#therefore my writing/change of direction of the story depends heavily on my mood

[lileafae]

while I've got mixed feelings about Eden, I love the concept. so here <3

Pairing: M!Eden the hunter x F!pc/reader

Content warnings. MDNI: dark fic. heavy noncon. fingering. p in v. liddol bit of pussy slaps. mean and gross Eden. pc is teetering on the edge of madness. mentions of self-loathing/worthlessness. a sprinkle of dissociation. manhandling. at some point, it's mentioned that 'pc weighs nothing to him', but it simply means that Eden is so strong (he's a hunter after all). pc is called 'bird' sometimes but that doesn't imply she has a bird transformation; it simply is a nickname (although you're free to imagine pc as you like). Stockholm (kinda). yandere. if there are any tags you believe I've missed let me know!

a/n: this was a labor of love lol. squeezed this out by writing a few lines/paragraph a day because I've got exams still. I hope you enjoy!

Eden did not expect the pretty bird he had been watching to come to him on her own accord.

Sure, it's a little different from what he had imagined. Waking up to the door getting rattled so harshly he swore he'd put a bullet between the eyes of whoever that is, only to be met with a barrel lifted to his head once he opened the door. He recognized you at once– how could he not? What with you being the sole thing occupying his mind, haunting it, more like, with images he had only the chance of glimpsing from afar. And now–

You're looking up at him with dilated, bloodshot eyes veiled in a fierce glare, but if he gazes a little closer, a little longer, he'd pluck out a sliver of terror behind it. A terrified thing at his doorstep pretending to be all-that, not sure of what she's doing. The gun in your hand is shaking as you point it at him, teeth grinding in rage as you croak out a brave order to let you inside.

Eden had stared. Your clothes torn, skin sun-starved, an ugly gash that's caked in dried blood and dirt at your exposed torso. Feet bare and dirty. Hair matted. And he's been wondering why the pretty thing who bounds into the forest and digs up questionable items, hoards them into the little nest she creates with her arms and skedaddles away hasn't shown up in a month. After all, it's been precisely a month since he decided that idle birdwatching wasn't gonna do it for him; he wanted to hunt his bird and cage it; protect it, more like. He doesn't like to think himself this cruel. The world is so full of predators, after all, and the way you look right now is solid evidence.

He doesn't realize how bewitched he is by your sudden appearance until you bark another order at him, drenched with more aggressiveness than the first time, and he doesn't fail to notice the nervous glimpse you throw over your shoulder even when you try to hide it.

He steps aside, and you bound in with a slight limp.

It's more clear than ever that you didn't think your plan through, now that you're standing before him. The gun you had snatched off the person who had grappled you to the forest ground earlier feels foreign in your hand, yet you never lower it as you go by the table, hunger stricken, wild red-rimmed eyes hunting for something you could use to squander the ache in your belly. He doesn't take his eyes off of you either. Closes the door with his body facing you.

���I–” your throat contracts when you attempt to speak, and you cough. Parched. To speak means to pour tremendous effort; energy that you so desperately lack, but you manage it only for a few words. “–will leave shortly. W.. worry not.”

And it feels silly assuring this beast of a man. Perhaps thinking the gun in your hand an object that instills trepidation– which is precisely what you intend, but a buried layer of your conscience tells you of a need to reassure him you mean no harm, for the gun seems to you an instrument that wields power. A talisman of control in a mind that's spiraling into madness; a promise of safety in the guise of steel and fire. Some divine power that would carve a world where you're allowed a chance to command respect, to assert your will upon a world that had often left you staggeringly powerless.

Between the table (that you use as a barrier between the two of you) and the door (where he stands ominously) is a good few feet, yet not only his stature makes the space seem small, but also the air surrounding him shrinks the sense of safety you had initially prompted. He stares you down while your eyes widely flit between him and the interior of his cabin, arm cramping due to your refusal of lowering your weapon.

He moves, and you flinch. Pauses, gives you a weird look (perhaps to question why you were so wary of him, completely abandoning the notion that while he's seen you before, familiarized himself with you, you haven't), then walks over to the side. Your hand trembles as it follows him with the barrel, but then he merely produces a plate. Leftovers. Your eyes zeroes in on them.

You resist lunging at the sight of food. Animalistic. Primal; somewhere in the back of your mind had been readied to reduce yourself to the act of cannibalism were you to not find a bite. But he thuds the plate down in front of you, and something in his chest expands at the sight; perhaps pride, or giddiness at the thought of being a saviour of some sort. For, after all, you looked everything a wild, wounded animal; someone stripped off humanity and forced to keep living; to survive. A stray that he so willingly took in.

Eden watches you snap. Watches as you scramble forward, taking handful after handful of food and shoving it into your mouth with no care for decorum. It's amusing, however, how the gun resides still in your hand. Like an extension of yourself. At some point you don't notice, he'd filled you a bowl of water, which you greedily chug without so much looking at him. It is then he realizes this is his chance; Eden is invisible to you as of now, even without putting any effort in concealing his movement. You're simply there in body, not in mind, acting upon pure instinct.

The only thing that convulses your brain back to alertness is the sound of a click, and something heavy and cold around your neck. You shriek, whip around savagely, point the gun up at him and pull the trigger.

Nothing comes. Your eyes widen, your body shakes, a strangled whimper resonates from your throat as you pull the trigger again and again and again, thinking that somehow it would change. That it would refill on its own. That a bullet would materialize inside the muzzle by some divine intervention. Alas, the gun's empty, and there's no changing that.

In that moment, the gun was truly an extension of yourself; helpless, powerless, a hollow vessel concealed by an imposing presence. Eden slowly traces his hand up to wrap around the gun that you still absentmindedly fire, eyes wide and frozen in shock and panic. It slips from your fingers and into his without tussle, despite it being basically inseparable from you seconds ago. In his other hand a leash that he attaches to the collar he clicked around your neck.

Your stance shifts, blinking yourself back to reality, and Eden notices, quick to adapt to your unpredictability, because you lunge at him, thrashing and clawing and screeching. It only takes a harsh tug of the leash downwards and a rumble of his grave voice to render you put. “Down, girl.”

You tumble down, knees hitting the floor hard, and he goes down with you. Crouching before you to grab your wrist with his free hand, feeling up to your elbow before he lifts it. You wince, the gaping wound on your torso stretching, flesh stinging as he inspects it. He's close enough for you to smell the scent of pine and earth that clings to him, like he's the embodiment of the forest and not just a hunter that it took in.

You have to ground yourself when he speaks, his voice rich and rumbling, threatening to plunge you into full panic. “Were you chased?”

You mewl quietly.

“By the wolves?”

You manage to raise your head and meet his eyes. “..no.”

Eden reaches for your tattered shirt, and tears it right off. Your muscles go taut, hysteria seizing your mind once again and your limbs launch to action, flailing about ferally to desperately push him away. He pushes you back on the floor, pinning your legs with his knees and seizing both your wrists in one hand. “I'm helping you, goddammit,” he hovers above and glares, then his gaze goes down, lingers on your bare breasts for a beat, then down to your side where the wound your blood cells worked so hard to plug has opened and started bleeding again.

For a moment, he ponders how to get up to fetch his medkit without you jerking away and scrambling out the door. He could tie the leash to something, certainly, but in your unstable state he worries you might actively try to choke yourself with it, and although he's nearby and wouldn't let that happen, that would be inconvenient to deal with. He just doesn't want you to hurt yourself further.

But then he looks down again, and realizes he needs not to do a thing. The pain had rendered you inert. Completely still; limp prey bleeding impotently on his floors, agonized soft whimpers leaving your lips occasionally while tears stream quietly down your face. Eden watches as you stare right up at the ceiling, something shifting in your gaze; a film coating your eyes.

You sink, brain morphing to wet cotton that expands till it fills every nook and cranny in your skull. It's like you're swaying in the lake, water seeping through your ears and muffling your surroundings. You keep coming in and out of your haze, everything a blur, and when you finally blink yourself to consciousness (as much consciousness as there might be) you find yourself next to the now blazing fire, leaning back against a sturdy chest. Torso bandaged. Body naked.

Eden holds a wet cloth that he sweeps down your skin, perhaps trying his best to be gentle, but for a man of his nature it's inevitable for it to feel a little rough. He runs the cloth from your neck, to your shoulder, down to your breasts. You're still out of it, no reaction as you absently watch his hand clean you up. He picks up on your growing awareness, though, because his arm suddenly tightens around your middle right beneath your chest just before you start stirring about. Your lips part to speak but your mind fails to catch up with you, so you end up babbling incoherently, pitch gradually rising in distress.

For that, he adjusts you on his lap, shuffling a thigh between your legs and pulling you back further towards himself. You whimper as your clit drags on his clothed thigh. “Easy there,” he says, hot breath hitting the back of your neck, “you're hurt enough.”

“I-” you choke out, swallowing back tears; his hand that splays on your stomach to still you makes your mind reel with memories, “I want to leave.”

“Leave? But where will you ever go?” He speaks, for once picking his words carefully, “doesn't look like you were wanted wherever you were.”

Your throat tightens, and your mind goes to Robin. “I am needed.”

“Whoever needed you has clearly abandoned you.”

You stiffen up. “That is not true. I– I am both–..they want and need me.”

“Someone who truly wants you would never let this happen to you.” Eden says, gravely voice reverberating almost like a baritone would, “tell me: does anyone truly want you, dove?”

You jerk, elbow digging back into him with as much force as you can manage, and he tightens his hold. Folds his body over yours to curl you into yourself. “Tell me,” he growls in your ear, “is the person who abandoned you worth everything you've been through?”

“You don't know anything– y- you know nothing!” you shrill, but he doesn't give you a chance to proceed, doubling down.

“Is it worth all of this exertion? Haven't you been running for too long?” He dips his words into the knowledge he's gathered from watching you months ago, and his hand starts moving south when he sees you've gone rigid at his words, “don't you want someone who'll take charge for a change? Someone who wants you, protects you, takes care of you for once?”

Something about his voice, about the way he utters his words rather than the words themselves, penetrates your skull, shoving past all tissue and blood and presses directly on your brain. His middle finger ventures down, runs above the hood of your clit. “I want you.” Eden says, gently drags his finger along your seam now, coaxing the lips open by stroking the pad of his finger up and down, and he continues, “I'll take care of you, provide for you.”

You turn into mush. Words you've been craving to hear but have not dared to entertain the thought of actually hearing them. The slow circles he traces on your clit might be another reason you're melting, but you're too lost in the fantasy of being cared for to register that. His hold on you tightens further, as if he knows what he says next will break you out of the trance he's managed to tuck you under this far. “You only have to stay.”

Your eyes snap into focus.

“Stay here. Keep me company. Never leave.”

Many things force their way into your mind. Self-loathing deems you unworthy of affection and care, of being provided for and not the one providing; another part of your mind refuses comfort, having adapted itself to pain and misery, having acquainted itself with it and, therefore, finds comfort in anguish. There are also memories that stream forth, overflooding your head until it pounds with pain, forcing you to realize you've merely escaped a den to jump into another, whether deliberately or not.

And when you process that, you bristle and try to kick your feet, but he folds you in, chest morphing into your back with how much he squishes you to him. “I don't think you realize, but you don't have a say in this.” He says, prodding at your hole and gradually pushing a thick finger inside, relishing in the way your jaw slacks despite yourself. “You are to stay. This is meant to be. We are meant to be.”

He glides his finger further in, coaxing out fluids that squelch with every drag. “You came to me on your own accord. And while I am not a believer, I do believe fate guided your legs to me, right where you belong.”

He ignores your high cries and squawks, your thrashing and squirming (as much as his hold allows, at least), your nails digging into the muscle of his arm and scratching with fervor until it draws blood. Eden adds another finger, listening to your cries mingling with forfeited moans, and thrusts them faster until your heels dig to the floor and you drench his fingers with your cum.

Your orgasm is still crashing through you when he tucks his arm beneath your knees and adjusts you until they meet your chest, seated on the cradle of his thighs. His fingers withdraw promptly just to return as four, and he wedges the tips of them between the split of your lips and shakes them, tearing strangled moans from your throat that turn into squeals when he follows with a few slaps to your cunt.

He doesn't give you enough time to process nor to react before you're on your back, next to the fire, lifting your ankles onto his shoulders. “Eden,” he says, and the head of something hot and hard nudges your hole, “my name. Use it.”

Then he's bullying his cock past your folds, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and groaning loud and long. He stretches your walls to the hilt, and shoves his dick in until it's buried to the base in one long thrust. It strips your lungs of breath, knocking it out of you as he pulls you further into him, lifting your hips so they perch on his lap. Your eyes are blown, jaw slack with a silent moan, still trying to adjust to his impalement.

But he moves before you do. His hands latch onto your hips, digging his fingers into your flesh and indenting his mark there with mad bruises. Eden drags his hips back until only the head is notched in you, before he slams back in. He settles a brutal pace soon, thighs smacking your ass as he fucks you with short and hard thrusts, pulling only halfway out as if it pains him to separate from your squelching cunt any further.

Your whole body jostles with every ram. Doesn't leave you enough room to breathe in and steals what little air you manage out in pathetic whimpers. You reach out with your hands, gasping and blubbing, so he leans down until you can reach him. You latch your nails to his skin, clawing up until they hook at the front of his neck. Eden hisses, and the force of his thrusts amplifies. When you expect him to retreat in pain, he smiles dangerously down at you, gaze darkening and bottom lip catching beneath his teeth.

He leans down further, allowing you to scrape more at his skin, watching as you leave angry red lines down his throat and around his collarbones. “Is it too much for you?” Eden heaves, hitting deep and hard and smirking when the fattest part of his cock seems to ram into your g-spot, judging by your reaction. “Too big for you, bird?”

When you gasp and nod, he grips your hips harder and stops moving his hips altogether. Instead, he starts moving you, bouncing you onto his cock as if you weigh nothing to him, as if you were a fleshlight; a toy he can maneuver and use however he wishes. “Use my name.” He groans, starting to get breathless, “say it. Tell me it's too much.”

But he's mean as he bullies the spot he's found earlier over and over, knocking the words out of you and rendering you into a blubbering mess while still demanding you to speak. Eden hisses. “Say it.”

“‘s t-too mu..ch..!”

“My name, bird.”

And you have to grapple around your mind and fetch the moment he made his name known to you. He makes it particularly hard as he bumps your hips up onto his searing rock-hard cock, but you succeed at remembering, and finally cry out. “E-Eden! sl-ow down–!”

The only thing his name coming out of your lips does is wrench a growl from his throat, and your legs are suddenly up on one shoulder of his. He perches your hips up and pistons into you, somehow harder and faster than before. You thrash and squeal, but no matter what you do, he moves with you, predicting every direction you blindly throw yourself in to get away. And he's made it clear that your scramble for some sort of power means nothing to him the moment he had lowered himself to you earlier so you could hit and scrape his flesh. Taunting you to hit him as hard as you could, for he can never get hurt.

It takes no more than a few particularly hard thrusts to send you over the edge. You spasm against him, convulsing with a cry that makes his dick throb inside you before he sends his seed deep into your cunt. Hot and thick and fills you up until you're overflowing with it, which finally makes him unplug you, slipping his softening cock out and watching his cum plop right out, trickling down to your asshole.

The sight bewitches him, and he stares in awe for a while as it dribbles, before he reaches with a finger to scoop some of it up, only to smear it on your swollen folds like it's some sort of lotion. He's so entranced it takes him a moment to realize you're passed out; exhausted, and still heaving.

That's when he learns he simply needs to keep wearing you out until you're trained. And over the course of the following week(s), Eden sprouts a set of bruises and harsh scratches, some of them deep enough to urge his blood to clot around them. And he wears them proudly, knowing that it only takes a good, rough fucking to get you soft and pliant again, to wear you out until you sit and eat in silence. Like a stray cat, he says, hissing and seething her claws until she gets a big, hefty cock in her wet cunt. It might take some time for you to stop trying to claw his eyes out, but he's willing to train you until you finally realize this is the life you were meant for.

With him. For him.