#the silmarilion fics

[bluezenzennie]

To heal, is to take your time: trailer.

"I cannot look at them when I was among the valar who chose them to go shelter the wounded and scarred in middle-earth." Irmo whimpers shakily. He claws at his wife's dress and doubles over, resting his forehead on her shoulder. "They begged, cried, did everything in their power to prove that this was not a mission fit for them- and yet we sent them away, only for them to come back mute, emotionless and shattered. I'm ashamed of myself for even agreeing to sending them away." The cracks in his usually warm and smooth voice so very evident now, with a sadness so prominent you could almost see the blue aura around his fëa.

Here's a lil sneak peak on the latest fic I'm working on- Other stuff will be out soon ! Upcoming: Námo x reader drabble ( Taking him to a forest grove to rest ) Heated dusk in the rose grove | Irmo x reader, smut

Get tagged for my writing? Click right here darling!

[aylen-san]

A Dance Under the Moon

When Maedhros came to Elwing for the Silmaril, he expected a battle, arguments, and threats. But the offer he received surprised him. With a mischievous smile, Elwing said: "I will give you the Silmaril if you win it the way Luthien did - through song and dance."

Maedhros was stunned. "You want me to... dance?" - His voice trembled with a mixture of confusion and slight panic.

Elwing nodded, her eyes shining. "That's exactly right. If you can enchant me as Luthien enchanted Morgoth, the stone is yours."

Maedhros was about to refuse, but Maglor, seeing a chance to avoid bloodshed, immediately agreed. The twins, always ready to support a merry venture, agreed as well.

"Well then, brother, you have been offered the bargain of the century! If Luthien could defeat Morgoth in a dance, so can you."

Maedhros sighed heavily. "Lúthien was a great dancer. And me? The last time I danced was at Turucano's wedding," he muttered frustratedly.

But Maglor was determined. "Don't worry, I'll help you remember the lessons of our childhood. We practiced for days and nights, and I'm sure you'll still remember how to move."

The next days passed in a training that sometimes resembled a play rather than a serious lesson. Maglor picked up the most difficult melodies with enthusiasm, and as he strummed the strings he never missed an opportunity to tease his brother, "More grace, brother, you're not in a tournament with orcs in Angband!"

Maedhros, hurt but trying not to show it, would turn sharply and remind him, "I am trying to dance, not play peacock. But as soon as he started moving again, Maglor didn't give up: "And don't forget to smile! No magic works without charm!" - he said with such seriousness that Maedhros could barely contain his laughter.

When his attempts to smile and not get tangled up in complicated steps failed, Maedhros snorted in annoyance, "This is a dance, not a carnival act!" But even he couldn't resist his brother's infectious laughter as he exaggerated "grace" and whirled around like a whirlwind, eyes wide open and a fake smile on his face. "This is it, Maedhros! All of Middle-earth will give you a standing ovation!"

The night of the test had come. The moon rose high in the sky, its light silvery on the shore and the calm waters. Elwing stood on a high rock, holding the Silmaril, which shone like a star. Maedhros took a deep breath and took the first step, hoping not to step on his cloak.

Elwing watched with interest, barely containing her laughter as Maedhros, performing another complicated pas, nearly tripped over an invisible rock. His attempt to regain his balance looked more like trying to jump an entire chasm. "Impressive," Elwing remarked with a mischievous smile, tilting her head slightly, "almost like Luthien... if she were a very tired and irritable elf."

Maedhros blinked at the comparison and whispered, covering his mouth with his hand, "Try that again!" The attempt to remain serious failed, and he almost laughed, feeling the tension of the dance turn into ridiculous fun.

Toward the end of the dance, Maedhros moved more carefully, as if afraid he might stumble again and lose the last vestiges of his dignity. Eventually, the music faded, and he straightened and made a deep bow, both weary and relieved.

Elwing, shaking her head slightly at his stubbornness and persistence, slowly descended from the podium. Respect glowed in her eyes, despite the hidden irony. Holding out the Silmaril with a slight smile, she acknowledged, "You have earned it, though not as gracefully as Luthien, but with no less tenacity.

Maedhros accepted the gem and nodded briefly, but could not resist adding: "If my dancing were as good as my fighting, the Silmaril would have been mine long ago."

Turning back to his brother, Maedhros leaned closer and lowered his voice to a threatening whisper, "If any of our people find out that I won the Silmaril by dancing, I will be your greatest nightmare. His gaze was serious, but the shadow of a smile lurked at the corners of his lips.

Maglor, his eyes bright with glee, could barely contain his laughter as he watched his brother struggle to keep his pride intact. He leaned closer as if to share the action, "Oh, don't worry," he replied with a smile, emphasizing the light and good-natured tone, "I promise to tell this story to anyone who will listen, especially those who worship legends of heroism and bravery. Maglor waved his hand theatrically, as if already imagining stories around the campfire where Maedhros' dance would become a new epic.

Maedhros frowned, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Don't you dare turn this into a ballad," he added grimly, but there was no real threat in his voice.

Maglor bowed his head innocently, as if pondering his words. "A ballad? No, of course not. Perhaps an epic saga in five parts... Or at least a musical play. I think the chorus about 'the hero who entered battle through dance' would be a real hit."

Maedhros just shook his head, amazed at how quickly his brother had turned his threat into a joke.

The story had been passed down among the elves ever since, each retelling adding more jokes and exaggerations. It was said that the stars shone brighter that night, and that the sky itself smiled upon the stern Maedhros, who, for the sake of his goal, swallowed his pride and danced before Elwing.

With each retelling, the details became more incredible: some claimed that his steps were like dancing on a bonfire, others assured that Elving had deliberately offered the most difficult moves to watch, hoping that Maedhros would retreat and leave them alone. But most of all, they liked to add that the stars winked at each other at that moment, marveling that the fearsome son of Theanor, who had terrified armies with his strategies, was now fighting not enemies but complicated pas.

In time, humorous poems appeared in which Maedhros danced "like a wild boar who has forgotten the way of the forest," but with respect for his willingness to undertake this ridiculous feat for the sake of peace. There were even jokes in the elven halls that if Maedhros were offered another dance in exchange for all the Silmarilli, he would demand that the story not be told.

But behind all the ridicule there was a note of admiration: for even the most stubborn and proud of Feanor's sons had shown flexibility - not only in movement, but in spirit - to achieve his goal.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58668676

[pursuitseternal]

Hello my partner-in-crime!

Could I pretty please have Sauron x Reader with prompt number 7: "Can you feel how much I want you?"

Love you! ❤️😘

“𝕿𝖔 𝕭𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊…”

First Age Sauron x f!Reader | Dead Dove | 3.7K

Summary: There is no hope in Angband, in the dungeons of the Dark Vala…. But there is the Servant. Sauron.

A master craftsman and artist, forever seeking perfection, obsessed with creating his own beauty, and yet a victim of torment by his master that twists his sense of creativity to something vile and precious only to him.

CW: Dead dove: Do Not Eat, graphic violence, torture porn, bondage, temperature play, forge sex, corruption, marking branding biting, mind breaking, mind control, body worship, First Age Sauron, if evil why (literally) hot

Ao3 link | Tolkien Masterlist

You can see your breath, hear your heart beating slower and slower with each passing hour. Languishing. A slow death. A painful death. A merciless one that meant to break you without hope.

There is no hope in Angband.

Even the floors here are ice. Not even prison rats scurry around your cell. Your pointed ears have long grown deaf to the noises of the dungeon, numb from the icy chill of this evil frozen North. The chains on your neck and wrists have long since frozen to your skin. Death will be a relief, you sigh, when once again you’ll see the shores of Valinor and find comfort in the Halls of Mandos.

That thought makes your heart warm just enough to last a few more beats. But then you hear them—footsteps—lighter than Orc, more graceful than Balrog… and your body stiffens as you hear that sound on the icy air.

Humming. Music. Means one thing. Ainur.

Please not the Dark Lord, you beg to divine forces too far away to hear you. Your pleas have fallen on deaf ears. But you hope not this time.

“Do not fear,” that voice croons from the shadows. His presence seems to instantly thaw your extremities, warmth seeping in where there had only been cold for so, so long. You see eyes and movement in the darkness, but from his stature and bearing, you know it’s not the Lord of Angband…

It is the Servant.

His gaze is sharp, eyes darting over your crumpled mess of a body nearly frozen to the floor. His hair is bright; reds like blood and oranges like flames hang in long waves down his back and shoulders. His voice seems to tickle right in your ear, even at this distance, even as he stalks closer towards the bars of your cell. “Do not fear, I’m here to free you.”

“Wh-what?” You croak, the truth of those words do not deceive you, no matter how much you long for them to be true.

Those lips twitch as with a wave of his hand, the iron door swings open, the groaning hinges echoing against stone. “Well,” he suddenly sounds sharp, exacting, “free you from your cell, Elf. You are by no means free, not in body or in will, nor will you ever be again.”

Reality smacks you, your chest constricting.

“The Dark Lord has no need of such a small, frail Elf like you,” he strides in, grasping your chin in fingers impossibly hot. His touch sears like the fires of the forge, the stink of brimstone and smoke fill your nose. “You’d make a weak, pathetic Orc.” Then he shoves you by your face back to the ground at his feet. Your manacled hands catch yourself just in time to keep your nose from smashing against stone.

“Fortunately, what is unfit to serve the Master is deemed worthy of his Servant,” that voice returns to such silken, lilting tones, and you look into his face. His bright brown eyes rake over you, assessing and evaluating your worth, as if you were a precious gem examined for the flaws in your cut.

Those eyes, the more you stare into them, the brighter they seem to shine, a mix of golden browns that bubble and simmer with flame. You see them, the ripples of his power that creep beneath this disguise of a mortal form. “Come,” he orders you, those frozen irons and chains melting from your skin to clatter on the floor around you. “There is much work to be done.”

His grip on your wrist tightens, and you realize with certainty that his skin is hot… flushed and searing you by touch alone. It would frighten you, if it wasn’t for the sense of reprieve it gives from the biting cold that has settled in your bones from your imprisonment. If anything, you draw your scantily clad body closer to his, seeking that thawing sensation…his black robes barely brush your flesh, The bared skin of your arms, even patches of your torso where your gown has shredded to rags with violence and time crave to be nearer.

It feels so… good. After so long in the cold alone, to feel another’s touch, it makes you melt. He guides you through the dark, and even though your jaw aches from that fleeting ferocity in your cell, you can’t help but wish for more warmth shared against your skin.

The memory should terrify you but… it doesn’t. Your mind only remembers how good those fingers felt, their warmth, their command…

And you crave more against your better judgment. You would call it hope, but there is no hope in Angband. No hope. Only craving. As if you know that the only thing that awaits you is fire and blissful burning.

Shadows deepen as you walk, those brown-orange eyes flicker at you beside him as you both ascend the darkened stairs. That scent of smoke and ashen stone that clings to his skin suffocates you. Your frail lungs burn with every inhale, and as you reach the ascent, you see why.

No ice prison, he’s brought you to a massive forge. Torches burn and flicker, but no light is brighter than the gaping maw of a furnace. Orange flame reflects in his eye as he scans you. Grip deathly tight on your wrist, he leads you with graceful movements… lithe and sinuous. Like a snake.

Like a predator stalking his prey.

The faintest of smiles turns his full lips, and he stops you beside a great metal anvil… wide and long and big enough for any great creation. You recall the tales of such things from those of your kind who had come from Valinor, from the workshops of Aulë himself, or of Fëanor and his descendants.

It is on this warm, dark metal that he effortlessly lifts you up to seat you. Its surface is roughened with divets and grooves, the scars of the Servant’s work spanning its face. That relaxing heat creeps through the skin of your ass and climbs your spine until you feel a smile stretch on your cracked lips.

His fingers wander their soothing touch over your collarbone, the slightest push guides you to lay back on the heated anvil. You stare into the ceiling, seeing only the gathering darkness offset by rippling steam and flickering light. His touch continues to dance on your chest, tracing the parts of you where starvation has prodded your bones towards the surface.

And that sharp face, that handsome face, smiles… so warmly. “The Dark Lord insists that we each are forged in the shadows, that what has once been bathed in the light is made anew in the dark. Morgoth’s way is to maim… to ruin and torture and kill the light of beings he drafts into his service…”

You see a flicker behind his eyes, a memory of his own past perhaps, you surmise. A recollection none too pleasant as it darkens his gaze and stiffens the corners of his smiling lips.

Then, he turns that smile down upon you, spread so perfectly on his anvil. “But such is not my way. I am no jailer or executioner. I am an artisan, a craftsman of greatest skill, and I shall make you anew, my treasure.”

His fingers trace your gaunt face, warming it, caressing the spots that have grown stiff and lined with fear. His voice is dulcet, sweet and singsong as he purrs down, and you want nothing more than to feel those full, smirking lips on your skin and taste the sweet promises that drip from his tongue. Before you even realize your need, before you can name your inner burning as desire, two words fall from your panting mouth. “My Lord…” you whisper.

And the Servant smiles. It’s radiant, a flash of brightness in his eye and a brilliance to his grin. But he tuts his tongue, chiding you for the youthful creation you are. “Tsk, none of that. I am no Dark Lord. I am called many things… Admirable, Abominable… Gorthaur… Sauron…”

His hands come to rest at the top of your throat, a slight pressure around your neck as his thumb traces your lower lip.

“But you, my treasure, you shall call me by one simple word…. Hîr.”

Master.

Your breath catches in your burning lungs, your tongue already noiselessly testing out the syllable as it dances at its tip.

His reddish brows arch, pleased at your submission as he can see every little twitch of your mouth.

“You are a rare beauty,” he whispers, “the undiluted blessing of the One shines in the skin of the Elves, their eyes still bright with the memory of the Two Trees…”

He peers into yours, almost wistful, as if he longs to catch a glimpse of that Starlight to capture for his own. Sauron lowers his mouth, hovering just out of reach of your own lips. The scent of his forge is so strong, you can taste it, you are lost in the wash of his singeing breath on your face. “Hîr,” you obediently rasp, arching off the anvil to catch his lips.

And he lets you, lips and tongue so overwhelmingly warm, there is no sensation in your body other than his mouth as he devours.

Wave after wave of his mouth on yours, you fail to sense the snaking of chains around your arms and legs until they have chinched themselves bitingly hard into your flesh. Then you panic, your heart thundering no longer from pure arousal, but that wild rhythm of racing fear. You tug at them, fight them, and with one last desperate plea, you beg for Manwë, Varda… Eru himself to hear you.

But there is no rescue, no whisper of a reply to your prayers.

There is only Sauron’s shimmering toothy smile in the dark as his eyes dance over your form… spread so perfectly for him to work with. “Do you know, my treasure, why I’ve loathed the beauty of the Elves? Eru chose to bless you, to gift your kind the wisdom and graces first given only to me, to my kind… and you squander them. You cannot fathom, cannot see the greater purpose such power could serve.”

He’s pacing between your body and his tools, spread so evenly and orderly beside him. A long iron brand in his grip, he sticks it in the opening of the furnace.

The hissing of metal heating makes you shiver. Makes your skin crawl.

Fingers pull away the rest of your rags, baring every bit of your taut skin to his flickering gaze. “You are beautiful, but it is shallow, it is false. And I, my treasure, will purify you. I’ll remake you in my image and likeness, a thing of incomparable radiance ....” You whine as his hands wrap their warmth around your breasts. “You now are a thing to be admired… as I once was,” he croons down at you, pulling your ass to the edge of the anvil, your chain impossibly tight around your arms, breaking you in their unyielding hold as your legs hang down precariously.

Those lips press searing kisses down your neck, over the places where your mortal heart is thundering. His eyes flash up at you, and in that moment, you swear you see the reflection of the furnace beside you. Or perhaps it is more… the power that lies barely concealed in this handsome, sensual form. Those full lips wrap around one nipple, then the other, an inferno drummed up at his call races through your veins.

It is agony, hot and wild, that courses in your flesh. Never would one of your kind be so… wanton. Lust feeds your form, every bit of your skin wants to be touched… and the more he caresses your breasts and trails his mouth lower over the hollow of your belly, the less you care if that contact is pleasure… or pain.

They are one under his command, your mind purrs to your reason. Every thought reduces to the mere sensation of his mouth, his hands that press now between your spread thighs. The moment his tongue touches you, parting your folds to taste you, an unholy sound tears from your lips. Flames pulse through your veins, every lick and swirl of his tongue draws ungodly ecstacy. You weep for the feeling, the overwhelming waves of pleasure he coaxes from your nearly-broken body as if he drew your very soul, your fëa, to the surface.

Words tumble from your lips, nonsensical and varied in language until it is one word over and over again. You rasp it, cry it, scream it as he brings you right to the edge of your climax… Hîr… Hîr… Master.

His laughter tickles your flesh and your mind all at once, the sensation of his presence in your skull and his tongue in your walls throws you into oblivion. Your climax slams into you, all fire and heat and tension as he withdraws from you in that moment of bliss. Your chain grows impossibly tighter as you convulse on the metal beneath you, and for a split second, you wonder where he has gone….

At first you think it’s the ice of your prison again that slices through the warm pool of pleasure in your belly. But then, you open your eyes… it is not ice but white hot fire on your skin as his brand marks your inner thigh. The hissing, the steam, the scent of charming flesh takes over your pleasure, stealing it from your body. And all the while, he smirks down from between your soaked thighs. Orange hair catches the glow of the brand as he lifts it, a satisfied glint in the flames of his own gaze.

Fear races down your nerves, every corner of your being screams at you to fight, to run and resist… the pain almost breaks through those tendrils of shadow that have woven into your senses. And now, as you inhale, you can smell it.

Death. Ashen and purifying. You see him, eyes ringed in flame and breath blackened like smoke… your heart could burst from your need to resist…

Until you feel his hands on your skin again, that warmth somehow driving the dread back into the recesses of your mind.

That teasing touch traces the prongs of his mark, three of them, ugly and deformed, a perversion of the pronged crown that rests on the Dark Lord, the Dark Vala’s head.

Your body shakes with the shock of pain, even as he presses his lips to kiss that angry flesh. “Ninya,” he whispers against it. Mine.

The pain intensifies as he removes his touch, the euphoria of your climax dulling to leave you with only the searing agony he’s caused in its wake. “Mine, and like me, you shall be remade from admirable to abominable… and I will always possess you.”

The sound of liquid swirls in glass, the soft tapping of a brush against its rim… he stands over you, eyes roaming your bared form and lingering on the places he deems most worthy… or is it unworthy?

“The light of the Valar still shines too brightly on your skin, so soft almost like pearls of the Sea… it too shall have to be remade,” he rasps. The black bottle in his hand coming closer, the wooden brush wiping the excess fluid before he brings it to your legs.

The bite of acid eats at your skin, burning you, tearing you inside out. That music in his voice invades your mind, warping the pain into a warm sort of pleasure. Every drip of acid on your flesh as he paints higher and higher… your thighs, your belly… it shifts into that hot coil of need roiling behind your navel.

He doesn’t slather you, he’s not destroying you… it’s painstaking and exact the way he draws into your skin, making it burn and hiss and bubble anew. Remaking. Whirls and swirls and swipes in the precise places his critical eye deems worthy.

It’s agony… blissful agony… Every scream from your throat breaks into a moan. The perversion of your pain into bliss brings a drugged sort of grin to your face. The grin of a fool.

He sets the brush back inside the bottle, his hand tracing the rises and valleys of your face, your sharpened cheekbones, the hollows of your cheeks. His fingers dance on your wincing face, warm and burning, a herald of the pain you know he’s about to inflict. Your heart will surely explode, and your death might just be the final offering you make… But then, he cups your cheek, fingers laced in the mess of your long and knotted hair.

“Don’t be afraid, my treasure. You are being oh so brave… oh so valiant as you are remade.” His kiss instantly numbs your pain and slows your heart, the torture of resistance in your mind instantly silenced. That coil of need flames anew as his hand wanders back over your mound, dipping that addictive touch into your slick.

You gasp, eyes rolled back, spine arching off the anvil’s metal. Then you look into his face, the abyss of fire and darkness behind his eyes sucks you inside, lost to anything but the sensations of his fingers that tease you and torture you in a different way. A more pleasing way.

His fingers slide so easily, playing you like an instrument in his grasp. Your moans are the melody of his composing, the bucking of your hips keeps a steady rhythm, one perfectly timed to the thrust of his fingers. His mouth on yours once more, the biting of his teeth on your lips, the growls of his own pleasure in his throat form a counterpoint so intoxicating, there is nothing left but the music of him finger fucking you.

All that pain that is bound in your nerves and coiled in your belly bursts… white hot and violent as you come. Then, you scream until your voice cracks, until your vocal chords are fried from the force and volume he demands from your spent form.

“Good, my treasure…” he rasps against your lips as they fall silent. “Ninya… you’ve done so well,” he purrs into your pointed ear as the world grows dark to your vision, as your body gives in and falls unconscious. Those little praises bring a twisted smile to your face as you drift into oblivion. “When you wake, you’ll be mine alone, mine forever… the most beautiful abomination I have yet crafted…”

And the final sensation to pierce through the veil of your slumber is the sting of acid on your forehead and cheek… the flicker of pain plunging you completely into the darkness at long last.

There is no hope in Angband… There is also no time. Only darkness and craving. Hunger and satisfaction.

Pain. And pleasure.

It’s a lesson you are taught nightly, at least you assume it’s nightly… whenever it is that Sauron returns to his chambers where you are kept sequestered away. The chains from his forge are gone, replaced with elegant links of gold and gem-entrusted trappings that hang on your frame. Your hands fiddle with them, where they drape down your arms in layers, where they sweep over your bare skin to your middle.

You’ve long forgotten the feeling of clothes. There is only the bed and your elegant chains, the heat of his touch and the sting of his biting teeth and burning brand and lashing whips.

You wish that your memories would dim… that the burden of your elven heritage would forsake you as easily as that fair, starkissed body you once called your own. Tears prick your eyes, your own fingers steadily tracing your once soft skin, touch dancing over blade scars and the rough ridges of his burning… the brands of his possession forever glaring at you from your thighs, not unlike those ghostly flickering eyes that haunt you each day… whether Sauron visits you or not.

“Mairaza…” the whisper brushes your mind before it settles in your ear. “My precious…” you’ve learned his new tongue… this speech he’s created for his servants, for you.

The warmth of his body seeps into you from behind, that scent of fire, of ash and smoke and forge excites you now… it conjures that swirl of damp heat in your cunt. Already you grit your teeth, craving in excess, hungering for more. The thin chains of gold and jewels clink and jingle as those calloused hands caress your body. He lingers over his marks, the scars of his pleasure-pain that have molded you into his own creation.

“Can you feel it, Mairaza, can you feel how much I want you?”

You clench around nothingness, hoping beyond hope that he fills you soon and grants you release this time.

Soft words of his own invented tongue purr inside your brain, praising your scars, the healed-over bubbles of flesh from that day he claimed you…

Sauron turns you, your attention lost in the bottomless depth of his eyes as those magical fingers caress the scars that curve in serpentine shapes over your cheeks. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he rasps. “Can you feel how much I want you, body and soul?” his lips whisper against your own. “Can you feel how much you are mine, Ninya?”

The words do not come to you outloud; they flood your very being, racing to your awareness down the tether that binds you to him.

That taste of his mouth swallows you whole, and there is nothing left of hope and peace. All that remains is the fire of lust and the darkness of desire. You cannot escape, nor would you seek to anymore. No lies or deception are required any longer, for you feel his want and crave his attentions…

He is always in your mind, his marks always on your body… his greatest creation. For now.

A gift to @myfavouritelunatic for her ask, for @marimosalad for betaing and inspired by @ogyscrypt and his masterpiece of a nsfw audio you should totally check out… Link on Reddit

[naromoreau]

Thank you so much for all the wonderful art for "The Work of Thy Hands", nonny! 🥰❤️ @summerofspock and I are extremely grateful!

[tanoraqui]

In Heart, Chapter 3: Beleriand and Its Realms, and the Voyage of Finrod

In this chapter:

Obligatory bullet-pointed breakdown of Northern Beleriandric geopolitics

Ulmo defends the rights of frogs

Finrod makes an argument

Fëanor (Eru help him) has a stroke of inspiration

I swear this is still some sort of happier timeline probably. Ish. Fewer people will die.

WAIT! This fic is sponsored for the next ~14 hours by #BEANSWEEP. Before you read, please vote for my cat, Bella “the Bean” in this very important meaningless internet poll! (Cat pics at link)

“I see what you are doing,” Irmo Lord of Dreams said to Ulmo Lord of Waters. “It will not work.”

“I beg pardon for not asking your permission before intruding upon your domain.” Ulmo spoke with the movement of deep ocean currents. “I saw a chance and took it swiftly.”

“I am not offended,” said Irmo. “But this will not work.”

In Beleriand by the great River Sirion, Turgon and Finrod each woke from unquiet dreams, and each believed themselves the only one warned: of a need to build a secure place, a secret place, a refuge from dark storms and fell fire to come.

[keep reading on ao3]

[elithilanor]

Title:

Unions and Reunions

Summary:

“Lindir is in love with Lord Elrond. He keeps it a secret from almost everyone, being the dutiful minstrel and occational office help he is.

When his Lord asks him to write a song about a historical event recently revived in Imladris, Lindir does his research and sets some good things in motion. Unfortunatly, the forces of evil are regaining their strength, interfering in his plans. It all begins shortly after a meeting of the White Council.”

Absolutely precious; made me cry happy tears

[arofili]

keep me warm (all night long)

“It is too damn cold here,” Fingon groused.

for Kinktober Day 8: Cockwarming, and for @last-capy-hupping, who requested Russingon with this prompt <3

Rating: M | No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon Characters: Fingon, Maedhros Word count: 524

READ IT ON AO3!

[lya-dustin]

Fic masterlist

Hotd

Someone will remember us (aemond targaryen x oc, aemma velaryon) completed ,rated: M

All is Bliss (in the Court of Aemma the Great) Aemond x Aemma, completed, rated M

Whatever souls are made of (aemond x aemma one shot series)

To the ends of the earth (aemond x aemma au)

Aemond x Reader inserts

Hotd big bang spring 2024

Cupid kills with arrows (arranged marriage/loosely based on queen charlotte au)

Shock and delight (bridgerton au)

Sun (one word prompt, shock and delight)

Castle (one word prompt, rhaenicent)

Hotd bigbang road 24 prompts

Sweet mother (table sex gate ft rhaenicent) rated: M

Desperate Measures (Gwayne Hightower x Jena Mertyns(oc))

The Last Kingdom

Osferth masterlist

Aethelred x reader

Magnificent Century

Au list

Dune

Queen of Light, King of Darkness (Feyd x OC)

The Last Wolf of Lankiveil (part 2 of Feyd x Nurbanu(oc))

Broken (feyd x nurbanu one shot)

Saltburn

A Comedy of Nonmathematical Errors (Michael Gavey is secretly Felix Catton's twin) hiatus

Rings of Power

I Sang of Leaves of Gold (gil galad x maia!oc, rings of power)

the moon lives in the lining of your skin(gil galad x erinti, silmarilion)

The Stone Table (gil galad x erinti smut)

[doodle-pops]

Its 2:30 am for me rn and as I'm sleepiness I came to realize

Elfs are tall independently when compared to humans, hobbit and dwarves right? Right. Now the thing that got me tweaking is... how tall and large do the animals/companions have to be? Can average size horses be ridden by them? If they invited human/hobbit/dwarf!reader to ride with them on the same horse (Yk for romantic reasons) would they have to go through an awkward "do you need a leg up?" ??

But worst of all: how tall and large is Huan?!?!?

When I read silmarilion fics I always think of reader as being human unless stated otherwise; now I'm 4'11", how ridiculous but true would it be to have mf Celegorm with the most ironic half smile saying "you don't even need a horse! Just ride Huan"

-👻

Same. I've also thought about this since I tend to view the elves all over 7 feet (213cm). They must ride horses of similar height and size, which means that there were horses bred for the elves and humans, respectively.

For elves, they can have horses as huge as the Shire horse, the Clydesdale, or the Belgian Draft. Those are massive horses and can reach heights of 213cm and more which makes them perfect for the elves. Huan could also be of similar height and size since it was said that he could be ridden.

So, for short humans like us, we would require a footstool, aka, the elves, to give us a lift onto these mammoth-sized horses. Of course, there were mortals around the first age who were as tall as the elves, so they’d ride horses for the elves instead of regular breeds for humans to ride.

[bluezenzennie]

To heal, is to take your time.

Pairing: Irmo/Estë/Kalla ( oc )

Characters: Irmo, Estë, Kalla, Námo, mentioned: Ruinë ( @edensrose 's muse ), Melkor, Mairon, Nienna, Aurëlius ( My other muse ).

Synopsis: After the war of wrath, Estë and Irmo keep a close eye on Kalla's continuous self isolation and silence, which seems to have no end.

They decide to take matters into their own hands, when nobody else does, and make a deal with Námo to send them to Lorien, so they can take care of them until they're fully healed.

Themes: Angst, Hurt comfort.

Warnings: Detailed desc of a meltdown | Exhaustion | Survivors guilt | Guilt in general | Crying | Lightly detailed vomiting | Yelling is written in caps.

Wordcount: 20k

"They've been so quiet, my dreamer." Estë murmurs, her soft breath fanning against Irmo's exposed neck, as the two of them cling to one another in a tight embrace.

"We should seek them out, speak with them."

Another hopeless attempt is made to push Irmo to talk, and help her decide, but he seems so lost, it's impossible to pull him out of his thoughts nevermind how hard she tries.

The silence is heavy when even Estë grows quiet, and all she does is sway around the fëantur in her arms gently for another minute or so, before he finally, finally, decides to speak his mind.

"I fear that we'll lose them..." That single sentence, that passes through Irmo's plush lips is quiet, soft, and full of an unmistakable grief, that swallows him whole and threatens to claw at his insides, to tear through flesh and break bone, to create a nest, a void of sadness, within his usually beautiful and vibrant fëa.

It still bore his beautiful song, yet there were changes to it - a faint hymn, so full of sorrow and pain, and, it only seemed to grow the longer he held back his emotions.

"We won't lose them if we confront them. Our little lily needs our help." Soft and dainty fingers dry tear stained cheeks and eyes. One thumb brushes over a tired eyelid whilst the other strokes the white haired vala's cheek carefully, before Estë continues her best to pull him out of this state.

She doesn't remember the last time she saw him this shattered and broken - had she ever?

"You have to understand this my love, we can't keep fearing for the worst and not take action, the worst will be the outcome if we do not... I am not as knowledgeable on topics like these as your sister, perhaps... but what I do know is, that we have to be brave and take them with us here - letting them rot in the halls of Mandos until they've fully healed, will do no good."

"I cannot look at them when I was among the valar who chose them to go shelter the wounded and scared in middle-earth." Irmo whimpers shakily.

He claws at his wife's dress and doubles over, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

"They begged, cried, did everything in their power to prove that this was not a mission fit for them- and yet we sent them away, only for them to come back mute, emotionless and shattered. I'm ashamed of myself for ever agreeing to sending them away, I doubt Nienna is proud of making the final choice too, despite all of us agreeing it was a good idea... I think Kalla's name just popped out of her mouth during that meeting, without actually meaning to suggest them." The cracks in his usually warm and smooth voice become increasingly louder, sadness so prominent you could almost see the blue aura around his fána.

It was painful to witness him in such a despairing state, truly, but Estë grew irritated and stubborn.

She loved the man with her whole fëa and fána, she adored him to her very core, and would always love and support him unconditionally.

Which is why it hurt her so much to seem him like this.

Though perhaps blunt when she speaks again, it is by no means meant with intentions to hurt him whatsoever.

Her words come out as stern and full of emotion: "My love, if you do not stop wallowing in self pity and guilt, I will go myself and drag Kalla back here, no questions asked and I will make you talk to them, there is no way out of this. They need you, they need me, us." She moves both of her hands to cup his chin, gently removing him from her shoulder, and looking into his tear filled eyes, before placing a small kiss on his forehead.

"But Est-"

"I will not tolerate anymore excuses, Irmo. Now listen to me."

There's a long silence between the two, as Irmo lowers his head further, a small whine threatens to rumble in his throat.

Alas, he nods, listening to his wife as she resumes speaking.

"You cannot continue to do this to yourself. You are hurting yourself by letting the guilt swallow you whole- as well as they are hurting themself by isolation and complete silence. You are leaving a wound untreated, dirty and prone to infection if not tended to soon enough."

Amethyst irises move to look directly into pools of deep emerald green, that stare into his, half lidded and full of stubborn confidence.

A fond hum fills the small grove the two lovers find themself within, slithering it's way through his post-cry swollen lips- an amused, fond, and sad hum.

He leans forward to place a soft kiss upon Estë's lips, brushing them against each other before pressing them together for a short moment.

Pulling away and wiping the rest of his tears away with the long purple sleeves of his robe, a sigh escapes his nostrils as he takes a few deep breaths.

"What would I do without you, darling?" He ponders.

"Oh Irmo, a whole lot." The lady of the hurt and weary chuckles, and takes her husband's hand.

"Come now, my dreamer, hand in hand."

"Hand in hand..." Irmo mutters, inhaling a last big gulp of air before exhaling, as they begin the journey to his brother's halls.

Mandos is in chaos when the two arrive, chairs have been thrown across viridian carpets, ruined and in splinters, while vases are shattered and scattered across the floors.

Loud screaming echoes throughout the doomsman's abode, bouncing off of pillars and obsidian walls, directing themself through the rest of Mandos.

No fëar are around to be seen, and it's quiet, aside from the loud crashing ruckus echoing from the corridor to the right of the two.

They exchange worried looks and with haste, they make their way towards the chaos.

Already now do they have an idea of who it is, that is screaming their head off.

"Olothëra, I need you to calm down." Námo professionally, yet quite panickedly attempts, trying to snap Kalla out of their meltdown and reason with them.

Usually he would be calm, collected and would keep up his "stoic" facade, however, it was hard not to panic, when the small maia of his sister, had been running around and screaming on and on without giving their vocal cords a break, ruining everything piece of furniture that blocked their path, for hours on end.

It had come to a point where even he had become deeply concerned and started to feel slightly on edge.

"I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU NEED." They screech, eyes flashing with searing blue light, as they throw a vase his way, only for him to dodge it and give them a stern stare, although, the sadness behind his viridian eyes betrays him and his expression.

Kalla has never behaved like this, they've always been quiet, reserved, caring- always accepting people who need to talk, with open arms, a warm smile on their red stained lips.

Yet, now, with the intense emotions rushing through them; Anger, grief, revenge, guilt, pain- they had snapped.

After everything, bottling up and repressing their feelings, emotions and trauma- it all came tumbling down. Nobody truly knows what triggered this event.

Kalla hadn't spoken ever since their fëa had arrived in the halls of Mandos. They had but only cried or slept, and food wasn't something they interacted with much either.

The rumors of their death had been passed from hall to hall, even outside the walls of Mandos it would seem.

They whispered of Sauron kidnapping them, holding caged within the cells of angband, only to be thrown into a pit of fire by Melkor, after they had refused to crackle under his persuasion and corruption.

Those were the rumors, and what was worse? It was all the truth.

Perhaps this was why they had snapped? From discovering that the truth was out? That people now knew; they failed their mission, that they were weak and could not even keep up the duty of protecting and comforting those weaker than them.

Námo watches helplessly as they claw at the permanent scar left on their throat from years ago, when they were assaulted by the dark lord in their slumber, screaming that he had taken something from them, and how they could feel it.

They were smashing vases with dark magenta roses in them into the floor as the flashbacks of Ruinë, looking back at them with her magenta eyes, as they arrived in angband, shackled and being shoved back and forth by Melkor's followers and servants, flash before their eyes when they spot the color.

And they screamed, as loud as they possibly could, until they'd lose their voice, for all those they had failed to save.

Kalla stands in the middle of a small lounge, where fëar usually rest and collect themselves.

Crying and screeching angrily.

"IT'S MY FAULT THEY DIED- AND YOU DARE HAVE THE NERVE TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN?!"

With spasming hands, they reach out towards Námo, as if to take ahold of his robes and shake him, but pull back and pick up another chair instead, smashing it against the floor, the splinters flying to all corners of the room.

"IT'S ALL MY FAULT, I SHOULDN'T HAVE SURVIVED THAT, THEY SHOULD'VE, NOT ME, nOt mE."

They tug and rip at their white tresses, hyperventilating and grinding their teeth together as the tears continue to spill from their eyes, seemingly never ending.

They're still screaming, their voice slowly progressing into crackling and at times fading into a whisper. It's the early signs of their vocal cords giving in, after so much strain and stress.

They could fill whole oceans with their silver tears, if they wanted, and yet, it was keeping all of these memories buried deep within and never speaking out, that was the reason they ended up here today after all, getting lost in their meltdown, so full of anger and grief, and even if their muscles grew sore and began pulsing, they didn't care- if there was something they could tear apart and destroy, just to get the frustration out, they'd find it and do it.

Consequences of their actions would have to be later, they needed to let this rage out, lest they wished to combust with other unwanted episodes like these for the future to come.

They felt their heart clench and scrunch in pain, the way grief stabbed at their gut and how the anger fried their brain, the extreme emotions too much to handle, too overwhelming.

They felt like they were freefalling into the abyss, stomach hurting from the rush of the fall, the slight feeling of nausea slithering its way to their throat, itching and burning, demanding they barf up the lunch from earlier.

They didn't want to hurt anyone, they held themself strong enough to not do so, at least, not physically.

Yelled they had, at anyone who had tried getting in their way, even now at Námo, a man they have deep respect for and will always look up to, now a victim of their wrath and suppressed trauma.

They did not notice the two faces staring at them with shock standing in the doorway to the lounge.

It was a risky move to put a hand on their shoulder, Estë knew that. They easily flinch, she might receive an arm around her waist that'll push her away gently, to protect her from their anger, but to her, it was certainly better for that to happen, than to let them continue to ruin the furniture of the lounge and hurt themself even more on the shattered clay vases, that made their ankles and feet bleed.

So she reaches out, and places the hand on the maia's shoulder, hushing softly into their ear, and speaking before they can react:

"Kalla- Breathe." She demands, sternly, yet with soft undertones laced to her warm voice.

Námo's eyes snap towards the entrance of the lounge, only to meet eyes with his younger brother, who seems to be too lost in thought to speak.

Viridian eyes move back to Estë, the confusion in them evident.

When did they arrive, how did I not notice? He wonders.

Yet as a few moments pass, his eyes grow soft with relief and flutter closed as he takes a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The storm is over.

The room grows quiet and the maia breathes in and out frantically, doing their best to steady their breaths.

Instead of pushing Estë away, or flinching, Kalla turns around and pulls her in, crying into her shoulder, all whilst weeping hoarse apologies to Námo for making his halls look as if a monster had walked in and smashed it to ruins.

They told him to lock them up for all eternity- that they did not deserve anyone's mercy nor pity for what had happened back in middle-earth.

They're clawing at Estë's dress as they cage her in a tight embrace, and despite the violent shake of their body, they manage to keep the hug tight, feeling her warmth move to their cold body.

They grip at the soft fabric of her dress, the cold and faint hands of their half transparent fána clawing into it, scared that she'll fade away if they let go. Another deep breath fills the silence of the room and ruby irises move from the oldest fëantur, to the youngest, who can't seem to find any words to share with the world, too overwhelmed.

Námo reaches out and places a careful hand in Kalla's soft white hair, ruffling it slowly, but remaining quiet even as he pulls away.

He wouldn't want to say something that could potentially trigger a relapse, sending them back into their raging meltdown.

So he decided to let Estë and his brother take over, whenever he was ready as well, and while the lady of the gentle takes care of them, the older brother moves towards the younger, placing a gentle and firm hand on his shoulder to snap him out of the state he finds himself in.

"Kalla my dearest- no, you've done nothing wrong- this is, we can fix the damages here- you did your very best protecting those creatures, elves, dwarves and mortals as well- you need not worry dear, you will not be punished."

Estë murmurs softly and sways them from side to side, unintentionally increasing their nausea.

"I think I'm going to vomit." They manage to just whisper, before the nausea surges through their system and they let go of Estë, pushing her away before turning around and vomiting on the floor, their whole body doubling over and cracking.

The wet sounds of vomit pattering against stone floor fills the silent room, alongside Kalla's uncomfortable cries as they cough up their lunch until they're done vomiting.

"Eru- I'm so sorry Námo. Oh I'm messing everything up, what would my lady think if she saw me in such a state..."

They cry, their voice barely a whisper.

"You needn't be, and I have no doubts that my sister would only understand and comfort you, Olothëra, have some faith in your lady." The doomsman reassures firmly, whilst rubbing Irmo's shoulder comfortingly.

Estë sighs and reaches out to Kalla, pulling back into her arms and wiping their eyes, nose and mouth from spit, snot, vomit and tears with a sage green handkerchief, soft and warm hands moving up to cup cold cheeks covered in a thin layer of cold sweat.

"It is a common reaction from people who have been through such circumstances and events as you, Nityamorco ( Little bear ). I am beyond surprised that this did not happen earlier, Nienna did mention you had a habit of keeping things on the inside, but I was not aware it was this bad."

Deep inhales and exhales fill the room again as everyone grows quiet, the three valar allowing Kalla to slowly pick up and collect themself before allowing the two fëanturi and the vala of the gentle to help.

"Irmo."

The youngest fëantur's shoulders shift up to his ears as his whole being grows stiff.

His breathing halts, as he readies himself to take the verbal punches from the small maia.

"Irmo, I don't want you to be sad. Don't forget I see through you, your eyes have never look so blue." They croak and look at the vala a few feet away from them.

Amethyst eyes now turned a deep ocean blue, that had been focused on the floor widen slowly and glide across the room and up Kalla's small form, until he meets their eyes.

"Hm?" He hums out in utter confusion.

"I don't want you to be sad, you 'nd the other valar- chose me because you were sure that the task would be one I could handle... Despite my pleas and begs, I learnt a lot from this mission...

I believe that we can learn from these mistakes, that have been made. They can never be changed, so, instead, let us accept them to be a part of us..."

"I was never mad at you. I can feel it, you think I'm mad at you, but I'm not. I could never be mad at you, not you Irmo... I'd betray my own heart."

Their tired eyes close, as a small yawn interrupts their words.

"The final decision was not your choice, that was my lady's, you and the other valar's votes only counted based on who agreed whether I was strong enough to go- I was, in reality, but... I refuse to use my power, you are well aware of this and so is she.

Why she thought I was fit for this, I still do not understand. I've a feeling it was the slip of her tongue though, a rare thing...

I only proved myself to be worthless. I could never have been prepared for what I witnessed- experienced in middle earth, I proved myself to be completely, and utterly, useless."

Flushed ears twitch slightly at the muttered words from the exhausted maia in front of Irmo, and in mere seconds the fëantur has made his way over to his wife and their friend, grabbing their hand and giving them an almost childish, angry and stubborn stare.

"Stop calling yourself such hurtful things, good Eru- You're going to drive yourself mad, little moon."

"But-"

"Mm, no." The white haired vala wraps his arm around his spouse and Kalla, shoving their face into Estë's shoulder gently.

Soft sighs escape Kalla, as the tears tumble down their face once again, the silvery droplets landing on the shoulder fabric of Estë's dress, but she cares not.

In fact, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips, while her hand moves to brush through their messy hair.

"You must be so exhausted... Our little lily bear." She mutters.

"I am." They reply, quietly and hoarsely, nails digging into Estë's back as they take in the familiar and comforting scent of warm nights, visiting her and Irmo and drinking the man's homebrewed tea, surrounded by lilies, roses and hyacinths.

"I am... really, really, tired Estë..."

Warmth tugs at the hearts of the three in their embrace, Kalla's fëa slightly passing through Irmo and Estë's fánar and merging with their fëar for but a moment, it's such a beautiful feeling.

Oh and tears are shed, though this time, they are not of sadness, nor of joy, but simple relief and the comforting sense of safety.

It's like a breath of fresh air, passing through the body and soul and cleansing it.

Námo clears his throat awkwardly and huffs in hidden amusement when 6 eyes snap towards his direction in synched unison, waiting in silence for the words directed at Irmo:

"... Well, I suppose I cannot stop you from taking them back to Lórien, can I?"

"Oh, Absolutely not. We're taking them."

A cheshire grin forms on Irmo's lips, his eyes flashing with a flurry of color, before changing back to his amethyst hues, his emotions settling once again.

"Very well..." The older hums, staying silent for a minute, scanning his surroundings. The cluttered mess around him of broken chairs and shattered vases- the vomit on the floor- is enough to call forth a slow headache, that's taking its sweet time to slither its way to his eyes and forehead and pulse uncomfortably. This wasn't the only room that had fallen victim to Kalla's destructive meltdown, however... Perhaps there were some good things this event.

Long had the doomsman and and his spouse discussed changing up the interior of the halls, as the leaves of the trees had begun to shift in color, turning orange and red, resembling Arien's beautiful fire and light, and the smell of pumpkin pies filled the air around Vána and Oromë's cottage, whilst the breeze slowly became crisp and began to bite and nip softly at sensitive skin.

"There's so much that needs to be cleaned and fixed..."

"Námo!" Irmo exasperatedly huffs out, cheeks puffed and lips pouted, as a deeper red mixes with his amethyst irises, gaze shifting between Kalla and him, scared his little moon will start feeling guilty again.

"What? Excuse me, mr. mothmorien, Is it not the truth? Look around, I am not trying to make anyone feel bad- but look at this place, it's a mess, no?" He chuckles, a rare thing to catch the doomsman allowing himself to do around most.

He flips his hands around, gesturing to the clutter surrounding the 4 of them.

"I must say Olothëra, your work is impressive. For someone so small, you sure can turn the whole of my domain upside down with no hardships. Are you sure you're not one of Tulkas' reckless maiar?" Námo huffs, drawing a smile from of them.

The room goes quiet for a minute, before the sound of restrained snorts fill the silence, which shifts into small snickers and suddenly bursts out into loud and tired laughter.

"Never let them know your next move, or- or whatever it is Aurëlius usually says."

They laugh and wipe the tears from their eyes, pressing their hand against Irmo's face to get him to look at them and not his brother.

"Tell your maiar I said hi and I'm sorry for giving them more work and"

A pale hand full of silver rings on each finger and chains wrapped around the wrist delicately is raised, silencing the maia.

"Worry not, I'm sure they'd count redecorating the halls as a break from all the- well- death, and if it would be a relief to you, then your punishment shall be that you join them." He hums, letting a small smile flash on his features before switching up to his poker face once again.

"Now go, rest."

With those three simple words from the doomsman, Estë grins throws Kalla over her shoulder, chuckling at the squeak that escapes their lips.

The vala of dreams follows behind the two, halting for a moment to look at his brother, only to blink and give him a bright smile.

"I should send you and Vairë a bouquet as thanks!"

"I'd rather you not." Námo sighs and shoos his brother out of the lounges doorway, shaking his head with a smile threatening to claw its way back onto his face as he watches the three go.

"... What will I tell Vairë when she gets back with her new silks and sees this mess."

A/N: Ah ( Slams head onto table )

I'm so sorry if some characters seemed ooc you guys, I'm trying my best to put myself into the shoes of characters, it also really depends on the bonds of the Canon characters and the muses.

Taglist: @edensrose

Want to get tagged on my fics?

Clickie here dear.

( Hi, if you were not tagged, it is because I am a little unsure whether this would be dark content that was not wanted to be read. I will update my taglist soon, where it will have another box where you can specify what you can and cannot read. Thank you for reading )

[aylen-san]

Maedhros, son of fire and steel,

In the world's sorrow, a prisoner forever,

Through the darkness of Morgoth, his sword glittering,

But his fate was cruel.

His eyes burned with pain and thirst,

But he never gave up.

And in battle, a lone guardian,

He cried out for freedom and knew only the struggle.

And on the mountain, under the dark tower,

When he was bound in chains,

He lost his way and his freedom,

But his spirit was always strong.

His hand was cut off, but his will was steel,

And his heart sang with fire.

Through blood and ashes, through the hellish pit,

And Maedhros did not bow.

At the end of the world, at the end of the road,

His end is like a starlight.

He gave all, but all is dust,

Maedhros is the hero who has become legend.

[pursuitseternal]

You will beg “Mercy” once you read “Reduced to Ash” update… and you better hope Fëanor feels so inclined.

Chapter Summary: It is time to establish their rule, King and Queen of the Noldor. Sindarin slights pile up, until a new challenge roses to prevent Fëanor from duly claiming what is his—and the betrayal, accidental it may be, is one close to him. Too close. She had better hope for his mercy.

Read More on AO3

Fëanor x Artanis | Explicit! | 4.2K

CW: NSFW, hair kink, possessiveness, Sindarin slights, discovery of unintentional betrayal, Villain Era unlocked.

She wasn’t far.

The trickles of water from her wash room piqued my ears. I could not think of a better place. It was only a matter of a few strides, and I pulled off my tunic as I went. Inside the door, she stood with her back to the entrance, her body bared still. One hand poured water over her head, that slight lean over her wash basin seemingly presented herself. Ripe for another taking. But I paused, even as my hands began to stroke my erection and free it from the laces that held it too firmly.

That hair glistened with oils, soft perfumes carrying in the air as she began to ring out those silver-gold lengths. Softly, she breathed, her fingers working through the tangles and tugging at the snarls that had formed in the night.

“Artanis,” her name was all I could manage. My desire choking me, propelling me to her body.

She didn’t even have time to turn before I was upon her. I gripped my finger hard into her hips, bringing her back, her ass, to rest flush against me. And I gave a little thrust, even just her cold, damp skin of her lower back feeling glorious against my cock. Her back arched against me, and the trails of that magnificent golden hair slipped over her shoulder. The slighted ends of her locks brushed against my length.

That slightest tickle… I almost came undone. Gritting my teeth, I gripped those delicious strands in my hand, wrapping it around my girth. I could almost feel them again, my Silmarils, could almost feel that Light of Valinor on my skin.

But at least this Light was mine.

Read Now on AO3

[wilcze-kudly]

Still mad that Ar Pharazon is made up to be this lame Jafar ripoff mf in the rings of power. Honestly, evil advisors are getting really played out as a trope.

In the Silmarilion, he was a a warrior, a war monger in fact, who forced himself upon his cousin in order to usurp the throne. This character could've been used as an excellent critique of toxic masculinity, especially with the recent popularity of alpha males.

Having Miriel as a victim of spousal abuse would also be an interesting plot point as well, especially if juxtaposed with the free and very much in charge of herself (especially if they were to keep Celeborn and have. Look, I'm all for strong female characters, but if all your female characters are just the same 'strong, arrogant woman who can totally do everything a guy can fo because we are feminists here at up with the times studio' in dufferent fonts, well I'm gonna start thinking that you don't know how to write women.

Also wishing they went more horror with Sauron than 'villain romance'. Like apologies for wanting one of the most iconic villains of all time to be an actually fun antagonist rather than reliving every 'reader x (insert fictional villain) self insert fic from the early 2010s'

[squirrelwrangler]

Silmarilion/Naruto crossover What If

Imagine if Sasuke ended in Gil Galad's camp, as a victim of genocide himself, he won't be pleased with the Kinslaying or the little elfilins's kidnapping and 'adoption'

Because of a shiny rock of all things

He would be good friends of the twins ir at least understand whats like loving someone that hurt you that much (yeah, I hate Itachi)

How I became a minor nexus for Sasuke in Arda without even yet writing out the fic that has Noldo!Sasuke is a bit hilarious. But Sasuke would accept this B Rank rescue and retrieval mission (and I think he might be shocked if the Silmarils do not burn him) and who Gil Galad reminds him of from Konoha will depend on which headcanons you support (alas Naruto himself is absent because neither Finrod nor Eärendil are here, but if you want my opinion, Tuor and Fingolfin are the Minato vibes). As a fellow Itachi disliker, Sasuke won't have the immediate family tie and memories to soften the reality of how shitty the Fëanorians are.

[aotearoa20]

avengers x silmarilion

Hulk ~ Celegorm

inspired by this great fic by @the-elusive-soleil ! My favourite character in it and so, of course the mb I found the trickiest

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

Dark!Indis AU is so fun to write. To write her not as only a love sick fool but also a person who would do anything and everything to get the man she loves is so fun to explore. Like this AU is so out there, Feanor was born before the great journey and it wasn’t his birth that killed his mom but the second child she bore that “killed” her. But guess what!!! It wasn’t the birth that killed her but some scheme thought up by Indis!!! I love Indis as a character but I cannot wrap my head around the thought of her dooming her step child’s mother to an eternity in death because she loved his father. Sure Finwë also deserves blame but I haven’t seen many fics that depict Indis as someone who actively pursued him and was actively complicit in Míriels death. (Lalwendë is the daughter of Finwë and Míriel in this AU and Feanor has a good relationship with her but not the others since they aren’t his “true sibling”).

Like how much worse can I make the silmarilion if I made Míriels death not of natural causes but of murder??? It would make every interaction he has with his half brothers and sisters in this AU so much worse, like not only are they the children of the women who knowingly condemned his mother to an eternity in the halls but also the woman who had a hand in her death.

What if I made Rúmil one of the Unbegotten and the father of Míriel? What if I made things even worse! Like what if he refused to teach the children of Finwë’s second wife because they are the proof that his baby is never coming back??? Like the angst potential is crazy.

This also means that maybe in the halls Míriel finds out why she died and was so angry that the valar couldn’t let her out of the halls for fear of retaliation or something, like she saw the tapestries of Indis conspiring with other people to kill her and her daughter and pulled a Feanor??? We already know Feanor was his mothers replica in temperament so what if she was so angry that she literally cannot be allowed to be reembodied??? And thus the valar couldn’t consult her for permission for Finwë’s remarriage because they know she’ll never say yes and they know that indis’s line would go on to do great things so they must be allowed to be born but if they consult with Míriel she would’ve left the halls out of spite despite her healing or lack there off.

Maybe once Finwë dies and found out about the situation that led to her death he had to rethink all interactions he had with Indis, maybe once Finwë refused to be reembodied she started to reflect on her actions and maybe repents? Maybe she doesn’t since she believes that she was more worthy of his hand being of the line of Imin. What happens once all their descendants arrive in the halls and find out what happens? Like I’m sure there were many Noldor who did not approve of a Vanyar Queen and who followed Feanor and once they found out what happened to their “true” queen how mad do you think they’d be?

How mad do you think Feanor would be to finally have confirmation that he was right to be suspicious of his step mother, how would Fingolfin react to this? Would he start to understand why his brother hated his mother or would he not?