#turgon x reader

[doodle-pops]

Being A Modern Reader In Gondolin And Ending Up As Turgon’s Therapist

A/N: I felt like I was drunk when I wrote this yet hella proud at what I whipped up. Decided to give something humorous for our dear King. I rarely ever write for him. I hope you all enjoy this for Turgon!

Warning: crack, modern reader in Middle Earth, humour, a teeny bit of dark humour

Masterlist | Navigation

˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t mean to fall into Middle-earth, obviously. One minute you were lying in bed reading The Silmarillion and judging the characters’ decisions with crisps in your lap, the next minute you were standing in the middle of Gondolin’s great square in your hoodie and socks, blinking at a bunch of impossibly pretty elves aiming spears at your face.

˚₊‧꒰ა After the initial panic, miscommunication, and someone declaring you a ‘Maiar of questionable attire,’ you got bundled up and dragged before King Turgon like some kind of weird little cryptid. You weren’t even allowed to finish your sentence explaining that no, you weren’t a threat, just very confused and maybe a bit chilly.

˚₊‧꒰ა They didn’t know what to do with you. You were clearly mortal, clearly odd, and very obviously not from around here. And by the time you were brought to Turgon, you were muttering things like, “Am I in some Renaissance fair simulation?” you’d already convinced three guards that you were a travelling jester, a wandering scholar, and someone named ‘Dave.’

˚₊‧꒰ა But when Turgon tried to question you and you started rambling—a chaotic mix of sarcasm, panic, and unsolicited psychoanalysis of his family issues — he sat there like you’d slapped him. Then nodded slowly and said, “Thou speakest...strangely. But perchance...wisely?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You laughed. Right in his face. “Dude, I have no qualifications for this.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I have known many with qualifications who have spoken far less sense,” he’d replied dryly.

˚₊‧꒰ა Thus began your absolutely absurd new role in Gondolin as the king’s unofficial therapist. You got a cushy room in the palace, daily food deliveries (even if you missed chocolate and cheesecake terribly), and a schedule that consisted mostly of Turgon showing up unannounced at weird hours with what he called ‘matters of import’ and what you called ‘your weekly emotional constipation’.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Are you certain this is wise?” he asked once, after you interrupted one of his lengthy metaphors about destiny and doom with “Bro, just say you’ve got trust issues and call it a day.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Absolutely not wise,” you said, “but it’s either me or that stone you’ve been brooding at for the past hour. I’m cheaper and marginally more entertaining.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You had zero training in psychology, but you did survive an apartment with a compulsive liar and three philosophy majors, so you considered yourself mentally prepared.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou art unlike any healer I have known,” he muttered once as you handed him a mug of herbal tea and told him to sit the hell down and stop monologuing like a Shakespearean ghost.

˚₊‧꒰ა You spoke with modern slang and didn’t bother adjusting it, which confused everyone, especially Turgon. You’d say things like “Bro, that’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one,” and he’d nod solemnly and ask if red banners were a sign of ill fortune in your realm.

˚₊‧꒰ა Your sense of humour didn’t help either. You told him straight-up that his entire family needed therapy, a good punch-up, and maybe some hugs (though you weren’t going to provide the last bit personally because you had boundaries).

˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you ever considered that maybe your obsession with secrecy and control is rooted in unprocessed grief and inherited trauma?” you asked him once while playing with a fidget spinner you’d had in your hoodie pocket the whole time.

˚₊‧꒰ა He blinked slowly. “What…is that device?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “An artefact of my homeland. Helps me not scream.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely called you “Wise Counsellor” in public once. You choked on your tea and told him if he didn’t stop, you were going to have a full existential breakdown in front of Idril.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Then would that not be an honest expression of thine inner torment?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Man, I swear to God.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He would spend hours pacing while you lounged sideways in an oversized chair, biting into whatever Gondolindrim pastry you’d nicked, nodding thoughtfully and going, “Sounds like a classic control freak scenario to me. Have you tried...not bottling up every emotion until you explode and ruin everyone's lives?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I am the King of Gondolin,” he once said with great dignity.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah,” you replied, “and kings can cry too. It’s character development.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Your slang confused him but delighted Idril, who started repeating your phrases with a weirdly accurate tone. You once heard her tell Maeglin “Pipe down, drama queen,” and felt equal parts proud and terrified.

˚₊‧꒰ა Of course, because of that, Maeglin did not like you. You called him “Captain Red Flag” once and he’s been glaring ever since.

˚₊‧꒰ა “You mock what you do not understand,” he sneered at you during one particularly tense council.

˚₊‧꒰ა “No, I mock what needs mocking, and mate, you’re about five bad decisions away from an evil monologue.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon did take a strange comfort in your irreverence. You didn’t grovel, didn’t put him on a pedestal, and instead talked to him like someone who just happened to be in charge of an entire city and probably needed to calm down before he gave himself an aneurysm.

˚₊‧꒰ა Sometimes he’d get really intense, talking about the Doom of the Noldor and his burden as king and the weight of fate and prophecy. You’d just squint and say, “Right, but when’s the last time you slept?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Sleep is a gift the weary may not always claim.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that or else I’d smack you with this pillow right to sleep…Your Majesty.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You once started writing down some of his problems on a piece of parchment just to map things out, and when he saw your modern shorthand and diagrams, he genuinely thought you were some kind of prophetic scribe.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Why are there tiny arrows drawn between ‘uncle trauma’ and ‘overcompensation’?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “It’s a flowchart, Turgon. Get with the programme.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He didn’t understand your dark humour at first. When you said things like, “Yeah, if I had to run this city I’d simply launch myself off the tower and call it a day,” he’d look vaguely alarmed. You had to explain you weren’t actually suicidal, you were just a bit ‘normal’ and fundamentally tired.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou hast a most perplexing way of making light of thy suffering,” he once remarked.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, it’s either that or scream forever. You’re lucky I’m funny.”

˚₊‧꒰ა The guards got used to you wandering around in odd clothes muttering to yourself and asking things like “What’s the elvish equivalent of a panic attack?” or “If I wanted to prank someone with glitter, where would I find glitter in Gondolin?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t try to sound wise or mystical. You gave blunt, practical advice that was shockingly effective. When he stressed about Maeglin being weird and secretive, you just said, “Maybe stop being cryptic yourself and just ask him what’s eating him before he grows into a fully-fledged villain.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou thinkest he might turn to darkness?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I mean, his name literally means ‘sharp glance’ or some edgy nonsense. He broods like it’s his job.”

˚₊‧꒰ა At one point you got into a row with Salgant who thought you were a disgrace to the court. You told him his shoes were ugly and his trumpet playing sounded like a dying goose. You were nearly exiled until Turgon calmly said, “If thou removest my counsellor, I shall be left alone with my thoughts. I do not wish that.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You found out about the whole “Doom of Mandos” situation and yelled at Turgon for about fifteen minutes. “Why is everything in this realm so bloody doom-laden? Haven’t you lot considered just…not dying tragically for once?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “It is not within our power to escape fate.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you tried therapy? Oh shit wait, that’s me. Guess I’m doing a shitty job.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You once gifted him popcorn—after you snuck into Galdor’s kitchen and showed the cook how to take kernels and turn it into tiny puffs of goodness—and told him “Here’s a treat and a weapon. Throw it at the heads of people who annoy you while munching on them.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Glorfindel was mildly obsessed with your vocabulary and kept trying to use modern phrases incorrectly. You once heard him call Ecthelion “a total babe magnet” and nearly choked on your tea.

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon became oddly attached to your honesty. “You never bow to me,” he said.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, I’m allergic to kneeling. I look young but I got old people joints. Hear that crack? Good, I’m old in my youth.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “You are not from this world, so very peculiar, and yet you offer comfort as if you know mine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, that’s called trauma bonding. Happens when you hang out with enough emotionally repressed people.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely thought you had powers for a while because your advice, despite being phrased like Twitter memes, tended to be eerily on point. You told him it was just years of reading fanfiction and overthinking relationships that made you an expert in elf drama.

˚₊‧꒰ა One night he came to your room after a nightmare about the fall of Gondolin. You let him sit there quietly while you poured him a drink and said, “Listen, I don’t know how all this is gonna go down, but worrying yourself sick ain’t gonna stop it. Just means you’ll be fretting when it goes wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thy words are…bleak.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, but they’re not wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Idril liked you a lot because you make her laugh, referring to her as “the only sane person in this whole glittering nonsense of a city,” and she’d smirk knowingly and say, “You’re not wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You made Turgon take breaks. Actual breaks. You told him he had to have at least one day a week where he didn’t talk about doom, walls, or hidden kingdoms. You’d go on walks and point out birds and say things like “That one’s got main character energy.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Eventually, you stopped correcting people when they referred to you as the king’s seer or counsellor. You figured if the shoe fit (and the pay was good), you might as well run with it.

˚₊‧꒰ა You never forgot where you came from. Occasionally you’d sit alone and mutter things like, “If only Tumblr could see me now.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon once asked, “If thou wert to return to thy world…wouldst thou miss this?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You stared at him, deadpan, and replied, “I’d miss the drama. And the elves. But mostly the food. Sorry.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He actually laughed. A proper, unrestrained laugh. And you knew in that moment you’d accidentally become something of a friend to a man no one else could really talk to.

˚₊‧꒰ა You were still convinced you were going to get someone killed one day with your “advice,” and you told him so regularly. “One day you’re gonna do something I said and it’ll go so wrong, and then it’s on you, sunshine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Then I shall accept the blame. But I would still hear thy counsel.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “You’re all mad, but at least you’re funny about it.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Somehow, absurdly, you became a part of Gondolin. A strange, mortal voice in a city of legends, blunt and sarcastic and completely lacking in reverence—but exactly what Turgon needed. Even if he’d never admit it in public.

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @feanorynz @6esi @will-0-wsps @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ella-error505 @xximmortalkissxx @aghostlywhisper

If you wished to be tagged, click on the Taglist Link to join.

[batsyforyou]

Squishing and Kissing the Elves Cheeks pt.2

Tags: dramatic form of affection, crack?

Author's Note: this is the current highest winning and I just decided to do Eonwe, this one as well as the pokémon one and the other. So, basiclly everything lol.

Taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese

Squishing and kissing Maeglin’s cheeks 

He has a very thin face so there isn’t much to grab and pinch but when you do grab and squish his face (much to his shock and horror) he’ll gape at you. And when you kiss him? He is so caught off guard he’ll shove you away in a panic. Red finger prints on his pale cheeks and with his labored breathing he’ll look like a cornered animal. 

He’ll demand to know what you were doing, “I was just trying to love on you, love.” You say. 

“Oh.” He gulps, his cheeks flaring with color. “Could you, could you do that again?” 

Essentially he is that meme, “What is this? Affection? Disgusting, do it again.” 

Squishing and kissing Turgon’s cheeks

He is beyond embarrassed 

Hates PDA so if you so much as reach to cup his face while outside he’ll flinch back so hard his face would catch fire. (blushing)

He’ll snap his head around while covering his mouth and look to see if any of his siblings saw you and if no one even glances in his direction he’ll calm down. 

If you try to squish his cheeks alone he’ll be just as embarrassed so he’ll pull back some while mumbling a complaint about having to bend down so far 

But don’t worry all you have to do is jut out your bottom lip and pout before he gives in. 

Letting you pinch and kiss his cheeks as he listens to your giggles with red ears. 

Squishing and kissing Maglor’s cheeks (Not finished) 

“Magpie?” 

“Yes, my dear?” 

Slowly approaches, “Would you be upset if I stole a few minutes of your time?” 

“Not at all!” Glancing up from his music sheets he cocked his head, “My love, I can hear your heart beating from here. What has sent your heart a flutter?” 

Frowning he scooted his chair back, “Celegorm hasn’t done something has he?” 

Giggling, you shook your head, “No, no! I just, you're so cute.” 

He smiled, patting his lap, and you hurriedly took his invitation, lifting your skirt over his legs to comfortably settle against his chest. “I do believe that is a trait to describe you.” 

Giggling, you pushed your face into the crook of his neck as he held you in his embrace. After a few minutes cuddling you pushed yourself back a little to meet his eye. 

Reaching up you squished his cheeks together and kissed his nose and other random spots on his face. 

With one more smacking kiss to his lips you grin, bumping his nose with yours, “I love you.” 

Running his thumb over the apple of your cheeks he looked up at you with admiration in his eyes. 

“I love you, enterally.” 

Squishing and kissing Maedhros’s cheeks 

You’ll have to wait and make sure the elf is sitting at his desk if you even want to attempt getting him with your dramatic affection. Thinking Maedhros will shove you off you act fast, giggling as you rush to his side. 

“Melda? What are you-” Quickly taking a hold of his cheeks you squish them together and give him one singularly wet, smacking kiss and race off, laughter trailing in your wake. 

Stunned and confused, Maedhros ponders exactly what happened, a slow smile growing on his lips. 

By the next morning you were struggling to move from your bed, sitting at your bedside and staring at your bedroom floor, no thoughts were entering your mind. Seeing you on the bed Maedhros smirks, yanking on his belt to make sure it's secure he leans over to you and pinches your cheek with his one hand, leaving a passionate kiss onto your lips. 

“There.” He says. “Easy pickings.” 

It very quickly turns into a game of Cat and Mouse. 

It’ll happen in the corridors, at the dinner table and any place that holds no political importance. Leaving his brothers to roll their eyes and groan at their brothers show of sickening affection. 

And as the oldest, nothing makes him more happy, annoying his brothers and loving on his love. 

Squishing and kissing Curufin’s cheeks

You slowly approached him, taking careful sure-footed steps into his office you observed his still form. The constant scratch of his quill acted as a lure to distract your husband from what was about to happen. Feeling laughter bubble inside your chest you tightly bit your lips, 

So close ….. 

The elf grunted, “Don’t even think about it.” 

Feeling your ballooned excitement pierce with a pop, you sighed, his words mimicking his brother’s skill in archery. 

“How did you know?” 

Crossing your arms you gave up on being sneaky, instead strutting right up to his desk and plopping your butt on the corner. 

Counting his papers he licked his fingers and pulled a fresh paper from the stack, “Your first mistake was thinking that I would not recognize your presence in a room. To think I would not recognize your footfalls and the subtle minute traces of your scent, is insulting.” 

You raise a brow staring at him and as the minutes ticked on he sighed, “I could hear you through the wall.” 

You groan, dropping your back to stare at his intricately designed ceiling. Of freaking course he did. 

“Please Curufin? Please, let me have this.” 

Circling a set of numbers he marked Caranthir’s name beside it. 

“No.”

You pouted, “Pretty please? I won’t ask you for anything else all year!” 

“We both know that will never happen.” 

“Curufin.” You beg. 

Dropping his quill he rubbed at his temples, “Would it really make you that happy?” 

“Yes!” 

Sighing he leaned into his chair, burying his fingers into the fabric of his sleeves. 

“Fine.” 

Squealing you grabbed his face and planted a big fat kiss on him. Enjoying every minute  he lets you squish and kiss his cheeks. 

Squishing and kissing Erestor’s cheeks  

Pulls away almost immediately, the elf is snapping his face anyway from you so fast you practically hear the neck snap audio. 

He is so red in the face because he is so angry at himself for actually enjoying it and he feels so embarrassed over the fact that he can feel something grow in his heart. And just knowing that he likes being cooed at and loved so “Childishly” with a dramatic flair, he doesn’t want to look at himself. He is a hardened soldier who faced countless battles and struggles in his long immortal life. So being handled like that by you feels so good and so wrong at the same time. 

Essentially, he is that meme where people go, “This better not awaken anything in me.” lol 

Squishing and kissing Caranthir’s cheeks

Slamming the door to your shared chambers Cara grunted, yanking at his tunic and muttering under his breath. 

Peeking over the sofa you watched your love with interest, setting aside the book you’d been reading. 

“Cara?” 

Taking his boots he stepped on the heels, slipping his feet out and kicking them to the side. 

You tried again. 

“Cara, my love?” 

He grunted, near snorting at you as he fumbled with the buttons, struggling to pop them. His face stood as a testament to his mood, a blister red and his ears seemingly twitching at the heat. 

“Oh, my sweet baby.” You call. “Come sit and I’ll help you.” 

Ignoring you, he huffed and yanked at his clothes with the strength only an elf could carry. The fabric ripping off his back and shoulders, Caranthir pulled the garment from his arms and sighed. 

Finally free of his clothes, save his leggings, Caranthir trudged towards your spot on the couch and climbed into your lap, hiding his face in your stomach. 

Frowning, you gently reached into the small box under the side table and pulled a small brush from its contents. Humming a lullaby in a soothing tone you removed his braids and pins and brushed his hair until the tension in his back melted away. 

“Hard day?” You asked. 

The rumble of his voice hid itself in the folds of your shirt. “Worse than you know.” 

Pushing himself onto his back he rolled over to look up at you.

“Can you?” 

Grinning you tossed the brush into its box and took a hold of cheeks, “I’d love too.”

Masterlist

[felagund-the-valiant]

Hobbies they like to share with you (Maedhros, Caranthir, Fingon, Turgon)

A/N: haven’t been on tumblr in a hot minute, damn. I come semi-back presenting you some hcs!

Maedhros: strategy games

Maedhros is an excellent strategist, and he greatly enjoys games that challenge this skill. Board games or card games, either is fine with him.

Unconquered chess grandmaster of Arda.

He’s a gracious winner and would never dream of making you feel bad for losing. Instead, he’ll try to encourage you, so you keep up your motivation.

He has patience for days (perks of being the oldest of a dozen grandchildren) and nothing can make him lose focus. Good luck trying to distract him.

Has zero tolerance for cheating and is quite perceptive, so he’ll call you out at the slightest suspicion.

Since he’s good at reading others’ expressions and body language, he’ll quickly notice if you’re becoming stressed or impatient and will offer to take a break, if necessary.

His unending patience makes him a great teacher and he’s more than happy to share his strategic knowledge with you. Maybe afterwards you’ll have a chance of actually winning. If he lets you.

Caranthir: cross stitching

Caranthir seems to have inherited his grandmother’s talent when it comes to all things sewing.

It’s a good meditative method to clear his head and it’s his go-to activity after a lot of stress.

Often incorporates elements of Míriel’s designs into his work, as a way of honouring her memory.

Since cross stitching is quite easy to learn, he won’t hesitate to invite you to join him. He’ll draw you in with motives like your favourite flowers or animals and once you’ve gotten the hang of it, the two of you have a lot of fun coming up with designs together.

He enjoys the companionable silence cross stitching together can bring. Sometimes the two of you sit together for hours not speaking a single word and it’s never awkward.

Fingon: cooking

Fingon is a damn good cook and proud of it.

He was prone to starting food fights during cooking when he was young, but his parents scolded that habit out of him very quickly, teaching him instead to not be wasteful.

As a result, he can somehow still make five-star meals out of leftovers.

Even if you’re not a good cook yourself, he’s somehow able to enlist your help in a way that makes you feel productive and helpful. Leave the fine measurements to him, you just worry about the basics like chopping ingredients.

Loves trying out different cuisines. One of his early methods of befriending the Sindar was exchanging recipes. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Very enthusiastic about taste testing. If you have kids, he’ll definitely make them participate to hone their palate early on. You best believe his children are going to be the best cooks in the west.

Turgon: miniature city building

If there’s one thing that fascinates Turgon, it’s tasks that require a lot of meticulous planning and fine details.

He’s fascinated by architecture and incorporates many different styles into his projects.

Is Gondolin really based on Tirion or is it one of the cities he designed back in Valinor? Only he knows the answer.

Once the cities are done, you better don’t touch them! Little Aredhel once thought they were toys and played out a “historically accurate reenactment” of an early Elven settlement getting raided by orcs … she hasn’t been allowed in Turgon’s workshop ever since.

Like Caranthir, he’s a big fan of companionable silence, though in his case it might not necessarily be intentional. He’ll invite you over to work on a project together, thinking it’s a great way to talk to you more and get to know you better, only to end up so deep in the zone you’ll have to do most of the talking.

His workshop is his little hideaway from the outside world and letting you in shows how much he trusts you. Doesn’t matter if you’re not gifted at fine motor tasks and can’t really help him, your presence is more than enough for him.

[lamemaster]

Songs of Heart- Spring

Pairing: Turgon x Reader x Fingon (hehe)

Genre: Dramamamama and Angsssst

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Had you known better, you would have never looked his way. You would have shielded your eyes from his. Yet, despite the lament, you are certain that you would have done it. You would have betrayed yourself even with the foreknowledge of your destruction.

Fall | Winter | Spring | Summer | Epilogue

AN: narrative is a mess but it's saucy. Slight NSFW

Reader

Fingon’s death hurts more than you expected. Perhaps, in some unspoken way, the bond between you both had lingered, despite the coldness of your marriage.

Tears come when they bring his body to the camp. You sob. He was once your friend. Your husband. And now he’s dead, leaving you burdened with the sins you committed against him—sins you never sought forgiveness for.

You wonder if you’re allowed to mourn someone you never truly loved. If your neglect over the ages grants you the right to shed tears for the man now gone. Gone, without one last tender word or even a bitter, reconciliatory gesture.

The threads that once bound you to him are frayed, beyond repair.

It feels as though the kingdom of your childhood games has come to life, as though you’re back in those times when Turgon played the king, you the queen, and Ecthelion the knight. It’s easier to fool yourself in this way.

The grief of fading would be a welcome reprieve. You would have let the winds unravel the seams that hold you together—if not for the life pulsing within your belly. A secret well kept. A secret the world will soon see in the coming months.

Fingon

Your trembling hands tug his collar pulling him lower to your height. The tightness of it, constricting his throat. His face heats up in the company of his soldiers who fall quiet at the scene. You stand in front of him with rage-ridden eyes that bleed through unstopping tears. 

But all this fails to hurt. Instead, Fingon finds his heart leap at your enraged sight. He takes in your unkempt hair, your matted braids, ruffled robes, and the redness under your eyes. 

“Have you lost your mind Fingon?!” Your words tremble with a scratched up voice. Your hands wrap around his face. “Why?” You whisper with a weary sob. “Why must you break me in such a manner?”

Despite the instant protests and rationale on the tip of his tongue, Fingon withholds it from you. Instead, he basks in the devastation of his absence on you. Tears and fear that you have festered for his sake. And he is filled with joy. 

For the first time in months, his lips find themselves lifting into a smile. His heart shuddered with relief. The consolation of knowing that your heart had not forsaken him. There lingers love, despite his acts. Beyond right and wrong, you love him still. If not love, you may someday return to loving him. 

The grief and grime of Angbad is now a fleeting thought. After weeks of loathing and misery, he has you. This, he considers his blessing. An act of Eru of returning you to him. 

“Answer me!” You shake him. “Have you no love for living? Are you so eager to follow your uncle to the Halls of Mandos?” You glare at him in a manner that might have worried him once, but in the present it is a welcome change from the void of a frayed bond. 

Wrapping his arms around you, he plops down falling asleep on the spot. Uncaring of his soldiers or anyone who happened to walk upon the scene. His eyes glazed into a slumber, he denied himself. His hands still bloodied with Maedhros’ blood wrapped around your waist smearing the red onto your gown. 

Reader

You were on your way out after tucking Idril into bed when it happened. He appeared before you, without warning, his eyes catching yours in the empty hallway. Turgon stood tall, every bit the king of Gondolin—every bit of your childish dream, now brought to life.

It was as if time itself had reversed, and you were both back in the radiant halls of Tirion, hidden away in the cherished corners of your childhood home.

“Turukáno,” you whispered his name in Quenya, the language of home. His eyes widened in shock, as though hearing his name was a miracle—as though a name alone could heal tragedies and rotting souls.

But you believed him, as you always had. In an instant, his arms wrapped around you, his lips pressed to yours. His hands clawed at you, desperate to cling to the fleeting pieces this moment of weakness offered. Greed surged through you, a deep-rooted hunger to take everything he offered, to hold onto him for just a little while longer.

His hands roamed hungrily over your body, slipping through the silks and belts that fell away without protest. In what seemed like no time, you found yourself in his chamber, gazing up at the ceiling painted with the image of the Two Trees, once thought lost to time.

Poised between your legs, he looked at you for permission. As if you could ever deny him. As if you hadn’t been drowning in the need for this very moment, for him.

Beyond Fëanor’s oath, Fingolfin’s loyalty, beyond the looming darkness that awaited you both—this doom was yours to choose. After eons of rotting from the inside out, you allowed your ugliness, your deepest self, to be laid bare before Turgon.

There was no resentment for his abandonment, no guilt for your betrayal of his brother. In this moment, you were simply yourself. Not a wife, not a sister, not a daughter-in-law or an aunt. Just you. And Turgon accepted that, as he always had.

Hours later, as the first light of dawn crept in, you found him again. This time, he was lost to the land of Irmo, his arms holding you snugly against him under the image of the Two Trees. You basked in the warmth of his embrace, if only for a fleeting moment.

Gathering your clothes, you dressed in the stillness of the room. Lost in the haze of pleasure, your mind had yet to welcome the onslaught of guilt, loathing, and shame—but that too would come. They were the most familiar of your states of being.

Yet, this time, there was something else: a restlessness, an unease, mingled with nervousness and anticipation. Days later, soaking in the warmth of a bath, you felt it—a flutter, a flicker of life. The existence of a joy you hadn’t known in ages.

And so it came to be—the fall of the eldest daughter-in-law of Nolofinwë. In the coming months, you became a widow, expecting the child of her husband’s brother.

A child who could never have been sired by Fingon, the High King—who died without ever reuniting with his estranged wife—was sent to Gondolin, entrusted to the care of his niece, Idril.

Talk of the town and a tale still told in hushed whispers to this very day.

The tale of Gil-galad’s origin.

Idril

“Love cannot be all black and white,” Tuor countered the princess.

The said princess huffed in annoyance. “Is it then a stranger to honor, loyalty, and shame?”

Her gaze drifted to the child running through the corridors of her home—the child who bore her father’s eyes and smile. Her half-brother. Half-brothers, the curse of the Finwë line.

While most bowed their heads and addressed Gil-galad as the son of Fingon, the late High King whose shadow still haunted her father, Idril saw it differently. She found joy in it.

The hardness in her father’s eyes whenever her half-brother endearingly called him "uncle" was a sight she would share with her mother, when Eru finally reunited them. Idril was determined to ensure her father never fully accepted his role as Gil-galad’s father.

“Cousin, come here, will you?” she called with a false cheer, scooping up the elfling into her arms. Idril turned back to Tuor, her voice edged with irony. “You’re right—it truly isn’t black and white, is it?”

Turgon

Turgon gets to see his son an hour after he is born. Holding the little babe in his arms his face fills with pride. For the first time since the day he has stepped on this land, Turgon smiles. 

His son twitches in his sleep. His tiny fists reach up in the air as the elfling sighs in his sleep. Turgon can feel your gaze on him. For hours he strained his ears from his study, listening for your groans of pain. He hadn’t accomplished anything that day. His heart had been to tumultuous. 

He should have been there, to hold your hand. He has seen the pain before, he had been there for Elenwe. He had held her close, wiped her sweat, and whispered sweet words to her. And Idril, his darling daughter, had been so kind to her mother. Her labor barely stretched an hour before Turgon held her wailing little self in his arms.

But to you, he could not give any such comfort. All he had given you was this heartbreak, pain, and infamy. 

For months you bore his daughter’s rage, his court’s snark while keeping your head low. All the while, he continued to be the king. 

Now alone in the room with you, and his son, Turgon finally summons the courage to offer whatever little can. He sits next to you, holding your hand between his. “Artanaro,” he whispered to the elfling. His name that bears the name of the light of Elbereth. 

Gil-Galad, he came to be known in the tongue of Middle Earth. 

Ecthelion

Here's the passage with the additional lines seamlessly integrated:

Ecthelion returned from patrol to find his sister asleep in his private parlor, draped over the sofa like a cat napping in the winter sun. As he stood there, he noticed the lines of weariness on her face and the subtle frown that had become a constant companion. When had it appeared? Fingon’s death? Mandos’s doom? The fall of Gondolin?

They had once been happy—he, his sister, and their cousin Findarato. Long ago in Valinor, he remembered their smiles and scowls during playful sibling banter.

He had chosen duty, followed his lord. On the shores of Alqualondë, when you stood next to Aunt Eärwen, it wasn't for Fingon, Turgon, or even Finrod. You had come to these shores for him. He had known it the moment you looked at him.

You followed no lord but your brother. And that had led you here.

Ecthelion gently placed his satchel in the corner before covering you with a blanket. He would not leave you alone here. If the king failed to protect his sister, as his brother Fingon had failed, then he would. Ecthelion would not abandon you—neither in Valinor nor in Middle-earth.

[lovefairymina]

Turgon, I don’t think you’re going to fit *blushes*

Panting and feeling himself slowly disintegrating with very passing second his remained nestled in you, his body shook. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and body and dripped on your frame underneath him. Leaning his in and dropping his lips to the shell of your ear, he snickered, “I thought the same thing, but here we are, perfect fit.”

[ladyoflindon]

Just to be clear, the elves in question include the Fëanorians, Nolofinwëans, Arafinwëans, Lords of Gondolin, Lords of Doriath, and elves from Imladris.

For whichever category you voted for, please comment and specify which elf you would like me to write for. Feel free to elaborate in the comments what kind of story, like the elements you’d like me to include, I should write!

Thanks a lot, everyone!

I want to write a Silmarillion fic. I love romance stories so it will be centered around a Silm elf and an OC! Comment which elf you think I should write about.

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Love and Loss - Maedhros x Reader

Even after all those years, you could feel your lover's cold words biting into you like shards of ice. Despite his cruelty, losing him hurt. Sharper still was losing part of yourself.

The frigid air of Angband cruelly caressed Maehdros’ body as he hung, limp and numb, from the mountainside of Thangorodrim. He craned his head at the golden light that peaked above the horizon. It was so strange - it was a light eerily familiar with Laurelin.

He had met you there - under the golden tree of Valinor. The pink blush of your dress matched the Yuletide decorations and complimented your buoyant smile. It was one that he had soon begun to detest. 

He’d refrained from burning the ships at Losgar for the sake of you and his dear friend Fingon, through whom he had met you, but that wasn’t something he had ever cared to admit. No, he feared what his father might do to him in wrath were he to admit it. But that wasn’t to say that the indignation that his father felt to quite literally everyone of the Eldar save a precious few wasn’t a growth in the caverns of his own mind. The friendship that blossomed between the two of you had long been neglected and cast away. 

It could have been a trick of Morgoth’s. It was not out of character for the fallen Vala to torment Maedhros with impersonations of loved one’s and visions of the peaceful life he led before leaving home. Teasing him with memories and voices and phantom touches was something Morgoth seemed to take pleasure in, and though Maedhros had - wrongly - begun to harbor ill will towards you for a short while, Morgoth didn’t seem to mind taking full advantage of your memory from time to time. 

“Friends? A lover?” Morgoth would say as Maedhros reached out his free hand to take yours and kiss it under Laurelin’s light like he did that day upon your first meeting, only to prod his fingers at nothing but the biting cold air of Angband, “It would seem they have forsaken you, even in memory.”             

It was not, in fact, a picture of the light of the tree. Emerging over the horizon was a fiery orb hung in the sky, beautiful and terrible and, quite frankly, frightening. Maedhros had never seen anything like it. If it was an illusion, it was most certainly not one made of memory. 

Metal flickered in the blazing light, and when a rich, clear sound echoed off the mountainside, Maedhros recognized the gleaming gold to be the gold of the trumpets of Fingolfin.

He couldn’t really say he felt any bitterness or contempt as he watched the blue banners arise over the hills in the West. There was no resentment or hatred rising up in his throat like bile. After countless days (years? decades?) hung on the mountainside, Maedhros couldn’t really feel anything but desperation. 

Years of enmity were lost on his mind as he cried out to his kin marching over the hills. His voice was strong; his cries echoed on the rocks and down into the valley. He made no notion to stop, no matter how hoarse his throat would be or how cruel and fierce his lashings of penance.

Harsher still was the response of Fingolfin’s host - or rather, the absence of a response. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Turgon was the first to spot the great bird hurrying toward Hithlum bearing his brother and his cousin. He cried out in astonishment, and a hundred more gasps followed his own. Surprise soon turned to horror. 

Blood poured out of Maedhros, but from where could not be seen lest he was unswaddled. His face was contorted in anguish, and he clutched onto Fingon like a vice.

Despite the years of disregard he displayed for your relationship and the resulting contempt you festered for him, you almost pitied him. Almost.

You didn’t move as Fingon dismounted the great bird, only stared at the shrunken body of someone once loved and once loathed. Nothing stirred in your gut at the sight of him like it should have. There was no fierce rage blistering your insides as you watched Fingon carry Maedhros across the concrete in Hithlum like years of friendship had not been tossed to the wind - as Maedhros, unworthy as he was, re-entered your life, at least for the moment in thought. There was no real pity enveloping your now-still heart as you watched the black-haired archer haul his dear friend - your friend - to the healing rooms. 

You wished you hadn’t looked.

Amidst the blood and dirt that caked his skin you saw Maedhros’ once gleaming eyes wild and frantic. You adored when those eyes were warm and kind and you loathed him when they were cold and piercing, but something entirely gut-wrenching crept under your skin as you saw Maedhros Fëanorion in utter agony and panic. 

You shrugged, then turned away and made your way to your chambers. He’d lost too much blood - if he made it to the morrow he’d not remember you, or the tears that he surely would have seen pooled up in your eyes upon his return. 

______________________________________________________________________________

It seemed that even though Maedhros wouldn’t remember the day’s events, he was determined to make sure everyone else would. His cries of anguish were indescribable; his screams unlike any you had ever heard before, even crossing the Grinding Ice. You had tossed and turned for well over half the night, and you were about to visit the healers, well, the ones that weren’t occupied with Maedhros, if there were any, for some sleep inducing herbs when a knock sounded at your door.

“Are you awake?” came the voice of Aredhel. You did not bother to cover yourself before you answered. She wore a grave look on her face - one she had not worn since Elenwë had passed. Her eyes were tired and her brow was taught. Her lips were puckered slightly and set in a straight line. Her voice was quiet.

“He is calling for you.”

The screaming stopped for a moment as the words settled. Out of an old habit that had not quite died, you nearly reached for your slippers and robe. You stopped yourself and let out a sharp breath.

“Will you not come?”

Aredhel had been alienated from the sons of Fëanor, just like you had. She knew what it felt like to be separated from friends, from family, but it was unlikely that she knew the weight of her request.

You scoffed, “No.”

“Nesa, plea-”

“Tell Findekano to color his hair,” you said sarcastically, “and find a gown that flatters him. I doubt any of mine will fit. The patient is tired. He will take the ba-”

“Nesa!” Aredhel said, new vigor in her tone, “Please.”

Another scream rang out. Aredhel’s eyes glossed over and she elongated a blink. She was exasperated, however much she tried to conceal it for selflessness’ sake, and desperate. 

You sighed, “Let me get dressed.” 

You couldn’t tell if the sound of your boots against the marble floor had become significantly louder than you last remembered it or if you were subconsciously stomping your way to the halls of healing to drown out Maedhros’ cries. In his defense, he had admittedly gotten quieter; it could have been because his pain was lessening, it could have been because his throat was hoarse. Your steps weren’t deliberately quick, but the irritation that was held behind each one made it seem like you were eager to be somewhere. You stopped abruptly a few feet away from the door. You heard him let out a guttural groan before inhaling sharply.

You took a long, deep breath before opening the door. 

“Thank Eru you're here,” you heard Fingon say, “He won’t stop begging for you. It was getting worse and worse, albeit his condition has improved.” 

You grimaced. The smell of blood and desperation filled the air. Maids and aides were rushing in and out of the room, still unable to keep up with the clean water and dressing despite the improvement. How bad was it? 

Your feet, once trampling under you down the hall, now felt heavy and slow as you made your way to the chair by the bed. Your robes would have to be thrown away - you were sure whatever liquid that was in the floor and soaking into them was not clean water. It was a shame. You liked these robes - long and golden and royal blue. They made you look taller. 

His eyes had no tears in them - perhaps he’d cried himself dry - as he looked at you. His face was twisted and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. Your eyes trailed to his neck and to his chest, where numerous smaller bandages were fastened. When your eyes fell lower, you found yourself horrified. 

His right hand was gone. 

That had been where all the blood was coming from, you concluded. You watched with widened eyes as one of the healers wrapped the bleeding nub tightly with another clean cloth. The blood, though still pouring out profusely, seemed to be letting up a bit. 

You met his eyes again. They were as blue as ever, and even Morgoth himself couldn’t douse the fire inside them, but they were glistening and frightened and desperate. They widened as he saw you again.

“No!” he shouted, “Leave me alone!”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Fingon and Aredhel both said he called for you, and for what?  So he could send you away? What a waste of your time! You took a step closer, despite his protests. 

“I told you to leave!”

You said nothing.

“But my lord,” said a healer gently, “You called for them - said it was someone that loved you.” 

He looked to the healer and made a near snarl, “Do not patronize me!” He turned to you. “You are the worst enemy I have ever had!”

Ah.

You reluctantly made your way to the chair next to the bed as the aid tried to reason with him, to no avail. He lashed out at you with his left hand. You stopped him firmly with your right. 

“Maedhros,” you said, and for a moment he looked at you and seemed a child again, unmarred and burdened not with the grief of the East, “I am not Morgoth, and you are not in Angband. You are in Hithlum. You are safe.”

 He seemed, for a moment, at comfort, and though his turmoil did not leave him, he despaired no longer.

You sat with him in silence for a long while, but it was not a comfortable silence. He tried to make conversation with you, perhaps to distract himself, or perhaps because in his delirious state, he thought you wanted to be there.

You suppressed a scoff. To watch him bleed? After all he’d done to you, though, maybe he thought you’d like it. 

Time dragged on. For a while, the healers insisted you stay until he was asleep. As the night grew older and your thoughts wandered to memory, you found yourself staying not at the healers’ request, but at your own free will.

Maedhros had done terrible things, yes - though he wasn’t as active as his father in Alqualonde and he didn’t burn the ships, he had pledged himself to you. He had made a promise under pain and longsuffering - one that he had broken. But how much pain, and how much longsuffering before he was vindicated? Before his transgressions annulled? Were they reconciled when he was taken, or when his hand came off? You couldn’t help but pity him.

It was a pain you knew too well. 

Crossing the Helcaraxe had been hard on everyone, and losing your left hand didn’t make it any easier. Losing it was painful and healing hurt more, but nothing was as detrimental as what came next. At first, you had been the ‘funny aunt’ to Idril who could use puppets on her arm, and a beacon of hope and a picture of determination to a young Aredhel, but as time went on, you found themselves looking at you with poorly hidden pity, eyes clouded over like storm clouds amongst stars at a masquerade ball. 

But it was not pity that Maedhros really needed - no. It was redemption. 

His disregard for those he claimed to love was prominent, proved at his departure and highlighted by his actions. But his father had gone mad and his grandfather was killed. He was in a tight spot. Was he truly evil at heart? It seemed cruel to expect him to compromise, what with part of him already compromised. But how else was he to be redeemed? Was he to fast? Or to cut off his hair like Fingon had his hand?  Was he to kneel on your doorstep for one hundred days, begging for vindication? For your forgiveness?

You could give him that - forgiveness. It was far-fetched, or so you thought, to bargain for unearned forgiveness when he had a bucketload of consequences that were to come with his actions - a lack of your love and tender care that he once had being one of them.

Your mother would chide you. Forgiveness was to be given freely. Only Mandos himself and only by leave of Mawë could mercilessness be wrought, and whether or not a person was deserving of it was not for any of the Eldar to decide, not even the greatest. It was something you struggled with as a child - after all, anyone could hurt you, but that didn’t matter as long as they couldn’t hold a grudge to rival your own, right?

Maedhros stirred. You let go of his hand - when had you reached for it? - as if it burned and stood abruptly. Dawn was upon you. His body was broken. You knew the emotional turmoil he would soon undergo, and you doubted he would make it. He could reckon his fortune for forgiveness with the Decider himself. 

______________________________________________________________________________

You slept throughout the next day, though no rest came to you. Memories and subtle convictions plagued your mind. At last, late in the afternoon, you decided to have a bite to eat and get some fresh air. 

Thirty pairs of eyes followed your form, breaths held and shoulders tense as you made your way to the kitchens of Hithlum. You had not toyed with the prospect of being bombarded with questions about the state of the Noldorin prince, but, you supposed, it was for the better. You knew little about his condition as of today, and you wished you knew less than you did. 

Despite the beauty of the day, a cloud of tension stalked Hithlum eerily. The gardens were almost too quiet. If you hadn’t any fear of being caught, you would have talked to the spotted swan orchids potted near the bench. 

You sat in silence for a moment and rued leaving your room, beginning to doze off after you had decided to rouse and go about. You jumped when the bench shifted underneath you.

“I don’t suppose you're the worst enemy I’ve ever had.”

You sighed and looked down at the bowl in your hands, elbows resting on your knees. “That isn’t what you said last night,” you said, “Or all those years ago, for that matter.”

Maedhros fell silent for a moment. “I know.”

It seemed as if the both of you had a bubble around one another, and the proximity forced them to squish and mold against one another. It was only a matter of time before one of them would pop, leaving you vulnerable and Maedhros even more so.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long, awkward while.

You said nothing.

“Melda, please-”

“Do not call me that.”

He let out a broken sigh and hid his face away from you. Not that you were looking. His mouth contorted into a grimace, and tears pricked his eyes.

“Woe is me!” He said suddenly and quietly, but his voice grew louder, “Woe is me! And woe is the day I left you on those white shores! Now I am at a loss - of a love and of a limb. My departure was the greatest of my misdeeds. I shall rue it, and of all my fell deeds, leaving you behind shall be accounted as the worst.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little smug at his admittance. 

“I see that hanging by your wrist for thirty years has not quipped that tongue of yours.”

“No,” he replied, “And I fear nothing ever shall. But for the will of my tongue, I’d have all that I have ever wanted by now - all that I have wished for while hanging from that precipice. How now shall I go on?”

“Do not be a fool,” you said, rather harshly, but years of biting winds and boots filled with snow will make a person harsh, “What is done is done. There is no use lamenting what once was, for by lament alone it shall not come again to be.”

“If you would hear my lament,” he said, “Then maybe you would forgive me.”

You straightened your posture. “You have not asked my forgiveness - and do not do so yet! You have a great deal to learn before you can be reconciled, if I see fit.”

He raised his eyebrows, “If you see fit? I beg your pardon, but was I false to hope that you might hear my plea? Did you lose your mercy and compassion on your journey?”

“I lost many things.”

Maedhros squared his shoulders towards you. His eyes trailed down your frame, and then widened. His breath hitched, and a tense silence befell you both.

“I am sorry,” he said after a while. His voice was timid and shy. Even in begging your forgiveness, the Fearnorian pride that tainted his blood did not cower; his words were ever confident, ever secure in their purpose. Upon looking at your left arm, which his right now mimicked, his boldness left him.

“Hush. You are bold to ask forgiveness of your misdeeds towards me, but you did not cut off my hand.”

He said nothing. For a moment. Your posture straightened. His, though you were now vulnerable to him, slouched. 

“Then forgiveness I do not ask of you,” Maedhros said, “only one thing, if your kindness would go so far: council. I do not know what to do next - how I am to relearn all that I have known.”

“It is a long process, even for the greatest of the Eldar - even for one filled with the light of Valinor,” you replied, “It will end, but it feels like it never will.”

“What does it feel like?”

White shores flashed across your eyes. You could feel your mother’s disappointed gaze burning into your back. Green lights came into your peripheral, and for a moment you could feel Turgon’s embrace and Idril’s excited shivering. Your mouth twitched into a fleeting smile. Then there was a crack, and a splash, and a woman’s scream and a man’s desperate pleas to the gods - whichever ones were listening, Manwë or Ulmo or Melkor himself. You gripped the bench with your right hands. Your heart beat increased and a weight fell upon your arm like heavy stones. A thousand tiny needles pricked your skin. You began to feel stiff and lifeless. This time, there were no harp-calloused hands hauling you to the dry, and the weight on your wrist only got heavier. Your eyes flew open.

“Cold,” you said quietly, and shuddered, “As if the chill was drawn from all the waters and the ground and the winds of Eä and even the cold of the souls of the wicked, and then sewn onto my bones.”

You slowly reached with your right hand towards what used to be your left.

“And sometimes, I feel stiff - like my hand has been covered in tar and I cannot move it,” you continued, “And sometimes, there is nothing.” 

Maedhros did not dare meet your eyes.

“They will look at you with such pity that maybe their gazes will regrow it, but they will not. Until they know your power, your will, your resolve, until deep down they fear you, they will whisper to one another how unfortunate you are to have suffered such a loss. Your arm will heal, but until you have surpassed resolution and have become fortitude incarnate, you will not again be well.” 

Maedhros didn’t respond at first. He sat for a good long while, unsure of whether you were talking about your hand or something entirely different. Your gaze was directed towards the morning glories climbing up the Western stairs, but your eyes were somewhere far off from the gardens of Hithlum. 

“How do you bear it, then,” he said, “Until it does heal?”

“There isn’t anything for it,” you replied, “Except to bear it. In Valinor, maybe, you would heal in time tenfold. Though, from what I heard, providence in Valinor is not an option.”

“No, it is not. But I have told you already, it is my greatest regret. And you have said it yourself: what is done is done.” His eyes were filled with determination, but void of all hope. 

The sun began to set, and the two of you sat together late into the night. Memories floated about your mind of your life before your departure - before his departure, and sooner or later your mind drifted to your memories with him. Some were good memories, but most were not. His departure - his oath - replayed over and over in your mind. 

“Why did you do it?” you said, “Why did you leave?”

He was quiet for a moment, and you couldn’t tell if he was hesitant or thoughtful.

“I would have left all the same, I suppose,” he said, finally, “or been forced out, anyways. A man will be worthy of his father’s name or be tainted by it  - after the attack at Alqualonde, I do not know which would have been worse.”

You seemed unsatisfied with his answer, but what he told you was the truth - and he knew of nothing else that would satisfy you, not even a lie. 

“I would have loved you all the same,” you said.

He let out a sharp breath, “Would you have?”

You cast your gaze down. “I have endured bitter cold and hardships across the Grinding Ice. What is time to the Eldar? But it is my greatest loss. I loved you even then.”

He stood, abruptly, and knelt in front of you, clasping your right hand with his left. “You knew what I had done then. Can you not love me now?”

You retracted your hand, “You think too highly of yourself. My love for you is trapped under the ice; miles now lie between memories.”

“You held it in your left hand, then,” he reached again for you and found your wrist. “I have given my right in atonement. Is that not enough? Shall I give my left? I gladly will.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you said, “By your right hand you were fell and your deeds were wicked, but by your left you may yet be forgiven. Convince me.”

“What will it take?”

“What will you give?”

“I have told you already,” said Maedhros, “if that is not enough, then I will give you everything.”

You searched his blue eyes for a lie or a fault, but you found none. Your resolve nearly broke when his eyes roamed across your face, searching desperately for your reaction. Would it break him - for you to tell him to get lost? No. He had endured so much, and he did not break you when he was separated from you the first time. You imagined vividly enough to make yourself believe that he would break, and soon had yourself convinced that it was mercy that led you to give him his chance.

“Sit up. Hold me for a while like you did long ago,” you said, “Let me think, and perhaps my terms will not be too great.”

It was not mercy. Forgiveness was difficult, even more so if one’s wounds had gone untreated for too long; but perhaps it would come a little easier if you found solace from your afflictions in the careful embrace of your guilt-ridden afflicter. Your heart stopped at his touch, and though you knew it wasn’t forgiveness, something welled up in your heart that made you wish that things were not as they were, or at the very least, that they could go back to the way things had been.

“As you wish.”

[caliawen]

Haunted

Pairing = Glorfindel x Reader

Genre = Teen and up

General ratings = a twinge of angst, fluff, smut implied (?)

Content warnings = smut implied

Word count = 1,4k

Notes = ……hi 🫣 I haven’t posted in a month 🙃 Life has been really busy and I haven’t really had the time (nor the motivation, truthfully) to write. I had a more regular schedule before, but I think for now it will stay… ‘irregular’. I have no idea when or what I will post next. Hope you can understand!

Glorfindel was being haunted. Not by ghosts- no. By the memories of his past life. Of his mistakes. Of his friends. Of their deaths. Of his death. The searing pain of his scalp as he was tugged down and down and down by the Balrog. Of the heat he felt as he fought for his life, for the lives of Idril and Tuor and Eärendil and everyone. His mind replayed those moments over and over, never leaving him a second of peace.

The slight smile of Ecthelion, Rog’s boisterous laugh, Turgon’s exasperation with them, Elgalmoth’s mischievous eyes as he gossiped, Penlod’s hums as he pretended he was listening, Galdor’s excited chatter about the trees and plants he saw, Duilin’s whistles as he walked, Tuor’s love-struck expression as his eyes followed Idril and Maeglin’s shy smile when someone asked him about his work…

Oh, Maeglin… Glorfindel had hated him, for a time. Hated him for giving Gondolin away to Morgoth, giving away their lives.. But that time had passed. In the halls of Námo, Glorfindel had had plenty of time to think before he was reborn. And think he did : about how Maeglin had lost his mother and father. About how his only parental figure was Turgon, who was too busy to really spend time with his nephew. About how he mistook his love for Idril as romantic and not platonic, and how that strained his friendship with her and Tuor. About how rumors spread that Maeglin was a vile being. About how none of them did anything to defend him. About how lonely Maeglin must have been.. About what impossible horrors he felt at the hands of Morgoth and Sauron. About how they never saw how broken Maeglin had returned. About how he didn’t care if he died anymore.

Yes, Glorfindel had thought, Maeglin had done something wrong. And he forgave Maeglin for what he had done, because Maeglin had been a child. A child who needed to be guided and shown love, but no one had stepped up to take up the role.

He thought about you. About your smile, your eyes, your nose. About the way you moved, how you talked and your passions. And he ached. Because he didn’t know what happened to you. He didn’t know if you had died, if you had suffered or if you were still alive. If you had moved on from him.. And that haunted him. His every waking thought, his every dream and nightmare.

Sometimes, Glorfindel dreamed of you. He dreamed that you were laying in his bed, in Gondolin, smiling at him. That you carded your fingers through his hair and told him that you loved him. And when he woke up, his heart ached and he did not know whether to thank or curse Irmo.

Glorfindel had a mission. He was going back to Arda Marred. And he found himself dreading going back. Dreading seeing how everything had changed and how the language had evolved. Dreading how no one he knew would be there. How he would be alone. At least in Valinor, he saw his mother and father. He found himself crying when he realized he did not remember what being embraced by his parents felt like. They took care of him and he couldn’t be more grateful to have them.

When Glorfindel departed, he stood looking at Valinor until it had been long since out of view. He stood still, wondering if he was dreaming. He thought, how ironic, for he was going back. Not anyone else. Him. Laurëfindelë Glorfindel, an emissary of the Valar, granted powers nearly as strong as that of the Maiar. And he didn’t want to go back. Nienna wept for him, for his sacrifice, for his fear and for his love. He found himself appreciating her understanding. She visited him, before he departed. He listened to her words, without understanding : “Dear Child, your heart is being haunted. Your mind is playing tricks on you, and your heart is rendered blind by your pain. But your gut, your gut is still there and strong. Follow it, follow what it tells you. But do not silence your heart and mind for it, listen to them. Listen, but do not follow.”

~~~

When Glorfindel arrived in Middle Earth, he did not know where to begin. He was tired, but could not sleep. He thought about you. About your lips on his, about your laugh, about your hands in his, about the ring he had passed on your finger. He thought and thought and thought. And his heart ached. He walked on paths and in forests, stopping to wash himself in rivers. And he despaired.

It was later that he found Lindon. Days later. Or weeks, he did not know. He met Elrond, someone who would confuse and amuse him for the rest of their lives. Part man, part elf, part maia. He wore the insignias of Fingolfin and Fëanor with pride, daring anyone to confront him about it. He was a gentle soul with a heart of gold and the patience of the wise. He was as kind as summer and Glorfindel found himself basking in his presence, like a flower who had grown up in shadow feeling the sun on itself for the first time.

Círdan was surprisingly mischievous. Subtle jokes, sarcasm and deadpan looks were all things he threw at others, uncaring if they understood or not. He was calm, but could easily terrorize anyone with his anger, like the sea. Board games were his favorite and Glorfindel spent time playing with him, thinking of strategies to beat the older elf.

Gil-Galad was as confusing as he was funny. His father was unknown and he liked to joke around about it. Glorfindel spent time with him when they could, talking about everything and nothing. When Gil-Galad felt Glorfindel starting to lose himself in memories, he would randomly tell a stupid joke. They made Glorfindel laugh each time.

Celebrimbor had been a bit weary at first. Glorfindel almost laughed at the memory of a small Curufinwë Tyelpërinquar staring at him with the exact same look. It wasn’t long until they became great friends. Celebrimbor understood : he, too, was haunted by his past actions and words. Maybe for different reasons than Glorfindel, but the important thing was that he related to how Glorfindel felt. Having his feelings validated was something that alleviated the pain in Glorfindel’s heart.

~~~

Glorfindel walked around Lindon aimlessly and leisurely, taking his time to look around. You haunted him. Everything he saw reminded him of you. From pretty rocks you would have collected, passing by a stand selling your favorite fruit, to someone wearing clothes the exact color of your eyes. His mind played tricks on him, making him imagine hearing your laugh or seeing your beautiful hair swaying in the wind.

He stopped walking at a bookstore, a feeling bubbling up inside him. He looked at the door, curious. His gut screamed at him to enter that store, for some reason. His mind dismissed the feeling, but his heart held hope. They warred against each other. And then, Glorfindel was reminded of Nienna’s words to him. And he went inside the store.

Inside the store, which was cozy and homey, he felt pulled towards a particular bookshelf. His breath hitched as his mind reeled to a stop, his heart pumping wildly. There you stood, browsing the shelf while smiling. Feeling observed, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw Glorfindel, your husband, your soulmate, standing there. Glorfindel was frozen, his mind scrambling and heart singing with joy. You were the one to make the first move, throwing yourself in his arms, ecstatic. Glorfindel hugged you back, a sense of wholeness overtaking his mind and body as he kissed you long and passionately.

The two of you spent hours upon hours talking, laughing, crying and hugging. This long-awaited reunion was a balm on Glorfindel’s bruised and battered heart. That night, under the stars, in a magnificent glade full of flowers, you rekindled your fëas. Glorfindel made love to you slowly and passionately, kissing every piece of skin revealed as he undressed you, worshiping your body with his hands and mouth. That night, in your arms, Glorfindel had no nightmares. He woke up to your sweet voice and felt free. Free of the thing that haunted him. And he smiled.

End notes : Hope you enjoyed! Reblogs, comments & likes are extremely appreciated 🫶

@theladyvanya

[doodle-pops]

Things You Do That Turn Them On

Characters: Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon, Argon, Finarfin, Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, Galdor, Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Egalmoth, Rog, Maeglin, Thingol, Beleg, Gwindor, Gil-Galad, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Erestor, Manwe, Namo, Irmo, Eonwe

A/N: This was such a post to make >.< Been a while since I’ve put some smutty content out there. As for the Feanorians, they already had a headcanon like this answered—can be found here ➳ What Turns the Feanorians On. So this post is for all the other characters.

Warnings: fem!reader, 18+ content, manhandling, roughhousing, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, asphixyiation, power play, hunter and prey, public sex, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, lingerie, pet names, size difference, stomach bulging, avian traits (hybrid themed), restraints

Synopsis: Non-sexual and sexual things you do that turn them on

Masterlist | Navigation

Fingolfin

Non-sexual turn-ons:

When you’re honourably defiant, especially when shown with dignity

Holding your ground when others would yield

The sight of you leading or commanding others with a regal bearing

Wearing dresses and robes tailored to your form, accompanied by jewellery he gifted you

Discussing philosophy or battle tactics over wine

Sexual turn-ons:

Unfastening his laces while kissing down the scar on his chest

Moaning his name against his neck as you ride him hard, gripping his hips like you need to anchor yourself

The sight of you kneeling between his thighs after a sparring match, flushed and breathless

Calling him ‘My King’ as you stroke his cock with both hands

Letting him take you against the carved walls of the fortress, his mouth against your ear whispering praises

Fingon

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Bold acts of loyalty, like facing danger just to reach him

Playing with his hair and calling him any sweet terms of endearment with ‘my’ attached to it. Especially if you call him a ‘good boy’ or a ‘sweet puppy’ (he’ll complain about not being like a dog and then whine when you stop scratching his scalp) dog behaviour

Playing the harp, singing lewd or poetic lyrics just to see him fluster

Seeing you ride bareback alongside him—probably challenging him to a race

Roughhousing with him with turns into a tickling match, and then a light makeout

Sexual turn-ons:

Making him wear his crown as you ride him on the throne late at night

Sliding his cock between your breasts while you tease him with gentle kisses to the tip

Begging for him in that needy, whiny and soft voice while your fingers grab him tighter scratching your nails down his back while he fucks you into a bed of furs

Tracing his scars and veins and pressing kisses to each all the way down to his v-line where you pause and make him impatient

Tasting yourself on his tongue as he pulls you in for a kiss after making you straddle his face

Turgon

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Your quiet, regal grace, especially when paired with intellect

Running your fingers through his scalp while cuddling or after a long day. Brushing out his hair

Wearing gowns or robes with flowing, paired with lots of jewellery (or probably just wear jewellery alone)

Your unwavering loyalty to him despite what others may think of him

Giving him massages after a long gruelling day at court and whispering (praising) him for being such a good King

Sexual turn-ons:

Removing your clothing slowly as you ascend the steps to his throne

When your fingers curl into any surface he’s taking you against, especially as he takes you from behind

Letting him take the lead and be in control as you submit to him on your knees

Letting him pin you down, crown still on, as he fucks you with deep strokes

Biting his ears, tugging his hair, scratching his back, just leave marks on his skin

Argon

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Being unpredictability just like him without shame and reckless abandonment

Cracking jokes in the middle of serious moments and making him snort or laugh outrageously

Seeing you completely soaked while your clothes is still clinging to your body. Your silhouette drives him insane

Getting into trouble and dragging him along—he lives for chaos disguised as bonding

Calling him a ‘good boy’ just to make him turn red and fumble. He’ll whine that he isn’t a boy, but never complain about the praise

Sexual turn-ons:

Riding him hard and fast while pulling at his loose hair, leaving bite marks along his neck

Secretly jerking him off under a banquet table just for the thrill

When you struggle to take all of him, but still make the effort anytime you ask for the lead

How sensitive you become after he teased you throughout the day with a few whispers and fleeting touches

Telling him how good he makes you feel—he thrives on praise, even if he pretends he doesn’t

Finarfin

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Deep conversations about music, healing, or moral philosophy

Your scent—your perfumes and even your natural scent drives him crazy

The kindness and compassion you display and give to others

Seeing you wear anything that a gold or a shade of gold, accentuated to your figure

Offering to braid his hair before court, event or gathering

Sexual turn-ons:

Tracing the contours of his muscles all over his body after a session

Sucking gently on his cock while looking up with shining eyes (better if under a table)

The wild moans escaping your lips as he fingers or eats you out, crying out his name like you were possessed

Allowing him to take his time and fully worship you from head to toe. Not rushing foreplay

Guiding his cock into you, no matter the position

Finrod

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Passionate singing and poetic riddles whispered beneath stars

Playing the harp with eyes closed, losing yourself in sound

Praising him for being a good King to his people and how much you adore being protected and cared for by him

Listening to your voice as you read beside him with your head on his thigh

How flustered and heated you appear during arguments, even if you agree with him

Sexual turn-ons:

Pressing kisses to his cock from base to tip with slow reverence, like you worship him and calling him ‘My King’

Making you look into the mirror and see as he fucks you from behind—see who ruined you were

Helping him wash off which 90% of the time leads to you riding him or being pinned against the wall of the pool

Leaving marks on his skin, especially scratches down his back. Also pull his hair and tie him up

When you tighten your legs around his waist just as he’s about to cum, pulling him deeper into you

Angrod

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Open defiance, especially when you leave room for him tease and taunt, turning your little display into a game

Dirty jokes in diplomatic company—watching his reaction as he stifles laughter

Treating soldiers and the people with equal grace

Roughhousing with him, or even sparring and pinning you under him only for you to reverse the positions

The way you roll your eyes and smirk when you get under his skin

Sexual turn-ons:

Waking him up with the sight of your pretty cunt ready to sit on his face and ride his tongue

Digging your nails into his shoulder blades when he pounds into you from above

When you suck hickeys on his neck and bite his shoulders and arms to muffle your moans

The sight of you gagging lightly on his cock while making eye contact

Watching your ass jiggle whenever he takes you from behind or you ride him in reverse cowgirl

Aegnor

Non-sexual turn-ons:

When you’re passionate in your craft and everything around you—the way your eyes and soul light up

That wild hair and flushed cheeks after riding horseback across the fields or forest

When you best him in a sparring match and press the sword to his throat before running it down his torso—the look in your eyes

You have a reckless streak about you that somehow seems to work out just fine

Singing lewd songs or poems in his ear while he’s trying to concentrate

Sexual turn-ons:

Seeing you bite your pillow, or the way your fingers curl into the sheets

Letting him bite your shoulder while he comes deep inside you

When you’ve gone dump and start babbling nonsense and incomprehensible phrases

Jerking him off over your stomach while he pants into your mouth

Pulling his hair and grinding against him until neither of you can think

Galdor

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Loves to see you in the garden all sweaty and vigorous—some dirt on your face, hair clinging to your skin, face flushed

Sitting in his lap while sharing a drink and teasing him

Cooking with him and moaning with your eyes close each time you taste a dish he made (worse when you lick cream of his fingers)

Wearing his clothes like robes, tunics, shirts as sleepwear even though you have yours

Watching you play with children or animals—he melts

Sexual turn-ons:

Letting him lick honey off your body when you suggested that you love his mouth on your skin

Waking him up with you breasts around his cock, better when he cums all over them

Letting him fuck you against a tree trunk, dirt and bark scraping your skin

Moaning wantonly as he takes you slow and deep on a bed of furs

Pulling him into a kiss while stroking him with both hands, your thumb teasing his slit

Ecthelion

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Poise, grace, and musical talent—he’s entranced by beauty in motion

Laughing softly at his clever remarks, even the pretentious ones, even the ones that probably aren’t funny

Wearing something silver with lots of diamonds and having a great taste in fashion

Sparring with him and matching his strength

Wearing clothes that accentuates your figure—doesn’t have to be revealing

Sexual turn-ons:

Giving him a strip tease while he watches from the edge of the bed and tells him that he can’t touch

Hearing the way you cry his name. Sounds like a song he could sing or incorporate into his music

Sucking on his fingers before sliding them inside your cunt

Greeting him all tied up and sitting patiently on the bed when he comes him from a long, tedious day

Sitting in his lap, grinding against him until he’s trembling from restraint

Glorfindel

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Seeing you play with children and be so loving towards them

Braiding his hair before a duel (please tie it up in a bun)—your fingers scratching his scalp and making him shiver

Wearing nothing under his robes except a jewellery set he gifted you for an anniversary

When you compare hand sizes or anything that allows him to compare the size difference between you two

Kissing his scars and whispering praises into his kiss

Sexual turn-ons:

Pretty, pretty, pretty lingerie. Even if it translates to wearing nothing, wearing jewellery or wearing silk and lace

That little moment when you go silent in the middle of him fucking you because you can’t choose between moaning, crying, whining or whimpering

Pulling his hair and guiding his mouth between your legs for him to tongue your clit until your legs quake

Asking him to join you for baths because they never turn into baths

The sudden gushing of your juices all over him whenever you squirt—rawr

Egalmoth

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Flamboyant confidence, especially when paired with genuine wit

Wearing outrageous attire and matching him stride for stride

Singing lewd songs at feasts or making lewd jokes and matching his freak

When you can handle your liquor and drink alongside him

Daring him to flirt and outdo you—he’ll always rise to the challenge

Sexual turn-ons:

Pushing him into a chair and riding him with one hand around his throat

Gasping his name as he eats you out with teasing flicks and drawn-out circles

Whispering how badly you want him while palming his cock through silk

Clawing at his chest as he fucks you against a balcony, half-dressed and uncaring

Letting him finish all over your chest, only to push him back for more

Rog

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Seeing you all hot and bothered whenever you’re angry—he knows he shouldn’t like it, but can’t resist

The little tilt of your neck when your stretching that lets him gaze at the length and shape

Crafting weapons beside him—if you’re a crafter—or helping him in the forges, all covered in sooth

Your confidence is super captivating and ridiculously charming—he just loves when you pull him by his belt

The way you care for him so deeply. Staying up late, making dinner and lunch, washing him off, loving him

Sexual turn-ons:

The way you struggle to not moan too loudly as he pounds you mercilessly in the forge late at night

Ripping open your tunic to get to your chest, burying his face in it like a man possessed

Struggling to take him deeply in your throat and gripping his thighs as he cups your face

The size difference—when he sees the way his cock bulges in your stomach

Watching you squirt all over his cock from overstimulation—he’ll praise it like a victory

Maeglin

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Being his one and only confidant and keeping all his secrets

Your quiet demeanour which allows you to notice everything around you

Wearing black or obsidian jewellery, especially if it matches his own

Standing beside him at court and defending when others doubt his loyalty

Waiting for him with open arms to cuddle after a long day, filled with praises

Sexual turn-ons:

Letting him tie your wrists with a silver chain and spread you open like a dark secret

Riding him slowly, stroking his hair, whispering how wrong it feels to enjoy it this much

Offering yourself up wordlessly, needy and soft, knowing he’ll take full advantage

Telling him you’re only his—and meaning it while his cock fills you again and again

Smiling slyly as you swallow every drop of his cum, licking your lips afterwards

Thingol

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Knowing exactly how to carry yourself in court confidently

Speaking languages fluently, especially when correcting him subtly

Elegant attire, understated jewellery, fancy braids and demure composure

Massaging his shoulders while he debates politics and whispering praises in his ear

Telling him how much you adore when he takes care of you

Sexual turn-ons:

Sliding down your robes with excruciating slowness, revealing bare skin under the starlight

Addressing him as ‘My King’ while taking him in your mouth and watching him grip the armrests, attempting to act composed

Whispering that you want to be filled with royal seed while straddling his lap

Pulling him by his belt into a messy, desperate kiss

Riding him on this throne after a court hearing once everyone is gone, or right outside (wants them to know how good he makes you feel)

Beleg

Non-sexual turn-ons:

A little harmless game of hunter and prey never hurt anyone, right?

Hunting alongside him—he just wants to see your ass and legs in those leather trousers

Seeing you in his clothes, being all domestic and barefoot, whenever he returns from the borders

Hearing you laugh unapologetically

Roughhousing with him. Just randomly tackle him onto the ground, and display your strength

Sexual turn-ons:

Letting him fuck you in a forest after an intense game of wolf and bunny in the forest

Face down, ass up and moaning like you’re in heat (he’s actually the one ovulating lol)

Whispering your pleasure against his throat as he thrusts into you in silence

Taking control and riding him while he holds your hips still, eyes locked

Letting him cum inside and watching the way he kisses your brow afterwards

Gwindor

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Kindness in the face of cruelty—he watches how you treat the people

Taking care of him despite his tragedies and standing at his side  

Your excitement over the simplest of things—it could be him walking into the room and you’re smiling like the sun

Reassuring him he is still beautiful, even in grief

Smiling when he cannot—your light heals him more than you know

Sexual turn-ons:

Stroking his cock while whispering how much you loved and appreciated him

Tightening your legs around his waist when he slides into you, so he knows that you want him to stay

Letting him worship your body with lips and hands until you’re weeping

Your eagerness for mutual masturbation because he loved to see you come undone from just his fingers and mouth

Riding him until he’s whimpering your name

Gil-Galad

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Wearing his house colours proudly, displaying that you were his

Tracing his veins anytime he was shirtless while cuddling or after a sparring match (especially when he was sweaty)

Biting your lips whenever you found him looking appealing in a new attire

The way you playfully grab or smack his ass whenever you’re kissing or out of playfulness

Your confidence as his spouse—standing beside him proudly, introducing yourself as a member of his house, no fear in your voice

Sexual turn-ons:

Being all needy and whimpering how much you needed him to bend you over his throne and fuck you

Sitting on his face while he wore his crown from today’s council meeting

Letting him guide you onto your knees and fill your mouth slowly, reverently

Showing off his marks you left on his back after an excitingly, rough night, during his morning spar

Asking for more even when you could barely contain what he already gave you as it spills out

Elrond

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Bringing him rare books or ancient scrolls and watching his eyes light up

Cradling his head while you rake your fingers through his hair as he reads in bed, exchanging ideologies back and forth

Having compassion and understanding towards his past and his choices

Always being there for him even when you had matters of your own.

Surprising him during late night visits to his study dressed in his robes and small clothes in his favourite colour

Sexual turn-ons:

Taking your time undressing him and kissing every inch of skin as it’s revealed

Letting him eat you out for hours with scholarly focus and patience and not interrupting him

Moaning beneath him as he fucks you slowly, whispering that you’re his safe place

Sucking his cock gently, during stressful moments when he refuses to take a break and definitely needs one

Feeling the way your pulse becomes erratic under his touch each time he pressed his lips to your neck

Elladan

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Randomly ambushing him with kisses or surprised affection

Sparring with him and then knocking him on his back while you’re above him

Riding through the woods on the same horse, pressed up against each other. Preferably him behind you

The affection nicknames and terms of endearment, attached with ‘my’

Stretching. Any form of stretching and worse when a silver of skin shows

Sexual turn-ons:

Moaning like a little brat when he holds you down and fucks you rough

Sucking him off in a hidden glade, both of you stifling laughter

Riding him while pulling his hair and biting his ear

Whimpering his name as he denies you another orgasm and trying to grab onto him to satisfy you—so needy

Finishing in his lap while he keeps you plugged full

Elrohir

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Playful combat—pouncing on him mid-training just to make him laugh

Sharing twin jokes only he and Elladan get, then whispering naughty ones in his ear

Wearing his tunic and nothing else, lounging like you own the place

Reading erotic stories or poetry and subtly making eye contact each time you stress on certain words

Leaning against him under starlight, humming while your fingers trace his collarbone

Sexual turn-ons:

Getting on your knees and sucking him off until he’s moaning your name into his hand

Riding him hard while holding his wrists down, daring him to flip you

Cumming on his face while he smirks and keeps licking, greedy and smug

Letting him take you from behind in the woods

When you let him manhandle you and show a bit of defiance like the brat you were capable of being

Erestor

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Intellectual precision—debating him calmly, then proving him wrong with a smile

Reading quietly beside him, your foot brushing his under the table

Bringing him coffee or tea without being asked

Wearing silk robes that matches his dark and refined taste

Whispering clever, inappropriate remarks during council meetings with a straight face

Sexual turn-ons:

Slowly undressing for him while he watches silently, heat in his gaze

Taking his cock in your mouth while he reads, not letting him finish the page

Moaning softly into his hands as he fucks you from behind on his desk

Looking up at him with tears in your eyes, begging for his fingers back inside

Brushing his hair back and asking him to cum on your tongue—then swallowing with a hum

Manwë

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Dancing with him at festivals and reciprocating his little courting gestures

Accepting his gifts, especially the sparkly one that he begged Aulë’s to make for you

Being impressed with his aerial performances whenever he was showing off outside your house or randomly

When the other avians appear around you, you would gently shoo them, muttering that you were taken by a big birdie

Helping him preen his feathers or doing it on your own. Also, add decorations and make him sparkle

Sexual turn-ons:

Calling him ‘My King’ or ‘My Lord’ while you run your fingers through his silky hair

Being completely fucked out from his heat, yet showing excitement for when his next heat would roll around

The way you smell like him after he fills you up makes him pull you aside to give you more

Just the joy of watching the way your pussy stretches around his cock as you swallow him up

Begging for more even when you’re on the brink of fatigue and overly stuffed

Námo

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Never fearing death, but understanding it

Discussing fate and prophecy

Letting him touch your wrist to read your spirit’s thread

Wearing black with silver embroidery

Showering him in the affection he doesn’t believe he deserves

Sexual turn-ons:

Calling him “My Lord” as he ruts into you with abandon control and pent up frustration

Being a brat and sass him back when he ordering you about, leading to you being manhandled

Letting him edge you for what feels like hours until your legs give out

Being gagged and tied up with silk ribbon while he fucks you slowly till sunrise

Wearing nothing but his robes which gets you spanked and fingered

Irmo

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Watching you dance barefoot in his garden among the flowers, wearing loose, pale robes

Whispering your dreams and desires into his ear and asking him to find their meaning

Telling him that you dreamt of him last night or during a nap he had no intervention in, and leaving him guessing

When you let him know that he was your motivation for all your dreams and ambitions

Asking him to create dreams catered to your interests where he can also visit and spend more time with you

Sexual turn-ons:

Letting him visit you in your dreams to eat you out till your shaking and when you wake up, he’s between your thighs

Calling his name in your sleep while he slides inside you like a dream you forgot

Him teasing you when he discovered all your kinks and trying them out all at once, to see you wrecked

Wrapping your legs around his waist as he whispers every dirty word in perfect Valarin

Begging him not to let you wake—and feeling him cum inside you like a blessing

Eonwë

Non-sexual turn-ons:

Practising swordplay with him shirtless and letting him get a little too close

Proudly showing him off as your mate and showing everyone the pretty gifts he gets you

When he sees that you have a drawer or box full of all the items he randomly gifted you

You no longer tolerating other birds coming around and stealing your attention. You let them know that your mate would fight them and win

Randomly building a nest with your pillows, cushions and articles of yours and his clothes, to cuddle

Sexual turn-ons:

When you’re so desperate to get on your knees and suck him off because he deserved being worshipped

Gripping the base of his wings—that spot were his wings meet his back—knowing how sensitive he was as he drives into you

When he tells you that you were still unable to take all of him and you push him down to climb on top of him to prove him wrong

Whispering how much you ache for his strength as he lifts you and fucks you standing, wings extending to make himself larger and assert dominance

Rocking back and letting you do your thing as you rode him on your own, occasionally jerking upwards to watch you topple over

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @aconstructofamind @involuntaryspasms @addaigio @hermaeuswhora @6esi @will-0-wsps @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ella-error505 @xximmortalkissxx @gauntletgirlie @feanorynz @aghostlywhisper @zheiya @devotee-of-irmo

If you wish to be tagged, click on the Taglist Link to join.

[batsyforyou]

Maeglin Sleep Headcanons

Pairing: Maeglin x reader

Warning: none 

Author’s Note: Blanket Series. I actually really like Maeglin as a character, his one of my favorites. 

This elf doesn’t know how to cuddle 

And will end up sleeping on the edge of the bed because you “take up too much bed space”

Honestly such a problem could be fixed if he learned to cuddle 

He just moves away from you when you try to cuddle 

It isn’t because he dislikes your touch or even because he hates cuddles 

He just doesn’t know how 

So his actions are done with innocent intentions  

He doesn’t tell you that he has a problem with it though 

He doesn’t want to risk hurting your feelings or making you uncomfortable

He doesn’t even know that’s what your trying to do until you tell him

Will that fix the problem? No

“Why don’t you cuddle me?” *Surprised Pikachu face* 

It takes a looong while before he learns to feel comfortable with cuddles 

He finds sleeping as the big spoon makes him feel safer and more in control 

His open eye stare is around a 56/100 it's just a straight ahead unblinking stare.

But instead of a frown, a stoic expression or a scowl on his face, he looks relaxed and peaceful 

Honestly that's the only thing from making the staring really creepy

You end up just being happy that he's at peace while he sleeps

So it's more endearing than creepy (most of the time)

Didn’t see the light of the Two Trees so he doesn’t glow If anything the room gets a little darker 

You think so anyway, you can’t actually tell

He works late and gets up early and usually makes no exceptions 

The only exceptions are for special occasions like your birthday or if he wants nothing to do with Turgon or Tour 

Feels uncomfortable around Idril because of your relationship and tries to shake off the feeling before bed so he can feel vulnerable and safe 

Mostly so he can allow himself cuddles

Is addicted to the affection once he gets it 

And sometimes has nightmares about watching his mom and dad die 

He isn’t prone to moving around much and if he isn’t cuddling he’s on his back and is deathly quiet 

Overall Maeglin is an 7/10 sleep buddy

Masterlist

[felagund-the-valiant]

Masterlist

Argon

Big Hands and Tiny Paws - 578 words - tags: gn!reader, fluff

Beleg

In All Shapes and Sizes - 612 words - tags: gn!reader, fluff

Caranthir

SFW Alphabet

Curufin

Your Father's Son - 1.3k words - tags: gn!reader, Curufin has a bit of an identity crisis, fluff Broken Bonds - 1.4k words - tags: f!reader, hurt/no comfort

Fingon

All I Want Is You - 1.1k words - tags: gn!reader, best friends to lovers, first kiss Office Shenanigans (NSFW) - 1.5k words - tags: f!reader, smut, semi-public sex A Heavy Crown - 992 words - tags: f!reader, hurt/comfort, mention of canon character death SFW Alphabet Drunk On Love - 1.2k words - tags: gn!reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, fluff

Finrod

Birthday Delights - 712 words - tags: gn!reader, fluff, mild nsfw mentions/suggestive content Bring Back What Once Was Mine - 1k words - tags: gn!reader, mix of fluff and angst, mention of canon character death

Galdor

General hcs Procrastination Troubles - 1.1k words - tags: f!reader, fluff, unintentional secret dating, sibling's best friend trope

Glorfindel

Having a crush on a reader who's friends with Ecthelion

Maeglin

Lessons in Intimacy (NSFW) - 2.1k words - tags: f!reader, smut, first time

Group hcs

Hobbies they like to share with you (Maedhros, Caranthir, Fingon, Turgon) Hair hcs for the House of Fëanor | Fingolfin | Finarfin

[lamemaster]

Songs of Heart- Winter

Pairing: Turgon x Reader x Fingon (hehe)

Genre: Dramamamama and Angsssst

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Had you known better, you would have never looked his way. You would have shielded your eyes from his. Yet, despite the lament, you are certain that you would have done it. You would have betrayed yourself even with the foreknowledge of your destruction.

Fall | Winter | Spring | Summer | Epilogue

Turukano

Before the ice even groaned and fractured, his hand finds yours…It happens faster than anything. Instinct. He has to hold on to the one his heart can't let go.

He watches your eyes widen as his fingers interlace with yours, pulling you back from the freezing depths that gaped open beneath your feet. A common peril in treacherous Helcaraxe.

No fate has managed to sever the affection he holds for you. It simmers under the veil you both wear. His marriage to Elenwe, yours to Findekano, fails to mask what thrums like a forgotten spring amidst the winter's despair.

 The warmth of holding your hand, a forgotten comfort, momentarily pushes back the despair of Helcaraxe.

He held this hand once, free of guilt, fear of rejection, or the shackles of forbidden bonds. Turukano fears your resentment. He has evaded your eyes for too long, the one who lets go first. He leaves you to find solace with your family.

Just as he steadies your steps, another crack echoes through the air. Behind him, a band of elves vanishes into the unforgiving water. Grief for the lost echoes in his heart, but his world narrows to you. You are safe. You are here. Away from his brother, a dark voice whispers in his mind.

But this is a comfort he allows himself. Just a sliver of the past that he has hidden from all.

It takes Turukano a precious minute to decipher the panicked look in your eyes and understand the choked scream that tears from your lips as you lunge for the water.

 Instinctively, he holds you back. His brow furrows at your actions. He has to save you. Everything else will fall into place.

"-we"

"Sa-e-nwe"

Your words barely reach him before he sees the last fading glimpse of golden hair disappear beneath the churning water.

 "Elenwe!" Your scream fills his ears, and a horrifying realization crashes down on him.

Findekano

Love blooms in Findekano's heart the moment he hears your laughter. All his reservations about marrying for political gain or the resentment of becoming the bait for his father’s elaborate plans of bringing family along shatter the minute he hears the trills of your laughter.

It is a beautifully delicate thing. In the early days of your courtship, he seeks to gain your favor. He treasures it. Your mirth is the truth of how well you fit with him, how his humor sparks your laughter.

His fondness for you only grows since the bond of your marriage unites you for eternity. How radiant you were beneath him, your hair spread out, your cheeks rosy with passion, your hands pulling him closer.

The next day, you seamlessly integrate with his family. You organize tea parties for his mother, bake Arakáno's favorite snacks, and take Irissë and Ektelion on outings together. You sing songs and poems to Turukano's daughter, even taking night shifts to care for her and give Elenwe a rest. Even Nolofinwe, the frowning stern father-in-law, is not spared from the warmth of the knitted socks you leave in his office. Your every action is for him and his people. You become an inseparable part of him.

You brighten Findekano's life.

When peril looms, you stand by him, packing your belongings while helping him cradle his entire life for the flight led by his uncle.

You follow him, even in tears as you bid your parents a farewell for what seems like forever. That day, for the first time, Findekano becomes the reason for your tears. That day, he pledges to return to you what he takes from you.

Deep into the march towards Alqualonde, his eyes find themselves drawn back to where you stand next to your cousin Findarato and Ektelion. He forces his mind to ease, though it doesn't quite listen. Turukano is there, so you must be safe. He has to allow you this moment of comfort, and for once, he cannot be the one to give it.

So Findekano rushes to keep up with his father. He trusts you with his ever-reliable brother by your side. 

You both always find your way back to each other. So it will be again.

The next time he meets your gaze, his cheek stings from your stinging slap. Your eyes are red-rimmed with unshed tears. Your hair is disarrayed, at the mercy of the agitated sea breeze. And Findekano finds his eyes evading yours as the madness leaves him gasping on the bloodied shore of Alqualonde.

Surrounded by the bodies of your kin, Findekano witnesses your hatred for the first time. Your words blur into receding rage before he catches the ends of your sentence:

"-never show me this wretched face of yours." The words carve themselves into the bond

He watches you turn and crouch beside a wailing Earwen. In that fleeting moment, a terrifying realization dawns on him: your abandonment. He fears you abandoning him more than the piled-up bodies around him. Yet, it settles like an inevitable truth.

Hours ago, he had no doubt of his place by your side, or the fate that brought you together. But now, a chasm lies where once there was hope.

Your hatred feels more tangible than the love he once believed in. As if all that was once truth had been nothing but his hopeful desire.

Huddled with your sobbing aunt and cousins, you seem further away than ever before. Your bond, which he once considered his truth, shatters into pieces – so brittle, as if it had been a dream all along.

His eyes wander to where you are. Even in his heartbreak, Findekano remains tethered to you. He drops the sword his failing arms can't hold and instructs a guard to hand you his water flask. You would accept it from him, so he'll find another way.

Reader

You stood next to Findarato. That's all it amounted to. That was the only reason you let Findekano lead the troop ahead while you stayed behind. And if Turukano happened to be in the same place, it was merely a coincidence.

You walked beside your brother Ektelion, who had earlier in the march sworn loyalty to Turukano. It was easy to forget your title as the eldest daughter-in-law of the House of Nolofinwe when surrounded by the memories of your childhood.

 Even in the dark and gloom of loss, your heart found a strange peace in the oblivion of the responsibilities that had thrust themselves upon you.

That was before you held your sobbing aunt in an embrace. Or witnessed the bloodshed of your kin. So much blood. The sight that greeted you was as if a vicious stroke of a painter's carelessness had smudged everything in red.

But your world had shrunk to your kin. Your cousins, Findarato, Artanis, Angaráto, and Aikanáro, huddled next to your aunt. It had been a mercy of Illuvatar to spare your father of this sight.

You didn't know how you would ever face him again. How would you ever tell him about your inaction while your kin were slain? How could you confess that you stood frozen, watching your husband slaughter your uncles and aunts?

Lost in these thoughts, you joined the returning party with the new High King, Arafinwe. The decision was clear. You wouldn't follow those who stained their hands with your kin's blood.

That was what you thought before your eyes landed on Ektelion. In your mind, he too was to return with you. You both would return with Findarato and the others, beg for the Valar's and the Teleri's forgiveness.

 There had to be some way to make amends. Your presence and Ektelion's would be needed at Alqualonde. You could help rebuild…your father would need you by his side. Findarato could aid at Lorien. Yes, this would mend things for the best. Supporting your aunt, you planned everything, ready to bring it up to your uncle.

Yet, your brother was nowhere to be found near Aunty Earwen or the retreating faction of the Noldor. You searched for him, a sudden dread gripping your heart. He had been safe before, his sword unmarked by the violence on the shores.

And when your eyes found him, it wasn't your brother you saw, but a soldier. Standing next to the looming figure of Turukano was Ektelion, not by your side, but by his lord. Duty had proven stronger than the bond of your marriage to Findekano.

So it was with Findarato, Artanis, Angaráto, and Aikanáro. Your cousins, your brother, and the love of your life stood opposite the retreating party you had joined. A declaration that rang loud to your dismayed aunt, the grieving Teleri, and the new High King. The Noldor were no longer a united front.

The shores of Alqualonde became a chasm, splitting them into those under Arafinwe's leadership on one end and Curufinwe's on the other. 

Ages later, the question would still haunt you: what if you had walked the path back home? It would have saved many, the misery of your wretched fate.

Turukano perhaps would have led a life with Elenwe by his side. Itarillë would have grown up with a mother. Findekano would not have died with a heart of stone.

But this was your misery. Your redemption. To mull over the what-ifs. It was the price to be paid for your greed. Your selfish love that drove you to the lands that once doomed your ancestors.

[lovefairymina]

Turgon... I-I'm pregnant *takes his large hand and places it on my stomach* you're going to be a parent again, darling.

“Oh?!” he gasped as he felt the slight bump and the presence of your baby's fëa moving around. His eyes were saucers the more he felt their fëa moving, and it brought a proud smile to his face. It almost spilt his face into half from how much he was grinning. “Ah! We're having another baby! I'm getting to be a father all over again!”

[animatorweirdo]

The guardian angel beneath the wolf's clothing

(Fingon x reader)

Fingon was meant to die that day by the Balrog's hand, but he survived thanks to his mysterious savior.

Warnings: mentions of death, burns, injuries, violence, blood, problems with eating. Fingon trying hard to figure out a secret.

-------------------------------

Fingon could remember it like it happened yesterday. 

He stood alone before Gothmog, the vicious captain of Morgoth and the lord of Balrogs. All of his men and guards lay dead around him. The smell of their blood and the smoke from the fire dominated his senses as he could barely stand up with his sword. He could hear the screaming of men and his kin as the dragons laid waste to them with their deadly fiery breath. Fingon was exhausted. After days of fighting and trying to breach Morgoth’s fortress, he barely had any strength left to continue the fight. He wanted, no– needed a moment to rest. However, that was not an option as he stood before the creature of darkness and fire, the very being that killed Feanor. 

The fiery demon cackled at his state, mocking his stance in the battle and offering mercy if he surrendered. His kin and forces lay scarce. They lost. However, the dark lord might show some mercy if he surrendered.

Wielding the pride of Noldor, Fingon refused, and the two ended up in a fierce battle. 

He fought with all of his strength. Though tired, he managed to conjure enough energy to dodge and strike when the opportunity arose. The chances of victory were low, but he refused to go down without a fight. If he was to die, he would at least take the demon to death with him.

He fought fearlessly, yet his singular focus on one foe caused him to overlook another balrog sneaking up from behind, trapping him in whips of flame. He cried out in pain as the flames bit and burned his flesh, rendering him against the ground, unable to move or escape its fiery grasp. 

Gothmog and his treacherous kin laughed in mockery. Fingon felt anger for such a dirty play in battle and fear when he saw Gothmog raise his dark axe, ready to strike him down. 

At that moment, he knew it was the end. Turgon and Maedhros were too far away to reach him in time. He couldn’t move or raise his sword. He was all alone. 

All the memories of his family and loved ones rushed through his mind, and he was filled with dread and sorrow. He did not wish to depart so soon, not after getting so close, but there was nothing he could do. At least he would be reunited with his beloved father in Mandos. 

He was ready to meet his death by Gothmog’s hands, but then, something bright caught his eye. It looked like a light— shining through the dark battlefield. 

Something blurred past him with incredible speed, latching onto Gothmog's face and pushing him away from the elf. The Balrog roared in surprise and pain, seizing the creature and hurling it right before Fingon. Startled, Fingon stumbled back as it landed with a harsh thud, yet he swiftly regained his composure and had a chance to see what stood before him.

Before him stood a magnificent white wolf, its growls resonating as it bared its teeth defiantly at the Balrog. Fingon found himself both baffled and surprised by its sudden appearance. The wolf's fur was nearly white as snow, and a fierce determination filled its eyes. It stood tall like Sauron’s werewolves, yet it did not behave like any of them. It was protecting him. 

Gothmog cursed the wolf as one of his eyes bled from the attack. The wolf roared and lounged at the balrog without fear. 

Fingon watched the battle unfold. The wolf was fast and used Gothmog’s size to its advantage, dodging his attacks and climbing to reach his weaker spots, lunging its teeth through his thick skin. Gothmog roared as he attempted to grab or shake the creature off his back. 

Fingon felt a flicker of admiration for the courageous beast. Unlike most creatures of the earth, it did not cower in fear before the lord of Balrogs. However, he could not help but feel fear and worry for the creature. It exhibited incredible swiftness, deftly evading Gothmog’s slashing claws and swinging axe. Yet, its resilience did not render it immune to the blistering flames emanating from Gothmog. Fingon could already discern burns beginning to mar its fur and muzzle.

Gothmog cursed in black speech. The balrog behind Fingon suddenly freed him from the whips of flames. Fingon found himself kneeling on the ground in agony, his armor seared and his wounds bleeding profusely. Fearfully, he watched as the balrog hastened to aid its lord.

The wolf reacted swiftly upon noticing the presence of the other balrog, evading its attempt to grab hold. It held its ground against the pair, though the odds shifted against it as the demons unleashed their weapons. The battle began to overwhelm the valiant creature.

Fingon watched, fear evident in his eyes. The wolf possessed the advantages of speed and quick reflexes, yet even these attributes couldn't level the playing field against two balrogs.

The wolf continued to dodge, seeking an opportunity to counterattack, but a powerful strike from the fiery whip landed on its back. The wolf cried out in pain as the force of the blow – tossed it to the ground. 

Fingon crawled back as the wolf slammed right in front of him. It tried to stand back on its feet, emitting silent growls and stumbling under the pressure of its wounds. The wound caused by the Balrog’s whip began to blister in one painful line across its back. Its once pristine white fur had turned gray from all the smoke and scorched from the numerous burns caused by Gothmog’s flames. Fingon’s heart twisted with poignant empathy.

Blood seeped from the beast’s mouth, a clear indication of having tasted the scalding blood of the balrog. Heavy breaths left its mouth as it tried to focus but quickly lost footing and fell back on its belly. 

Fingon reached out, his hand extending to make contact with the wolf's fur in a gentle gesture, hoping to dissuade it from engaging further in the hopeless fight. Instantly, the creature turned its attention toward him, causing Fingon to pause. Its eyes were keen and brimming with vitality, yet there was something else in them, like someone looking back at him. After seeing his reaction, the beast softened its gaze, which was surprising. 

Gothmog began to insult the beast, calling it an insolent mutt and mocking the pathetic attempt to save the elf’s life. He then began to describe how he would make Fingon watch as he ripped the wolf apart, ensuring it would be a long and painful death before he would take the elf’s life. 

The wolf released soft snarls before pushing its large head beneath Fingon’s arm. Fingon held onto the wolf’s fur in surprise as the wolf picked him up on its back with the surprising strength it still had despite its injured state. He was momentarily baffled and unaware of what the wolf was planning. 

Gothmog seemed to realize what the wolf was planning and quickly acted, swinging his large axe at them both. 

Jumping out of the way and avoiding the deadly throw of the gigantic axe, the wolf began to sprint away from the balrogs, running across the battlefield toward the hordes of orcs that surrounded them. 

Fingon felt hesitation and held on tight as the wolf slammed through the lines of orcs that tried to stop them. They were no match to the wolf’s strength and incredible resilience as it continued running, dodging and avoiding arrows sent on its way while carrying him on its back. It didn't take long for the wolf to reach the edge of the battlefield and streak across the land, distancing itself from Angband and the lost battle with the dark lord. 

The wolf continued running across the land, but Fingon could hear the quickening, labored breaths and sense the wolf's gradual deceleration. It was clear the wolf was getting exhausted. Fingon tried to ask the wolf to slow down since it had carried him far enough from the battlefield to consider it safe. However, the wolf ignored him for some reason. His eyes then caught the sight of Maedhros’s banners. Hope surged within him. He now understood why the wolf persisted in its determined journey—to lead him to his cousin's encampment.

As they got closer, the wolf suddenly tripped. Fingon fell from the wolf’s back and groaned hard from the impact as it stung all his wounds, but he brushed them off when he laid his concerned eyes on the wolf. 

It laid against the ground, unmoving and heavily breathing. Fingon crawled over to the beast. He settled beside it, his gaze locking with the wolf's weary eyes. The creature appeared scarcely conscious, undoubtedly from the exhaustion and the pain inflicted by the wounds and the burns that marred its body.

He laid his hand against the wolf’s head, careful not to touch any of its wounds. The wolf looked back at him. "Thank you—" He uttered, acknowledging that he wouldn't have survived to see another day if it weren't for its bravery and unwavering spirit. He allowed his fingers to move slowly, tenderly caressing and scratching the wolf's head. A faint whine slipped from the wolf's mouth, its tail wagging ever so slightly, briefly lifting the weight from his heart.

Someone from Maedhros’s camp suddenly notices him and alerts the rest of Maedhros’s people. 

Fingon allowed the healers to pick him up and take him to the healer’s tent where many other wounded were gathered after the devastating battle, and was glad to see his red-haired cousin, who was convinced Fingon had died after being overrun by Morgoth’s forces and the treacherous Easterlings.  

He then remembered the wolf and turned around, hoping he would be able to convince his cousin to help his savior — only to find the wolf gone. The spot it laid upon was now empty save for the tiny pools of blood on the ground. There was no sight of it. It had vanished like a ghost in the air. 

Confusion filled his heart, and an ounce of sorrow as he did not know if the wolf had died or not. It had saved his life, so he would have at least wanted to return the favor. 

The white wolf’s appearance and disappearance remained a mystery. No one really knew anything about it except that it had appeared during the battle and vanished after bringing him to safety. Some speculated it was a spirit sent to protect him or a beast that fought against its creator's tyranny. Many rumors were born out of the event, and none of them really felt right with Fingon. He sensed there was something much more than meets the eye with the wolf, which he couldn’t put a finger on or find out since he never saw the wolf again. 

He stayed with Maedhros after recovering from his injuries and being able to walk again. His lands were overrun by Morgoth’s forces and most of his people were scattered due to the catastrophic defeat in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

It was a difficult predicament. As the high king, he should take responsibility and find a way to stable things for his people, but he didn’t know how. He half considered relinquishing the title of high king back to Maedhros. He did not feel like the right leader for his kin, and he knew some of Maedhros’s brothers would love to have the opportunity to reclaim the title back to their house. 

Fortunately, Maedhros provided unwavering support, and together they established some footing and stability in their shared predicament. 

He met you by chance in a human town made by refugees from Hithlum and all the other places taken by Morgoth. You were one of Hurin’s people from Dor-lomin.  

You managed to escape with your family when the Easterlings unexpectedly invaded and seized your home. Their sudden attack led to the destruction of your house, leaving you with burn marks and bandages that now covered your hands.

Fingon felt sympathetic since losing Nirnaeth Arnoediad resulted in the loss of your home and the freedom of your people to the Easterlings. He remembered how Hurin fought bravely, which allowed his brother to escape. At times, he offered solace when homesickness and concern for Morwen and her children overtook you. They were your younger cousins, and you used to play with them in the past. The only good news you had heard from them was that Turin had been taken to safety. 

You two shared a curious friendship. Fingon found comfort in your presence and the time you two shared, talking freely about worries and families. It helped to ease his mind even though he found it odd when some of your people considered your family strange and overprotective. 

You explained your parents had always been protective of you — ever since Morgoth sent the plague that took the lives of many and the recent loss of your home. Fingon understood it and didn’t inquire about it further. 

He didn't know why or how, but something drew him to you. You had a calming presence, and your eyes flickered a sense of familiarity in him like he had seen them before. 

When he one day told you about the white wolf that saved his life, you had an interesting reaction. You listened attentively, though your expression bore the weight of contemplation. Your hands absently stroked your bandages as if a familiar itch had returned. He had not seen you act like that before, and when he ended the story and caught your attention — your demeanor changed to your usual one. 

You called the wolf brave for standing up against a balrog out of all creatures. You two conversed about its potential origins, and you ended up mentioning the possibility of the wolf being a shapeshifter. Fingon considered it as he began to observe you from afar. 

He was busy keeping up the alliance between your people and his, but when he had time – he would carefully observe you from a distance. Personally, he would never intrude on someone’s privacy, but his suspicions only grew when he began to think of the possibilities of you — being the white wolf. 

It had not been too long since the battle, so the timing of your burns and wounds matched. You claimed you got burned when you tried to escape from your burning house and picked up a burning log to save your father, but they could have been from somewhere else — like from the flames of a balrog. Fingon remembered quite clearly how the wolf had used its claws to climb and tear on Gothmog’s skin, which resulted in them burning from the touch. 

You seemed familiar to him, and now he found out you had trouble eating properly. You had not mentioned anything about your problem with eating, so he couldn’t help but ask about it when he saw your plate filled with smashed and cut vegetables and fruits. You claimed you inhaled too much smoke and embers, so your mouth and tongue got damaged during your escape. 

It sounded too strange for him, especially when he noticed how exceptionally slowly you ate and appeared physically uncomfortable– despise the food being cut and smashed soft enough even for a baby to eat.

He continued observing but couldn’t uncover any other possible clues of you being the white wolf or a shapeshifter. He couldn't cast accusations solely on observations and because you shared similar injuries with the white wolf. And he didn’t know how to approach the subject with you without risking his friendship with you. 

You began to notice his prolonged absence and the strange looks he threw your way. He looked hesitant and suspicious about something, so when you had the chance – you approached him and asked if you had done something to upset him. 

Fingon was startled when you suddenly appeared to him but when you explained his sudden change in behavior and avoidance, he felt remorse and apologized, assuring you had done nothing to upset him. 

You told him he could rely on you if he needed help. Fingon felt touched and admitted that it was simply the stress that was getting to him. He would never bring himself to put you under any pressure. Your company and friendship were more than enough in these crucial times. 

Fingon felt ashamed of his antics and suspicion. He had not noticed he appeared to be avoiding you, thus causing you unnecessary negative feelings. He did wish to unravel the mystery of his beastly savior, but there was no reason to put you under stress for it. There was a chance your burns and injuries in the same places as the wolf’s injuries were a mere coincidence, so he decided to leave it there. 

He valued the friendship you two shared. You were gentle and honest, which he found precious despite the darkness that gloomed over his kin and the threat of Morgoth. 

He thought there were no secrets between you till one day — he got his answer to his long unknown mystery of his savior. 

He was riding through the forest, wishing to have some alone time and peace after dealing with demanding politicians and Maedhros’s roguish brothers, who had their eyes on his crown. There never seemed to be an end to their antics and insubordination. 

He incidentally wandered into a moment between you and your mother. You two were seated near a riverside with medicines, towels, and bandages lying around you. It looked like you two were doing something private since you had fewer clothes on you, so he prepared to leave before you could notice his presence and possibly get angry for indecent staring. However, your mother then began scolding you for something that caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but stay and listen. 

Your mother was furiously scolding you for being reckless and injuring yourself while adding ointment and cream to the burns on your hands and arms. Fingon frowned at the sight since they looked much more severe than he thought. She then mentioned you secretly sneaking into the battle between the elves and Morgoth and revealing yourself. 

Fingon perked at the new information as you mentioned being at home while your father joined the assault upon Angband.

You quietly explained that you only wanted to look out for your father and that Fingon would have perished if you had not intervened when the Balrog was going to take his life. 

Fingon watched as your mother smacked you in the head and commanded you to turn around and pick up your shirt so she could add the medicine to your back. You begrudgingly turned around and pulled your shirt to reveal your backside. Fingon was shocked when he saw a familiar burnt scar line across your back.  It was red and had blistered over time and on the exact spot where the wolf got struck by the Balrog’s whip of fire. 

There was no denying it. You were the white wolf— his mysterious savior. 

He should have felt angry for upholding such truth but couldn’t help but feel joyful for the discovery. It all made sense now, the close connection, the familiarity in your eyes, and all of your similar injuries and burns. You had met before because you were the one who saved him from the harsh fate of death. 

Fingon looked as your mother added the cream to your back, making you silently hiss from the coldness and the pain that had lingered for months. He felt pity for your pain since it was because of him you were in such a state. You risked your own well-being to save him from a creature no other would daringly face in battle. 

He continued watching for a while before deciding to leave you alone with your mother since he had eavesdropped more than enough. He rode back to the town, thinking about the discovery and your shared time together. 

He wanted to thank you. You saved his life. However, he wasn’t sure how since he had unintentionally discovered your secret himself. He didn’t want to startle you since you hadn’t told him yourself. He thought about your burns. Maybe—he could express his gratitude by aiding in healing your wounds. Elven medicine was more potent and could most likely even help you eat better in the future. That was it. He will keep your secret safe and wait until you are ready to tell it to him yourself.

[polutrope]

By the way, do you have the impression that Turgon and Thingoil are characters that I think Tolkien liked and admired much more than most people who write fanfics, that Tolkie really admired them and has better opinions of them than many people in the fandom in relation to fanfic about them.

Hi Anon!

I am probably not the most knowledgeable about fandom-wide opinions because most of the opinions I'm exposed to are from people on my dash that I've chosen to follow, and I read fic by and recommended by that community of people. That being said, I try to branch out and remain open to various interpretations. My experience participating in fandom this way has actually led me to a lot of people and writers with quite nuanced, generally favourable opinions on Turgon and Thingol! It's only from those people that I have heard that this is not necessarily the norm 😔.

Based on what I have heard and occasionally encountered, I do think Tolkien "liked and admired" Turgon and Thingol more than many readers in fandom, but, crucially, I don't think he was approaching them with the same mindset as most of those fans who take an unfavourable, even hostile, view of them.

I'm not an expert on Tolkien the Man, i.e. who he was as a person and how that was brought into his writing, but I do know that he was a scholar and enjoyer of literary traditions that did not follow the conventions of dominant contemporary storytelling. Many of the stories that inspired Tolkien were about legendary, epic heroes who were violent, fallible, selfish, etc... but still heroes -- basically because the genre said so. I didn't study Norse and Anglo-Saxon culture and traditions like Tolkien, but I did study Homeric literature a bit and the stories and heroes of the Silmarillion have always reminded me of those legends and characters (it's why I love it!).

I think it's impossible to reach a conclusive argument about the morality of or a verdict on the actions of e.g., Homer's Achilles or Odysseus. It can be diverting, an interesting mental exercise, creatively fulfilling, but I think the storytelling is ultimately incompatible with that kind of analysis. The characters just are what they are, and if the text says they are Great then they are. That's that.

I believe it's that way with Thingol and Turgon. We are told they are glorious and wise kings but a lot of what they actually do doesn't seem very glorious or wise. (Feanor is like this, too -- big time lol.) I think that's because the genre/traditions the Silm is inspired by do not necessitate that the story back up a character's "quality of excellence." We are just invited to accept it.

My sense is that that is not satisfying to many people (works for me though!). It is interesting to judge characters for their actions. It's what contemporary novels/TV/film/etc invite us to do, and many like doing it (again, not really me, but I'm strange).

(Tolkien's later writings, like LotR and some of the post-LotR writings, do invite this kind of reading, and I think that Tolkien at that stage was taking pains to show as well as tell us that X character was noble/wise/brave/etc. Which brings me to an issue that I think is at the root of so many interpretive disagreements about the published Silmarillion, namely that it's compiled from a selection of drafts written over decades and those drafts are not always compatible with one another in terms of genre and tone. Christopher did his darned best, and anyone who has read through HoMe will appreciate what an impressive job he did, but while he could iron out inconsistencies, without extensive rewriting -- which he was determined not to do -- I think incompatibilities like this were unavoidable. So we get Tinwelint from the 1917-19 Tale of the Nauglafring blended in a soup with Thingol of the 1950s Narn i Hin Hurin and the result makes for a bit of a strange aftertaste. There's even some full-on characterisation whiplash for those who are looking very very closely, as us fans like to do. Turgon is another character whose story is drawn from disparate strands of the Silmarillion's textual history, hmm... maybe something there.)

So, I have been theorising that all this is possibly why there seems to be a disconnect between Tolkien's presentation of characters like Thingol and Turgon and how much of the fandom receives and interprets them. Storyteller and reader are looking at things through incompatible lenses. Which is interesting! I think the problems (and vitriol) arise when people are not recognising that their opinions are filtered through a particular lens.

Probably far more than you were looking for with this Ask, but this issue has been circulating in my mind. I hope it makes some sense. I am trying to articulate half-formed thoughts through the fog of a head cold.

[eunoiaastralwings]

Hey! First time requesting here, so I hope this one will be okay. How about Rog reuniting with reader he met during his captivity in Angband? He hasn't seen them ever since he escaped until one day reader finds their way to Gondolin. Reader is scarred and scared, but happy to see him and maybe it's a heartwarming reunion. And maybe after taking reader in, he made a habit to read for them since they had a poor eye sight so they couldn't see words properly and because they find his voice soothing like all those years ago in Angband.

Found Again

featuring rog x fem reader

fandom tolkien-the silmarillion

warnings slight angst, fluff, mention of captivity and torture, silm AU

a/n @animatorweirdo i hope you enjoy hun- changed it up just minor

Rog had been the forges as per usual – keeping the energy alive with his casual jokes but focus on his hammering on the iron still running through.

But the moment he heard the other smiths speaking of the lost and battered elf found near the gates of the hidden city – his voice and hammering slowly died down.

His eyes widened at the description that matched you without fail – his whole body was rigid for a moment as he let out shaky unbelieving breath.

Without another words – his body rushed out he doors of the forges his entire being bouncing joy to the depths of his soul.

His beat rapidly with each step.

Rog quickly asking for the directions to where you could be to many people – he couldn’t control his excitement today as he hastily asked and thanked him for letting him know about you – only to leave King Turgon rather confused and taken back at the head of the dinner table.

Even Princess Idril giggled at his antics as Rog was in and out the moment he heard of your placement.

His feet ran towards in the infirmary fast – as if he waited any longer his poor heart would break out of his own ribcage.

He remembered the countless nights together with you during the captivity – even though the dark and run-down walls of the cell you were the light that told him to keep fighting.

He remembered how you allowed him to hold you when you needed comfort – his strong arms would instantly wrap around you, and he would tell your great stories filled with only joy and laughter to make you smile when you were hurting.

Rog remembered how your eyes would shine every time he started telling you a story – smiling even as you fell asleep in his arms despite the pain you experienced earlier.

Rog rushed through the doors of infirmary – almost startling the healer in sights – the smile on his lips only growing as his eyes met with yours.

You sat quietly on the bed – almost afraid of the healers to touch you, jumping as the doors opened so suddenly.

Your eyes only widened more in recognition of you stood before you.

Your dry mouth refused to form words – but Rog was beside you in seconds, kneeing before you on the side of the bed – his hands gently cupping yours bruised hands.

“Y/N. . .?”

His voice was gentle and soothing – just like you always remembered it was.

His eyes sparkling like you remembered many a times – enough for you dream them.

You truly could not believe your eyes – your hands somewhat trembled in his before you slowly left then away from his hands and gently – and shakily – brought him to his face.

Though quite intimate you couldn’t stop yourself from cupping strong jawline and cheeks of his jawline – his smooth skin underneath your fingertips once again.

“. . . Rōka.”

You gently whispered – your voice meek and raspy from your journey to here.

He almost sighed in relief – not minding how your hands cupped his face. He frowned although he couldn’t deny how touch your hands on his face felt good and reviving.

“You’re safe. . . you’re here. . .”

Rog whispered – almost convincing himself before he grinned up at you excitedly.

Your heart fluttered seeing that smile again – how beautiful is was just as the day you last saw it.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’ll see that smile again – probably having to live again if possible, to see so – you thanked whatever luck you had by your side as you saw it again.

Rog stayed with you that afternoon – refusing to leave until you did was your healer instructed so.

Somethings frightened you – tools that looked strikingly like the weapons used in your captivity.

You were more than positive – if it weren’t for Rog’s comforting and familiar arms around you, you would have surely screamed and hit the healer’s hands or even kicked by self-defence – thinking the worst possible.

Rog had to even gently hold your arms sometimes – seeing how violently tried to jerk away anything sharp or crushed plants.

You had refused to leave Rog’s side the following days – thinking it was only a dream and you truly hadn’t found his hidden elven paradise.

It was as if Rog was your only strength and courage to walk through and find yourself again.

Sometimes you had even stuck by his side in the forges – Rog did not seem to mind however, rather he was excited to show anything and everything.

You were a little afraid of the fire however – so he only kept you to see the little things.

He was always looking for ways to make you smile – make you feel welcome and at home.

It was Rog who took the initiative to help you introduce yourself to King Turgon – it was common curtesy after all to meet and acknowledge your king.

Rog stood tall beside you – aiding you in whatever you needed to say or do.

When Rog heard you had trouble sleeping it was broken his heart.

“Do try and rest, Y/N. . .”

He said gently after the healer once again instructed you to rest.

“I can’t. . .”

You mumbled quietly – your voice barely audible.

“I’m scared to. . .”

You admitted.

“Scared of what, elen?” (star).

He asked – his voice was tender laced with concern.

“Scared it’s. . . all a dream. . .”

You almost whimpered.

“Scared. . .I’ll close my eyes. . .then open them again only to see you gone. . .and I’m alone. . .*again*.”

You said scared – your bottom lip quivering.

Rog’s heart ached that your words and he gently shook his head.

“Never, elen. . .you have my word. . .you shall never be alone again – I’ll never let you be alone again. I’m right here, elen, always – I shall promise you that with my soul. . .”

He smiled – promising you tenderly with an unyielding determination within his voice.

A determination that inspired you.

“Read to me. . .?”

You smiled – your eyes softly connecting with his eyes.

“I was hoping you would ask.”

He grinned – pulling out the book he was eager to read to you.

You giggled at his excitement as you settled comfortably - listening to his voice bringing you to a safe slumber.

Your lips forming a fond smile as your eyes closed listening to every word that fell from his lips.

You finally felt safe once again. . . and it was all because of your Rōka. . . finally you were found again. . .

Taglist form

tara's taglist:@mismaeve @fizzyxcustard @wandererindreams @ranhanabi777 @spidergirla5 @asianbutnotjapanese @bunson-burner @floraroselaughter

silm taglist: @doodle-pops