lamemaster

[lamemaster]

Yeti Steps

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Finrod x gn reader

AN: first snippet after haitus!!

You land on his balcony, dusting off your pants, looking up just in time for your beloved to pull you in.

Without hesitation, he tugs you inside, the warmth of his hearth chasing away the night’s chill as it wraps around you.

"See? No one found out," you grin, pulling him back into a stolen kiss, completely ignoring why your beloved is wearing a circlet in the middle of the night.

Finrod was nothing if not your match in eccentricities.

"The entire palace heard you stomping in, darling," he sighs, pressing his forehead against yours. "It was no quieter than a battle drum."

"Well, forgive me, beloved," you roll your eyes, voice laced with amusement. "Consider it a grand announcement of my love for you. Let it be known that even loud feet could not keep Beloved Nom’s lover from his side." Your thumb brushes against his lips.

Finrod grins, a rosy flush creeping up his cheeks. "You could have used the door." He gestures toward it, carefully hinged shut.

"But where’s the fun in that?" You chuckle, spinning him in place, admiring the glorious robes that drape over him.

"Let them know, and let them burn in envy as I woo my king." You bow dramatically.

Finrod chuckles, pulling you into a waltz, undeterred by twirls that would have sent any other being tumbling. "I was awaiting you," he murmurs, "listening for the steps that wake elflings at night."

Leaning in, your lips nearly brush his as you whisper, "My king craves scandal."

With a mischievous look, you spin him.

"I wonder what they think of these steps."

And with exaggerated theatrics, you slam your foot against the bed frame, rattling the precious wood before letting out the most performative moan.

Finrod burst into laughter, pulling you both into the bed. The guards outside his door, unflinching and unamused by your nightly tradition.

[lamemaster]

You cooked here! I need to read more of your knight au works

Sentinel Knights

(Author's note: Got my brain thinking about knights and then I came up with this)

Warnings: some angst but otherwise Sentinels being rather hardcore ride-and-die.

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- Imagine them as elite knights whose primary duty is to safeguard the royal family’s safety and well-being.

- I envision them as lesser spirits who wander the world without purpose until they answer Melian's summons. Melian then gives them a purpose: to protect her family and other noble members during times of darkness when Morgoth’s creatures roam the land. 

- They take on elven forms. Physically, they are tall, fast, and strong, making them more powerful than the average elf. However, they are not as mighty as Maiar and lack control over the elements.

- As formidable fighters, they take their duties seriously, facing overwhelming enemy numbers without hesitation to keep their charges safe, disregarding their own well-being.

- They typically wear full-body armor as their standard attire. In the early days of their existence, when Beleriand was still cloaked in eternal night, their first armor was crafted from thick tree bark—sometimes so unrefined that branches still grew from it, giving them a haunting appearance. Later, when Morgoth returned and the first battles of Beleriand began, their armor was reforged in silver. 

- They usually accepted whatever was given to them. However, when given the opportunity to add their own personal designs, they would craft their helmets in a way that their appearance would instill fear in outsiders and creatures of darkness.

- They believed that Morgoth’s creatures used terrifying appearances to spread fear among the Children of Ilúvatar. In response, adopting a fearsome visage themselves was an effective strategy.

- Beneath their armor, they resemble ordinary elves, but their defining trait is their unwavering loyalty to their charges. Originally spirits, they lack a full understanding of emotions, as their sole focus is fulfilling the purpose given to them. This often makes them appear distant and aloof.

- However, despite their seeming detachment, they are capable of learning emotions. If they come to love their charges, failure to protect them can lead to deep sorrow. Some Sentinels have even been known to guard their fallen charges’ graves until their own bodies succumb to death.

- But even if their bodies are seemingly dead or appear like statues, if they sense that their charge’s grave is under the threat of desecration, they can awake and attack in sight. This can make them appear like living zombies without a mind as their minds have withered long enough that they are no longer capable of distinguishing people from the enemy. 

- It will then become common knowledge that if you see what seems to be a statue or the corpse of a knight standing near a grave, it will be best to leave that grave alone. 

-This also applies on the battlefield—if a Sentinel's charge is killed before their eyes, they are consumed by unimaginable rage and will not stop until they have slain the killer. Even grievous injuries that should be fatal will not deter them, and it may take more than five people to bring a Sentinel down. In such a state, they will fight relentlessly, stopping only if they are either killed or succeed in avenging their charge.

- It is widely known that threatening someone protected by a Sentinel Knight is unwise. Sentinels do not take threats lightly, and with their formidable combat skills, they will most likely win any fight. If necessary, they will fight to the death for their charges.

- It is said that Sentinels can sense the intentions or aura of others, allowing them to distinguish between those who are safe and those who pose a threat to their charges. However, this ability remains uncertain, as they primarily assess individuals and situations through careful observation. If a Sentinel judges someone to be of suspicious or foul nature, they will pass this information to other Sentinels, ensuring that person is closely watched.

- This dates back to when the Sons of Fëanor first arrived in Doriath. The Sentinels were the first to sense that something was amiss with them, even before the truth of the Fëanorians' past deeds came to light. It was also due to the Sentinel’s judgment that Thingol chose to sever all ties with the Fëanorians.

[lamemaster]

This 🫵 you made my day dream come to life!! I love readers better than elves

Lords of Gondolin | Meeting A Reader From An Ancient Civilisation

Request: Hello! could you make general headcanons about the lords of Gondolin with a reader who comes from a secretive, human civilization similar to Atlantis? The civilization is closed off and hostile toward elves. The reader is an influential politician sent to Middle-earth as a spy, where she meets the lords of Gondolin by chance. Thank you!"

A/N: This request gave me animatorweirdo vibes because I had the urge to start discussing and investing into this ancient civilisation the way they would and make it so captivating. Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy this!!!

Synopsis: When you’re from an ancient civilisation within Middle-Earth and has infiltrated Gondolin as a spy.

Masterlist | Navigation

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Galdor

☾ As Lord of the House of the Tree, Galdor had always been fascinated by nature, but you—a diplomat from a hidden human civilisation with technology beyond even Gondolin’s finest craftsmen—were something else entirely. You were were someone he needed to solve.

☾ “If you lot have truly surpassed us in wisdom and craft, I would love to see it for myself. Unless, of course, your great civilisation is naught but smoke and shadows?” He once told you.

☾ You frequently caught him studying you, not in a suspicious way, but in the manner of a man watching a bird he had never seen before—one that should not exist in Middle-earth. He noted the way your clothes were woven differently, how your weapons seemed to be made of something stronger than steel, and how you rarely flinched at the elves’ talk of millennia.

☾ While others were wary of you, Galdor was the first to be openly friendly with a keen mind that dissected every word you spoke. You realised quickly that he had an undeniable presence that made others trust him.

☾ He once caught you adjusting a peculiar device on your wrist, something that flickered with strange symbols. Instead of demanding an explanation, he merely quirked a brow and said, “That seems rather intricate. I imagine it does more than tell the time?” He let the silence stretch, giving you the opportunity to either confirm or divert. You almost respected his patience.

☾ Galdor enjoyed taking you on long walks through Gondolin’s gardens, pointing out every species of plant, testing to see if any of them matched those of your homeland. You found it endearing—until he started asking if your people had trees that bore fruit of gold or water that glowed under starlight.

☾ “You mean to tell me that despite all your wonders, your cities have no great trees at their heart? No sacred groves?” He looked personally offended. “Then what, pray tell, do you gather beneath when songs are sung?” You told him that your people had grand halls for such things. He looked even more horrified.

☾ He developed a great appreciation for your bluntness. Unlike the elves, who often spoke in riddles and poetry, you told him exactly what you thought of him when he asked. “Stubborn, too honest for your own good, and incapable of letting things go.” He laughed for a full minute and called it the highest compliment he had ever received.

☾ If you ever became injured, Galdor was the first to appear at your side, armed with an alarming knowledge of healing herbs and a level of care that made it impossible to dislike him. He had an almost older brother energy to him, protective in a way that was never overbearing, but always there.

☾ Despite his warmth, he was not a fool. He never once forgot that you were a spy. But he also saw something else in you—someone who had been sent here with a mission, only to discover that the people she had been sent to watch were not as simple as she had been told. And that, to him, was far more interesting than any hidden technology.

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Ecthelion

☾ He was the last elf in Gondolin to trust you. He was the first to admire you, though—if only for your sheer audacity in thinking you could outwit him.

☾ “A spy, dropped in the middle of our city, with no knowledge of our customs or politics, yet expecting to fool us? Either your people are woefully naive, or you are the most ambitious mortal I have ever met.” His smirk was infuriating, mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

☾ Ecthelion tested you. He never directly accused you of anything, but he made it very clear that he was watching.

☾ He made a game of seeing how much he could unsettle you. Deliberately moving silently, appearing at your side when you least expected it, leaning over your shoulder to murmur, “That’s an awfully interesting way to write a report. Do your people always use such strange markings?” when you were absolutely certain he should not have been able to read it.

☾ When you confronted him about his habit of appearing out of nowhere, he merely raised a brow and said, “Perhaps you are simply predictable.”

☾ Despite his suspicion, he was also one of the first to engage you in genuine conversation—intellectual, sharp, exhausting conversations that left you questioning whether he was truly trying to understand you, or merely enjoying the challenge of keeping up with you.

☾ Once, after an argument about whether elves or your people had the superior understanding of engineering, he simply handed you a stack of blueprints and said, “Fix it, then.” It turned into a three-hour discussion that ended with you realising he had made a mistake, but he had also led you straight into admitting your people had not, in fact, perfected everything.

☾ He had a sharp sense of humour, often delivered so deadpan that you had difficulty telling if he was serious. “If your people are as secretive as you claim, I can only assume you spend your evenings whispering cryptic messages to the wind, hoping they reach the correct ears.” You told him that, actually, your people used complex signals. His eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. “Great. Teach me.”

☾ The first time he actually laughed around you, it was because you had made a particularly cutting remark about the council’s inability to agree on anything. He had been mid-drink and nearly choked. “You might just survive here yet,” he coughed.

☾ Over time, you realised that his suspicion had morphed into something else—not quite friendship, but a deep and begrudging respect. “I still do not trust you,” he admitted once, “but I find myself hoping you are not what I first believed.”

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Glorfindel

☾ Glorfindel greeted you with open friendliness—almost suspiciously so. While the other lords debated whether you were a threat, a curiosity, or simply a terrible mistake on Turgon’s part, Glorfindel strolled right up to you, beaming like you were an old friend. “Well, well, our mysterious guest from the hidden lands. At last, someone more interesting than Ecthelion’s council speeches.”

☾ He had a way of making you feel at ease without letting you forget that he was watching you. You could tell there was an alert mind behind those golden eyes, but his charm was so effortless that you almost didn’t care.

☾ Took the most aggravatingly simple approach: he asked you questions. Direct ones. “What’s your real mission?” “Do you even like your leaders back home?” “Be honest, you thought elves would be more impressive, didn’t you?”

☾ He had no shame in prying into your personal life. You deflected at first, but golden-haired lord was relentless in the way only someone completely confident in himself could be. “You don’t have to tell me everything, just enough to satisfy my curiosity. Which, unfortunately for you, is boundless.”

☾ Despite his easygoing nature, you noticed quickly that he was the least shocked by anything you said about your people. While others scoffed at the idea that mortals could surpass elves in certain fields, Glorfindel simply nodded, eyes sharp with understanding. “Ah. So that’s why you were sent here. To see if we’re still worth fearing.”

☾ He caught onto things others didn’t. The way you automatically positioned yourself with your back to a wall in meetings. The fact that your weapons, though elegant, were designed for practicality over beauty. The way your accent shifted ever so slightly when speaking formally, like you had trained yourself to sound a certain way. “You weren’t born into politics, were you?” he asked one evening. “No, you were trained for it.”

☾ He was never cruel with his observations, only maddeningly perceptive. He enjoyed seeing how far he could push you before you slipped. “You’re fun,” he once remarked, grinning as you glared at him over the rim of your cup. “Most spies try to be subtle. You just argue with everyone until they forget what they were trying to find out.”

☾ When you asked why he was being so friendly despite knowing you were a spy, he just shrugged. “You don’t strike me as the backstabbing type. If you were here to burn the city down, you’d have done it already. Besides, I like you.”

☾ The moment you truly earned his respect was when you bested one of his men in a duel. He clapped loudly, completely ignoring the fact that half the onlookers were horrified that a human had beaten an elf. “Excellent! Do it again, I want to see if that was luck or skill.”

☾ You quickly learned that Glorfindel was impossible to shake off. He found you fascinating, and once he decided someone was worth knowing, he would make them his friend—whether they wanted to or not.

☾ “If you ever do betray us,” he mused one day, “just tell me beforehand so I can at least be impressed by it.”

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Egalmoth

☾ Was not what you expected. You had assumed the Lord of the Heavenly Arch would be another brooding, serious elf with a long list of suspicions about you. Instead, you got him. Loud, dramatic, dressed in the most impractical (but undeniably stunning) outfits imaginable, and seemingly delighted by your presence.

☾ “At last, someone who appreciates the finer things in life!” he declared upon seeing your intricate jewellery, which was not elven, but undeniably beautiful in a way that made even the Noldor envious. “Tell me everything—who made it, what it’s worth, and how soon I can commission one for myself.”

☾ While the others dissected your words for hidden motives, Egalmoth did something far more dangerous—he made you comfortable. It was difficult to remain guarded when he insisted on dragging you into the livelier parts of Gondolin, introducing you to musicians, dancers, and artists who cared very little for politics.

☾ Despite his reputation for extravagance, he was no fool. “You think I’m flighty, don’t you?” he asked one evening, swirling his wine. “A fool who only cares for beauty? Ah, but beauty is its own kind of power, my dear.”

☾ He was far too good at getting information from you without you realising it. A casual conversation about clothing turned into a discussion about your homeland’s climate. A joke about how dull some elven scholars were led to you accidentally admitting that your people had a completely different method of recording history. It was only after the conversation that you realised he had been guiding you into revealing more than you intended.

☾ He once caught you studying a piece of elven architecture with a frown. “Disappointed?” he asked. When you admitted that, actually, your people’s methods would have made the structure even more resistant to erosion, he lit up. “Lovely! Now teach me.”

☾ Out of all the lords, he was the most fun to be around. He laughed easily, debated fiercely, and somehow made the endless suspicion surrounding you feel like a game rather than a trial.

☾ When the more serious lords accused him of being too trusting, he merely waved a hand. “Please. If they intended us harm, they would have poisoned my wine by now.” He shot you a grin. “And if you do plan to poison me, at least make it a dramatic death, won’t you?”

☾ While the others were concerned about your technology and motives, Egalmoth wanted to know about your culture. “You must tell me—what does your music sound like? What fabrics do you weave? What gods do you worship? Do they have excellent taste? I must know.”

☾ He had a habit of gifting you things—fine fabrics, delicate trinkets, rare books written in the most elegant scripts. “I like to keep my friends well-dressed and well-read,” he said airily as if it was normal to bestow treasures upon someone still considered a potential enemy.

☾ Once, after a particularly tense council meeting, he murmured, “You’re running out of time, you know.” When you looked at him in confusion, he merely smiled. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to choose a side.”

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Rog

☾ You first encountered Rog during a weapons demonstration, where he and his warriors were testing new siege weaponry. You had been summoned—not invited—by the king himself, who wanted your opinion on elven metallurgy compared to that of your own civilisation. Rog, arms crossed, sceptical but interested, was the one who challenged you directly.

☾ “If your people are as advanced as you claim, tell me—what’s wrong with this?” He motioned to a massive ballista that had just fired a bolt deep into the heart of a practice target. He fully expected you to stumble or at the very least hesitate. Instead, you took one look at it, pointed at the mechanism, and said, “The gears are slightly misaligned, and if you don’t adjust the tension on that bowstring, you’ll shave ten years off its lifespan.”

☾ There was a very long silence. Then, to your surprise, Rog grinned. “I like you.”

☾ Rog was refreshingly direct. He asked about your people’s weaponry, their battle tactics, their history of warfare. He was the only one who did not hide the fact that he wanted to know if your technology could be applied to Gondolin’s defences.

☾ “You’re a spy. We all know it,” he said once, shrugging. “But spies can still be useful. If you’re going to steal our secrets, the least you can do is help improve them before you run off.”

☾ He was one of the few elves who appreciated your bluntness. Rog simply stated things as they were. It made conversations with him both easier and far more dangerous. There was no room for lies when speaking with Rog—only truths, or carefully placed omissions.

☾ You found yourself drawn to his house more than you intended. You watched as they worked, constructing weapons and fortifications with a level of craftsmanship that rivalled even your own people’s engineers.

☾ When you offhandedly mentioned that your civilisation had found ways to reinforce walls against explosive force, Rog stopped what he was doing and stared at you. “Explosions,” he repeated. “You mean to tell me your people have weapons that can withstand explosions?”

☾ That led to hours of discussion—what little you were willing to reveal, anyway. Rog had an insatiable hunger for knowledge when it came to warfare, and it was both thrilling and terrifying to see how quickly he absorbed new concepts.

☾ Unlike some of the other lords, he was not particularly concerned about your political ties. “At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is whether you stand with us when the fighting starts,” he told you. “That’s the only loyalty I care about.”

☾ He challenged you constantly—not just in discussions, but physically. He insisted on seeing your combat abilities, claiming that any spy worth their salt should know how to fight. When you bested one of his warriors in a sparring match, he roared with laughter. “Hah! If you weren’t already a political disaster waiting to happen, I’d make you one of mine.”

☾ Despite his harsh exterior, Rog had a deep respect for those who fought for what they believed in. “I don’t care why you came here,” he said once, watching the sun set over the towers of Gondolin. “I just want to know what you’ll do now that you’re here.”

˖ ࣪ . ࿐♡˚. Maeglin

☾ You had been warned about Maeglin. The council whispered of his cold nature, his ruthless intelligence, his insatiable ambition. You expected hostility. What you got was something far more unnerving.

☾ He was the only lord who did not look surprised when you arrived. While others debated your origins, Maeglin sat in perfect silence, his dark eyes studying you in a way that made your skin prickle.

☾ “A spy,” he murmured after your first council meeting. “An odd choice, to send someone so…visible.” His voice was smooth, unreadable. “Unless, of course, that’s the point.”

☾ Unlike the others, Maeglin never directly questioned you. He watched. He listened. He let others do the talking while he quietly pieced together every inconsistency in your story.

☾ He enjoyed making you uneasy. “I wonder,” he mused after catching you lingering near one of the forges, “if your leaders have truly sent you to observe us…or if they have sent you away because you are more dangerous to them than to us.”

☾ Maeglin understood ambition. He saw the way you navigated Gondolin’s court, the way you carefully balanced between revealing too much and too little. He recognised the hunger for knowledge, the subtle grasping at power because it was something he had lived with his entire life.

☾ He was fascinated by your civilisation’s smithing techniques. While the other lords debated politics, Maeglin wanted to know how your people built. “Stronger than steel,” he echoed when you described one of your alloys. His black eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “And yet you will not share the secret? How selfish.”

☾ You found yourself wary of him in a way you weren’t with others. Maeglin’s presence felt like standing on the edge of a deep chasm—you were never quite sure if he wanted to pull you back or push you in.

☾ “You are an outsider,” he said bluntly one day, as you stood overlooking the city. “No matter what you do, they will never see you as one of their own.” When you asked if he considered you an outsider, he simply smirked. “That depends. How much of yourself do you intend to give?”

☾ You could not tell if he respected you or if he was merely entertained by you. But in the quiet moments, when you spoke of things neither of you should know, you realised something far more unsettling—of all the lords, Maeglin was the one who truly understood what it meant to be a spy.

☾ “Tell me,” he said once, watching the forges burn below, “if your people are so advanced, so untouchable…why send you”

☾ You didn’t answer. And that, you knew, was answer enough.

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[lamemaster]

Do I miss my blog or am I just sulking because of a tummy ache? Why is writing a comfort?

[lamemaster]

Why am I just seeing this 😭 (I wanted to vote)

But I would totally play into the angst of watching them fall. Like Maedhros boy- how did you even make that happen? And who fights with hair down Mr. Balrog Slayer? (I cast myself as Melian in the relationship. The one with good and useful advice)

And if they break up with me, then sucks to be them because guess who saw it coming.

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.

[lamemaster]

Blog Hiatus

Hi people, 2024 was a great writing year, but it was intense. So, to recover from the angst of it already being 2025, I am planning on taking a break from this blog. I plan to take my time and come back sometime in March (but who knows when I snap and write some passionate nonsense).

Until then, I will be focusing on my Ao3 and other writings.

See you in about 2 months :D

[lamemaster]

omg this is so cute and hilarious

My Engagement With A Fae Prince

You come home and reveal your engagement to your family and folks.

Requested by Anon

Hi,

Not sure if this counts as a continuation, but I loved the Fae!Maglor x reader pieces that you sent to LoveFairyMina - I was wondering if maybe you’d be willing to do a quick continuation of what happens after they get engaged? (Could be pregnancy shenanigans, other Fae!Silm characters reacting or after reader gives birth to their firstborn) I’d love to see more of this relationship!

Again, wanted to apologize if it’s not part of the guidelines for open requests this time and feel free to discard if not. Thank you and have a wonderful day!

(Author note: Never thought this could get turned into a crack fic but here we are. Decided to use my Frozen Heart characters. Tagging Mina: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers so she can also see this)

Warnings: none just drama

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Your dad: Let me get this straight. You go to the fae woods and vanish for three days, and now you are engaged to a fae prince because you thought you could fulfill the terms of the deal of giving him your firstborn child by having your firstborn child with him?! *Points at Fae!Maglor standing beside you*

You: *Sweats nervously* Uh... yeah?

Your dad: *Releases a deep sigh* Why am I not even surprised? 

Your mom: *Smiling* Anyway, it's lovely to meet you. Will you stay over for dinner? 

Your dad: Darling, our daughter is engaged to a fae, who is also a prince. I think you are taking this way too calmly. 

Your mom: Nonsense, thanks to him my illness is gone. Let’s show some appreciation. 

Fae!Maglor: *Looks at your grandmother and little brother, Kian,  who are doing their things, not minding his presence like he was a casual sight*

Fae!Maglor: Your family is taking our engagement oddly well. 

You: I mean... it's good, right?

Your grandmother: *Looks up to you* Taking the other things you have done. This is not the strangest thing so far. 

Fae!Maglor: *Getting slightly worried* And what are the other things she had done? 

Kian: *Randomly* Can you really turn into a bird? 

Fae!Maglor: *To himself* Into what kind of family have I gotten myself into? 

--- 

Camilla: (Name)! I heard you got engaged to a fae! 

You: I can explain! 

Camilla: No need. After hearing about your deal, I'm not even surprised. I know that's something you would do 100 percent. So, congrats on your engagement, I guess. *Pats your shoulder and leaves*

You: *Giggles* Well, that went better than I thought. 

Fae!Maglor: *confused by the reaction* Huh? 

---

Your village chief: *Slightly nervous at the sight of Fae!Maglor* (Last name). Can you explain why you have brought a fae prince to our village? 

You: Well, chief, that's actually a funny story. You see I made a deal with him in order for my mother to get better again, and.... well... he wanted my firstborn... I asked when do we start... and then... now we're engaged! 

Your village chief: *calms down immediately* Oh--- well, congratulations on your engagement then. *leaves casually*

You: *Smiling* Thanks chief. 

Fae! Maglor: *freaks out* Why are you humans taking this so calmly?!

--- 

Fae!Maglor: *Pouting and sulking in the corner of your house, waiting for the rest of the visit days to go by so you two can finally go back to his home*

You: Are you gonna pout the rest of the visit here? 

Fae!Maglor: You are weird! Your family is weird! Your whole village is weird! They should be afraid of me and look at me with cautious, but all of you are taking this situation way too calmly. This was supposed to be a typical deal, where you ask what you want, accept the terms, and then give me your firstborn a decade later. Not having the firstborn with me and getting me unwittingly engaged to you! 

You: *Shrug your shoulders* Well, sorry if I'm not an ideal partner. Anyway, I heard from your family that you were a musician and liked music, so--- I checked the attic of my house and found some old musical notes my grandfather used to play. *pull out some music notes*

Fae!Maglor: *Looks at them with interest*

You: They might not be anything like fae music, but since we're gonna be married soon... I thought you might be interested.

Fae!Maglor: *Stares at you with silence before reaching out his hand and taking the notes* Your weirdness is forgiven for now. 

You: *grin* You know, with your feathers so puffed up. You look like an angry curled owl. 

Fae!Maglor: * Pufs and turns his back toward you with the notes in hand* Silence, my clever fool of a bride. I am a proud majestic bird of great songs. Do not compare me to those night dwellers. 

You: *Pats his head with a grin* Whatever you say, my pouty little birdy. 

Fae!Maglor: *Disgruntled yet flustered bird noises*

[lamemaster]

Things the Silmarillion elves find adorable about a human reader

After surveying the recurring elves of this blog, here are seven things they find adorable about humans:

Waving Greeting

Maedhros froze the first time you did it. Across the military camp, you excitedly waved at him. Raising your arm high, you waved, smiling broadly, and your elf froze in his path. For a fleeting moment, he thought it must be someone else you were so happy to greet. But no. It was him. With unpracticed-stiff movements, he raised his own arm and waved back. He watched as laughter bubbled out of you, and you ran to him, leaving him utterly dumbfounded yet his heart leaping out of his chest.

Baggy Clothing

Glorfindel tries not to stare, but by Elbereth, it is hard. Drowning in his robes, you look utterly adorable. The way the sleeves flow down your arms, completely covering your hands, and how the fabric pools around your feet, it’s enough to make him squeal. He worries briefly that you might trip, but for now, he’s too busy enjoying the sight. Picking you up in his arms, he resists the urge to squeeze you, mindful of the last time he tried and how poorly that ended for him. Still, his heart aches at how endearing you look, swallowed by the robes that were never quite meant for you.

Breathless Laughter

The entire palace can hear it. Yet this does not stop the subtle smile it puts on everyone’s face. Sitting across from you, Finrod watches you wheeze with laughter, clutching your stomach as you fall off your chair. Your face is red, your eyes brimming with tears. “I think I peed a little,” you whisper through giggles as your friend continues laughing uncontrollably. Finrod loves the sight of such unrestrained joy, raw, rugged happiness amid marred lands. How wonderful it must be, he thinks, to express joy so freely.

Apologizing to Inanimate Objects

It’s not the first time Maeglin has seen you do this. Bumping into a corner, you mutter a quick “Sorry,” rubbing your arm as though the object could feel pain. Wooden crates, rocks, curtains, tables, nothing escapes your apologies, and Maeglin secretly adores it. It’s such an absentminded habit, and yet it speaks volumes about your nature. There is, however, one exception: when you stub your toe on something. Then, your mouth lets loose with the vocabulary of a seasoned sailor. Much to his dismay (and secret delight), Maeglin finds even this utterly endearing. But there’s absolutely no way he’s telling you that. He keeps that fondness locked away where you’ll never uncover it.

Love for Blankets

Fingon has trekked across the Helcaraxe. He knows the cold and understands the precious value of warmth. Yet, his appreciation pales in comparison to yours. He absolutely loves your ritual of joy at the sight of your bed. The way you jump into your blankets, rubbing your feet together, scrunching your eyes shut, and giggling. It’s a sight he never tires of. On nights when he gets to witness this, Fingon even mimics your antics, despite not feeling the cold himself. He delights in how you grin and snuggle into him, often followed by your sneaky attempt to press your freezing feet against his. Though he feigns annoyance, he treasures every moment of it.

Physical Touch

Beleg smiles broadly the moment you enter a room. Without fail, your eyes scan the space until they find him, and then you make your way over to sit beside him. Every. Single. Time.

He loves how humans gravitate toward physical closeness, finding contentment in proximity alone. Unlike elves, who feel bonds through senses, heartbeats, or thoughts, you seek him out with pure will. Every time you do, Beleg can’t help but put his arms around you, squeezing you in a way he’s seen you do to him. And when you hum contentedly, he melts just a little more.

Baby Voice

Celegorm can’t help but laugh at the way your voice softens when you bend down to pet Huan. Every time you see the hound, you greet him with exaggerated enthusiasm, “Who’s a goob boy?” Celegorm has, on several occasions, reminded you that Huan is older than your grandfather, older than your entire kind, in fact. Yet this knowledge hasn’t dimmed your excitement one bit. Your bubbly tone, the kisses on Huan’s paws, the endless stream of pets, Celegorm finds it both amusing and endearing. Much to your credit, Huan is completely putty in your hands.

[lamemaster]

Bride's Gambit

"Can't be her room. That is too obvious." Argon declares from where he is nestled between Aredhel and Maeglin.

"How about Alqualonde?" Idril spouts the dreaded option. "You can't really go there, uncle." She looks at Fingon with the naivety that has yet to dim after so many ages.

Fingon on the other hand sighs burying his face in his palms. "Is this the best we can come up with?!" He hollers. It had been a week of searching for you. A week of failed attempts.

None in the House of Finwe had seen this coming. You were a Peredhel yes. But on most occasions, that fact ended with the hilarious tale of Fingon's discovery of Men's sleeping habits.

This was not in the memo.

It started 2 weeks ago when the Nolofinwes were knee-deep into the discussion for the right material for curtain for your wedding home.

Your innocent remembrance of your mortal mother's preference for Satin over Silk led to the discovery of the tradition that now had the eldest Nolofinwean at his wit's end.

A simple tradition. A game between the bride's side and the groom's side. A challenge for the groom to find the bride, who is hidden and guarded by family.

[lamemaster]

Maedhros and Modern Secret Agent Reader

Plot: A world where Feanorians can dream of their human s/o who is now reborn into the modern world- in this case, Maedhros. Catch, they come as a deal. So they all dream of it together. Sort of like Feanorians watching a live stream of your life. *Spoiler* Reader dies in the modern world and awakens in theirs but in middle earth instead of Valinor. maybe idk this lives in my brain and I am tired of 20k drafts.

Need to clear my drafts. Not adding tags yet because I need to know if this is worth continuing.

"Is this the patient, timid, fragile daughter-in-law we've been told about?" Nerdanel commented from where she leaned against the bloodied pillar.

The rest of the Feanorians were too dumbfounded to respond to their mildly amused mother.

You, on the other hand, were quite preoccupied with beating the living daylights out of a man who had lost consciousness minutes ago. Panting, you straddled the man, maniacally pounding his already battered face.

Atop the prone figure of their attacker, your normally soft features were contorted into a mask of primal rage. Sweat beaded on your brow, plastering strands of hair that had escaped your usually intricate braid.

Your once elegant hands, now slick with blood and grime, pounded a relentless rhythm against the man's already disfigured face. Each blow was fueled by a cocktail of fear, violation, and a desperate need for escape. (lol why does this sound so wrong)

How did things end up like this? Maedhros wondered. Everything was so different from the past he knew.

Beneath you, the man whimpered pathetically, a stark contrast to the predatory leer he'd worn moments ago. His bravado, the same bravado that had fueled this altercation in the first place had evaporated completely under the relentless onslaught.

You weren't a warrior, not in the traditional sense. You were sharper a venomous needle rather than a scathing sword but that did not lessen the impact of your blows. Not when the entire Feanorian cohort had witnessed you breaking another man's ribs with your bare hands.

A strangled gasp escaped your lips as you felt a hand clamp down on your shoulder. With a snarl that would have sent shivers down the spine of even the most seasoned warrior, you spun, ready to unleash your fury on the next threat.

But the hand belonged to Alden, your partner or at least what they had gathered from the entire day of following you.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and firm. "He's finished. We need to leave before the rest find out," he whispered, snapping you out of your wrathful haze.

Maedhros sucked a cautious breath at the familiarity with which you looked at the other man and the ease with which you leaned into his touch.

[lamemaster]

Teardrop (Chapter 2)

Genre: angst (hurt- comfort in future)

Pairing: Fingon x Reader

Summary: When the time came, your yes was hesitant, tinged with uncertainty, while his acceptance was measured, dutiful. And so, your marriage came to be, transforming the carefree days of play into the reality of shared lives.

AN: So angsty. I'm sorry. But alot of parental grief inspiration is from Beartown- my current read. Next part gets better I promise ><

TW: Heavy angst. Fingon not being cheerful and loads of grieving. So please read fluff if this is not on your 2025 bingo.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3|

He is cold. Fingon is always cold. Not a day passes where the mercy of warmth graces him.

He had forgotten the comfort of warmth ever since the Helcaraxë. Ever since his son’s name had become his greatest torment.

His little Irimion, lost to the freezing waters of his doom.

How could Fingon ever accept any other fate but to join him there? He should have never left him.

On nights that bring no rest, Fingon thinks of his son. Though he rarely forgets him, on the quietest nights, his mind fixates on one truth; his son died.

His little son, gone without ever knowing that his atta was not angry with him. That his atta had not abandoned him.

Fingon never got to apologize. Never got to tell Irimion how deeply he loved him. He left his son to the void or to the mercy of the Valar, who had turned their faces from his people.

In some ways, this is a fitting penance. Fingon deserves this life, one steeped in anguish and unrest.

But what had that elfling done to deserve an end so haunting?

On the nights when dreams find him, Fingon dreams of only one thing: his son. A reunion.

His mind crafts a single scene, a solitary hope that plays on repeat in the fragile theater of his heart.

A reunion with Irimion. To hold his child again, to press his lips to his son’s brow and whisper the love that had never wavered. He would accept any punishment, any prison. He would kneel as a thrall to the Valar, bear any loss, endure any torment, if only his son could be returned to him.

He was never a creator like his uncle Feanor. He never forged treasures worth the cost of losing a child. No treasure could ever be worth that price. All Fingon ever wanted was to hold his son. To take away the pain. To soothe the fear of a little one who had yet to grow accustomed to the dark.

How could Irimion have endured the darkness and the cold alone? How terrified must he have been when the air refused to come? When neither his amil nor his atto were there to catch him?

Such thoughts are Fingon’s poison. They creep into every quiet moment, dissolve into every breath he takes, and coil tightly around his soul.

Fingon’s lips are cold when you kiss him, his cheek chilled by the wind that snakes through the crevices of Himring.

You haven’t kissed him in so long. Yet today, you do. When he returns, bearing a delirious Maedhros, you kiss him.

He has returned to his foolish errand.

Beyond the sea of tears you’ve shed, beyond the countless arguments and desperate pleas, only a failing sob remains.

Was he so eager to leave you? Did the grief of Irimion belong only to him? Were you nothing to him? What of his people? Was the damned High King so eager to die? None of the Feanorians had gone after their brother, so why your husband?

But you cannot say it.

In all these years, you have come to know one thing: to Fingon, Irimion’s loss is greater than any love. You could love him enough to disguise your grief, but your husband cannot. He cannot love you enough to fathom your pain.

You could despise him for it. Blame him for your loss. You could find an outlet for your rage, but you don’t. His love for your son is too precious to tarnish. Sacred, even.

So, you let him look away from you. You put his grief above your own because no loss, not even Irimion’s, can diminish your love for him.

The same love that gave you your son.

He is your friend, your love, your husband, and Irimion’s father. 

What is joy? Is it bliss that the land of Aman promises? Is it the feeling of worldly pleasures? Or is it the absence of pain? 

But what is joy without pain? How can one come to realize it’s presence without the past of pain?

Yet, every sentient being would want not to experience pain. To give up on heartbreak, and live in the ignorance of joy. 

For pain, is a dye that refuses to not stain for eternity. It is a lingering presence in all joy. Like fragrance in air, that you cannot separate should you wish to. 

Begetting of Ereinion, your second son was such joy. Once stained by tears. By apologies instead of confessions. 

A child of your grief and Fingon’s. 

He came bearing the burden of your guilt and your husband’s. His birth remained the failure of your heart to separate him from the grief of Irimion. 

The sight of your growing belly freezes him.

The pulse of failure thrums through Fingon, an unbearable rhythm tied to the child you carry. Another failure, another fear. Beyond joy, this is Fingon’s crippling anxiety, wrapping tightly around his chest.

Too late to retreat, Fingon steps forward and sits beside you on the gently swaying swing. His eyes flicker to the emptiness around you, noting the absence of maids or attendants. Not for the first time, he feels the weight of that emptiness.

The tension between you is thick, awkward. Fingon struggles to find something to say. A remark on the weather, perhaps, or a suggestion to browse the wares brought by Eastern merchants. But the words die on his tongue.

In some way, he’s forgotten how to talk to you.

The duties of the High King have kept him bound to his study, drowning in scrolls and letters through long, restless nights. He cannot remember the last time you spoke without grief resting between you, heavy and unyielding.

He cannot look at you now. His eyes refuse to lift, even when your hands wrap around his, warming his cold fingers with your touch.

“You’re cold, Finno,” you whisper, the softness of your voice breaking through his haze. You pull his hands into the folds of your cloak, shielding them from the chill.

He misses you. Fingon realizes, with a pang of regret, that he misses you terribly. Even as he sits beside you, the distance he has created between you feels immeasurable. For the first time in too long, he feels the ache of it, sharp and deep.

“Why yes, shall we warm up?” he says, his voice laced with a cheerfulness he knows is hollow. The faint smirk he forces doesn’t fool you. He sees it in your wide, knowing eyes.

Your knuckles brush his cheek, soft and sincere, a gesture of love he knows he doesn’t deserve.

He doesn’t deserve this kindness, this patience. He has done nothing to earn it, not when you have carried your pain in silence, quietly holding his grief alongside your own.

Fingon closes his eyes, his chest tightening. He wants to speak, to apologize, to bridge the chasm he has built. But the words remain trapped, locked away behind the fear that has gripped him since Irimion’s loss.

And yet, he sits there, holding your hands in his, as the swing sways gently in the breeze.

He’s left you alone. Blamed you for something you did not do. What punishment is it that you bear?

“Do you wish to visit Idril? A trip to her before the days grow too close?” he asks in a desperate measure, his voice steady, masking the fracture beneath. He offers it as a solution, a way to send you from his misery. To Idril, his bright niece, who could keep you company better than he ever could. “I’m sure she would love to hear more about her cousin.”

A better husband would keep you close. A better husband would never let you travel in such a state. But Fingon has nothing to offer except more distance.

He watches as your hand moves gently over your belly, a faint smile softening your features. How easily you have accepted this child. How freely your love flows to another.

Does Irimion’s memory not linger in your heart, as it does in his? Do you not fear his resentment, the shadow of the son who came before?

“I think I should go, indeed,” you say softly, nodding with a calmness that cuts through him. “I will be back before winter, and then we can watch the snow.” Your sigh is one of quiet resignation, carrying a weight that neither of you acknowledges aloud.

And then you are gone.

Every trace of you erased, leaving Fingon alone with the grief he has so desperately clung to. The following silence is bitter, suffocating, and it wraps itself around him like the cold he can never escape.

There is no need to smile anymore. No need to sit at the elaborately set table meant for the High King.

Every night, he kneels in vigil, his knees pressed to the cold stone, the weariness of his sorrow far heavier than the weight of the crown. The darkest of thoughts whisper to him.

Why had you left Irimion to seek him? Why had you not carried the child with you?

He knows, deep down, that the distance he created and the accusations he cast have left cracks in the bond between you. But even that knowledge does little to quell the bitterness that festers inside him.

In the snowbound quiet of winter, you do not come. The snow falls without the sound of your voice, the warmth of your presence. Fingon has delayed your arrival with hollow excuses. Pleas of safety, the demands of feasts, matters of state. You have accepted his whims without protest, as you always do.

But it is news of his son that reaches him.

Ereinion. You have named him in your letters.

Fingon feels the fragile tether of the child’s presence, distant and delicate, like the faintest ember struggling against the cold. He dares not reach for it, fearing it might extinguish at his touch.

There are other letters. From his brother. From Idril. From those who write with joy and concern alike, urging him to come to you, to stand by your side. Letters that speak of the life growing within you, the toll it takes, the need for his presence.

Fingon reads them with trembling hands, barely able to finish each one. He does not need their words to know the truth.

Finweans know the cost of childbirth too well.

When the paths finally clear, allowing safe travel, Fingon comes to find his son. Not you. Only the child.

Through the numbing pain of your absence, he holds the newborn in his arms. His own name for the boy. Gil-galad falls from his lips in a whisper as he presses a soft kiss to the infant’s forehead.

He cannot bring himself to meet the child’s eyes, so painfully like yours.

[lamemaster]

I love writing so much. I can't stop. But still I don't want to post everyday because what am I? Crazy? Yes I am but I also happen hate being seen as the no lifer. So here's a plot I haven't written-

Someone going crazy in love. Human reader who loves the elf in question so much that it transcends Arda.

How to write that madness? Or the helplessness of that elf who carries the weight of another's doom? Who would be the elf? Logically Finrod but Maglor would be good too. Or Glorfindel who's heart is so soft that it bleeds at the pain it causes another.

So many thoughts.

[lamemaster]

[lamemaster]

I need to know because finding the right gif is most soul sucking part of writing on tumblr

[lamemaster]

Maiar Falling in Love with a Mortal Reader

AN: Idk I just wanted to write something pretty. And this came to be. Everyone gets a gif because- aesthetic.

Pairings: Eonwe x Reader and Tilion x Reader

Eonwe:

It had been a simple errand. A task he could have done without traveling to Middle-earth. Yet, in a moment of strange pull, Eonwe found himself walking through the lands of the Secondborn.

Through deserts vast and barren, searching for the lost Istari. Their concealed songs lingered, faint but tauntingly close, though the distance refused to be bridged.

Drawn by the sights and sounds of Iluvatar's children, Eonwe found himself in the crowded streets of a market. Vendors shouted over one another, peddling their wares with prices echoing in the narrow streets. Faces peeked out from crumbling buildings, and birds flitted about, dodging the half-hearted swats of annoyed residents.

He was lost in these sights, a Maia out of place in the noisy, bustling chaos, when his steps collided with yours. The force pulled you forward, and in an instant, his arms moved on instinct, steadying you before the ground could claim your fall.

His hands wrapped around you, holding you close. Eyes blazing with the light of the Flame Imperishable met his own, hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Time itself seemed to pause.

He noticed everything. The small gasp that escaped your lips, the way your fingers clutched at his cloak, the warmth of your body against his own. Even your hair, cascading like a stream of silk along his arm, seemed to burn itself into his memory.

Eonwe stood frozen, his mind caught in the strange trance of the moment until a passerby jostled him from his stupor.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and steady as he helped you stand.

Color rushed to your cheeks as you glanced up at him. “Are... are you an elf?” you whispered, eyes darting toward the marketplace. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the bustling streets, away from prying eyes. He followed, silent and curious, his hood slipping slightly as he glanced back at the market fading into the distance.

You glare back and without a hesitation pull his hood back up, "Seriously, why did they send a new one alone." You mutter to yourself, slipping through alleys.

You led him to a modest house at the edge of the marketplace, its weathered walls no better than the houses he had seen in the market. Closing the door behind you, you turned to face him, pouring a glass of water from a chipped pitcher before sinking into a rickety chair.

“Did Rómestámo not inform you of our meeting place?” you asked, your voice edged with quiet frustration as you pushed the glass toward him.

And that was how he met you. A Secondborn with peculiar markings etched upon your skin. A fiery symbol on your wrist and scars that spoke of battles long fought.

You were the leader of a revolution in the East, a beacon of hope for the downtrodden and oppressed. That day, Eonwe came to witness the Flame Imperishable in a way he never had before.

Not as the unyielding fire of creation, but as the kind that burned bright against the darkness of evil. The kind that defied the judgment of the mighty and the learned. A single flame, flickering amid the shifting sands of the East, yet strong enough to light the way.

He found himself drawn to it. Drawn to you. Like a moth to light.

What had begun as a simple errand became a journey he chose to repeat. He returned time and again, taking on countless guises. The unnamed informant from Rivendell, a wandering Avari, or a silent shadow among the dunes.

He returned to bask in the music of the Secondborn, in the fire that defied all despair.

Until the day the flame flickered out.

When no songs called to him from the East, when the light he had followed was no more.

And in that silence, he mourned the passing of a light he had come to cherish, even as the winds of the desert swept away all trace of what once had been.

Tilion:

He, the moon, remains the most beloved of the Children of Iluvatar, even to those said to be of the Sun's lineage.

The Quendi have sung countless odes to his silvery light, their voices weaving tales of his steadfast love for Arien. Beasts of his Vala rest most deeply under his glow.

Yet, it is not their songs or their reverence that pierces his heart, it is the heavy-lidded eyes of the Secondborn, gazing upward with the wonder of fawns seeking solace in their mother’s warmth.

Lovers have serenaded him, their voices rising like soft waves, laying bare their hearts beneath his light. Tilion has seen love unfold in quiet corners and shuttered windows, its warmth nurtured in the hush of his glow.

Some sing of his scars, others of his pride. Poets, who long ago forgot the faces of their mortal loves, have turned their affections toward him.

But tonight, his path halts.

Tilion’s gaze falls upon a small courtyard, where a woman crouches over scattered papers. The wind teases at her work, sending loose sheets spiraling into the night. She does not notice. Her quill moves with an urgency untethered to the world around her.

Curiosity stirs the Maia. He descends, his light caressing the scene below, painting the scattered papers in hues of silver. And then, he sees it.

On the pages spread around you, his face stares back.

Sketch after sketch, each line etched with painstaking care. The proud curve of his jaw. The sorrow resting like a shadow in his eyes. The faint scars tracing his visage.

Details so precise they feel alive. Each page captures him, not as a vague reflection of his light but as though the artist had stood before him and committed him to memory.

Tilion’s breath stills. He has seen countless tributes inspired by his light, but never this. Never something so raw, so achingly intimate.

A mortal who knew his face.

Not the idea of him, not the ethereal glow he cast upon the world, but him. His true form, rendered by a hand moved by something far beyond understanding.

Below, you remain lost in your frenzy. The quill moves ceaselessly, heedless of the blood that stains the coarse paper. Around you, the night stretches on, its silence broken only by the relentless scratching of your quill.

You draw, and Tilion watches.

He cannot leave.

Not until the Sun’s rays push his light from the sky.

And as his glow fades, he sees the stains where your tears have fallen, smudging the lines into blurred whispers of despair.

This frenzy, this helpless act, is born of an impulse with no discernible cause in your mortal life. A yearning that cannot be named.

For the short days you are granted, your nights belong to Tilion. Your madness, or whatever enchantment has woven itself into your soul, leaves you capable of little else.

It is as if a single note in your song was sung wrong. A fault so profound it aches. Like the oceans that rise to meet him, only to be bound by the Earth’s relentless pull, this longing is a futile agony.

And Tilion, in his waxing and waning, cannot soothe it. He cannot ease the torment that was built into your being by the hands that shaped you.

So, he lingers. He lets his light remain longest over you. On nights when your voice rises in song, Tilion stands beside you, among the scattered pages of his likeness. His hand brushes yours, and sometimes, in those fleeting moments, he swears he feels them still beneath his touch.

A silent rebellion against the fate bestowed upon you by your creator. A protest against the punishment he now shares, meeting your anguish with equal fervor and impossible devotion.

[lamemaster]

IDK but something about Mandos, the Vala who declared Noldor's doom, crying for Luthien is so 🤌🏻 (there wasn't a word made for this feeling)

A godly being crying for a mortal (then immortal). And then like the elite Vala that he is, Mandos seeks Manwe to seek Eru's take on this. Like this Vala out here doing the most.

He totally would have supported Andreth and Aegnor had he been allowed to be a part of the Anthrabeth debate because he's a romantsy bro. Aegnor would have been allowed to build a life with his lover like Luthien did (Or maybe not because their union wasn't necessary for the damned music of Eru but I would like to think otherwise).

He is the Vala who remains fair despite witnessing the worst in all of Arda. His halls are that of healing, of respite for the weary.

I'm sorry but he's my no. 1 now (Ulmos no. 2).

[lamemaster]

Everyday struggles. What writing feels like