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i-did-not-mean-to · 10 months

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Mind Control

Let's kick the darker part of December off with Námo having an idea, Irmo enabling his brother, and Fëanor having a very bad time because of it...

Please be advised that this story, as all stories, are on the fringe of consent and good taste at times.

Please proceed warily! Take care of yourselves, loves!

Prompt: Mind Control

Characters: Námo, Irmo, Fëanor x Nerdanel

Words: 2 210

Warnings: Minor Manipulation, confusion -> dubcon, NSFW, nudity, reference to potential incest, vaginal sex

“Brother!”

Irmo looked up in surprise—it was rare that Námo came to see him at work for the eminently dignified Lord was usually entirely absorbed by his own tasks.

Curiosity and earnest affection gave the Ruler of Reveries wings as he rushed over to the dark shadow’s side, basking in the air of cool efficiency emanating from his older sibling.

Where Nienna was warm and soothing, Námo was the blessed, fresh breeze on a sweltering day, and Irmo loved them both more than words could describe.

“What can I do for you, oh Lord of the Dead?” he asked teasingly—he was too attuned to the desires and impulses of those around him not to notice the discreet thrum of unspoken wishes in his brother’s soul.

“Punishment,” Námo replied calmly.

Sucking his teeth, the Lord of Dreams and Desires shook his head. “That is not my purview, as you well know, and I am sure that my wife would not approve.”

The heavy cowl dissimulating a pale face of heart-wrenching, soul-destroying beauty shifted as Námo cocked his head in disbelief.

“I am the judge of all things—I am the law and the right—and you think that I’d come to you behind Estë’s back?”

It was now the older one’s turn to cluck reprovingly.

“Your wife has given me quite an interesting lecture on the bodies of incarnates—she agrees that, once an impasse such as the one I am facing is reached, one must consider more drastic therapeutic measures.”

“Very well then,” Irmo gave in. “Am I right in surmising that it is one of those pesky Ñoldorin kings of yore who is to suffer terrible nightmares?”

Pride and affection shone in tangible waves from the deep, dark recesses of Námo’s obscuring cloak as he nodded slowly. “Curufinwë Fëanáro himself,” he admitted. “And—ah! Come and see for yourself.”

Irmo followed that exhortation obediently even though he was already perfectly aware of the confused and torturous labyrinth of half-formed wishes and reluctant desires smouldering in the Elf’s soul as embers in a neglected forge.

“Methinks, he doesn’t need any of us to make himself laughably miserable,” he remarked upon sliding up beside his impassive, motionless brother when they finally reached the cell of one of the most notorious of the Children.

“He needs guidance,” Námo started decisively.

“He’s always refused it,” Irmo reminded him gently.

“Yes.” A hint of supercilious humour tinged the Judge’s voice now. “That is why we won’t give him any choice this time.”

Fëanor stared despondently at the wavering nothingness surrounding him when he was quite overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue—he instinctively knew that there was nothing natural about it, but he could not shake off the blinding mist obdurately flooding his leaden mind.

Everything around him seemed to blur into a maelstrom of melting time and swirling events, and he could do nought but bear it, in hopes that sooner or later the sickening vertigo would subside.

When he finally managed to blink and clear his sight, he was standing in a bedroom he had not seen in an eternity. In front of him, stood a young maiden with whom he had once exchanged a few flirty, inconsequential quips in the halls of his father.

“’Náro,” she sighed, undoing the laces of her tunic and laying bare beautifully youthful, pert breasts that were screaming for his attention and tenderness.

“No,” Fëanor muttered. “This is not what happened—we have never…”

He could feel strange, inquisitive eyes burning into the back of his neck, and he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably to brace against the pervasive influx of corrupting madness some evil power was pouring into his befuddled mind.

He had always known, he reminded himself adamantly. Even in the most foolish years of his unsullied youth, he had been painfully aware of his duties, and she had been but the daughter of a minor courtier. He would never have risked her reputation and his hand for a fleeting tryst.

Before his very eyes, however, she now undressed further and extended her pale, soft arms to him, and he found himself unable to withstand the alluring call of her self-forgotten willingness. Too long had he abided in solitude and darkness, condemned to mull over his crimes in utter isolation, and so he could not forego the chance to feel another body’s heat chase the ubiquitous chill that had crept into his immaterial bones.

At the very moment that his body was about to collide with her firm, nubile flesh, though, the whole scene shifted once more.

“Brother,” Ñolo, his half-brother, turned around and gave him one of those tender, slightly awkward smiles that did nothing to distract from the impressive shapeliness of his bare chest. “Have you come to reprimand me for being late? Which one do you like better?”

Fëanor shrank back as the old-familiar burn of illicit, morally abhorrent desire made his thighs clench and his mouth go dry.

Indis’s first-born had ever been as compellingly gorgeous as infuriatingly oblivious of that fact, and he had hated him with a fervent passion for fear of what other feelings and yearnings might be hidden just underneath the thin veneer of his hurt pride.

While Fëanor was battling his baser instincts, Fingolfin was holding up two shirts—one of a subdued eggshell colour and the other one a mesmerizingly deep blue—as if he was truly expecting his seemingly not-all-too-surprising visitor to help him choose between them.

“What do I care?” Fëanor barked so he would not pounce upon that naked flesh and sink his teeth into the bulging muscles to make the other squirm and squeal with pain and rapture alike.

The disappointed, injured look spreading across Fingolfin’s soft, sweet face made Fëanor’s heart clench, but his involuntary reaction of relenting tenderness only gave rise to another slew of all the more vicious snarls and aggressive gestures.

This was just a dream, he tried to tell himself—none of this was real, but when his half-brother’s mouth, soft and desperate, was pressed against his own taut lips, he could not suppress the very real shivering sigh that escaped him.

Endless training sessions in the study as well as in the courtyard had left the younger one’s sensuous fingers strong and unexpectedly calloused, a hidden feature of which Fëanor had not been aware until slightly rough palms slid under his tunic to trace the outline of his well-honed, frantically clenching muscles in a caress so corruptingly naïve and eager that he had to force himself to stay still lest he do something unforgivable like succumbing to the torturous onslaught of shameless seduction.

“This didn’t happen,” he whispered. “I would never have dishonoured our father and his house so.”

“But you wanted to,” an insidious voice, incorporeal and wavering, susurrated, telling Fëanor that he was definitely not alone. He bristled—he had never allowed anyone to know about the strange tension between his half-brother and him, and he was loath to let down his walls even in death and desolation.

“That is of no consequence—what is this? A compilation of all the opportunities I’ve missed? It was a conscious decision, and it does me credit,” Fëanor spat resolutely even as the hands of one who had no reason or right to be here moved in tantalising circles across his trembling skin. “Leave me be! I shan’t submit to your ludicrous corruption!”

Irmo cocked his head at his brother. “He certainly is a fiery one,” he commented, a hint of amused fondness in his voice. “He knows that you are toying with him.”

Nodding, Námo pointed at the edges of the vacillating soul—they could see the ignominious former King of the Ñoldor such as he truly was through the sheer veil of a body his memory had merely conjured up, and it now became evident that Fëanor’s essence had grown more solid already. “Naturally, he persistently misunderstands my purpose, cursed be his defiance, but it’s working.”

“Love does that,” Irmo agreed pleasantly. “That is your design, isn’t it? After neither friends nor family could move him sufficiently, you thought to skirt the brittle, dangerous boundaries of modesty by digging into his more depraved memories? Devious, but effective!”

There was no judgment or reprimand in those words; Irmo was veritably impressed by how ruthless and determined his brother was in the pursuit of the questionable goal of getting Fëanor ready to be returned to those who awaited him most patiently.

“Shall we get on with it? Maybe we should let him…consume the act this time? He seems to grow rather…impatient,” the Lord of Dreams then remarked lightly, nodding at the flickering cluster of bright, pulsating light radiating from the core of Fëanor’s quickly firming silhouette.

“Her then,” Námo relented immediately and smiled when the scene shifted yet again.

“Nerdë!” Half-scream, half-sob, the name of his lost wife sprang from Fëanor’s tingling lips.

“Hush, I’ve only just gotten Káno to stop yowling,” she chided him softly as she sat up in a bed he remembered all too well.

Her smell—clay dust and wildflowers—filled the room, and this time, he did not hesitate to hasten over to let himself be embraced by those impossibly strong and yet incomparably soft arms.

A remnant of doubt lingered in his mind, but he could not say whether this torturously tender scene was a fabrication or a bona fide memory; there had been so many evenings just like this, sitting in bed and talking, while their sons slept down the hallway.

Nevertheless, Nerdanel, the Wise, seemed to have different plans for she pulled him closer to her alluringly freckled chest and sighed when his lips closed around her right nipple through the thin chemise she was wearing. He had married her out of love and folly, and he was sure that none of the chronicles of his terrible crimes would even bother to mention how unconditionally and desperately he had wanted her.

Of course, the staggering number of sons as well as their relative youth on their wedding day were clear signs, but he still hoped that these scheming ink-smeared liars would have the decency to pay homage to Nerdanel’s beauty and his devotion to her appropriately.

“We have to be quiet,” she whispered again, and now, he thought that he recognised her conspiratorial, youthful tone.

As her thighs fell open around him and her broad, nimble fingers tangled in his unbound hair, a surge of compounded darkness made his head spin and his blood boil. Here she was, his one true love, opening up beneath the unyielding pressure of his heated flesh like a blossom in spring, and he might have wept for joy and relief.

Mouthing the name of a child not yet conceived, he closed his eyes as she shifted ever so slightly to steer him resolutely towards the voracious heat of her desire—everything about her touch, her almost mocking smile, and her tiny gasp as he slid into her was so painfully familiar that—for a single, precious moment—Fëanor entirely forgot that none of it was genuine.

How could he have thought of the Valar and their senseless games when Nerdanel’s flesh was writhing—warm and tight—around his cock? Could anyone have faulted him for losing sight of the unfathomably convoluted games of destiny and retribution when he was losing his mind, his heart, his whole self in the velvet abyss of her burning gaze as she met his every thrust halfway?

Her body was strong and glorious, and he worshipped at the altar of her lust as the inexorably increasing pace made his hips stutter against her—Nerdanel laughed breathlessly and surged up to capture his lips in a searing kiss, greedily drinking every tiny moan as she had once lapped dew off green leaves at sunrise.

Nothing mattered besides her—the softness of her breasts against his heaving chest, the clenching ripples of her cunt as her own climax threatened to overwhelm her, and her throaty moans that spurred him ever on—and Fëanor, ever a slave to the fatal flaw of impatience, grabbed her waist possessively to lift her just a fraction before bearing down in frantic movements of unbridled rapture.

Teeth clenching mercilessly around her slender wrist to keep from waking her precious babies, Nerdanel arched into his punishing thrusts one last time; seeing her come undone once again was an image so exquisite that it burned itself through Fëanor’s eyes straight into what was left of his soul.

Throwing his head back in a soundless scream of deliverance, he exploded within her.

Just as he was about to bend down to kiss Nerdanel’s sweat-sheened brow, though, he was whisked back to his cell, alone and shivering. “Come back, you coward!” he bellowed, blind anger and devastating loss ravaging his tortured soul. “Take me back.”

“It actually worked,” Irmo muttered as if he was surprised himself by how successful his brother’s hare-brained plan had turned out to be. “I shall come back soon then?”

“Thank you,” Námo said, bowed, and retreated.

Had he not known better, Irmo would have sworn that the Lord Judge, ever serious, was skipping merrily down the wavering halls of Mandos.

-> Masterlist (by @tolkienpinupcalendar)

Lots of love from me, please take care of yourselves!

#og post #Dead Dove December #Dead dove #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Námo #Irmo #Fëanor #Nerdanel #Fëanor x Nerdanel #Fëanor x Fingolfin #Mind Control #dubcon #manipulation

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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A silly idea that came to me at work...

"How Russingon came to be..." or "IDNMT ruins canon"

Words: 700

Words: Nerdanel x Anairë

Warnings: slight nudity, plotting

A warm, slender hand brushed against star-kissed skin in an expression of truly humbling intimacy.

Akin to golden tears fell the moments around them until they thought they’d drown in the rippling sea of stolen time.

“We need to go,” Nerdanel whispered against Anairë’s shoulder, burying her trembling words in the hollow under the other lady’s collarbone. “Already, I seem to hear my father calling for me.”

“Would that we had more time,” the other replied in a flash of petulant annoyance. “Oh, the things I’d do to make it so, Nerdë.”

Sharp eyes – ablaze with boundless, voracious creativity – settled on that fair face, tracing every line as if Nerdanel was moulding wet clay with her very gaze. “What things, dear?”

“You know what things, my beloved. Don’t pretend you’re unaware of what shall be expected of us…what must tear us apart.”

The flame of their friendship and deep affection was kindled into a roaring conflagration, burning through despair and despondency as if devastating a field of dry grasses.

“What if it didn’t?” Nerdanel asked slowly; her mind was racing and she tapped a scuffed finger against her swollen lips. “You wouldn’t believe whom I keep running into.”

Anairë – slipping into her light summer dress once more – turned and cocked an eyebrow to express her interest in whatever plan her lover had come up with so spontaneously.

“Finwë’s son.”

“The crazy one, the pretty one, or the other?” Anairë inquired, letting go of the laces she was about to tie tidily to plunge back onto the soft moss covering the floor of their secret clearing.

“Without even knowing who the pretty one is supposed to be,” Nerdanel laughed, “I can safely say that it’s the crazy one. Curufinwë.”

Anairë pondered her words for a moment and then nodded pensively. “If…If we were to ensnare Finwë’s sons, we’d be together forever. We could raise our children together. We’d have oh so much time, Nerdë, can you imagine?”

“Moreover,” Nerdanel purred, laying back against the soft greenery confidently, “it is said that Eärwen is considered a good match for their youngest.”

The dexterous tongue which had lavished sweet caresses on her pale, freckled skin only moments ago darted out to wet soft lips as Anairë let this new piece of information sink in. Eärwen had ever been a cherished friend and a trustworthy ally.

In the sheltered clearing, the golden light painted a vision into the pristinely blue sky that was too alluring to be easily discarded on account of the challenges linked to it: children – beautiful and strong – thriving under their watchful eyes, and moments like this one in the gardens of Finwë the Great.

“I think Ñolofinwë a bit…fusty,” Nerdanel then commented with a wink, knowing that her sweetheart would heartily disagree with this inclement assessment.

“Well, you are considering being courted by a mopey genius,” Anairë shot back and pinched an enticingly dark nipple playfully; she loved how little – in private and under her tender gaze – Nerdanel heeded the prudish rules of conduct of their people.

Their fingers intertwined and their eyes met. Words instantly became superfluous as the resolution was hewn out of the mountain of prohibitions and fears that weighed on them ceaselessly.

“Tomorrow,” Anairë smiled as she went back to getting dressed, “I shall endeavour to secure an introduction.”

“Tomorrow,” Nerdanel echoed, “I shall wander the wilds until I inevitably stumble upon my quarry.”

“Do you think they’ll be like us?” Tying her dark hair into a neat braid, Anairë’s eyes drifted into a future yet unveiled. “Our children, I mean, do you think they’ll carry the echo of our love within them?”

Taken aback, it took her paramour a few heartbeats to consider that suggestion in silence. “Maybe,” Nerdanel then hummed, “they shall. Won’t it be exciting to find out?”

Solemnly, they shook hands on their plan and parted ways without looking back. There was work to do, hearts to conquer, reservations to overcome, and promises to secure after all.

Under the golden light of Laurelin, a dream of peace and plenty was born of the union of two indomitable spirits, and greater heroes would be swept up in their desperate hope mercilessly before long.

Should I have done that? No, probably not...

Anyway, I hope you're not too angry at me. It was a random brainfart, do not hold it against me, please!

Lots of love <3

-> Part II : A bronze awakening

#fanfiction #writing #the silmarillion #the silm #Nerdanel #Anairë #Nerdanel x Anairë #wlw #how Russingon came to be #before the weddings #not canon compliant

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mithrilhearts · 2 years

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Howdy! 37, 41 and 42 for your fic writers ask please!

Howdy partner! 🤠Thanks for the ask!!

37. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

When I feel that the arc for that chapter has come to a close (unless it's a cliffhanger). I try to map out my chapters with this in mind to see where the break feel okay. I look at it kind of like television episodes. Did I accomplish telling the story of this chapter? If it's a cliffhanger, is there enough content for the next chapter to wrap up that arc? Etc.

41. Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?

I love rereading fics. If they're favorites of mine, they'll definitely be reread, it's a comfort thing for me.

42. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Okay, so not a non-posted-wip, the last fic I read was... "Cup of Love" by @i-did-not-mean-to for the Sweet & Spicy bingo prompts. I really enjoyed it, and it was a nice headnod to my fic Dragonhearted, featuring teacup Ori. It's very sweet, and honestly, IDNMT is just a fantastic writer. Definitely giving it a rec!

Get to know your fic writer!

#ask game #scyllas revenge #raz answers #thank you for the ask!!

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year

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Hi can you please write Legolas x elf female reader where she finds out she is expecting their first elfling when he sets out for somewhere or something 🥺

Dear anon, I am so terribly sorry but you've managed to pick my bête noire.

There are many things I do write and even more I am willing to give a try...except this.

I could write a pregnancy story, mind you, but I am afraid that it would not be the kind of story you have in mind. It would be tinged by my own phobia of the matter. It would be body horror, depression, suicidal thoughts, self-hatred, and despair...

I do not know whether you have read the introduction page at the top of my Masterlist or not, so I don't know whether you were aware of my limitations.

Either way, I prefer not to write something that is loaded with so many negative feelings for me, I hope you'll understand.

(If you want a terrible pregnancy story though, let me know. I could always try, but you have to be aware that this for me is a dark NSFW request and that I'd treat it as such.)

Lots of love and my sincerest apologies,

IDNMT

#IDNMT answers #ask #Anonymous #the one subject I fear #I could try it #but there would be nothing sweet #no joy #only despair

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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Can someone please stop me?

So, today, I hurt myself by going back to the first chapters of the Silm...

Special thanks to a person I don't know the handle of yet and that I shall add later :D thanks for enabling me and talking to me about Things (and for your lovely art)

ah @the-red-butterfly (there's the handle of another great artist...yup, I collect them)

Words: 500

Warnings: slight sadness

How it feels to reread the first chapters of the Silmarillion

Darkness falls like a veil; a messenger arrives in haste.

And so, it starts…

I stand motionless and paralysed – overlooking the dark sea that shall be nourished by my tears – for speechless, voiceless, wordless, I mourn the loss that kicked off an avalanche of sharp stones within my breast that shan’t ever stop tumbling noiselessly into the endless obscurity, ne’er redeemed by the light that shall be.

Finwë is dead, and memories assail me like blades – newly forged and sharp as ice – as I reminisce about our long travels in darkness and fear.

Finwë and his wives, Finwë and his children – beautiful, strong, talented – and their strife amongst each other; then later, Fëanor holding Maedhros aloft, his face aglow with pride, and young Fingolfin cradling Fingon as if he was made of something holier than could be found in all of Valinor.

My bare feet cramp against the smooth stone, digging into it as if to take root; I stand still, looking into a future barred to me.

The blessed realm shall be blessed no more as those children I have seen thrive like weeds – their joy and their unquenchable thirst for knowledge and skill – leave it to grow into rulers, parents, warriors, and outcasts in another land where their strengths and flaws shall expand endlessly until they throttle them, enmeshed in their most earnest endeavours.

Like the rivers of that broken realm, they shall flow apart, never to behold the face of their own brothers again for parting or conciliatory words; they shall learn the bite of the double-edged sword that lies in a promise and the weight of love unending as it grows into shackles bound tightly around their souls.

Nonetheless, the sacrifice of their innocence shall bring forth deeds of renown and glory beyond what peace could ever engender.

Forever now, they shall be sundered from me and from that deep affection of mine that is exempt of blemishes but also devoid of the depths of their suffering that shall mould and sculpt them into the greatest and most terrifying of our kind.

And despite knowing this, all I can do is stare out to the sea; helplessly witnessing them raising cities and watching them fall to ruin, seeing them love and lose, fight and falter, trespass and repent.

Their blood – my blood – shall water the hungry soil of a world still in becoming, and I’ll cry – hoping that my tears might find their way into the lakes that shall bring them healing – for the wounds I cannot tend from across the water.

I stand and I shall stand until they’ve returned – one by one, bruised and battered – to the kin they’ve left behind.

“Eternity is a long time when you’re waiting,” a voice resounds behind me, but I don’t turn around, unable to avert my eyes from what must come to pass.

Finwë is dead; it has begun; and my long and lonely watch has started.

Let me tag my two book friends @lathalea and @legolasbadasss

And @eunoiaastralwings and @medusas-hairband who have expressed excitement about my reading the book...as you can see, it makes me very sad :(

#fanfiction #the silmarillion #the silm fandom #general #just wild thoughts #written down haphazardly #I'm sorry #IDNMT's mind #yayyyy I finished the book

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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do you ship Melkor & Mairon?

Hello anon, I can only surmise that this is about artwork I have reblogged?

Let me put it like that, I don't have to ship anything or anyone to take pleasure in glorious art; I have very few pairings where I'm like 'Hmmm, nope, I don't like this' and the one you're referring to is not one of them...

Also, I can (and will write) things, characters, and pairings that are of no personal interest to me, because I love writing for other people and I really don't mind exploring.

Finally, I am a person who is happy to see everyone loved and cared for in some way (and that includes those two villains).

I (and that much is known) celebrate other's talents shamelessly; many of those things are not shipped by me, but I will look at art and read stories, because these people have invested time and effort in their creation and deserve to be recognised for it.

I don't ship biblical massacres and murders either, but Lordy Lord, will I look at paintings of them for hours? Hell yes. I am certainly not in love with Jesus Christ, but I love painstaking portraits of him throughout time. That's just who I am.

I admit that this message has scared me a little bit as I've only just dipped my toe in all things Silm and I would be really sad to be hunted and doxed because of artwork I have shared or stories I have written.

I do not condone incest, rape, or any other unhealthy relationships IRL (for the record), but I love a good tragedy, some fated misery, and an enduring bond, what can I say?

If this is not your cup of tea (or coffee), I completely understand and I hope you'll find something to your liking, I truly do, but please don't make me (or anyone else) the object of a witch-hunt.

TLDR: I'm not sure yet, but the art is indeed BEAUTIFUL!

As always, be kind. Be generous. Spread light, love, and tolerance!

#asks #scary ask #IDNMT answers #Live and let live #If we all need beauty to be perfect and flawless #there will be very little beauty left to admire #Also I don't mind the pairing

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

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Penance III by linasofia

This 3rd instalment of the steamy series written by our very own beloved @linasofia can be read

✨ HERE ✨ (please reblog the OG post and give plenty of love!)

Review:

Penance as a whole is a very interesting take on taboos, the risk and the draw of crossing lines, and the seduction of the forbidden.

It's a story of illicit attraction, steamy sexual tension, and budding feelings that transcend the social construct they're maimed and caged by.

This last chapter is a culmination of the tension as much as of the stakes; there will be yielding and hardening, communion and rupture, pleasure and pain.

It's a thrilling read and every bit as exciting as the previous chapters; personally, I think it has a lot of depth (in every sense of the word) and I strongly recommend you read it.

In a quiet corner.

Undisturbed.

With a cold drink at hand.

Enjoy & don't forget to give our dear @linasofia some love. She is my dearest cellmate after all 🌹

#rec #ask #IDNMT presents #my friend lina #and her naughty story #read til the end #you won't regret it #it's really steamy #and a little unsettling #but very invigorating #for body and mind #look lina i also made you an ugly pic #lolololol

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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Fingon: That was a joke. Say ha. Maedhros: Ha. Fingon: Now do it again. Maedhros: Ha. Fingon: Congratulations, you are officially the life of the party.

Fingon: Bro, I had a dream we fucked. Maedhros: Bro, relax it was just a dream. Fingon: Huh, gay, I wouldn’t fuck you. Maedhros: You wouldn’t? Fingon: I mean, unless you want to-

They are such a lovely, dorky couple.

And I love them competent and canon-compliant and serious and brave and the whole thing...no doubt...but God, I love this too 🤣

#asks #idnmt answers #incorrect quote #I cannot make up my mind #I love things too much 🙈

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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years

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Hi IDNMT!

Could I request a prompt from you for the Silm? 🙈

Specifically Caranthir; reader has a near-death experience and the Caranthir refuses to leave their side. Reader wakes up with Caranthir holding their hand and resting his head on the side of the bed and they are tempted to trace the features of his face but just as they are about to he wakes up. Will he let them? 👀

Hello anon...I have combined this request with another one I got from my dearest Irene...

So...Caranthir, huh? That's a new one haha...Let's try (?)

Words: 2,2k

Warnings: Injury and a bit of mockery

Characters: Caranthir x reader

“This is a dumb idea,” Caranthir griped, giving his brothers – minus the twins who were considered too young to participate in foolhardy adventures like this one – a nasty look; they all knew that he liked to complain but wouldn’t desert them or miss out on the chance to do some mischief.

On this sunny afternoon, you had the exceptional honour and pleasure of entertaining the sons of Fëanor; to your surprise, they had decided to roam through the woods adjacent to your home, in search of either game or enemies.

You had never understood why prodigies – precious beyond what gems and exceptional creations may ever outweigh – like them would pay social calls armed to their teeth and eager for peril.

“Ah come on,” you laughed, tapping a playful finger against the tip of the elegant nose of your undisputed favourite of the brood, “don’t make such a face or it will get stuck like that.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Maglor chimed in, his voice pealing like bells in the ambient silence of the woods, “his face has been like that for years now.”

“I don’t remember it ever looking any different,” Maedhros assented with a sly smile, “it seems to me that Carnistir was born like that.”

“Yeah, he’s always had that face!” Curufin piped up excitedly.

“How would you know? You weren’t even born yet,” you intervened, seeing how your dear friend’s mien grew ever darker with anger and humiliation. You felt bad for having provided them an opening to pile onto your friend, especially as his eyes – sharp and cold – spoke volumes of the betrayal he thought himself subjected to.

“Come to our house,” Curufin replied with a minute shrug, “and I’ll show you the painting of our red-faced, ill-tempered, ever-upset Moryo.”

The idea of being granted the immense privilege of laying eyes upon their family portraits made a smile tug at the corners of your mouth but – apparently knowing which particular work of art was being referenced – Caranthir’s glower intensified a thousandfold within a single moment.

Truth be told, you cherished and admired the flush of just anger and embarrassment now rising in his cheeks like a visible gauge of his annoyance; Caranthir had ever been bewitching and charming to you in ways you didn’t care to explain to his more outgoing siblings. Many were the hidden blessings of this creature – like his sharp mind or his unusual sense of humour – that were constantly overshadowed by the more obvious displays of his sometimes cantankerous mood and much famed short temper.

“Are you quite finished?” he muttered, vexation and impatience making his own tone sound sharper than he intended it to be.

Just as you were about to distract the company by making an ill-timed joke, the sound of stamping hooves and the smell of sheer panic flooded the small clearing you were crossing; it was an unfortunate instinct – as you would admit after the fact – on your behalf, especially as they would have been able to bodily wrestle the startled beasts into submission or shoot them down in their path, but you threw yourself into the stampede heedlessly.

In that moment, you cared not about what danger – natural predator or unholy enemy – had whipped them into such a frenzy; all that mattered to you was to keep Caranthir and his blessed brothers safe from the imminent threat of being trampled to death by startled herd of wild beasts – heedless in their panic – and so, you used your own body as a projectile, in hopes that it would divert their course.

In that second, all the words you had never spoken and all the sentiments you had never expressed echoed like screams within your flighty soul; this man – tall and taciturn, intelligent and sharp-tongued, vulnerable and brave – was precious to you, and, even though you’d never confess as much to him, your heart didn’t hesitate to sacrifice the body that cradled and protected it in the name of a devotion so earnest and deep. Did you brace for the impact? You knew not, but there was a flash of pain and light as your body was lifted off the ground and flung carelessly through the sweet air that had been filled with joyous laughter only moments ago, before a great darkness swallowed you and dragged your mind down into protective oblivion.

A golden ray of light caressed your skin, tickling you awake with ephemeral fingers, and you blinked sleepily.

Your head felt heavy and there were tendrils of pain thrumming through your body – visions of blood and memories of a bone-shattering impact flashed through your mind – but there was also the steady beating of your heart that assured you that there was life yet coursing through your veins.

As your vision focused from blurry swaths of colour into sharp outlines, you beheld that face you had been meditating many another bleak morning, the very visage that had propelled you into harm’s way so boldly, the beauteous countenance of one you simply and cowardly called “friend” for fear of overstepping boundaries never truly established.

You could not tell how he had come to find himself – crumpled like a discarded and forgotten doll – half-slumped over the edge of your bed, but you could not deny how much instant solace his quiet presence gave you.

A warm, smooth hand was resting atop yours as if to shield it and you instantly allowed a fond smile to blossom on your own features; upon further inspection though, you realised how worn out Caranthir truly appeared: there were dark shadows under those usually so luminous eyes, and you resented them for invading a space that should be dominated by a healthy pink glow with their dull veil of purple and grey.

In all of your years of affectionate acquaintance, you had also never before seen him condone such a display of negligent disarray when it came to his garments; prim and proper to the point of being called “vain” by Celegorm, Caranthir would – under normal circumstances – never have allowed anyone to see him in such a state. Divested of his outer coat, he had rolled up the sleeves of a criminally wrinkled tunic, bearing stains that looked suspiciously like blood, and his hair was a tangled mess as if he had run those beautiful, sensitive fingers, now splayed across the back of your own hand, repeatedly through it in distress.

You shook your head carefully, trying to jostle the fragments of your memory back into some semblance of a logical or at least somewhat chronological order.

His brothers and you had been joking about his sour mien moments before disaster had struck and you now regretted your careless words bitterly; if you had perished foolishly, trying to defend and protect some of the hardiest people to walk this earth, would Caranthir have allowed his heart to harden around a single thoughtless, meaningless, tasteless joke?

Tears rose to your eyes at the mere thought; you knew him well enough to believe that he’d treasure the hurt if it was the only thing left to him of a connection so fraught with ambiguity and misunderstanding. He’d guard his very pain jealously, tearing off the scabs secretly and mutely, without ever seeking out the comforting and healing influence of others.

Helpless prayers of gratitude and relief bubbled to your lips and were breathed into the cool air of your sickroom in perfect silence; you would get the chance to set things right, you would be granted the mercy of being at least able, even if unwilling, to confess how much you truly adored his complexion, and that blessing of opportunity alone soothed the raging agony of your wounds, screaming in protest as you strained to move.

You yearned to trace his delicate features with your numb fingertips, you longed to wipe away the dark smudges of worry and the stark lines of yet stronger but unfathomable emotions graven onto that pristine skin, and – most of all – you were dying to just feel him.

Ill-tempered or not, he was alive and well, and that was reason enough to celebrate as far as you were concerned, for – within the deepest, darkest corners of your heart – he was the one you held dearest in this life.

Extending your aching arm slowly, you strove towards the warm, smooth skin of the one you loved so helplessly and hopelessly; if you could but touch him, you knew, it would anchor and ground you enough to keep you from spiralling into a maelstrom of guilt and shame.

No doubt, before too long, the others would make an appearance and chide you for having acted so recklessly and consequently having endangered yourself needlessly; you knew that you deserved to be reprimanded, but – just in this moment – you wanted to soak up the innocent comfort that was unwittingly imparted to you.

Your hand tensed around those slender fingers slightly as if to steady yourself as the other one inched ever closer to the dark hair partially obscuring the handsome face still resting at an awkward angle on the mattress. Wasn’t it hilarious that Caranthir could add up any number and balance even the most chaotic accounts effortlessly and yet was unable to read the most basic signs of affection?

A moment before your skin brushed his though, his eyes flew open, and his head snapped up in alarm.

“What are you doing?” he asked raucously, exhaustion and worry making his voice sound like sand grating over stone.

“Forgive me,” you whispered, “you looked so…enthralling just now.” “Ah, I see you’ve not lost your sense of humour then.” He stretched like a cat, all flexible limbs and fluid motions, before resting his elbows back at your side, gingerly taking hold of your hand once more; despite the teasing note in his voice, you could discern that you had not been wrong in surmising that he’d stubbornly remember your last words, unmindful and vexing as they had been.

“Moryo,” you beckoned him closer, “you are always handsome, you know that, right?”

“Oh, don’t say that when Maitimo the Beautiful can hear you,” he chuckled dryly, but his fingers tensed around your own, sending waves of warmth and slight pain up your shattered arm, “you should rest! Stop squirming around so; you’ve been grievously wounded!”

“I do not care,” you replied calmly, “they fear your wrath, not mine.”

He merely shrugged; could it truly be that he had no idea that it was his passion – flaring bright and hot – rather than his actual complexion that earned him the jeering nicknames by which his brothers teased him so?

“You have the colouring of late autumn roses, you have the radiance of a sunset mirrored in an untouched lake, you combine your parents’ beauty in ways that are entirely your own,” you went on insistently, “do you truly not know just how gorgeous you are?”

Your name was velvet and silk as it slipped from his tongue quietly, and the tenderness in those few syllables was balm on your abused flesh.

“Do you truly think me handsome? Even compared to my brothers?” There was a naked yearning – so unlike the proud, masterful, indifferent façade he habitually wore like armour – in those words and your answering flinch set each of your injuries aflame.

How to explain to him that none of his brothers made your heart soar quite like his reserved grin often managed to do, despite your better knowledge?

“They are rather gaudy and ostentatious in their charms, are they not?” you cackled, knowing that your inopportune and often clumsy jokes always managed to relieve the tension between the two of you.

“That they are,” he agreed with a sharp smile, “and I guess, I am not.”

“You’ve been known to flaunt your pulchritude now and again,” you reminded him immediately with a wink.

“Say, were you not about to pet me? How about you lavish those caresses – in devoted and humble gratitude – on the one who picked up your battered form and carried it all the way back?” he changed the subject suddenly and brought his face closer yet to your own.

“You did?” you gasped.

“Yes,” he admitted, a little embarrassed by his own confession, “and I’ve not left your bedside since. So, please forgive me if I am – at the present moment – unable to live up to your lofty ideals, but I’ve spent three days and nights by your side – wondering, waiting, worrying – while the healers did their best to mend your wounds.”

“I said ‘always’, Moryo, and I meant it,” you prompted gently, finally letting your scratched palm settle against his high cheek, “you look just fine. Were I in less pain, I’d think myself returned to the Blessed Realm where all my dreams have come true.”

He blinked slowly at that, turning his face abruptly to press a forceful kiss onto your trembling hand.

“Rest now, my dearest,” he whispered against your skin, “and I shall valiantly keep the hellhounds born to my esteemed mother at bay for you. When you wake, I shall – hopefully – look worthy of your kind praise.”

Smiling and holding his hand in yours still, you closed your eyes once more as welcome drowsiness overcame you; he was there – blushing and beautiful as the new-born day – and that was all you needed to know to let yourself be tethered to this life – of pain and bliss – for a little while longer.

So, dearest anon, I hope this could satisfy you (and my dear Irene)...

I'm going to tag @sorisooyaa as she's the one who's put the very idea of that doofus into my mind. I hope you like this, my darling baby!

As always, lots of love from me and thank you very much for the request. It feels good to know that people like the silly romcom drama I write ❤️

#request #IDNMT answers #fanfiction #Caranthir #Caranthir x reader #yet another #Fëanorian #why not?#injury #life-threatening #who snoozes loses #also Moryo is cute

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