm and forced the elf upon a table. 

“Don’t say that I heard from the guys that the walls are like skins, and the ceiling shaped like spines,” The orc explained, making his friend chuckle. “So what? Are you saying the whole room is inside a creature of some sort?” His friend asked. “Possibly, even the dark lord and the lieutenant had no idea about it,” The orc said. 

Maedhros gritted his teeth when the big orc tied the straps around his wrists. “Never mind that now, we have a task to start, and I’m going to enjoy every bit of it,” The orc said, smirking at Maedhros’s state. His friend cackled. 

Maedhros saw someone beaten and strapped against the wall. It was one of his former captains, Verion. It had been a while since Maedhros had seen anyone from his people, and it didn’t ease the ache that he would be reduced once again in front of someone. 

“Alright, let’s get down to business. You better start singing soon, elf, because this is going to hurt,” The orc said, smiling like a psycho. Maedhros prepared for pain. The three stopped before doing anything when the chamber started to shake a little. “What in the rat’s name was that?” One of the orcs asked. They then heard yelling and running through the rocks. 

“Something is happening. Let’s go check it out,” The orc said, dropping the tools. “But what about the prisoner?” His friends asked. “Look at him. He’s strapped on the table. He’s not going anywhere now. Let’s go!” The orc said. “You too, big chungust!” He called out, making the big orc follow them out of the torture chamber. 

Maedhros sighed for a moment. The peace was only temporal because they would be back and bring him pain, so he didn’t count this as a sign of blessing. 

Maedhros was startled when he heard shuffling and saw Verion cut his straps with a knife. Verion struggled to get up for a moment before limbing toward Maedhros and his table. “My lord,” Verion said, then cut his binds open. “Stop, you shouldn't,” Maedhros shook his head. He knew better than trying to escape now. They were too deep to reach the exit. 

“But this might be our chance. Something strange is happening. They might be too distracted to notice,” Verion explained after helping Maedhros up from the table. “Perhaps, but the chances to escape are too low, and it will only end badly for us,” Maedhros sighed, holding his wrists. 

Verion’s expression turned horrified after he looked over Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros was confused for a moment until he heard hissing. Verion yelped as the black serpent-like creature approached them. Maedhros jumped from the table and stood in front of Verion. He looked the beast in the eye and recognized it was the same one from the mine. It hissed, making Verion back away in fear. Maedhros followed while keeping his eyes on the creature. 

The creature pounced onto the table right in front of the elves. Verion yelped as Maedhros stood protectively in front of him. It kept hissing with shimmering teeth, making him unnerved by their situation. It was docile toward him in the mines, but now it seemed to have different thoughts, and he was not eager to know what might happen to him and his former captain. 

The creature pulled back its teeth and crumbled. 

“Maitimo…” A voice suddenly appeared in his mind. A silky yet deep voice lingered in his mind. It didn’t take long for Maedhros to know who was the owner of that voice. He stared at the creature with shock. “By the valars, You can speak?!” He asked. 

“Good, then that means you understand me,” The creature responded. “Now listen carefully, Maitimo. I am willing to help you out of this place. I will keep the attention away from you and whoever you want to escape with, but in return, I need you to do something for me when you get outside,” It said. “What do you want me to do?” Maedhros asked. “Take this device,” The creature handed him a heavy-looking object.  “Use it upon a mountain cliff and activate it by the switch on the top of it,” They explained as he took hold of the object. “I do not have time to tell you the exact point I want you to use it, so I will show you where I need you to be,” It said, bringing its clawed hand upon his forehead. Maedhros didn’t dare to move away, so he allowed the creature to touch his forehead. 

Pictures and knowledge suddenly filled his mind, causing him a mild headache. He groaned, holding his head. “My lord,” Verion said with worry. Maedhros shook his head, recovering from the sudden sensation. To his shock, now he knew what or where precisely the creature wanted him to go. 

“What was that?” Maedhros demanded. “Information,” The creature answered. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of a trick?” He asked. “I am not in league with this foreign king you call dark lord,” It growled in response. “And why would I bother tricking some prisoner? I am willing to help because I am returning the favor for awakening me,” It explained. 

“I and four others are going against thousand enemies to help you escape, so don’t you think it would be fair to help in return?” The creature asked. Maedhros almost sucked his breath when he heard there were more of them. “And what will I benefit in the future if I do this?” He asked. “If you help us, we will not bother your people or anyone in the future,” It explained. “We will vanish and not interfere with your war with these inferior creatures,” It added.

Maedhros thought about it for a moment. 

“Alright,” He inhaled. “And I can take my people with me?” He asked. “Anyone you can grab, but we won’t hold them forever, so you better be quick,” The creature replied. “Understood?” It asked. Maedhros glanced at Verion before nodding. 

The doors to the chamber suddenly opened, gaining their attention. Maedhros sucked his breath when he saw it was the chief torturer. He glanced at the creature but saw it gone once again. Verion held his stolen knife at the orc. 

The orc snarled when he saw the elves standing freely. Something then dropped upon his shoulder, gaining his attention. He touched the strange substance with his fingers and saw it was some kind of drool. He looked up when he heard hissing. 

The creature was walking on fours upon the wooden supports on the ceiling, looking down upon the orc. 

The orc looked confused before his expression turned scared when the creature plunged right on top of him. The orc started yelling and screaming as the beast ripped him apart with its teeth. Blood splattered onto the floor, making the elves flinch at the savagery. 

“Come on,” Maedhros told Verion to follow him as they left the chamber through the backdoor. The big orc was left to be brutally killed by the unknown creature. 

The elves made their way quickly toward the dungeons. The two knew its location beforehand, and to their luck, there weren’t guards because they were too busy dealing with the sudden attack by the creature and its kin. They could hear the sounds of a struggling battle and the screeching of those creatures.  

They released as many as they could from their chains and cells. The prisoners and thralls were confused and frightened but didn’t hesitate to come out when they saw the two release them. 

Maedhros looked at Verion. “Take them to the short passage in a shadowy dead end at the left hall, behind the rock, and it will lead you outside at the bottom of a mountain,” He explained. “How do you know?” Verion asked. Maedhros hesitated because he did not know that before. “The creature… told me,” He answered. “I need to go to the top of the mountain and use this, so I have to use a different route,” He motioned at the object he was holding. 

“My lord, I do not think you should go alone,” Verion stated. “You should come with us,” He added. “I have to do this. I made a deal with that creature, and I do not want to know what will happen If I do not hold my end of the deal,” Maedhros shook his head. “My lord, do you even know what that thing is?” Verion pointed at the device. “It’s supposed to… break the earth,” Maedhros answered, surprised that he knew the purpose. 

“What?” Verion questioned. “I’m not sure how I know, but you better get going. Take these people and go the creatures will defend you from the orcs,” Maedhros said, then quickly ran out of the dungeon before his captain had a chance to say anything else. 

Maedhros struggled to carry the device since it was heavy, despite the natural strength he used to possess. His hand was also aching badly, no doubt suffering from the years of torture. 

He stumbled upon a hallway and turned around. He gasped when he saw the lieutenant and the orc guards before him. Gorthaur turned his gaze upon him. “Maitimo…” He started. “I thought you had something to do with our current invasion,” He stated. He had a look upon his face Maedhros knew all too well, and now he knew the maia was angry. Maedhros slowly backed away. 

“Did you think you could take your chance and escape while this is happening?” Gorthaur questioned, slowly approaching. “And what is that in your hand?!” He demanded, pointing at the device. Maedhros hesitated before turning determined. “Nothing you need to know, Sauron,” He spitted. 

“Oh, I do love it when they grow back their backbone and try to defy me, but I’m afraid it's not time for humor and playtime,” Sauron frowned. “And I guess we have to start your training all over again and teach you what will happen when you call me that name -” He said before something suddenly appeared from the hallway between them and snatched the orc guards in a blink of an eye. Sauron stumbled back, startled, and the orcs started screaming in the darkened hallway. Sounds of flesh ripped apart could be heard through the air. 

“What?” Sauron said as he looked into the hallway. Maedhros took this chance to go another way as the maia was distracted. Sauron noticed him getting away. He frowned until he heard something hiss above him. 

He looked up and saw one of the creatures hanging from the ceiling, looking down on him with a tilted head and a toothy grin. “What are you?” He questioned, and to his surprise, he saw a pale skull-like face looking back at him from the faceless layer. The creature roared and attacked. 

Maedhros struggled to climb up the rocky hill. The device was heavy, and his feet were hurting from all the pointy rocks. He pushed himself forward until he reached the top of the cliff. He looked around for possible dangers before trying to place the device to the exact point the creature showed him. 

He started hearing voices. He tried to identify them, but the sounds soon began to mess with his head. He groaned, holding his head in pain as he tried to silence the noises. Imagines and sounds played out in his mind, and they conflicted with his memories from the kin slaying of Alqualonde. There was a lot of screaming. There was fire; then there was Fingon. 

“Maitimo!” Someone shook him from his shoulder. 

Maedhros snapped back to reality. He turned around and saw his cousin looking back at him with a worried expression. “Fingon… what are you doing here?” Maedhros asked, baffled and shocked. “Everyone thought you died. I came here to see the truth; I found you like this! What is going on? And what are you doing?” Fingon pointed at the device then Maedhros remembered his current task. “There’s no time to explain. Help me settle this thing,” Maedhros picked up the device. “What?” Fingon questioned. “Just do it!” Maedhros said, placing the device into its place. 

Fingon hesitated but then helped Maedhros rotate the device attaching it to the ground. Maedhros stood up. “It’s in the place, now we -” He hesitated for a moment before pulling the control switch. 

The device activated, short legs like spikes hit the ground, and the upper top started spinning. The elves stared at the contraption until the ground began to shake. A strange sound, then a loud bang shook the earth. The two almost fell from the force. 

The earth cracked. 

The cracks reach deep down through the stone and iron, reaching the great room beneath the mines. The orcs and creatures looked at the stone cracks with great confusion and fright as the walls now looked frail enough to collapse the whole ceiling. 

They even reached Angband’s throne room and caught the attention of the valar, sitting upon it. 

The creature stood inside the room and heard the cracking in the distance. A satisfied smile dressed its face as it turned toward its kindred. All positioned themselves upon tables and awakened the lights. Green lights flowed through the veins, bringing light to the room and the hallways. 

The orcs and creatures inside the hallways were frightened as the green lights flowed beneath them. The ground beneath them then crumbled then a black eye opened and looked right at them. 

The earth began to shake, making everyone have difficulties standing. The cracks upon the stone became bigger until something started to rise under the land. 

The caves and hallways under the earth started collapsing, burying the orcs and everyone with it. The mine got destroyed as something came through the floor where the mysterious room resided. 

The earthquake was powerful enough to shake the Iron mountains, and the two elves who set the device quickly ran away before the breaking earth or the falling rocks got them. 

After some time, a giant tail rose from the ground. 

Sauron struggled to hold on to the wall while holding onto his bleeding shoulder. He was bruised and severely wounded, but he pushed himself to step outside before the ceiling failed upon him. 

He watched in bewilderment when he saw a big part of Angband break, and something rose beneath the dust and rocks. He couldn't help but step back as he bore witness to what rose beneath the iron fortress. 

A creature more extensive than the peaks of Thangorodming rose from the ground, and a mighty roar echoed through the air that shook the earth even more. 

The enormous beast stepped over the stone, causing rocks to fall from its back and crush those who dwelled beneath it. It used its massive claws and hands to move through Angband while its footsteps shook the earth beneath it. The orcs were running around, uncertain whether return underground or stay on the surface. Either way, they faced the same fate, death. 

Sauron barely dodged as a boulder almost fell upon him from the top. 

The giant beast moved over Angband, leaving the fortress in dust and destruction as it started moving toward the east. Its footsteps heard like loud earthquakes. 

Verion and the elves, who managed to escape the chaos, watched in fright as the giant walked away. 

Maedhros and Fingon stared at the destruction Angband suffered. 

The giant had almost crushed the fortress to the ground. There was a giant hole where the mines used to be, and there was no doubt how many dead orcs lingered on the earth. 

“What… was that thing?” Fingon almost whispered. Maedhros wanted to answer that question, but he was not sure either. Maedhros knew the giant belonged to the dark serpent-like creatures. He also now knew why the walls and floors in that room felt like bones and skin. 

They were part of that creature. 

That whole thing was beneath Angband, and the black enemy with his forces didn’t even know about it. 

Maedhros thought about the deal he made with that creature in the chamber. They kept their word, so he trusted that they would vanish like it said, but he couldn't help but wonder. What has he released upon his world?

[wincestisasincest]

The Barrel - Ch. 1 (LOTR x Reader)

Okay, so time for a fun and sexy take on Modern Girl in Middle Earth that no one asked for - what if the Modern Girl had a gun? I wanted to try and write something where the Modern Girl in question was not completely defenseless, and had a fair amount of experience that the others lacked.

This will be very slow burn, I think.

Chapter: 1

Words: 1452

Warnings: Blood, guns (obviously)

Pairings: None (yet)

The butt of the rifle cracked against your cheek. You bit your tongue, but kept your arms rigid and eyes open. The taste of copper slithered between your teeth.

The orc staggered, his head reeling back with the force of the bullet that had just been lodged into it. His spine arched, and his arms flailed. Before he could catch his balance, his heart finished beating and he collapsed to the ground. Pungent, dark blood oozed into the dirt.

The wizard hardly flinched. His weary, sloped brow and buggish eyes were fixed on you thoughtfully. He tugged a strand of his curly brown beard - the one that had been blanched with bird crap.

You dropped your arms and let the rifle relax into the natural dent of your hands. They were clammy, but the crisp chilliness of the forest kept them from being sweaty. Everything about you, from the fresh redness pooling in your cheeks due to the recoil of the gun to the congested nose you had that made you sniff every couple of minutes, put you on the edge of sickness. And yet, here you were, shambling and corpse-like, but still upright and alive.

You stepped towards the wizard, your eyes occasionally darting back to the orc. You hadn’t registered yet that you were the one who killed it. You’d give it some time.

“Are you Radagast the Brown?”

You kept your voice monotone and deep to not risk exposing the rasp extending up the back of your throat.

“Who’s asking? Friend or foe?”

“Friend. I’m (y/n).”

“No family?”

“None that are around here. I’m, uh, not from here. If it wasn’t already obvious.”

You swayed nervously on your legs. Your combat boots were worn beyond repair, though their gaudy artificial stitching that was loosely holding them together still stuck out like a sore thumb. The black tank top clung to your body, and though you mostly kept it hidden with an oversized jacket, you couldn’t help the occasional peak of bare flesh and tight fabric. Oh, and, of course, your jeans were bright-ass blue and had a leather tag on the back with an impeccably printed logo.

“Indeed,” the wizard nodded, “I’ve never seen a bow quite like that before.”

You neither. This whole shooting business was about as new as Middle Earth. When you had woken up in a small pile of freshly fallen leaves, the gun, along with a few packages of ammo, were about 10 feet from your stiff body. You hadn’t dared to practice anything besides loading and unloading the gun, lest you run out of ammo in the middle of your hour of need. You had abstained from counting, knowing that it would just make you more nervous.

“Yeah...” you trailed, “but anyway, I know you don't know me, but you know Gandalf, right? He needs help.”

“Help? Now, there’d have to be something mighty strong that could get that old goat in trouble,” he raised an eyebrow hawkishly.

“Saruman.”

“Saruman? Well now, that can’t be.”

“He’s working with Sauron. Looking for the ring, and-”

“Hush!” he finally broke eye contact with you and warily scanned the tops of the trees. Nothing but a wall of silence.

“The forest... it’s quiet. Someone is listening. Come, come. Matters like these ought to be discussed inside,” he turned around and waved for you to follow, hustling in between long, imposing trunks that looked like they were ready to fall on you and crush the life out of you at any second.

******

You had killed the moth. Not on purpose, of course. You seemed to have fallen on it after you crashed through the sky of Middle Earth.

You could remember hearing its screams. You rolled over, looking for the source, grinding the roots further into your ribcage. When you finally saw the tiny thing flitting on the ground, trying to get your attention, you dumbly watched its crushed wings and snapped legs twitch with jolts of desperation.

“I have a message! A message for Radagast the Brown! Friend of the Eagles! You must take it in my stead - it is urgent. The fate of Gandalf the Gray depends on it.”

You said nothing, barely able to keep yourself conscious as you rapidly inhaled and expelled stilted breaths.

“Gandalf the Gray was betrayed by former friend Saruman the White. He is on top of the tower Orthanc, in Isengard, dying with each passing moment. He dispatched me to tell Radagast to seek out the aid of the Eagles - he fears that they may be his only chance at rescue from the tower.”

“Are... are you real?” you finally sputtered.

“I am alive, but not for much longer. My strength fails me. But you must go. Follow along the edge of Mirkwood until you find the brown wizard. The fate of Gandalf, and perhaps the realm, may depend on you. Please, time is of the essence. You must leave.”

The creature’s mouth never moved. You never heard the sound of its voice. But you felt the words in your head, bouncing around there after being injected by some foreign source. The moth pointed its head straight at you.

“Please. It does not matter who you are - your future depends on the knowledge that only Gandalf holds.”

A throbbing pain blossomed in the back of your head, just under your neck. The moth flitted its wings once more, and then the telepathic force that had been drilling into your skull blinked out.

You took a long sip of murky liquid in a cracked glass teacup. Warmth stirred in your void of a stomach, which you had been trying to ignore.

“My word. Then it is true. Saruman has turned to the darkness,” Radagast said to no one in particular. He looked out the window, as if waiting for the silhouette of his friend to appear over the horizon, completely fine.

“I’m sorry,” was all that you could say.

He turned to you, eyes still flickering with life but in danger of going out.

“So am I,” he said grimly, “but, no matter. Gandalf was right. The Eagles are his only chance of salvation from a place as wicked as Isengard. I’ll get the message to them at once.”

He looked at his feet. You couldn’t actually recall much about Radagast from the books - you knew more about how low of an opinion Saruman had of him. But the look of despair that was settling deep within his chest was a grave reminder that he was just as capable of complex thought as anyone else.

You realized that you had just seen a man accept that there would be war on their hands, and that there was nothing he could do to avoid it.

“It will be alright in the end,” you found yourself saying.

Finally, he looked up at you sadly.

“I know. The world will always be okay in the end. And I, who have lived many years and will live many more, will be around to see it. But what will happen to everyone in between?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged, “but in the meantime we’ll just... do our best to protect them. That’s all we can do, right?”

You tilted the edge of your lips up, not quite forming a grin but far from the hopeless neutrality that you had carried with you into the house. He analyzed you, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips, not caring if you noticed.

“Who are you?”

“I’m (y/n).”

“A person is more than their name, especially one such as you.”

“I’m nobody important to this world. I don’t belong here.”

“And yet here you are. You’ve become somebody important,” he scratched his chin, “this appears to be beyond me, but I suggest that you consult with Gandalf. You’re already heading in his direction anyway.”

“What?”

“I’m sending you with the Eagles. The fellow will be in a mighty poor condition when you find him, it’d be irresponsible for me to send him back all by himself. And besides, you seem like a useful person to know.”

He smiled coyly. Your mind buzzed.

“There must be someone else that you can send?”

“Nope. Well, no one humann, anyway. One of the quirks of dedicating your being to the plants and the animals. Now, on you get! I can hear them circling overhead.”

You had no idea how he had summoned the Eagles, and at this point, you were almost too afraid to ask. You gritted your teeth and let your stomach do a cartwheel as you realized that you were about to come to terms with your fear of heights in the worst way possible.

So be it.

[sansaorgana]

I am SCREAMING on the inside. This is so good, so delicious, so fucking amazing!!! 🤩🤤 I couldn't help myself and read it at work, sitting by my desk and keeping a poker face on... 😩

I am tempted to quote every single line because the fic is so beautifully written but of course I can't do that. 😅

Still, I have A LOT to say! 💓

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

I love how possessive and obsessive he is, that he even haunts her dreams and claims her mind this way all the time.

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

I love me some humbled Sauron lmao

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

Why is this so fucking sexy lmao scared & horny! 🤤😩

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

Well, he's welcome to need more and I'm more than happy to give it to him 🥵

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

TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIM, BITCH!!! 😂

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

God, he's such a needy dog! I love that ❣️

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

USE ME??? OMG 😱

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

I loved this plea because it's like he's begging but also ordering since he's Sauron himself? Idk to me it's a perfect mix of submission driven by dominance if you get me and I'm a slut for that!

Sauron watches you hazily, through heavily lidded eyes, in disbelief that the goddess above him is his and his alone to enjoy and to ruin.

HIS AND HIS ALONE TO ENJOY AND TO RUIN 🛐🛐🛐

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

She could fuck the evil outta him, love that 😂

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

CUNT-DRUNK SAURON 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

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

Oh to be the only person he would submit to... 😌

"Please, my love... remake me, make me yours,"

Remake me!!! 😳 He just wants to be her subject, her disciple... Ugh 😩

A tiny voice in his mind tells him he should be embarrassed; but what is worship if not praise?

What is worship if not praise... 🤧

Sitting astride him, you feel as if he's never been so deep inside your cunt before now. You hiss a little at the intrusion but he's so familiar, every time he enters you, it feels like coming home.

I love how they fit each other so well in every sense 😉

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

I am shooketh and speechless 🥵

Subjugate the Devil (Sauron/F!Reader)

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

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

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

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

Playlist!

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 4.2k (!!)

Sauron does not sleep. Ordinarily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm yours. Make me yours."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is only too happy to oblige.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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