batsyforyou

[batsyforyou]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for 10 people! Get to know your mutuals and followers 💐\(•`w • )

Thank you!

Um, let’s see here

My chickens

My cats

My garden

My fandoms

My sister

To be fair literally everything on this list gives me anxiety! 😂

[batsyforyou]

"You're right. I tell you what— I'm going to want points for this in the future… But if you ever do this again I will kill you. Deal? Are we good?" "Yeah, as far as I can see." "Let's move out." "I can't believe you never mentioned the Mensa thing." "I took the test. I never joined." "But you passed. "Yes." "Well, do you know we have a chapter on Atlantis? You could become an honorary—" "Rodney. Rodney, up the rope."

[batsyforyou]

I loved this! I wouldn’t mind a part two lol very good!

Blah, Blah, Blah! Proper Name, Place Name, Backstory stuff... | House of Fingolfin + Gwindor & Gil-Galad

A/N: I had always loved this trend and found it funny to try with the elves, knowing that they would lose every argument or discussion once reader pulls this move on them.

Warnings: suggestive, minor arguments, handsome elves

Synopsis: When you find them distractingly handsome in the middle of a conversation, and choose to flirt with them.

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⋆˚✿˖° Fingolfin

You sat there with your legs folded beneath you, chin propped lazily on your palm and your eyes far from fixated on his face, instead on the way the sunlight haloed around his head, how the sharpness of his cheekbones cut shadows into his tanned skin, the noble slope of his nose, the proud curve of his mouth. He was rambling—something about “Victory, orcs, cavalry”—blah blah blah—but none of it touched your ears. Not when his tunic stretched tight across his broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the veined strength of his forearms.

“—and then I said to my nephew that if he would only—are you even listening?”

Blinking, your gaze slowly shifted up from the deep vee of his collar to meet his eyes, a striking icy blue that narrowed suspiciously.

“Hmm?” you murmured nonchalantly, still not paying full attention.

“I was telling you about one of the most decisive battles of the First Age and you are staring at me like you have never seen me before.” He had placed his hands on his hips, an act to assert his authority, and more importantly, for you to realise the importance of the topic.

Giving another bored hum, you openly allowed your eyes to roam up, down, back up this time. “You’re handsome,” you glazed honestly, and smirked when his scowl deepened. “Too handsome to be talking about...whatever you were talking about.”

The mere audacity of you to bravely utter such words, left him stunned. His mouth twitched, almost betraying amusement. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” Subtly, you leaned back on your hands, lazily spreading your thighs just a little, and watching how his sharp gaze flickered down before snapping back up to your face. “I didn’t hear a word of that history lecture, but I did enjoy the view.”

Fingolfin being Fingolfin, wasn’t too keen on accepting your dismissal to one of his great battle stories, however, he was willing to make an exception with the praises coming his way—every man had his moment of weakness. “Why must you be like this?” he sighed, sweeping his hand behind his neck and stepping closer until he stood directly before you. “I’m sharing tales of battle, of survival, and you reduce it to ‘blah blah blah’?”

“It’s not my fault you’re so distracting. You could be telling me the very song of creation, and I’d still be too busy thinking about your jawline.”

A hand shot out to catch your chin, tilting your face upwards, while his thumb brushed across your bottom lip. “Is that so?” he purred, leaning in while running his thumb along your lower lip. “Shall I recount for you instead how I took Angband by storm? Or would you prefer a different tale entirely?”

Leaning into his touch, you pursed your lips and gave a pout. “Less talking. Look more pretty.”

For the first time that evening, the High King’s lips stretched into a full, amused grin as he dipped his head to press his forehead to yours. “I suppose I can allow it. Only for you.”

⋆˚✿˖° Fingon

Sprawled beside you in the grass, arms tucked under his head, brilliant sky-blue eyes fixed on the clouds overhead as he launched into an animated story. His voice, bright with laughter, spun through the air as he recounted some ridiculous misadventure with Finrod and Maedhros—something about stolen horses, a nearly-burned-down camp, and an enraged Maglor. Though, it wasn’t captivating enough to draw your attention from the other masterpiece you focused on so dearly.

Not when his smile curved so easily, flashing those two dimples, not when his lashes caught in the sun, his dark, gossamer hair sprawled around him with one strand clinging to his lips. Not when the delicate point of his ears peeked through the unkempt tangle, not when his shirt stretched tight across his chest each time he laughed, breathless and animated, the buttons ready to give out.

“—and then the whole tent caught fire—”

“You’re so pretty,” you sighed dreamily without thinking, drinking in the lazy slant of his grin, the effortless beauty of his face.

For a moment, he faltered mid-sentence, head swivelling around with widened eye and parted cherry-stained lips. “What?”

“Gorgeous,” you repeated, half-hypnotised by the way the breeze lifted his hair and having it float around him like some divine being. “I have no idea what you’re saying. Something-something, blah blah blah. But you’re very handsome.”

There was a beat of silent as he blinked—you could see the gears turning in his head—before the sudden burst of delighted laughter. Throwing his head back with a boyish grin that made your heart clench, the sound of his voice rippled throughout the small glade. “That’s what you’ve been thinking this whole time? I’m out here telling you a story of heroism and disaster and you’re—”

“Not listening,” you added most helpfully, reaching out to toy with a lock of his hair, rubbing the silken strands between your fingers. “Too distracted.”

He grinned wider, biting his lip to suppress the next peal of laughter, and rolling onto his side to face you properly. “Distracted, hmm?” he teased with gleaming eyes. “Should I be flattered or offended?”

“Both,” you answered sweetly, leaning in to nudge your nose against his. “But mostly flattered. I mean, how do you expect me to focus when you look like that?”

He gave a phoney hum, feigning deep thought. “Fair point. I am devastatingly handsome…and heroic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Unparalleled in skill.”

“Sure.”

He laughed again, shoving playfully at your shoulder before flopping back onto the grass. “You’re hopeless.”

“You love it,” you sing-songed, grinning as you pressed yourself against his side, pillowing your head on his chest.

“I do,” he admitted easily, as one hand carded lazily through your hair. “Even if you never listen to a word I say.”

“Just keep looking handsome, Finno,” you murmured sleepily, closing your eyes as the warmth of him and the rhythm of his heart lulled you into blissful calm. “It’s all I need.”

“You’re absolutely terrible,” he whispered fondly.

⋆˚✿˖° Turgon

“...And so you understand why the secrecy must be upheld, meleth,” he murmured, pausing to fix those piercing grey eyes on you, full of concern, of earnestness, of that goddamn nobility he wore like second skin.

You were supposed to be listening, truly you were, nodding in solemn understanding like any good lover would, but the only thing you could actually focus on was the way the soft evening sunlight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the almost sinful curve of his mouth, and the deep cleft of his chin. Something about Gondolin, about duty, about the weight of the crown—yada yada yah.

His hands, long-fingered and elegant, moved animatedly as he spoke, gesturing in the air like he was painting, and yet all you could think about was how perfectly those fingers wrapped around a wine glass earlier, how they’d felt sliding up your thigh last night. The way his robes clung to his frame—enticing, but you could see the toned build of him underneath, lean.

Faintly blinking because you realised you hadn’t heard a single word, too busy ogling the way his mouth moved. Those soft lips shaping Elvish words that you’d happily let him whisper against your neck rather than into your ears. “Of course,” you murmured naturally, lips twitching in an attempt not to smirk. He was too handsome for his own good. Or for your good, more like.

“Did you hear any of that?” he asked while arching that brow of his perfectly, suspicion mixing with amusement.

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Something about Gondolin. And…uh, secrecy?”

Sighing in defeat, he gave a soft laugh, one of those rare ones that peeled away the weight of the king and left just a man. “You weren’t listening,” he accused, stepping closer, and settling his hands on your waist.

“Too distracted,” you murmured without shame, and then dropping your eyes to his lips before trailing lower to the expanse of his chest beneath blue and silver robes. “Do you have any idea how handsome you are? I stopped processing words the moment you started talking.”

“Is that so? And what distracted you most, hmm?”

“Jawline. Lips. Eyes. Shoulders. Hands. Everything, really.” You grinned while dragging your hands up his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle hidden beneath velvet and silk.. “You could be telling me the world’s ending, and I’d still be thinking about how good you look while saying it.”

“Meleth-nîn, do you even hear yourself?” you muttered, clearly appalled, while half amused.

“I don’t hear a single thing whenever you’re around,” you corrected, pulling him in for a kiss that had nothing to do with secret cities or heavy crowns and everything to do with the simple fact that Turgon, King of Gondolin, was distractingly, devastatingly beautiful—and yours.

⋆˚✿˖° Argon

“You are the most frustrating person I have ever met.”

He was pacing up and down in front of you with his hair slightly tousled after running his hands through it in sheer disbelief more than once. But that wasn’t the worst part yet. It was the fact that not a single words that escaped his lips were absorbed in your head. In fact, they all went over.

“You can’t just—You can’t run into the fray like that! Do you even think before you act? Do you even—Are you listening to me?”

You were too busy watching the way his tunic clung to his shoulders, the ripple of lean muscle in his arms as he gestured in wild irritation. His lips, plush and pink, were moving too fast for you to catch anything, or maybe you weren’t even trying. Maybe you were just hopelessly distracted by the way the strands of hair curled around his jaw, the way his sleeves strained when he folded his arms tight over his chest.

No. No, you absolutely were not.

“Hmm?” you offered vaguely, tilting your head and blinking as if only just remembering he was talking. “Sorry, I was bust admiring how good you look.”

“What?”

“Did you know that you’re pretty when you’re angry?” you casually questioned, as if it explained everything. “I get distracted every time.”

You didn’t know if the sound that followed was a choking sound or bewilderment, but it surely wasn’t picked up by you. “I nearly died chasing after you! You could have been killed! And you were—You’re thinking about—?” His voice cracked slightly on the last words.

“Your eyes darken when you’re mad. Have I ever told you that? You should get mad more often. It feels as though you’re seducing me—I like it.”

He made another strangled sound, hands raking through his hair again, ruffling it even further. “This isn’t—I’m not—I’m trying to scold you!”

“You’re definitely failing,” you pointed out, utterly amused. “You’re too appealing when you’re flustered. It’s hard to take you seriously.”

For one wild moment, you thought he might genuinely throttle you or finally, finally kiss you. Instead, he spluttered, “I—! This is serious!”

Casually adjusting the collar of his tunic and continuing to ignore his pleas, you gave a nonchalant hum. “Mm. Is it? Or are you just looking for an excuse to get my attention? Because you could’ve just said you missed me.”

Groaning and looking around with the hope of someone being around so he could show them what he has to constantly put up with, he dragged his hands down his face with a whine. “You are vexing me I hope you know this.”

“Yes, yes. That’s what you always say, yet it is you who’s in love with me,” you reminded with such clarity, as though he wasn’t aware of the fact. “Clearly, you signed up for this, so enjoy my attention.”

⋆˚✿˖° Gwindor

“You’re not listening to a thing I’m saying.”

You blinked up at him, caught, but also…not. Not really caught, not when he looked like that. Hair half-damp, pushed back from his forehead, and a few strands had curled down over his temple. He wore his tunic loose, collar hanging open like he’d either forgotten to finish dressing or just hadn’t cared. Either way, it exposed the golden skin of his throat and the soft, flexing lines of his collarbone that moved every time he raised his voice—which he was currently doing.

“You promised. You swore you wouldn’t go down to the riverbank alone again,” he said, scowling. “There are orcs in that direction. Orcs! You didn’t even take your blade!”

You tilted your head, gaze lazily sliding down the line of his jaw. It was so sharp, so annoyingly perfect—had it always been that perfect? Or had he just gotten more attractive the angrier he got?

“Are you even hearing me?” he snapped.

You blinked again, slowly.

“Mmhmm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an acknowledgement,” you said vaguely.

“You’re mocking me,” he groaned, taking a step forward, close enough for you to see the way his lashes curled at the ends, thick and dark over those striking eyes. “This is serious! You could’ve been killed, you ridiculous—”

You weren’t sure what insult he was going to use. He cut himself off when he caught the look on your face. Not guilt, nor remorse—just that dreamy, unfocused haze of someone thoroughly, profoundly uninterested in the lecture being given. And then your lips curved faintly, signalling that you had something smart to say. “Have I ever told you that you’re very attractive when angry?”

A single brow twitched. “What—?”

“Actually, you’re always handsome,” you continuously praised, reaching out to idly play with the loose tie at the front of his tunic, tugging just enough to loosen it further. “But right now? The wet hair? The scowl? The whole ‘warrior-fuming-in-a-castle-corridor’ aesthetic? Delicious.”

Face utterly blank for a long moment as though you had grown five heads, a tail and a horn, Gwindor was hopelessly confused. “I…I refuse to accept this behaviour in the heat of our dispute!”

Scoffing at his response, you causally slid your hands around his waist, fingers drifting down to his belt and giving it a firm tug. “You can keep scolding me, if you like. It’s not that I’m not listening,” you said sweetly. “It’s just…all I hear is: ‘blah blah blah, I shouldn’t, but I did, and you’re displeased, yada, yada, yada—’”

He groaned, head tipping back in utter disbelief. “Oh, for the love of the Valar—”

“—‘incredible cheekbones, cut jaw, deep soulful eyes, scowl that could raise the dead—’”

His hands were already covering his face.

“—‘impossibly strong arms, nice thighs, very grabbable hair—’”

“What is Eru’s name is wrong with you,” he muttered from behind his palms.

“I think you like it,” you teased, standing on your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Admit it. You like when I don’t listen because then you get to shout and huff and lecture me like a princeling and I just look at you like you’re the most appealing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Gwindor didn’t understand how he was so effortlessly disarmed with a sword being drawn, being forced to surrender to a battle he believed he had won from the start. All he could do was stare at you for a long moment, and then—like a man accepting his inevitable fate—he sighed, slid a hand to your hip, and gave you his surrender. A kiss. In return, you made a pleased noise against his lips, as you wound your arms around his neck when he pressed your back against the stone wall.

“You’re still not going near that river without me. I don’t care how handsome you think I am,” he growled in between the kiss.

“Deal,” you triumphantly cheered, already pulling at the tie of his belt. “But if I behave, I expect a reward.”

⋆˚✿˖° Gil-Galad

“Are you even aware of how many guards I had to send out to find you?”

You’d always known he was beautiful, but this level of regal, wrathful, breathtaking majesty was new.

“I asked you a question,” he commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and making them appear larger…plumper. “Why are you smiling like that?”

His tone was so polished, so official, so perfectly high-king—it should’ve made you feel at least a little guilty. But instead…instead you were marvelling at the way the firelight from the hearth made his silver circlet gleam like moonlight against his dark hair, how his robes hung so regally off his tall frame, how even while furious, he looked like he’d stepped out of a painting commissioned by the Valar themselves.

Trying to feign innocence, you blinked slowly and looked up at him.

“Sorry, were you saying something?”

His jaw clenched. “You were meant to be in council this morning. Not halfway to the southern border chasing some idiotic—”

“‘Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor,’” you interrupted, tone dreamy. “Strong jaw, gleaming black hair like an obsidian waterfall, shoulders broad enough to hold the fate of Beleriand—”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“‘Wields Aeglos, spear of ice, so cold it burns, so deadly it could skewer Morgoth himself, blah blah blah—’”

“…”

“‘Most kissable mouth in all of Middle-earth,’” you hummed, grinning up at him. “With that little scar at the corner you always pretend isn’t there, but I know it’s from wrestling Círdan when you were in your forties—”

A beat of silence echoed throughout the chambers. “Who told you that?”

“I have my sources.”

Feeling his walls broken down with the use of his most despised form of battle tactics, he huffed like a toddler and turning his back to you in what was clearly meant to be a dramatic and disapproving gesture. The action only enhanced his majesty, as his long dark hair swayed with the motion, falling over his shoulders in a silken wave you absolutely wanted to bury your hands in.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“‘High King of dignity and restraint,’” you intoned, walking slowly after him. “‘Tried to give a serious lecture but was too breathtakingly handsome to take seriously.’”

“Be quiet. Cease speaking.”

Slithering behind him, your hands slipped beneath his outer robe, brushing over the warm fabric of his tunic, then up and under, you pressed your palms against his bare skin. You were rewarded with a violent shudder and the sound of a half-defeat and half-convinced.

“You cannot seduce your way out of every reprimand.”

“Can’t I?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “Because you’re not pushing me away.”

“I’m trying to maintain discipline.”

“Try harder.”

You felt him freeze beneath your touch, his muscled hardening like steel, before he turned slowly to face you again, eyes narrowed in that very specific, ‘you're about to be punished for this’ sort of way. But instead, his hand came up to cup your jaw, stroking his thumb slowly over your cheek.

“If I catch you sneaking out of this fortress one more time, you won’t be able to walk out your chamber, let alone past the door,” he growled just inched away from your lips.

Pleased with your succession, you grinned. “You promise?”

In place of a verbal response, he softly cursed, grabbed your waist, and pulled you right back into his arms before carrying you like a pillow down the hallway and back to his chamber.

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[batsyforyou]

“…And Stay Down!” Charles Keegan 1998

[batsyforyou]

For the Silm asks: Turgon or more Eol. Wouldn’t say no to any of the Feanorians either.

Turgon was fun. dressing him totally in white distinguishes him nicely from Fingon. (although if i were him I'd be insulted to never get called 'The white Lord of the Noldor')

I also have a Eöl and teenaged Maeglin pic in the works that I thought was finished but really needs some reworks. so you may see some eöl in the future.

[batsyforyou]

Lmao I love how jealous everyone is!

Lords of Gondolin | When They Saw You Kissing Your Fellow Co-Star in a Play You Were Starring In

A/N: For giggles, because I thought this idea was funny to see how they would handle their jealousy. Enjoy!!

Synopsis: How they handle seeing you kissing a fellow co-star in a play you were starring in, not knowing about the scene.

Masterlist | Navigation

⋆˚✿˖° Galdor

❀ He had zero clue what to expect when you told him you had a small part in a play— “Just come see it, don’t ask too many questions.” He took that literally. He didn’t even ask what role you played. Simply excited to see you on the big stage.

❀ He showed up in his best robes, combed hair tucked behind his ears, sitting calmly in the theatre and waiting eagerly for you to appear on stage.

❀ You could count on him to be truly supportive because the longer the play went on and the more dramatic it got, the more he leaned forward in his seat like he was watching a battle unfold. Absolutely involved with the story unfolding.

❀ AND then came the kissing scene where your character leaned in for it. Well, his face didn’t move an inch. Not a twitch or itch. Just a long, eerie pause before he slowly turned his head to the elf seated next to him and said in the driest voice, “Was that written in the script?” Silence for the rest of the play.

❀ He waited until the curtain call to say anything because he’s not going to storm down in the middle of the performance like a child. But oh, backstage, when you stepped down and grinned at him, he couldn’t resist.

❀ “Very...enthusiastic performance. I particularly enjoyed the part where your mouth was half on another elf’s face.” You could hear the sarcasm dripping—how unlikely of the sweet and gentle elf he was known to be.

❀ Laughing at his little green monster peeking out didn’t sit well with him. “Do you suppose the audience applauded because the acting was good or because they finally got their romantic tension resolved?”

❀ He wasn’t actually jealous, just mildly and dramatically annoyed, because it was such an absurd surprise. Spent most of the ride home muttering about the questionable accuracy of the historical setting and that your co-star couldn’t even pronounce half their lines right.

❀ But he definitely sulked for the rest of the evening until you kissed him extra sweetly and whispered, “That one was just for you,” in his ear.

❀ The next morning, he was already leafing through the script to see what he missed. “So what exactly did your character do to deserve being kissed by some foppish prince with a bad wig?”

❀ Because of that incident (he considers it to be), he never missed another one of your plays again, but from then on he always asked to review the script beforehand. Thoroughly. With a quill.

❀ “Stage kisses,” he muttered, scrawling next to the scene. “Mm. How very artistic.”

❀ The other players adored him for the sheer number of times he appeared backstage with warm tea for you, blankets, and once a sword because someone made an off-colour joke in your direction.

❀ Galdor never said another word about that kissing scene—but every time your co-star passed him, they straightened like they’d been called to the war front because Galdor had nothing to do with his change in behaviour.

⋆˚✿˖° Ecthelion

❀ He was so proud of you, practically glowing, bringing flowers and smiling as though he were already expecting you to be the star of the show—even though you warned him it was a very minor role.

❀ He took the centre seat, leaned back, crossed his legs elegantly and didn’t stop smiling even once throughout the performance. That is, until that scene happened, and his smile disappeared faster than Gondolin fell. The brows crept up. One hand shifted from his lap as if reaching for a sword that wasn’t there.

❀ “Huh,” he whispered, blinking slowly. Then, louder, “Huh.” Then, almost offended, “Excuse me?”

❀ He didn’t interrupt the play, but you could feel his gaze from the stage. It had weight. Like being stared down by a general after showing up late to roll call. Backstage, you were met with a very pointed look and a raised brow. “That was...a curious choice of stage direction.”

❀ You tried to explain it was just acting, but Thel wasn’t taking it that lightly. “Is that what it’s called? That wasn’t a kiss, that was full diplomatic entanglement.”

❀ His jealousy was vivid, and if you called him out, he’d grumble about how you were overassuming his disgruntled and grumpy expressions. “That is incorrect, my love. You were merely acting…with an unfit actor who didn’t deserve the right to kiss your lips—”

❀ You constantly tease him about it mercilessly in private. “Shall you give me a few tips on better form next time? Perhaps a bit more passion? Or are you still jealous?”

❀ You once reached out a suggestion to watch his frown turn around by saying that you suggested to your boss for him to play the romantic lead in the next season. Ecthelion signed up as your co-star immediately.

❀ He wasn’t even an actor, nor was he the type to be in the spotlight, but he learned every line, outshone half the cast, and made the entire theatre burst into applause when he delivered the most dramatic monologue about love and war ever heard in the city, before getting his wish to kiss you on stage.

❀ Afterwards, he bowed deeply and murmured, “Now that is how you kiss your lover onstage.”

❀ He kept the programme from that night tucked into a drawer and occasionally whisks it out with a sigh. “A fine performance. A shame about your taste in partners that first night.”

❀ He was never actually upset. If anything, he loved the whole experience. But every time someone mentions that first play, he gets a gleam in his eye and asks, “Was that before or after the kissing incident?”

❀ He also started showing up to rehearsals under the guise of bringing you food. But he always sat through them all. “In case there are more surprises,” he said, sipping wine. “Purely for artistic integrity.”

⋆˚✿˖° Glorfindel

❀ He was so excited about your performance. You barely finished telling him before he was inviting half the city. “My beloved’s in a play! There’ll be swords, right? Drama? Someone dies? You don’t die, do you?”

❀ You had to physically stop him from bringing a banner. He settled for wearing a flower crown and a tunic along with a banner that carried your character’s name embroidered across it.

❀ He whooped when you came onstage. Loudly. So loudly the people in front turned to glare. He waved cheerfully back. Everything was going great—until the kiss. And we got a silent puppy. Like, completely silent. His mouth was still open from cheering, but no sound came out.

❀ Then came the chaos as he slowly sat back down, very stiffly and whispered, “He kissed you.” Like it was a war crime. “He kissed you. I just watched another elf kiss my betrothed. He had his hands on your waist. I should have been in this play.”

❀ The next time the actor walked across the stage, Glorfindel narrowed his eyes and muttered, “I know his face. I shall remember him.” Poor guy was about to get cornered and warned.

❀ However, as upset as he was, he didn’t cause a scene, though he very nearly did. It was only your subtle glance from the stage and the slight please don’t start a war in Act Three expression that made him sit back.

❀ After the performance, he was waiting just offstage. Arms crossed. So dramatically betrayed. “You never told me you were giving your lips to public service.”

❀ You laughed, but he just sighed heavily and paced a few steps like he was in a tragic opera. “I cheered for you. I brought snacks.”

❀ That night, he wouldn’t let you go for a second. You leaned over to grab something and he pulled you right back into his arms. “You know what I liked about the play? When it ended. And I got to kiss you without someone narrating it.”

❀ For the next few days, he dramatically fake-swooned every time you leaned in for a kiss. “Oh, brave star of stage and song, will you condescend to kiss a mere warrior?”

❀ He started hanging around rehearsals after that. Not saying anything, just appearing in corners, HOVERING and WATCHING. One time he coughed loudly during a rehearsal kiss and dropped a sword right next to your co-star.

❀ He also absolutely did not accidentally sign up for a future role. Just to prove a point. Even though he forgot half his lines and got yelled at by the director. “No, I didn’t forget it,” he told you later, “I improvised. You know what your scene lacked? Tension. And battle. And someone fighting a bear.”

❀ He never said he was jealous—but every time he passed your scene partner, he gave a big, overly cheerful grin and said, “Lovely weather for betrayal, isn’t it?”

❀ He got over it quickly, honestly. Especially when you kissed him in front of everyone after a curtain call and the audience cheered louder than they had for the staged kiss. “See?” he beamed, holding your hand, “Now that’s theatre.”

⋆˚✿˖° Egalmoth

❀ The picture of sophistication when he arrived—regal cloak, elegant posture, and a smile so dazzling half the audience assumed he was one of the performers.

❀ He came with a full bouquet in one hand, sweets in the other, and said with a grin, “Break a leg, darling—though preferably not on my account. I’ve only just got you in one piece.”

❀ He’d never been to a play in ages, so it made him all the more eager with wide-eyed interest, chuckling softly at the jokes, nodding along to the dialogue, occasionally whispering, “This set design is quite inspired, I must find out who painted that backdrop. I wish to have a painting like that done.”

❀ Everything was peachy…until the moment of the kiss. Though his expression didn’t change right away, his hand did pause mid-reach for a sweet. Then it lowered slowly, confusedly.

❀ Nothing was said for a full minute before he turned to the person beside him and whispered, “I see. I’ve come to witness a romantic tragedy after all.”

❀ Backstage, he was already waiting in the wings with that same unreadable smile. “A marvellous performance. Quite a surprise, though. That kiss was terribly convincing.”

❀ You tried to explain that it was in the script, but he gave a soft hum. “Ah yes. I’m sure. Though, between us—if they ever ask you to kiss a tree onstage, do give me some warning.”

He wasn't angry—he was too theatrical himself to not respect the art form—but that didn’t stop him from making snide, subtle jokes for weeks. “Should I practise stage kisses as well? Might need to find a co-star. Wouldn’t want to be upstaged next season.”

❀ You found out later he approached your co-star afterwards with a charming smile and said, “Lovely work. However, I should remind you that audiences tend to confuse fiction with reality. Some things are better left...clearly acted.”

❀ The theatre loved him. He brought fine wine, sang with the cast during breaks, and gave surprisingly helpful feedback like, “Try that line with less chest—more heartbreak.”

❀ But every time a new script came around, he’d lean over your shoulder, scanning it like a detective. “Mm. Let’s see… Ah. No kisses this time. How unfortunate.”

❀ Eventually, he offered to fund a play of your own making. “That way, I’ll know precisely what to expect. And perhaps, you’ll write me a kissing scene this time, hm?”

⋆˚✿˖° Rog

❀ Rog really tried to be normal about it. He really did. He showed up in causal clothes (still with his mini smithing hammer at his side because he felt weird without it), sat down as calmly as possible, and whispered to the usher, “I’m here to support my partner. I’m very proud. I will not cause a scene.”

❀ Ten minutes in, he was already leaning forward, hands on his knees with widened eyes, mouthing your dialogues he heard you rehearsing a thousand times over.

❀ But when the kissing scene swooped in unexpectedly? Instant reaction. He had the loudest reaction. The only person in the crowd who exhaled the loudest. You swore it was his pump fanning air into the fire.

❀ Then the sound of metal started clinking because his hammer was knocking against the chairs. “That’s… That’s my lover. That is my—did they just touch their face? They touched their face.”

❀ He got so stiff in his seat. Like a marble statue filled with befuddlement. Not a word after that, not even when the curtain dropped. He found himself waiting backstage, standing there with his arms crossed with a frown so deep it could be mapped.

❀ “So, new skillset, then? Kissing on command? I don’t recall you rehearsing that part around me over the past month.”

❀ Reassuring him it meant nothing, wasn’t secure because Rog simply smiled and nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it was just acting. I just have one question. Did they enjoy it?”

❀ You had to pull him aside, kiss him thoroughly, and then say, “Did that feel like I enjoy anyone else kissing me?” before he relaxed even a little.

❀ But that wasn’t enough, because for days he sulked quietly. Which was worse than loudly. He didn’t even yell in the forge, just beating metal with more force than necessary.

❀ “Rog, please, you’re going to crack the hammer handle again—” “Some people don’t care about hammer handles when they���ve been emotionally betrayed onstage.”

❀ He refused to come to any more shows unless he got a full reading of the script in advance. “If there’s another kiss, I’m volunteering. I’ll be your understudy. I’ll go to rehearsals. I’ll wear the stupid wig. You’ll kiss me or no one at all.”

❀ Eventually, he softened, especially when you told him how nervous you were and how much you appreciated his support. He only grunted, ruffled your hair, and mumbled, “Yeah well…you were good. Not as good as your scene partner apparently. But good.”

❀ For your next performance, he brought a huge wooden sign that said “NO KISSES UNLESS IT’S ME.”

❀ You had to make him put it away. He compromised by carving it into a tiny plaque and hanging it in your dressing room instead.

⋆˚✿˖° Maeglin

❀ He showed up dressed like he was attending a royal funeral—dark tunic, dark cloak, absolutely no expression, and sat in the furthest shadowy corner of the theatre, arms folded, eyes sharp as daggers.

❀ He clapped politely when you entered the stage, didn’t smile, just observed with the intensity of a hawk watching prey.

❀ When the kiss happened, he blinked once. That was it. No visible reaction. Just…absolute silence. Stillness. An unreadable expression. It was terrifying.

❀ Backstage, you were laughing nervously, but he only stood there, still unmoving. “I was unaware your role was so...intimate.”

❀ You explained it was part of the character’s arc, and he only tilted his head. “Was it also part of the arc to grip their hair?”

❀ You didn’t remember doing that. He did. Down to the exact second. “They also held your waist. Twice. Shall I remind you in detail?”

❀ But then he sighed and softened just slightly. “...You performed well. The scene felt real.” A pause. “Too real.”

❀ He wasn’t angry, just disquieted—haunted, really—like the kiss had replayed in his head too many times and now he wanted to erase it from time itself. “I’m proud of you,” he finally admitted later that night. “Even if I had to watch...that. I suppose it’s not unlike war. You endure what you must.”

❀ A few days later, he returned to the theatre during rehearsals. You assumed he was visiting. No, he had brought a script.

❀ He had rewritten the kissing scene. “See? This version doesn’t require physical contact. It’s emotionally resonant and chaste.” Unfortunately, the director refused to change it, but Maeglin spent the next week trying to offer “script improvements” to anyone who’d listen.

❀ Eventually, he confronted your co-star. It was brief, quiet, and civil. Just one line: “If you ever forget that was acting...you’ll wish you had not.”

❀ When you reassured him, he stared at you for a long moment, then kissed you far from gently, like sealing a pact. “Let them act, but you are mine.”

❀ After that, he never missed another play. But he brought a small journal to write “notes” in. You caught him once. It was a tally. “What are you counting?” “Number of times they look at you with longing. So far? Four. I am unimpressed.”

❀ He never stopped being quietly possessive, but he always showed up. Always bringing you a cup of tea afterwards. Always stood silently as you took your bows. And if anyone in the cast joked about “how lucky your scene partner was,” he simply glared at them. That was usually enough.

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[batsyforyou]

This is how I’m gonnna be at graduation.

Promise.

[batsyforyou]

You know for the first 18-ish years of your life everyone your age is mostly doing the same things and then all of a sudden every year for the rest of your life somebody your age is getting divorced while somebody else just learned what a leaf is and you have no idea what’s going on or what you’re supposed to be doing

[batsyforyou]

The next time I say, “Ima take summer classes!”

Someone shoot me.

[batsyforyou]

"This is pointless. No trap doors or hidden passageways." "There may be more than one way in here, Major." "If you're trying to hide a chamber, you don't put a bunch of entrances and exits all over the damn place." "You'd rather just sit here and wait for them to come back?" "What have you got that we can use? I've got a couple MREs, some ammo, and some med supplies. Well, that's a start."

[batsyforyou]

Imagine High King Gil-galad accidentally seeing you swimming naked in the lake in Lindon and losing his sleep.

Author: Anonymous

[batsyforyou]

Rachel Gillig, The Knight and the Moth

[batsyforyou]

fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this

[batsyforyou]

Some actually useful Questions to get to know your OC better...

↳ What’s your character’s biggest fear and how does it screw up their relationships? Are they terrified of being abandoned? Do they push people away before they can leave? Are they scared of not being enough? Or being too much?

↳ What’s something they’re stupidly passionate about, and how does it drive their entire life? Like that thing they’d fight someone over. That core belief, hobby, or dream that lowkey fuels every decision they make (even when they say it doesn’t).

↳ What’s one childhood memory they can’t shake and how did it shape the way they see the world now?

↳ What weird habits or quirks make them totally them? Do they always talk with their hands? Hum when they’re nervous? Refuse to eat foods that touch?

↳ Do they have a secret talent no one expects? Like, are they surprisingly great at card tricks? Can they play the piano at concert level but never talk about it? Bake the world’s best banana bread?

↳ How do they handle failure?

↳ Who’s had the biggest impact on their life, and why? Friend, enemy, sibling, teacher, ex?

↳ What do they believe in, deep down? Like, what’s their moral compass? What lines won’t they cross? What kind of person are they trying to be, even if they mess up along the way?

↳ Is there an item or feature they’re weirdly attached to? A necklace? A hoodie? A scar? A pair of old sneakers?

↳ Do they have recurring dreams or nightmares? And what do those dreams mean? What are they trying not to deal with while awake?

[batsyforyou]

Girl you had me looking up if a kiss could genuinely cure fever. Like I knew in me head like, “oh yeah she’s is pulling his leg” to “well wait-“ like?!

Her lies proof of my google search.

Sweet Medicine

Ecthelion x modern human!reader

A/N: This had originally started off as a small fic and then it festered into more words before I could stop it. Oopsie

Warnings: fluff, modern human reader in middle earth, humour

Words: 2.3k

Synopsis: You tricked Ecthelion into following your make-up human remedy to cure your fever.

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You felt like you were in a sauna. The linens had been changed twice already, yet the heat still clung to you like a second skin. Sweat dampened your brow, matting your hair to your neck as you lay curled beneath the lighter sheets they’d switched to once they realised how furiously your body had begun to burn up. You didn’t remember getting back to your room—only that the last thing you saw in the kitchen was the blurred edge of a table, and then the sound of shouting before the world had tipped.

Now, the room was spinning faintly when you opened your eyes, and above you was the stone ceiling of the room appearing too bright even in twilight. Groaning at the flooding sensation of that light, you grimaced and licked you lips, only to realise that your mouth tasted stale. Your lips were cracked, and your joints were aching with a dull, simmering pressure. Breathing felt like a reluctant task you were performing for someone else. You swore an elephant was tap dancing on your chest.

And sitting beside your bed, still as a statue but with silvery-grey eyes as focused as a falcon’s, was Ecthelion.

He wasn’t shirtless and sweaty this time. Instead, he wore a layered silver-blue robes, softened around the shoulders and sleeves; thr sleeves slightly pushed up to his elbows in a way that was too casual for the head of the household. His long ebony hair was drawn back in a single plait, and his fingers were curled lightly around a cloth he had clearly been using to dab at your face. Quickly darting your eyes around, you noticed there was a bowl of water on the small table beside him, no longer steaming, with a few herbs you vaguely recognised as things Lord Galdor had once mentioned during a short medical alert for injuries in the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” you groggily croaked.

“I am not moving until your fever breaks,” he announced as though he knew that you would sneak away the moment he turned his back or departed, leaving you under professional support—because you would and had before. “You’ve frightened everyone.”

“I’m fine,” you reassured casually, trying to turn in your spot. Unfortunately, the motion caused more harm than good as it made your stomach lurch. “Just overworked. Been on my feet for three days. Galdor wanted a feast.”

“Galdor,” he corrected, “wanted venison stew and grilled peaches. Not his cook fainting into the basin of boiled lentils and smoked beef.”

You would’ve laughed if it hadn’t felt like your chest had been stuffed with hot cotton. Worse, your limbs didn’t want to obey you. The ache decided to crawled down your spine, and better yet, blinking started to feel like it took effort. You weren’t used to being sick in this world—rarely caught anything, and when you did, it was usually solved with an hour’s rest and a few drinks of miruvor. This was something else entirely.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you gently reminded again, letting your head flop to the side where the pillow was cool. “You’ve probably got angry murder geese and a fancy diamond fountain to supervise.”

“My swans can survive without me…not sure about this new fountain you speak of, but I can whip something up,” he replied with the faintest arch of one dark brow and a twitch of his lips. “However, I was not going to let the most interesting person in Gondolin die of their mortal affliction like…fatigue.”

A smile pulled lazily at your mouth. “So I’m interesting now?”

“You’ve always been interesting. I simply tried to keep my thoughts to myself.” He wrung out the cloth in the water again, leaned forward, and brushed it across your forehead with careful pressure. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who could slice a boulder in half with his sword. “But you make that very difficult.”

“Mmm. Sorry,” you murmured sleepily. “I didn’t mean to collapse dramatically just so you’d come flirt with me.”

He froze momentarily, doing his best not to panic internally at the very true accusations. “This isn’t flirting. This is disaster control.”

“Same difference.”

Shifting your body under the sheets, leg twitching with some half-dreamt memory of the kitchen ovens, you were beginning to feel warm. Too hot. And yet your fingers were cold, your skin prickled uncomfortably beneath the gown someone must have helped you out of your uniform into. You hated feeling like this—so useless, pinned down by your own body while someone like Ecthelion, graceful and composed, hovered like some shining guardian waiting for you to slip away into death.

“Would you like water?” he asked, breaking you out of your thoughts. “Or more of the willowbark?”

Grimacing, y shook your head weakly. “Oh god! No more bark, please. Makes me feel like I’m high on cloud nine.”

Opening his mouth to question your unusual phrase, he shook his head and considered it the fever talking. “It is a sedative. It would make one feel drowsy.”

“Hey, I thought elves weren’t supposed to know much about human sickness.”

“I asked Glorfindel.”

“Glorfindel!—” If you had the ability to sit up, you would. Instead, you opted for staring at him concerned. “—You’re putting my life in his hands? His solution to everything is wine and a very sharp sword.”

“And yet he’s still more knowledgeable than I am by advising me to ensure you remained in bed.” He leaned back, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “Your species is incredibly inconvenient, you realise. You work yourself to the bone, you refuse to eat enough, you forget to sleep, and then you fall into bed with a fever like a wilting flower.”

“You sound like my mother,” you sighed.

“You had the healers in this house running in circles for the first hour. They had no idea what to do. I started thinking you had some incurable mortal affliction.”

“Just overworked,” you lightly reminded again, trying to move and regretting it immediately. “Tell Galdor to let me sleep more next time.”

“He has already been informed. Somewhat loudly.”

You turned your head toward him, blinking through the sweat. “You yelled at Lord Galdor?”

“I didn’t yell,” he corrected politely. “I lectured. Sternly.”

The image of it made you smile weakly against the pillow. Ecthelion, tall and formal, walking into Galdor’s kitchen with all his might just to scold a lord unintentionally for working his cook to the bone, and then staying—still here, hours later, watching you like a hawk as if you might disappear the second he turned his head. You probably you have.

“You don’t have to keep watching me,” you suggested. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You mortals have a very dramatic way of collapsing without warning.”

“Still mad about the stew?”

“I’m mad about the state of you.”

His thoughtfulness made you soften. “You care?”

He looked briefly startled, like the words had escaped him by accident. And yet, his expression shuttered immediately, as he politely looked away to hide his face. “I do.”

A pregnant pause hovered in the room before another drop of sweat slid down your temple, prompting you to let out a low groan and reached weakly for the sheets, trying to shove them off with your trembling fingers. “It’s too hot. Can’t—can’t sleep like this.”

“You’re burning,” he said. “You need to stay covered to sweat it out.”

“For the love of all things good, I don’t need to combust.”

He sighed, and then pushed his chair closer to the bed, rolling the sleeves of his robe even higher as he leaned over to adjust the pillow beneath your shoulders. Once he was finished, he dipped the cloth into the water again, and then wiped your neck, gently pressing at the overheated skin.

“Why are your hands so cold?” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded as you stared at his wrist, trying to hold back a violent shudder and clearly failing.

“Because I haven’t been sick,” he murmured humourless. “Nor do my people tend to run temperatures unless we’re active or in the sun.”

“Tch. You’re so rude to me, Thel. I’m not dying.”

“That is not what your skin is saying.”

“Fine, then. If you want to cure me, then kiss me.”

The cloth stilled against your throat.

“What?”

Blinking up at him with a straight face and cracked lips, you met his eyes. “It’s an old fashion remedy from back in my world for temperature regulation. A kiss.”

Ecthelion looked at you as if you’d just said that you were the Dark Lord incarnated. “What nonsense is that?”

“It’s a human thing,” you stated faintly. “Secret healing technique that I believe works best with elf-lords after deeper…research.”

“You’re delirious.”

“True,” you agreed, leaning in slightly closer to him. “But it’s real. Helps equalise body heat by absorbing the cooler temperature, magic and...saliva or something. It’s science.”

“You’re using your illness as an advantage and too seriously,” he protested, but there was a blush and tightness around his mouth that suggested he was trying not to smile.

“Take the fever away,” you whispered dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Save me from the boiling curse, oh my noble lord.”

“I should uh…fetch more cold water.”

“Don’t leave me! I’ll die before you come back.”

You were clearly out here questioning his sanity. He didn’t know whether to walk away and hope that it was the fever doing to talking, however, the opportunity might never return unless he worked up the courage. Giving a long-suffering sigh, then dipped the cloth again and pressed it back to your collarbone with something bordering a glare.

“You are insane.”

“I am dying, as you claim.”

“You’re not dying, you’re melodramatic.”

Pouting at his response, you eyes close again, letting the pressure of the cloth moved to your jaw, then your cheek, lingered there a moment longer than necessary. His fingers were much more careful compared to a moment ago. It was clear to state that his gaze had wandered as he contemplated.

Feeling the lingering against your cheek, you opened your eyes, to meet his gaze on you, but softer—less rigid like something in him had begun to fold. He didn’t realise it yet, but he was leaning in closer, his hair slipping from behind his ear to form a small blind.

“You really are overheated,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Mmm. Too bad no one’s kissing me,” you taunted. “Ever heard of the phrase ‘A kiss from a handsome lord, keeps illnesses away?’”

His gaze tenderly flicked up to yours, eyes softening around the edges and making you realise just how beautiful his eyes were when indecisive. You could see it now—he was actually considering it. His brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a flat line, but the decision was making itself somewhere behind his eyes. Your fever must have been sky-high to think that Ecthelion of the Fountain was actually entertaining the idea of—

And then his hand, the one that had been holding the cloth, shifted to your jaw. Those cool fingers, that held swords and fought for victories, cradled your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, the gesture slow, contemplative and urging you not to look away. Gingerly, he leaned in just a fraction, and the air between you stilled.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmured.

“Not denying it works.”

“Just to be clear,” he whispered with an unreadable expression, “if I kiss you, it’s to cure you.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Captain.”

He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at your comment and instead, leaned in.

His lips were cool, unexpectedly soft, and incredibly still at first—like he was giving you the chance to pull away. But when you didn’t, when your fingers reached weakly up and curled into the sleeve of his robe, he pressed closer. His lips were careful and undeniably tender—a far cry from the fevered mess of clashing mouths but something more…purposeful. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw as he deepened the kiss slightly—just enough to steal your breath. And as if it was a mind trick, the heat of your fever melted under him for one brief moment. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were steady.

You breathed. “I’m still hot.”

“That is not my fault.”

“Should try again. For science’s sake.”

“Do you not have a sense of decorum?”

“Says the person who listened to my foolishness and kissed me.”

He quickly cleared his throat, sitting back a little and appearing flustered. “Do not think I make a habit of kissing semi-conscious humans.”

“I’m not unconscious.”

“Barely counts.”

You smiled again, even as your vision blurred. “You’ve got good hands for a warrior.”

“I have excellent hands. I simply rarely use them for wet cloth and feverish cheeks.”

“You’re better than most doctors I’ve had.”

“I should hope so. I am many times their age and ten times as intelligent.”

Saying nothing, you let your head fall back to the pillow while your body continued to ache. The fever still hummed beneath your skin, but there was something oddly comforting about the sensation now. The agonising ache in your joints and muscles were reduced—something about your kiss was extra magically with whatever elf-enhancements he added.

Peering at him through your lashes, his eyes were still on you. Even when you were semi-conscious, apparently, you half-wondered what else he’d done for you. As your thoughts began to fade into another drowsy fog, you heard him shift beside the bed, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. Another cloth dipped into the bowl.

“I’m going to sit with you,” he said quietly, like a promise, “until you’re better.”

“Why don’t you give me another kiss instead?”

“Firstly, get better.”

“Sounds like you really like me,” you slurred.

He didn’t answer.

But the cloth was cool on your brow, and his hand never left yours.

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[batsyforyou]

[batsyforyou]

Writing characters who almost say “i love you” (but never do)

(until they do, eventually, maybe.)

Some characters don’t fall in love quietly, not really. They fall in love loudly but refuse to say it, and not because they’re playing hard to get, but because they’re scared. Of messing things up, of not being loved back, or of saying too much and not being able to take it back. So instead, they almost say it. Over and over...

✶ They get close, like, painfully close.✶ It’s always on the edge of their tongue, but something stops them.

“I need to tell you something…” “I’ve been thinking about you...about this.” “You’re… important to me.”

They pause too long, they chicken out, the moment passes, and then they pretend it didn’t happen at all.

✶ There’s always something in the way ✶  Timing, fear, a phone call, a joke that kills the mood. One of them looks away and the moment slips through their fingers. And it’s so frustrating, and not just for the characters... for the reader too. Because it keeps almost happening, and then it doesn’t.

✶ They practice it in their head ✶ 

“I love you.” “Has anyone ever told you how much you mean to me?” “You’re it. You’re the one.”

They imagine saying it in the car, or on a walk, or at midnight when everything’s quiet. But when they’re actually in front of the person? It feels impossible.

✶  The other person knows. kind of. ✶  They feel it and hear it in the way they say their name. They see it in the way they look at them like the sun just walked into the room. But they’re scared too, so they wait... And wait, and wait. No one wants to be the first to fall without knowing the other person will catch them.

✶ When it finally happens, it’s never perfect ✶ It’s messy, blurted out, and maybe during an argument. Maybe after something awful happens and everything’s too raw to hide.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t care.” “You matter to me more than anyone else.” “I love you, okay? I’ve been in love with you for forever.”