I'm Totally Obsessed With Him Too IT'S INSANE.

I'm totally obsessed with him too 🫡 IT'S INSANE.

I can't wait to see what you come up with next!!!

we live in the halbrand/sauron supremacy. like literally and it’s just perfect. 🤧

The Rings of power + Taylor Swift lyrics Part 1 Part 2 | Part 3

The fact that taytays' lyrics fit so perfectly just proves how much drama these two are

*bonus one* just cause it was too funny not to

*Bonus from s1*

The Rings of Power + Taylor Swift lyrics Part 3 or Sauron: the musical Part 1 | Part 2

The last batch of gifs in honor of the finale S2

"He knew me by heart. It infuriated me that he knew me by heart." — Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground "He becomes Halbrand (…) because he knew the feelings Galadriel had for him." — Charlotte Brändström for Nerdist.

Galadriel and Sauron The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power Shadow and Flame

i’m in love. truly. deeply. madly.

Reunion (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which your husband finally returns from his time in Númenor, and you make the most of the first moment you get him alone

Warnings: evil!reader, mentions of injury, hot and heavy make out, slight choking, heavily suggestive dialogue, mentions of voyeurism

Note: same evil!reader as the others in the collection, but it should make sense on its own too.

He’s finally on his way to Eregion. And wounded. It’s been plain to see through your soulbond for days.

You can barely conceal your trepidation as you stand with Celebrimbor and Elrond, awaiting your husband’s arrival in Eregion. They do not know to expect it, of course—they believe Galadriel is long gone into Valinor, and they could never fathom that she is soon to ride through the gates with a man at her side, much less that he is the very darkness they seek to keep at bay. And that you, Celebrimbor’s trusted aid for so many years, are none other than Sauron’s beloved wife.

Had they known, they surely would not have asked you to assist in the task secretly entrusted to them by king Gil-galad—that of bringing into being some sort of creation that will save Elvendome from the dying of their light in Middle-Earth. That is what you are discussing now. Elrond laments that you have failed, and it is time to inform the High King of this. Celebrimbor looks at him, dismayed.

“We must not despair,” you intervene, working as much hopeful reassurance into your gaze as possible. “Surely, in another few days, the answers will come.”

And it’s not even a lie. Your husband shall bring all the inspiration needed and then some—but you must ensure the Elves do not leave this city before his arrival.

Elrond shakes his head. “I fear we’re out of time.” He places a hand on your shoulder, and you push down the urge to swat it away as he speaks very inconvenient words. “The Elves must prepare to abandon these shores. Forever.”

You return his sad smile with practiced ease.

Where are you? you reach out to your husband, sending the thought as far and quickly as you can manage—

A deep tiredness answers on his end. Swiftly and so very close.

The sound of hooves has never sounded sweeter than when Galadriel finally rides in through the gate. It serves you well that both Elrond and Celebrimbor are too stunned by her arrival to notice the slip in your mask when you see your husband following behind her, slumped against his own horse. Surely, the anguish written on your face is too great to be considered natural concern for a wounded stranger. You school your features quickly, but do rush to aid him in climbing off his horse—that much, any kind-hearted Elf would do.

For a short, beautiful moment, you are pressed against him as he staggers on his feet, and you manage to exchange the briefest of glances. His brow is slick with sweat, he is bleeding from his side, yet you feel through your bond how your touch fills him with elation. You would suffer the same wound as him, you think, if only it meant you could kiss him as you long to, then and there.

But a couple of guards are quick to intervene, taking what they must think is too heavy a burden off your shoulders. Pulling your husband from you, they sling his arms around themselves and all but drag him away when he fails to walk on his own, leaving you to strive not to follow as your heart slams against your ribcage.

“What has happened?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Enemy lance, six days ago,” Galadriel tells him. “We rode without rest.”

Galadriel. You take a moment to look at her. You’ve seen her before, of course, but not as a cog in your plans. That had happened quite accidentally—or perhaps by fate. Either way, your husband has returned. That is all that matters.

Well, that and getting him alone.

There is no plausible reason for you to stand at his side whilst your people’s artificers work to mend his wound. All you can do is sit and wait, gently nudging your husband’s mind through your bond to make your presence felt. A sense of content drifts back to you, though it is laced with the same impatience you feel.

If you were still loyal to the Valar, you would thank them for the haste with which Elvish remedies work, even if the hours they require to be applied feel like an eternity. Finally, the artificers leave your husband to rest his newly recovered body as you watch from the shadows of the corridor. It is past midnight, all too easy for you to slip into his room and shut the door behind you without anyone noticing.

Your husband, having sensed you were about to join him, awaits you in utter nonchalance, lying with his legs crossed and his arms beneath his head as if he truly were some graceless human man. He’s been given a new shirt, white and pristine. Pity. If you have your way, he’ll need a new one soon enough.

“The hour is inappropriate,” he greets you, and you don’t know whether you want to kiss or slap away his smug little smile.

For now, you answer with your own. “Good.”

You stride towards the bed with the determination of a demon chasing prey, and with swift, skillful movements, climb into it and straddle your husband’s hips.

“Gently, my love,” he warns, mischief dancing in his eyes as his hands fly to your waist, gripping your flesh greedily even as he keeps you at bay, “I am but a man recovering from his wounds.”

You give a slight, rueful chuckle. He is perfectly well now, and you both know it.

“I’m afraid you shall have to endure,” you threaten sweetly, and he abandons all feigned resistance as you dive in to finally claim his lips with yours.

The relief of being together again is instant, and you sigh into his mouth as you let his kiss consume you, sweet and slow. You surprise even yourself. You had expected a furious clash of teeth and tongues, the frenzy of swallowing each other whole after going too long without your beloved’s taste—like it was when you had finally nursed him from an amorphous black mass back into his form, and the two of you had been reduced to a tangle of thrashing limbs in the snow, as mindless and savage as animals mating in heat.

But that was after countless years of suffering in his absence. Compared to that, your time apart since the shipwreck separated you has been nothing at all—and what’s more, of your own choice, however it displeased you. Your husband had seen an opportunity in his meeting with Galadriel, one from which you could both benefit, and so he had entreated through your bond that rather than look for him, you must return to the false life you had built in Eregion in his absence, for he sensed you shall yet have use of it upon his return.

And now, here you are—reunited once more, in body as well as mind. This time, you wish to savour it. You relish each and every slide of your husband’s tongue against yours, every scrape of his stubble against your cheek, every inch of hair caressed by your fingers as they sink into it, tugging longingly at the roots. Your hearts beat against each other as you press yourself flush to him, his arms wrapped around you to somehow pull you even closer, and the might of the sheer adoration shared between you is almost too painful to bear.

“Will you stay this time?” you whisper, nudging his nose with yours as your lips part from his and hover close. “Or will I be made to wait for you once more, my love?”

His hand cradles your face, coaxing you to retreat only enough for your gazes to meet.

“The road goes ever winding,” he tells you. “Not even I can see all its paths.”

“Yet it seems ours so often tend to drift apart,” you say, frustratedly. “As though they are forced to be. That sea creature who attacked the ship, and the immense wave that carried us at such great distance from each other—that was no coincidence, was it?”

Your husband shakes his head.

“It is for us that I wish to reshape this world. Without you, the end I have seen so clearly since I first awoke withers away before my eyes. They know this.” Hatred sparks in his eyes, but it is only a flicker against the love with which he beholds you. “The Valar themselves may have attempted to part us,” he says, “yet the tides of fate only brought me back to you all the more fruitful in our endeavours.”

“Hm, so I’ve heard.” Now animated by more pleasant thoughts, you sit up slowly, sure to drag your nails down your husband’s torso with just the right amount of pressure that it draws a low groan from him. “King of the Southlands,” you proclaim, equal parts pride and amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “An old man’s trinket and a word from a gullible Elf and an entire people bow at your feet.”

“She is not gullible,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. His eyes are fixed on some tantalizing spot on your neck as he sits up as well and covers it with his mouth. “She is desperate to believe whatever suits her purpose,” he murmurs between languid kisses to your skin. “I all but laid back and allowed Galadriel to bring me right where I most needed to be.”

You’d be a helpless puddle of desire—and to an extent, you are—if not for the fire his words ignite within you. You grab a fistful of his hair and pull him away, pushing against his chest to throw him right back down against the pillows. That earns you a grunt and a wicked chuckle from your husband.

“It is not wise to speak another’s name,” you say with eerie calmness, gaze locked with your husband’s as you lean down until you’re nose to nose, “whilst your wife is astride you.”

He hums as if in contemplation, taking hold of your chin as his eyes roam over your face.

“She is hailed as the most beautiful of Elven maidens,” he reminds you, and you know it satisfies him when your brow knits in indignation. But then he goes on, ever so adoringly, “Those who say such a thing either have never laid eyes upon my beloved, or they are blind as bats.”

See, now... now you melt.

You catch his hand as it moves from your chin, and give the tip of his thumb the slightest nip.

“Beguiler,” you purr, a honeyed reproach. “No wonder you have them eating from the palm of your hand.” And that is exactly where you lay a lingering kiss. He seems transfixed by the reverence of your gesture, and his slightly parted lips are too tempting for you not to kiss them once more.

Your blood is still heated from your husband’s teasing, from being pressed against him so close, and you hunger for so much more than the gentleness from before. Your kiss grows deeper, more desperate, and soon enough you’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to aid you in lifting it over his head. With a frustrated groan, he takes hold of your hands to make them cease.

“My love, I would like nothing more than to have you, repeatedly, for the remainder of the night,” he says in earnest, breath heavy. “But you’ve already lingered here too long. Should someone come and see—”

“I’ve locked the doors,” you dismiss, and chase his lips once more. He lets you catch them, claims yet another kiss, only to turn away from you again.

“And if someone should unlock the door to find you here,” he retorts as you grunt in protest, “how shall we maintain our pretence?”

“I do not care!” you all but whine, the longing you have endured in his absence swelling painfully within your chest. It turns your voice into a quiet plea. “I want my husband.” You press an impossibly sweet kiss to his cheek, then murmur in his ear, “Don’t you want your wife?”

His breath hitches. Suddenly, he turns his head, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Temptress,” he rasps begrudgingly. Then, softly and subdued, “Beloved.”

He is the one to capture your lips now, any thought of restraining his desire long gone. You smile in triumph against his mouth, then plant your hands against his shoulders, push away and—fisting your hands in his shirt, you pull.

Elven fabrics are by no means fragile, but with a bit of your powers put into it, the shirt tears apart at the middle, baring your husband’s chest to your ravenous gaze.

“Perhaps we might be able to explain this, after all,” he muses while your lips attack his neck, quickly moving downward. “I could tell them what a merciless creature you are...” His hand comes to cradle the back of your head as he admires how you pepper urgent kisses down his chest. “...taking advantage of a poor mortal man when he finds himself in such a vulnerable state.”

You halt abruptly, eyes snapping up to his. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” you gasp with perfectly feigned innocence, even as you lay your sinful mouth on him once more. “Here I am—a kind, virtuous Elven maiden such as myself,” you speak between kisses, nips and licks at his skin, “seeking to bring aid to a wounded man...” Your lips venture lower, down his abdomen. “...only to be seduced into his bed...” His eyes are aflame with desire as you gaze up at him through your lashes, working open his belt. “...with shameless words of temptation and ruinous caresses. Imagine the scandal.”

It happens in an instant—you gasp as you are grabbed and pulled and flipped onto your back, your husband’s frame pressing you down into the mattress as he pins your wrists to the pillow.

“Imagine that, indeed,” he rasps out, eyes so darkened by hunger his pupils turn to their primal slit shape. “Imagine if they were to burst through the door...” He releases one of your wrists to wrap an achingly tender hand around your throat, leaning into your ear. “...and saw us joined as one,” he whispers into it, making you shudder, “and knew at once that we’re forever bound.”

You grip at his wrist, eyes fluttering shut, chest heaving, ready to beg for him to give you more. But he isn’t done, and tightens his hold on your throat with just the right amount of pressure to draw a wanton whimper from it. “Imagine,” he says, “if they saw this kind, virtuous Elven maiden you have led them to believe you are for all these years, ruined with pleasure beneath her husband.” He lifts his head, his cruelty to ‘them’ mingling with his reverence for you in his gaze. “Imagine their betrayal, their horror. Their jealousy—for they would know, deep in their bones, that no love of theirs will ever compare to that which binds our souls as one. Would you like that?”

You would not like it—you need it, you crave it with a force so great it feels as though his skin is made of flame, burning yours in sweet agony with every inch it touches. And yet, even breathless and desperate as you are, you lift your chin in challenge and fix him with your gaze.

“I would like you,” you murmur defiantly, “to put that wicked tongue of yours to better use than talking.”

Your husband grins. “How I’ve missed you, my love.”

There is nothing teasing about the way he kisses you then. He tastes your mouth with abandon as his hips dig into yours, and you whine impatiently, writhing within his grip. Obeying your silent wish, his hands release your throat and wrist in favour of roaming over your body, caressing and kneading all the spots of your soft flesh he knows to be most sensitive. You coil your arms around him, wishing him even closer, as his lips drift from yours to your jaw, kissing their eager way down your neck, and you shudder as he tugs down the shoulder of your dress, exposing your heated skin only to set it further ablaze with his mouth. You can feel the fabric straining, sure enough to tear apart in the same way his shirt had, and you want it, you want your husband’s skin against yours with nothing in between—

Someone is trying to open the door.

You pray with all your might that you misheard, even as your husband freezes at the sound as well, and lifts his mouth from your shoulder to look in the direction of the sound. But then whoever is on the other side, realizing that the door had been locked, knocks on it instead.

You don’t even bother making your voice quiet. “Oh, for the love of—!”

Your husband puts a silencing finger to your lips—and gives you a scolding look when you lick it obscenely.

“Sir Halbrand?” one of the artificers calls from outside. “Are you well?”

“That should be ‘your majesty’,” your husband mumbles.

“I’ll kill them,” you deadpan.

“Shh,” he cooes, slightly amused. “Not yet. We still have work to do here.” Infuriatingly composed, his eyes roam the room in search of a solution, and land on one. “Why don’t you step onto the balcony for a moment whilst I tell them I locked the door myself? A man needs his privacy, after all.” He looks back to you, and finds a tragic blend of ire and yearning on your face.

“Oh, my love,” he says sympathetically, brushing a tender knuckle down your cheek, “how beautiful you are when you crave me to despair.”

“Then I must always look splendid,” you quip, lifting your head to reach his lips with an alluring whisper, “I never not crave you to despair.”

He curses in Black Speech, the foul words muffled as he gives into your kiss once more. But then there is another rap at the door, more urgent than the last.

“Go,” he grunts. Before you can protest further, your husband pries himself off you and leaves the bed altogether. You allow yourself a moment to plop down on the pillows and curse at the ceiling before you will your body into moving. Your limbs are still weak with desire as you get on your feet.

You decide then and there that your first decree as Queen of all Middle-Earth shall be the execution of whoever is now standing beyond that door.

Your husband has hastily discarded his ruined shirt, tormenting you further with an unobstructed view of his lean torso. There must be something equally irresistible in your disheveled state, however, because the moment his eyes land upon you, his apparent composure slips away and he surges to you like a man possessed, planting yet another searing kiss onto your lips.

“Get rid of them,” you pant out as you break away.

Your husband takes your hand, kissing your knuckles quickly. “As my Queen commands.”

Your heart flutters, easing the frustration as, finally, you go your separate ways: he towards the door, you to conceal yourself. You take comfort in knowing that this parting, unlike the others, shall be extremely short—and the reunion all the more delectable.

Next fic with same reader -> As one

welcome back my king