batsyforyou

[batsyforyou]

Headcanon that:

the Fëanorians HATE Beleriand, not its peoples but the land itself. It's too cold and too wet.

Maedhros misses being warm, he misses not being in pain, he misses the quiet steady drama of the court in Valinor, he'd trade anything to deal with pettiness again over the cruelty and death he encounters now.

Maglor misses his language, he's grown to despise Sindran, it feels blunt and obvious, it provides no subtlety, no place to hide poetry in the corners of the words. he can't remember how long has it been since he's heard his real name.

Celegorm misses Orome, it's as simple as that he misses the wild safety of knowing your god loves you, he misses hunting as a form of worship rather than just to survive.

Curufin misses his father father's forge how the fires never went out, he misses the collection of knowledge that had been available to him at home, he misses the ability to be a craftsman, not a sword smith.

Caranthir misses quiet, the peace to read book, to work out a math problem or a technical issue in silence, without it being an emergency or someone breathing down his neck for it.

The Ambrussar miss their mother, they miss her work shop, they miss the safety of her arms, the closest thing they have seen to her face in centuries is their own, they should have listen when she entreated them to stay behind.

But the Nolofinweans oh they love Beleriand. from the moment they saw the first sunrise out on the ice of the Helcaraxë they loved it.

Fingon can feel in his bones he's become who he was always meant to be, he holds his head higher than ever, the cold stinging his nose and the tips of his fingers merely reminds him he is alive and that the sun will always rise again.

Aredhel has more space to roam, to ride to explore than she could ever imagine, the deep forests are hers, the coasts are hers the sky is hers, she is freer than ever before and twice as wild.

Turgon has done more good than he ever thought, with his secret white city, a hidden jewel tucked away in the mountains. He has seen crafts perfected, he has seen healers save lives. He lives in ardent worship of the gift of life.

For the line of Fingolfin is ever destined to rise to occasions where the line of Fëanor falls and fails. They are indomitable even in death, they are hopeful when hope is gone.

[batsyforyou]

Just A Hug…And One Kiss

Námo x reader

Request: Hello! Could you please write a fic with Namo? Something sweet and fluffy, maybe reader drags him from work to a date night, with a romantic dinner and cuddles afterwards? Our lovely judge needs some love and affection. Thank you and have a beautiful day!

A/N: Thank you the request so I can write more Námo content, anon!

Warnings: none, fluff

Words: 1.5k

Synopsis: You convinced your overworking husband to let go for one evening and relax.

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You found yourself standing in the grand chamber where he often spent long hours contemplating and recording the fates of the dead. The space was vast and imposing, its stone walls carved with intricate patterns that glowed faintly with an otherworldly light. There, Námo sat at a large stone table, his dark hair flowing over his shoulders as he pored over yet another decision. His piercing green eyes were fixed on a glowing scroll before him, his sharp features illuminated by its soft light. He looked every bit the formidable Judge of the Dead, but to you, he was simply Námo—the one who had captured your heart.

“You’re working late again,” you said softly, breaking the heavy silence.

Námo’s head lifted slightly, his eyes meeting yours. He did not sigh, nor did he frown, but you could see the faintest flicker of weariness in his gaze. “There is much to be done,” he replied in his deep, measured voice. “It cannot wait.”

You stepped closer, the hem of your robes brushing against the smooth stone floor. “It can wait for one evening,” you insisted gently, placing a hand on the edge of the table. “You’ve been at this for days without pause. You need a break.”

Elegantly, he raised a brow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The souls entrusted to me do not rest, nor do they delay in arriving. My duty is to—”

“Your duty,” you interrupted, though your tone was soft and teasing, “will be there tomorrow. Tonight, however, your duty is to me.”

His expression shifted slightly, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, reaching out to grasp his shoulders and massage his tense muscles. You felt him stiffened slightly before relaxing under your touch as your fingers worked. “You work harder than anyone I know, but even the Judge of the Dead deserves an evening to himself now and then. Let me take care of you for a change.”

“I have responsibilities—”

“And I have plans,” you interrupted with a firm tone yet affectionate. “Plans that involve you, my dear husband, stepping away from all of this,”—you gestured at the desk piled high with documents—“and spending an evening with me.”

There was the barest hint of a smile threatening to break through his stoicism. “And what, may I ask, do these plans entail?”

You leaned down, placing your chin on his shoulders, and slid your hands down his arms. “Dinner,” you said softly, “a proper one. Followed by a quiet night together. No scrolls. No souls. Just us.”

For a moment, he said nothing, simply studying you with those piercing eyes of his. You could see the conflict there, the instinct to protest warring with the desire to give in to your request. Finally, he sighed—a sound that was more resigned than exasperated. “You’re persuasive.”

You grinned, straightening and holding out your hand to him. “Only because I love you. Now, come on. Don’t make me drag you out of this chair.”

With a quiet chuckle, Námo took your hand and allowed you to pull him to his feet. His tall, imposing frame towered over you, but the way he gazed at you—gentle, almost reverent—made you feel as though you held all the power in the world.

The dining room you had prepared was far removed from the austere grandeur of Mandos. It was warm and inviting, lit by the gentle glow of candles placed in elegant holders. A table stood in the centre of the room, adorned with a simple yet charming arrangement of flowers and a delicious spread of food that you had painstakingly prepared. The scents of roasted vegetables, freshly baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, creating an atmosphere of comfort and intimacy.

Námo followed you into the room, his sharp features softening as he took in the sight. “You did all this for me?” he asked quietly with a touched of genuine surprise.

“Of course,” you replied, smiling as you guided him to a seat. “You deserve it.”

“I can’t imagine you cooking all this yourself,” he teased.

“Excuse me,” you retorted, feigning offence and lifting a hand to your chest. “I’ll have you know I spent hours on this. Blood, sweat, and tears, my love. Blood, sweat, and tears.”

“Is that so?” he replied, one dark brow arching. “I suppose I should commend your effort, then.”

“You should,” you said, nodding emphatically. “And if you’re not careful, I might make you do the dishes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smile. “I shudder to think of such punishment. The Great Doomsman washing dishes,” he humorous muttered. “How poetic. If my brother ever catches a whiff of me washing dishes, I will never know peace.”

He sat down, his movements as fluid and precise as ever, but you noticed the way his posture relaxed slightly as he settled into the chair. You took the seat opposite him, pouring wine into his goblet before filling your own. The two of you clinked glasses, the sound ringing softly through the room.

As the meal began, Námo allowed himself to enjoy the food, his usual restraint giving way to a more relaxed demeanour. You chatted easily, steering the conversation away from his work and instead focusing on lighter topics—the beauty of the stars that evening, a memory from your shared past, a funny story you had heard earlier in the week. And he listened intently, his lips curving into a faint smile at your words.

At one point, when you reached across the table to brush a crumb from his cheek, he caught your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. The simple gesture sent a shiver of warmth through you, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You spoil me,” he said with a tinged of rare vulnerability.

“Someone has to,” you teased. “And I’ll do it as often as I can.”

“I had forgotten how pleasant it is to simply...be,” he admitted after a while, his voice thoughtful. “To enjoy a meal without the weight of responsibility pressing down.”

“That’s why I wanted to do this for you,” you said softly. “You give so much of yourself to others, Námo. It’s only fair that someone gives back to you.”

His fingers instinctively tightened around yours, his touch warmer now after the meal. He looked at you with a desire that made your breath catch, his viridian eyes filled with a depth of emotion he rarely showed. “You are a gift,” he said quietly, his words carrying a weight that made your heart swell. “One I do not deserve, but one I am endlessly grateful for.”

You felt a heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could respond, Námo rose from his seat, holding out his hand to you. “Come,” he said. “Let us leave this table behind and simply enjoy each other’s company.”

As he led you out the dining room, you two of you ended up in a smaller sitting room, where a plush sofa and a warm hearth awaited. He sat down first, his long, dark robes flowing around him as he leaned back against the cushions. You joined him, curling up at his side as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The warmth of the flames and the steady rise and fall of Námo’s chest beneath your hand created a cocoon of comfort and peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, content to simply exist in each other’s presence.

“I cannot remember the last time I felt so at ease,” he admitted eventually. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his touch light and soothing. “You have a way of quieting even the most restless parts of my spirit.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “That’s what love does,” you replied. “It makes even the heaviest burdens feel lighter.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then he turned to you with an expression uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. “You remind me of the light before the first music,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pure, untainted, and full of endless possibilities. When I’m with you, it feels as though I am standing in that light once more.”

“You and your rare, sweet words,” you chuckled as you reached up to run your finger along his jawline. “What would I do without them.”

His lips curved into a small, affectionate smile as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. In response, you tilted your head up, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was soft and tender. There was a fleeting moment when you sensed the final weight on his shoulders dissipating.

When you pulled back, his eyes were closed, casting a serene expression. “It seems I have received far more than I deserve tonight.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his shoulder. “You deserve everything,” you said firmly. “And I’ll spend every day reminding you of that if I have to.”

“You have humbled me, my love,” he whispered. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, but I will spend every moment I have trying to be worthy of you.”

“You already are,” you reassured. “And you always will be.”

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[batsyforyou]

I loved this! I could read a whole book with just this. 😂

When You Flirt With Them For Fun

Headcanons: Maedhros, Celegorm, Finrod, Glorfindel, Elrond

Request: [Mixed Selection] May I request headcanons for a flirty human reader with Celegorm, Finrod, Glorfindel, Maedhros and Elrond? Reader is flirting with them but she actually has no romantic interest in them. Genre and being sfw/nsfw don't matter for me - dealer's choice. Thank you in advance!!

A/N: I went with the SFW route that was slightly suggestive, it felt more befitting given the ‘non-romantic interest’ and I was in the mood for a good laugh. This was just a lovely request, anon. Thank you for the request!

Synopsis: When you decide to flirt with them despite being romantically uninterested in them, all for the sake of fun.

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Maedhros

𑁍 You had no idea how you ended up befriending Maedhros, but once you did, you realised something very important: the Eldar were woefully unprepared for human audacity, and Maedhros, in particular, had absolutely no idea what to do with you.

𑁍 “You should smile more,” you told him once, watching as he adjusted his vambrace with that usual, distant intensity. “I bet it’d make all the ladies swoon.”

𑁍 He blinked at you, unimpressed. “I am a Prince of the Noldor. My concerns are not—”

𑁍 “Oh, so you already have them swooning? I should’ve known.” You smirked, tapping a finger against your chin in mock contemplation. “Is it the brooding thing? Or the battle scars? Or maybe it’s the hair—tell me, Maedhros, how many maidens have tried to braid flowers into it?”

𑁍 The strangled noise he made was priceless. It became a game after that. You, being utterly shameless, and Maedhros, being utterly unprepared for someone who flirted without actually meaning it.

𑁍 “Would you catch me if I fell?” you asked once, lounging across a bench like some ancient philosopher contemplating the meaning of life. And Maedhros, ever pragmatic, glanced at you and said, “You are sitting down.”

𑁍 “Hypothetically.”

𑁍 “...I suppose, yes.”

𑁍 “Would you cradle me in your arms and whisper soft reassurances?”

𑁍 “No.”

𑁍 “What if I cried a little?”

𑁍 He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose like he was summoning every ounce of patience left in his soul. You were his worst nightmare.

𑁍 Once, after a particularly ridiculous exchange, Maglor (who found you endlessly entertaining) finally asked, “Are you actually trying to court my brother?”

𑁍 “Oh, absolutely not,” you replied without hesitation. “I just like to see if I can make him malfunction.” The absolute horror on Maedhros’ face was a thing of beauty.

𑁍 “You are malfunctioning,” Maglor pointed out.

𑁍 “I am not—”

𑁍 “Name one time you’ve reacted normally to them.”

𑁍 Maedhros opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then just glared at you. “This is entirely your fault.”

𑁍 You gave him a dazzling smile and fluttered your lashes. “And yet, you keep me around. Hmm. Almost like you enjoy my presence.”

𑁍 “I do not,” he lied blatantly.

𑁍 Eventually, Maedhros stopped protesting, but the sighs of long-suffering continued. You were convinced that, despite his protests, he secretly enjoyed your antics. After all, he never once told you to stop.

Celegorm

𑁍 Celegorm first mistook you for a genuine suitor, which was honestly on him. You had flirted outrageously, batting your lashes and trailing your fingers along his arm while calling him ‘my mighty hunter.’ He had puffed up like a peacock, utterly convinced that you had fallen for his rugged charm.

𑁍 “I understand,” he had said gravely one evening, after you had draped yourself over the back of his chair and whispered something about strong hands and archery skill. “It is difficult to resist me.”

𑁍 You nearly choked on your wine. “Oh, you sweet summer child,” you laughed, patting his shoulder. “I just like watching you squirm.”

𑁍 Celegorm sat there, utterly frozen, like a man who had just been hit by a metaphorical wagon. He stared at you, at the sheer audacity, before narrowing his eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, human.”

𑁍 “Oh, but you’re so fun to mess with,” you grinned, winking.

𑁍 After that, Celegorm dedicated himself to turning the tables. He flirted back with wild intensity, cornering you in halls with smirks and murmured threats of “revenge.” It became a game, a constant back-and-forth of smouldering looks and ridiculous one-liners. The moment you actually backed off, he huffed in disappointment. “What, giving up already?”

𑁍 “Of course not,” you grinned, sauntering past. “I just like keeping you on edge.”

𑁍 One day, he finally called your bluff, leaning down so close his breath brushed your ear. “You talk big, but I don’t think you could handle me.”

𑁍 You burst into laughter so hard you had to clutch your ribs. “Oh, Tyelko, if I wanted to handle you, I’d have done it already.”

𑁍 He stared. You sauntered away, leaving the great hunter standing there, looking more hunted than ever.

Finrod

𑁍 Finrod had your number from the start. The very first time you tried to lean into him and sigh about how ‘utterly entrancing’ his eyes were, he simply raised a golden brow and smirked. “Oh, is that so?”

𑁍 You pouted. “Must you ruin my fun?”

𑁍 “I would never, but I am curious—do you say this to all elves, or am I special?” he purred, clearly amused.

𑁍 “Oh, you’re special, all right,” you grinned, tapping his chest. “Most elves just blush and stammer. You, however, are proving to be a challenge.”

𑁍 Finrod delighted in the game. He indulged you with little flourishes—offering his hand with an elegant bow, leaning in when you whispered something ridiculous, murmuring things in Quenya just to watch you shiver dramatically and sigh, “Oh, if only I knew what that meant!”

𑁍 “It means, ‘You’re absolutely shameless, and I adore it.’”

𑁍 You gasped, pressing a hand to your heart. “Finrod! And here I thought you were an honourable prince.”

𑁍 “Ah, but honour and amusement are not mutually exclusive,” he grinned.

𑁍 He was insufferable. Worse, he was better at this than you were. One night at a feast, he casually kissed the back of your hand and murmured, “My dear, if you keep looking at me like that, I may start to believe you.”

𑁍 “Oh, don’t do that,” you laughed, squeezing his hand. “I’d hate to break your heart.”

𑁍 “You overestimate your power, my dear,” he chuckled, though his eyes shone with a twinkle.

𑁍 “Oh, do I?” you purred, trailing a finger up his arm. “You wouldn’t be the first elf I’ve made weak in the knees.”

𑁍 “And yet, I am still standing,” he mused. “A mystery indeed.”

𑁍 “Well,” you smirked, “there’s still time.”

Glorfindel

𑁍 Glorfindel was used to admiration. Being a golden-haired, heroic Balrog-slayer tended to make one rather popular. He was not, however, used to your particular brand of shameless flirting.

𑁍 The first time you called him ‘the most devastatingly handsome warrior this side of the sea,’ he nearly choked on his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

𑁍 “Oh, don’t be shy,” you teased, elbowing him. “You know you’re devastatingly handsome. I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

𑁍 He recovered quickly. Too quickly. “Oh? And are you thinking about me often, then?”

𑁍 You grinned. “Only in my most sinful dreams.”

𑁍 Glorfindel coughed. You watched, delighted, as a flush rose high on his cheeks. “You are scandalous,” he muttered, shaking his head.

𑁍 “And you like it,” you sing-songed, linking your arm through his.

𑁍 From that moment on, he was both wary and intrigued. You kept him on his toes, throwing winks and suggestive remarks his way whenever the opportunity arose. One time, after he returned from a sparring match, you fanned yourself dramatically. “By the stars, is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

𑁍 He stared at you, sweat still glistening on his brow. “Do you ever stop?”

𑁍 “Why would I?” you asked, propping your chin on your hand. “You’re such an easy target.”

𑁍 “I am not an easy target,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

𑁍 “Oh, Glorfindel,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You poor, oblivious thing.”

𑁍 One day, he turned the tables on you, cornering you in a hallway and leaning in just close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. “Tell me, my sweet tormentor,” he murmured, “what would you do if I took your teasing seriously?”

𑁍 You blinked up at him, your brain stalling for a moment before you grinned and placed a finger on his chest. “I’d be very flattered,” you said, trailing your hand down his tunic before giving him a light shove. “But I’d still be messing with you.”

𑁍 Glorfindel groaned, his face forming a grimace. “You are intolerable.”

𑁍 “And yet, you keep coming back,” you sing-songed, winking as you strolled away.

𑁍 He watched you go, muttering something about humans and their wicked ways. But later, when you caught him smiling to himself, you knew he secretly loved every second of it.

Elrond

𑁍 “Lord Elrond,” you greeted with a smile that was all teeth. “I just want to say that you have the most magnificent bone structure I have ever seen. Have you ever considered the impact of your jawline on the mortal population?”

𑁍 Elrond, to his credit, barely reacted. “No, I have not.”

𑁍 “Tragic. I fear you underestimate its power.” He did not dignify that with a response.

𑁍 It became a sport after that. You flirted. He ignored you. You got more ridiculous. He remained completely, frustratingly composed.

𑁍 “Do you ever get tired of being the most attractive person in the room?” you asked one day, chin in hand, watching him review some diplomatic scrolls.

𑁍 “No,” he replied absently, eyes still scanning the parchment. “It is a burden I have learned to bear.”

𑁍 You choked on your drink. “Oh—so you do have a sense of humour!”

𑁍 His lips twitched, and you swore, just for a second, you saw a glimmer of amusement in those grey eyes.

𑁍 He got his revenge once. You had leaned in far too close, examining his ever-stoic features like some fine work of art, when he turned his head abruptly and murmured, “You are staring, my friend. Do you wish to kiss me?”

𑁍 You jerked back so fast you nearly fell out of your chair. “No!”

𑁍 “Ah,” he said, entirely unbothered, turning back to his scrolls. “How unexpected.”

𑁍 Sometimes, the elves who served him gave you looks of sheer disbelief. You were speaking to Elrond Peredhel, leaning casually against his desk and saying things like, “What if I wrote you a love poem?”

𑁍 “Please do not.”

𑁍 “Too late, I’ve already started. ‘O Elrond, fairest of the fair, with hair like—’ ”

𑁍 “No.” You could almost see him regretting ever acknowledging your presence.

𑁍 Glorfindel, who had been watching the entire ordeal with great amusement, leaned over and whispered, “I have never seen him so consistently harassed before. You are a marvel.”

𑁍 “Thank you,” you said, preening.

𑁍 And yet, despite all his sighs and why must you do this looks, Elrond never once dismissed you. If anything, you sometimes caught him glancing at you with that small, knowing smile of his, like he found you far more entertaining than he’d ever admit.

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[batsyforyou]

House of Finarfin | When You Prank Them By Walking Around Naked

Request: Good Morning! Can I ask for a group headcanon of House Finarfin whos partners walk up to them naked in their house/rooms? (I was inspired by the nakey challenge on tiktok a while back) Like maybe they just took a bath or wanted to distract them? Thank you!!!

A/N: I hope this was what you were referring to and wanted to have written based on your request, anon. I interpreted it like this, and, I had fun. Ugh, finding a good gif was so hard for this post 🥲

Warnings: slightly suggestive, nudity

Synopsis: When you walk around naked to distract them (based on the tik tok naked challenge)

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Finarfin

You watched him from the doorway, a playful grin tugging at your lips. He hadn’t noticed your approach—too absorbed in his work. Perfect. You’d just finished your bath, skin still warm and fragrant from the scented oils. A soft robe hung loosely around your shoulders, but you hadn’t bothered with anything more. The challenge was simple enough. Distraction.

Padding across the room on silent feet, and stopping just behind his chair, he was still oblivious. With a wicked little smirk, you let the robe slip from your shoulders, pooling on the floor in a whisper of fabric.

“Ara,” you murmured sultrily, “are you terribly busy?”

He startled, quill jerking across the parchment, leaving a long, inky streak. Immediately, his gaze snapped to you—then down. You watched as his lips parted, and for a moment, the Prince of the Noldor was utterly speechless.

“...Valar save me,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face as though to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. His gaze flickered back to you, and despite his best efforts, it lingered. “What in Arda are you doing?”

You shrugged, stepping closer. “You’ve been working all day. I thought you could use a break.”

“A break?” Finarfin cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his usual composure. His ears flushed pink, a rare crack in his regal façade. “And you thought…this was the best way to get my attention?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He fumbled, lashes fluttering and mouth fidgeting, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I am trying to focus on important matters.”

“Am I not important?” you teased, perching on the edge of his desk, completely unbothered by his flustered state.

Finarfin’s eyes flickered to the door as if half-expecting someone to burst in at any moment. “We have servants. What if—”

“The door is locked.”

“Oh.” He exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing. Then his gaze softened, taking in your mischievous expression. “You’re being awfully scandalous.”

“And you love me for it.”

“I do not believe I have much of a choice,” he murmured, standing to wrap his arms around you. His hands rested lightly on your waist, his touch hesitant at first, as though unsure where propriety ended, and indulgence began. Then, with an accepting chuckle, he leaned down to kiss your temple. “Next time, perhaps warn me before you—”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Finrod

He was lounging in the sitting room, strumming absentmindedly on his harp, humming a tune you didn’t recognise and lost in his own world. His hair, still damp from his earlier swim, curled slightly at the ends, and he wore a loose tunic that had slipped off one shoulder. The sight of him—relaxed, content, utterly beautiful—sparked a mischievous idea. You slipped away to shed your clothes, returning with nothing but a confident smile.

He didn’t notice your approach until you were standing right in front of him, casting a shadow over his harp. It was then, when he glanced up, his fingers still on the strings.

“You’re blocking my light—” he said lightly, but his smile faltered when he took in your appearance. His eyes widened, and his fingers fumbled, producing a discordant twang.

“Did I interrupt?” you asked innocently, taking a step closer.

“Uh—” Finrod cleared his throat, dragging his gaze up to your face with visible effort. “Not���exactly?”

“Good.” You knelt on the cushion next to him, leaning in just enough to invade his space. His scent—salt and pine and something uniquely Finrod—was intoxicating.

Carefully, he set his harp aside, hands lingering on the instrument as though it might have grounded him. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to forgo clothing today?”

You shrugged, pretending to consider. “I thought you’d appreciate the view.”

“I do,” he admitted, strained. His gaze flickered down, then quickly back up, as though afraid he might get caught staring. “Very much.”

You grinned, delighting in his rare moment of awkwardness. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Finrod.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps a little.”

You took the opportunity to lean closer, brushing your lips against his cheek. “I think it’s sweet.”

He chuckled softly, finally relaxing into the moment. His arms looped around your waist, pulling you into his lap with a gentle ease. “You are far too good at distracting me.”

“That’s the idea.”

For a long moment, he simply held you, the world beyond the room fading into irrelevance. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, and his voice softened, a playful accent returning.

“You know,” he murmured, “there’s a song in this.”

“Oh?”

“‘The Tale of the Naked Muse.’”

You snorted, burying your face in his shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“No promises.”

Angrod

Angrod stood at the table in your shared room, thoroughly reviewing the latest maps sent from the borders of Dorthonion. His sharp eyes scanned each detail, brow furrowed as he considered potential weak points in the defences. The light from the window cast a golden glow on his hair, making him look like some warrior out of legend, which—let’s be honest—he was.

But he was also your husband, and if you had to sit through another day of him muttering strategies under his breath, you were going to lose your mind. So, after your bath, an idea struck you. Wrapping your robe around yourself, you peeked out of the bathroom, waiting for the perfect moment. When he turned his back to you, you silently discarded the robe and stepped into the room.

He didn’t notice at first. You bit back a laugh at how absorbed he was. Approaching quietly, you draped your arms over his shoulders from behind, pressing your bare chest against his back.

“Hmm?” He glanced at your hands, then froze as he realised you were entirely unclothed. “What are you—?”

“I was lonely,” you murmured, brushing your lips against his ear.

He stiffened for a heartbeat before turning to face you fully, his eyes widening as he took you in. His gaze flickered down, lingering on the curve of your body, then back up to your face, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

“Lonely?” His voice was soft and teasing. “Is that so?”

You nodded, biting your lip to keep from grinning. “Very.”

His hands found your waist, warm and firm. “And your solution was to...stroll in here without a stitch of clothing?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours before pulling back just enough to speak. “It did. But you are aware that anyone could walk in? My brothers, perhaps?”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Then you had better hurry and lock the door.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the room in a few strides, locking the door with a satisfying click before returning to you. There was a rare gleam of amusement in his eyes now—one you didn’t see often, but it always made your heart race when you did.

“You are trouble,” he said, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you effortlessly off the floor.

“And you love me for it,” you teased, laughing as he carried you toward the bed.

He laid you down gently, hovering over you with a soft expression that made your chest ache. “Aye,” he whispered. “I do.”

Aegnor

Sitting by the fireplace in the main room, Aegnor was busy polishing his sword with a cloth. His long golden hair caught the firelight, glowing like molten metal, and his sharp, elegant features were focused in deep concentration.

You stood by the doorway, garmented in your nightwear, watching him for a moment. There was something endearing about how serious he looked—as if polishing a sword was the most important task in the world.

An idea popped into your head. Grinning to yourself, letting your nightwear slip from your shoulders, you stepped into the hall, bare feet making soft sounds against the stone floor.

Aegnor noticed you immediately, his keen eyes flicking up from his task. His hands froze, the cloth stilling against the blade as he took you in—standing there, completely naked, with a playful smirk on your lips.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His blue eyes burned as they swept over you, lingering on every curve, every detail. You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, and the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Is there a reason you’re wandering about unclothed?” His voice was steady, but there was a teasing tone to it.

“I was hot,” you replied casually, stepping closer. “And bored.”

He set the sword and cloth aside, rising gracefully to his feet. “Ah, and you thought you might entertain yourself by...distracting me?”

“Is it working?”

Aegnor’s lips curved into a slow, hungry grin. “Oh, it is most certainly working.”

You closed the distance between you, placing a hand on his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath your palm, but you could see the way his pupils dilated, how his breathing deepened.

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy distracting you?” you murmured.

“You’ve made it quite clear.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his fingers trace down your neck and along your collarbone. His touch was light, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re bold,” he said, voice soft and approving. “But what if someone were to see you?”

“I locked the doors.”

His brows lifted in mock surprise. “Did you? Thoughtful.”

“Always.”

Taking your hand and leading you toward the fire, he pulled you to sit on his lap. “Well, since you’ve gone through the trouble of ensuring our privacy, it would be rude of me not to appreciate the effort.”

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[batsyforyou]

Ilvananís

╠ If holding onto a grudge till the day I die is a person then it's her.

↝Was born in Cuiviénen and decided to go to Valinor taking her daughters with her while her husband stayed behind.

↝Lost a daughter and two and half fingers while undergoing the journey.

↝A tailor and was a friend to Míriel Therindë and continued to visit her while she was in Lorien, Ilvananís left Tirion shortly after Finwe's second marriage. She knew he was a trouble from the first moment she saw him but said nothing for Míriel sake.

↝Settling in isolated area made a rift between her and her daughter and it grows bigger with her siding with those who were against Finwe's remarriage.

↝She followed Feanor after his exile in Formenos.

↝After the destruction of the two trees and the death of Finwe, Ilvananis swore fealty to Feanor and returned to Middle-earth with him.

↝Accepted Maedhros as her king after Feanor's death and was among those who accompanied Maedhros to the treaty and lost her life there.

Tags: @batsyforyou

[batsyforyou]

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[batsyforyou]

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[batsyforyou]

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[batsyforyou]

🥺

Sugar and Spice

Modern AU!Caranthir x reader

Request: Hi! Hope you’re doing alright! Exams are killing me, I need some love and comfort and your fics always bring me that🥹Can I ask for a Christmas fic with Caranthir? A Modern!AU where Cara and reader relax under a fluffy blanket with hot chocolate and soft kisses.Thank you❤️ - anon

A/N: Your daily dose of Caranthir fluff is coming right up, anon :)

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: none, fluff

Synopsis: You finally managed to get your beloved workaholic away from his annoying business matters, and to spend some time with you.

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The faint glow of twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the bannister, casting a soft golden hue against the polished wooden floor. The living room smelled of pine and cinnamon, the Christmas tree standing proud in the corner, its ornaments glinting like tiny stars. A light snowfall had begun outside, flakes gathering gently on the windowsill, and all was quiet save for the occasional creak of the house settling against the chill.

You sat cross-legged on the plush sofa, wrapped in a thick, oversized cardigan, your hands cradling a mug of hot chocolate that was more marshmallow than drink. The blanket you had draped over your legs was warm and soft, but it lacked something—or rather, someone. Your eyes shifted to the figure in the adjacent room.

You had spent the better part of the evening setting the stage for what you hoped would finally coax Caranthir away from his laptop. He had been tethered to it for weeks, drowning in spreadsheets, audits, and the endless tedium of his work as a forensic accountant. You knew how much he valued precision and responsibility, but the sight of him hunched over his keyboard, his dark brows furrowed in continual concentration, had begun to weigh on you.

Tonight, though, you had decided to change that.

The sofa had been transformed into a fortress of comfort, laden with plush cushions and a ridiculously oversized, fluffy blanket you had insisted on buying earlier that month. On the table, another steaming mug of hot chocolate sat waiting, topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of crushed candy canes. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced on the walls. The festive film you’d put on for background cheer played unnoticed, its cheery music starkly at odds with the subdued energy of the room.

Caranthir sat at the dining table, his laptop glowing faintly against the dim light of the room. His brow was furrowed in concentration, one hand tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table while the other navigated through endless spreadsheets and emails. His tie had been discarded hours ago, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. You could see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the tell-tale signs of a man who had been working far too much for far too long.

“Cara,” you called gently, trying not to startle him. He didn’t respond, his focus entirely absorbed in whatever forensic accounting puzzle he was trying to untangle.

You sighed softly, setting your mug down on the coffee table and rising to your feet. Padding over to him, you placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. He jumped slightly, his head snapping up, his deep brown eyes meeting yours.

“Sorry,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice low and gravelly from hours of silence. He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was slightly dishevelled from the way he had been raking his fingers through it. “Just a bit... focused.”

“That’s an understatement.” You quirked an eyebrow, gesturing to the laptop. “How long have you been at this?”

He glanced at the clock on the wall, frowning slightly. “A few hours, maybe?”

“Try most of the day,” you countered, crossing your arms. “It’s Christmas Eve, Cara. You promised me you’d take a break.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know, I know. I just—there’s this audit that needs sorting, and some discrepancies in—”

“No.” You shook your head, cutting him off before he could dive into another explanation. You bit back a sigh and leaned down, reaching out to gently close the lid of his laptop. That finally earned his attention. His head snapped up, and his dark eyes locked onto yours, confusion flickering across his face. “No discrepancies, no audits, no numbers. You’re officially done for tonight.”

“Love...” he began, his tone almost pleading, but you were having none of it.

“You’ve worked hard enough,” you said firmly, your hands moving to rest on your hips. “I’ve let you bury yourself in spreadsheets and ledgers for days, but not tonight. Tonight, you’re mine. And we’re going to sit on that sofa, drink hot chocolate, and pretend the only thing we have to worry about is whether we’ll run out of marshmallows before the shops open again.”

He looked up at you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re very persuasive, you know that?”

“I’ve had to be,” you said, your expression softening. “Come on, Moryo. Just a few hours. The world won’t end if you close that laptop for one evening.”

He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at his laptop, before finally exhaling a deep breath. “Alright. You win.”

You grinned, triumphant, and reached down to gently tug him out of the chair. He rose to his full height, towering over you, his presence warm and grounding. You led him to the sofa, pulling him down beside you and wrapping the blanket around both of you. He chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich, and let you tuck him in as though he were the one in need of care.

“See?” you said, leaning back and handing him the mug of hot chocolate you had been saving for him. “This is much better, isn’t it?”

He took the mug from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. “It’s definitely warmer,” he admitted, his lips quirking into a small smile.

You settled against him, your head resting on his shoulder as he sipped the drink. The tension in his body began to melt away, his arm draping over your shoulders to pull you closer. The blanket cocooned you both, the outside world fading into insignificance as the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth enveloped the room. The film continued to play in the background, its jolly charm adding to the cosy atmosphere. You nestled against Caranthir’s side, your head resting on his shoulder. For a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence.

“You know,” you murmured softly, “you’re like that hot chocolate.”

Caranthir raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you. “Am I?”

“Mmhmm.” You tilted your head up to look at him. “All serious and intense at first, but underneath, you’re just sweet and comforting.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “That’s quite the comparison.”

“It’s true,” you teased. “Though you’re missing the marshmallows.”

“I think I’ll survive,” he replied dryly, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the soft hum of Christmas music playing from the radio—his older brother’s number one Christmas hit. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm that lulled you into a state of contentment.

“This is nice,” he said quietly, his voice breaking the silence.

“It is,” you agreed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his arm. “We should do this more often.”

“I’d like that,” he said thoughtfully. “I know I’ve been...preoccupied lately. Work has a way of pulling me in and not letting go.”

“Hmm,” you hummed with a hint of amusement. “But I also know how hard you work, Cara. You’ve always been so dedicated, so driven. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

He looked down at you, his expression softening. “And yet you still manage to pull me away from it.”

“Because I know you need it,” you said, smiling up at him. “Even you need to rest sometimes, no matter how stubborn you are.”

He laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For being patient with me. For knowing when to push and when to let me be. For...this.”

You leaned into him, your heart swelling at his words. “Always,” you said softly.

The evening stretched on, the two of you exchanging quiet conversation and occasional kisses. At one point, you reached for a tin of biscuits, holding it out to him with a playful grin.

“Cookie?”

“Only if there’s gingerbread,” he stated sombre.

You rummaged through the tin, pulling out a gingerbread man and handing it to him with a flourish. He took it with a smirk, biting off the head first as you gasped in mock horror.

“Monster,” you said, shaking your head.

He shrugged, unrepentant, and continued eating. “Sugar and spice,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “It’s a perfect combination.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed your amusement. “Just don’t eat all the gingerbread. I’m saving some for tomorrow.”

“No promises,” he said, leaning in to steal a kiss.

The night wore on, the two of you revelling in the warmth and simplicity of the moment. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in silence and serenity. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Caranthir was fully present, his mind no longer tethered to numbers and deadlines but to you and the quiet joy of being together.

As the fire began to die down and the room grew darker, you found yourselves lying side by side on the sofa, the blanket pulled up to your chins. You yawned softly, your eyelids growing heavy, and Caranthir pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Merry Christmas,” you murmured in return, your voice thick with sleep.

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[batsyforyou]

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[batsyforyou]

Jingle All The Way

Finarfin x reader

Request: Hi! I love your blog so much🥹Could you please write a Christmas fic where wife!reader and Finarfin cook something together for their children? Something warm and sweet, maybe a little blond elf comes by and makes everybody’s hearts melt. Thank you! And, even if it’s early, Merry Christmas ❤️

A/N: Merry late Christmas to you anon, and a Happy New Year! 😁

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: none, fluff

Synopsis: You, Finarfin and Finrod decided to spend a little quality time in the kitchen for the festive season.

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“Atto,” Finrod slurred, adjusting the apron he wore, which bore more flour than his hands did. “I told you the lemon slices must be symmetrical. If the slices are uneven, the entire aesthetic of the dish will be ruined.”

Finarfin paused in his attempt to zest a lemon, the grater in his hand slipping precariously. “Findarato,” he said with forced patience, “this is not an art exhibition. Your mother will not measure the symmetry of lemons when she tastes the dessert.”

“But I will know,” Finrod replied with a dramatic toss of his golden hair, his tone heavy with youthful self-importance. “Presentation is everything.”

Finarfin sighed, his diplomatic training only just holding back a retort. He placed the grater down carefully and turned his attention to the array of ingredients strewn across the counters. Flour dusted every surface, and bowls teetered precariously at the edges. The once-pristine kitchen was a battlefield of their good intentions, with the remnants of earlier mishaps—eggshells, spilt milk, and a rather unfortunate incident involving melted butter—littering the area.

It was the morning of the celebration of Narvinyë, the festival of new beginnings, a cherished time in Valinor that many in the household affectionately referred to as ‘the Yule.’ The faint scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air, left over from the decorations adorning the hallways and the garlands wound around the bannisters.

The kitchen of the grand household was alive with an unexpected buzz of activity. Warm sunlight streamed through the high windows, painting golden patterns on the stone floors and illuminating the chaos unfolding within. Finarfin, High King of the Noldor, stood amidst the flurry, his normally impeccable robes exchanged for a simple tunic, sleeves hastily rolled up. He was not a man accustomed to culinary endeavours, but the determined set of his jaw spoke of his commitment. Beside him was his young son, Findarato, barely into his teens, golden hair catching the sunlight and barely reaching his father’s chest as he surveyed the kitchen with a mixture of enthusiasm and disdain.

Finrod sniffed disdainfully, glancing at the mess. “Mother would never allow this,” he murmured, more to himself than to his father.

“Well, your mother isn’t here to see it,” Finarfin replied, his tone verging on defensive as he attempted to salvage the situation. “She’s supposed to be resting. Or, at least, that was the plan.”

“She will smell the chaos before she sees it,” Finrod quipped, folding his arms. “And if this is meant to be a surprise, I suggest we proceed with a bit more...order.” He gestured authoritatively at the table. “I shall handle the garnishing. You focus on not burning anything.”

Finarfin narrowed his eyes. “You are dangerously close to losing your privileges to taste the results.”

Finrod smirked but wisely returned to his task, arranging berries and mint leaves with painstaking precision on a platter that held no finished dessert yet. “I’m merely offering guidance, atto. Leadership is in our blood, is it not?”

Finarfin muttered something indecipherable under his breath, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement. He was about to respond when the distinct sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Ai,” Finrod hissed, his eyes widening. “She’s coming!”

“You don’t know that,” Finarfin replied, though his own movements betrayed a sense of urgency as he hurried to whisk a bowl of batter that was dangerously close to curdling.

“Father, look at this kitchen! She will think we are incompetent!”

“Remove me from the equation please!” Finarfin corrected, though he immediately regretted it when Finrod’s expression turned mock-horrified. “Findárato, less talking, more doing.”

The door creaked open, and both father and son froze, looking up like startled deer. There you stood, framed in the doorway, your expression a mixture of confusion and amusement as you took in the scene before you. Your husband’s tunic was streaked with flour, his hair slightly dishevelled. Your son stood with a handful of berries, his expression comically guilty, as though you’d caught him in some grand act of rebellion.

“I...” You paused, biting back a laugh. “What on Arda is happening here?”

Finarfin cleared his throat, attempting to straighten himself. “We thought you were resting.”

“I was,” you replied, stepping into the room and carefully avoiding a puddle of something suspiciously sticky on the floor. “But the racket coming from here was hardly conducive to rest. What are you two doing?”

Finrod, ever the dramatic one, stepped forward with a flourish, holding out the platter of berries as though it were a masterpiece. “We are creating a surprise for you, ammë. A display of culinary excellence.”

“Culinary excellence?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow as you gestured to the chaos surrounding them.

Finarfin coughed, shooting Finrod a warning glance before stepping forward. “It was meant to be breakfast...or dessert. The exact nature of the dish is still under negotiation.”

You couldn’t help but laugh then, the sound warm and infectious. “Well, it seems I arrived just in time.” You rolled up your sleeves, looking at the two of them with mock sternness. “Step aside, gentlemen. If this is going to be edible, you’ll need a professional touch.”

Finarfin smiled, a mixture of relief and adoration in his eyes as he stepped back to make room for you. Finrod, on the other hand, looked mildly offended. “I am perfectly capable,” he protested, though he quickly followed suit when you gave him a look and came to stand beside you, the top of his mop of golden curls meeting your shoulder.

You took charge, guiding your husband and son with a gentle but commanding hand. Finarfin, to his credit, listened attentively, his movements more deliberate under your watchful eye. Finrod, however, couldn’t resist his flair for theatrics. He appeared far more interested in inspecting his own reflection in the polished surface of a nearby copper kettle.

“Findárato, you do not need to pose while you mix the batter,” you said, trying not to laugh as your son tilted his head just so, his golden hair falling artfully across his forehead.

“But I do,” he replied with utmost seriousness. “How else will it be perfect?”

“Perfection doesn’t require theatrics,” you replied, though your tone was fonder than scolding.

“Tell that to atto,” Finrod muttered, earning himself a sharp look from Finarfin.

“I heard that,” Finarfin said, though his tone lacked any real bite. He turned to you with a sheepish smile. “Is this salvageable?”

You glanced at the bowl in his hands and nodded. “Barely. Add a bit more sugar, and it should be fine.”

At one point, Finrod accidentally knocked over a bag of flour, and the resulting cloud left all three of you covered in a fine dusting of white. The new mess created only earned groans and grumbles about ‘hair’ and ‘clothes being ruined’ while you and Finarfin stood there, shaking your heads with amused expressions while dusting the flour off each other.

“You look like a ghost, atto,” Finrod said, grinning. “Very dignified.”

“And you look like a mischievous imp. Your true nature,” Finarfin shot back, though his tone was full of affection.

At last, the dessert—a simple but delicious fruit tart—was ready. You slid it into the oven, wiping your hands on a cloth as you turned to face your two co-conspirators. The kitchen was still a disaster, but there was a warmth in the air that made it feel less like a chore and more like a cherished memory in the making.

“Thank you,” you said softly, looking at both of them. “For trying so hard. It means a lot.”

Finarfin stepped forward, his hand brushing yours as he smiled down at you. “Anything for you, melda,” he expressed genuinely. “Even if it means braving the kitchen.”

Finrod, not one to be left out, placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “And I, dearest ammë, have sacrificed my dignity and my favourite tunic for this endeavour.”

You laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair despite his protests and pulling him in for a hug. “You’re both ridiculous,” you stated, though your tone was filled with love. However, within the blink of an eye, your tone flipped, and without missing a beat, you uttered a command. “But clean up the mess you two made and make this kitchen spotless.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts’,” you laughed as you spun on your heel and grabbed the broom, handing it to Finarfin and motioning for him to get started. And just when Finrod thought he was about to be forgotten as he tip-toed out the kitchen, you walked over with a mop and offered it to him. “Make the floors just as golden as the hair on your head.”

Their complaints easily died on their tongue as you sat on the stool in front of the door, but turned into grumbles and mutters with the occasional side-eye as they went about. And as the minutes dwindled, so did their whining once the scent of the tart nearing its end waffled through the air.

The first to stand before the oven was Findárato, complaining about the heat while he watched you remove the tart. His mop was left on the floor, halfway through with cleaning while Finarfin completed his task, which was him cleaning the entire kitchen due to your son whining about his clothes becoming messier. Once the tart was placed on the table, there was no need for plates and extra utensils. Choosing to act with a lack of etiquette, you stuck your fork into the edge and carved out a piece, feeding it to Findárato first. The tart wasn’t perfect—its edges slightly uneven, the berries a little haphazard—but to you, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Carving out the second piece for Finarfin, he gingerly took the fork from your fingers and instead, offered you the bite. “Say ‘ah’.”

With a roll of your eyes, you took the piece of fruit tart and hummed in satisfaction at the taste. It was slightly tangy and a bit crunchy, too crunchy to be considered a tart, but it was fairly decent for a group effort.

“Not bad,” Finrod muttered, earning a laugh from you and a mock glare from Finarfin. “For amateurs, that it.”

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[batsyforyou]

Fëanor, organic chemistry is stressing me out. Let's go make a bonfire and use my homework as kindling.

“A bonfire, you say? I’d much rather watch your homework burn than deal with such trivialities myself.” Without missing a beat, he motioned for you to follow. “Let’s see how large we can make this fire.”

[batsyforyou]

*I gently pull Faënor's fingers away from the pencil he just snapped in half out of frustration, gently kissing his fingertips.*

Come, my love, let the work rest till tomorrow, it will still be here as will you. Come watch the stars with me beloved.

He stilled under your touch, the tension in his knuckles easing as you kissed each fingertip. His gaze, stormy and restless, softened just a fraction. “You tempt me with starlight,” he murmured with a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Very well. But only because you asked.”

[batsyforyou]

(Mina, I just want to say that in this scenario I imagine myself in a gorgeous elven dress because what's the point of being an elf and not slaying with big, shiny hair and a wonderful dress? 🗣🤭 and I also have to seduce fingolfin, right? 🤌)

*I'm heading to Fingolfin after that terrible scene where Feanor points his sword at him*

"My prince, I wanted to say that your brother was wrong about what he said about you, you were right, he speaks for all of us as if he were king.... you have a dignity carried in every step you take, I couldn't take half of what you take with your half-brother.... my heart has turned to you, for the strength and honor you carry. May the winds of Aman guide you, even in dark times."

His hand lifted, barely brushing your cheek as if grounding himself in your presence. “You honour me,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “But it is you who speaks with grace and courage. For it is I who finds strength in you.” And for a fleeting moment, his fingers stayed, the shadow of his brother forgotten in the light you brought forth.

[batsyforyou]

Maia!Y/N: you're not marrying my sister

Thingol: why not?

Maia!Y/N: cuz you're ugly

Stunned into silence, he blinked. His regal composure cracked as a dry laugh escaped him, sharp as splintered glass. “Ugly?” He leaned back, crossing his arms with an arched brow. “Strange, coming from a being of light who clearly needs to check their sight.”

[batsyforyou]

*little [y/n] tugging Curufin pants and looking up to him with big smile.*

[y/n] : "Daddy! Daddy! I think I know what I wish for my birthday!"

*[y/n] jump in exitement.*

[y/n] : "I want little sister or brother! I want to be a big sister! Like uncle nelyo!"

You could see his gaze softening as he looked down at you, his expression a mix of surprise and affection. He crouched down, ruffling your hair with a small smirk. “A sibling, hmm? Well, you’ll have to be a very good big sister, while I speak with ammë.”

[batsyforyou]