#Manwë imagine

[doodle-pops]

Desert Rose

Manwë x reader

Kinktober 2023: Sensory Play

Warnings: fem!reader, sensory play, slight temperature play, clit and nipple play, using a feather for stimulation, blindfold and bondage, cunnilingus, overstimulation

Words: 2.6k

Synopsis: Manwë decides to indulge in sensory play, using a unique tool considerably dear and a part of him to grant him assistance.

“If you don’t breathe, you’re going to pass out, my rose. Deep breaths darling. Relax and enjoy the moment.”

It wasn’t as though you weren’t basking in the allure the moment was providing, or rather the sight; it was the palpability of the intimacy the situation held. The sight was unbreakable, and it was impossible to tear your eyes away from the sight of delicate hands and nimble fingers grasping a feather and twirling it like a toy. Long fingers, dainty yet strong were embellished in a beauty of gold and silver that converged at a single point to meet the stem of his feather. Plucked from his wings at your curiosity and toying with you like an owner toying with a cat, his feather glided through the air, cutting all tension and colliding with the softness of your skin. Sliding over the crest and dips of your skin and through the sweat, it never ceased nor stained its delicate fluffiness and remained feathery to your likeness.

Your arms jerked the moment your body subconsciously reacted to the contact of the feather against your skin. Trailing across your shoulders and down your neck into your clavicle, you ceased breathing at the heightened sensation from the delicate little object. Your wrists knocked anxiously against the headboard, tugging at the blue, silky scarfs preventing your movements. Forced to experience a slow–paced torture, you clenched your stomach and threw your head backwards as the feather dipped lower to meet your bosom.

Struggling to release the air trapped in your throat, his feather trailed to meet your breast and circled your erected nipples. Its tip, fan–like and wispy, traced aerial patterns around your buds, shooting whips of cool air to meet your heated and perspiring skin. Even more, did your nipples stand out among the spiral of goosebumps surrounding the nub. The feather refused to cease its dance, twirling in the small gusts of drafts he summoned to aid its smooth movements and ensure maximum pleasure.

Manwë hovered beside you with a curious and eager childlike expression as his wrist flicked and swished the air that allowed the delicate motion of the white puff of cloud around your areola. Like a graceful dancer, his feather swirled and circled your entire breasts, sliding with ease through your sweat and not once absorbing weight to continue its featherweight performance. All the while, your breathless sighs and gasps as he continued became his catalyst to better his performance.

A quick dart of his tongue to moisten his lips, his head inched forward to wrap them around your left nipple while his feather toyed with your right. The difference in the temperature of his mouth and your nipple pushed your body into a violent shudder. Flicking his cool tongue against your tiny nub and moving with your thrashing, he hummed in delight as he enveloped your entire breast in his mouth. Larger hands reached out to grip your sides, keeping you sedated while he appreciated the sensation of your erratic heartbeat the more he applied force behind the suctions. His smile only grew when your moans became louder, leading to his teeth encasing your bud and his eyes flashing upwards to meet your hazy eyes.

Maintaining eye contact, you had forgotten about the feather making circles around your nipple and focused on the menacing grin he returned. Pleased with the attention placed on him, Manwë’s hypnotic stare demanded that you look on as he swirled his tongue in dizzy circles around your nipple before taking between his teeth for a teasing bite. With your soft intake of breath, he gingerly pulled away and withdrew the feather.

“My sweet rose, you are going to pass out and ruin the moment; breathe for me. Let me guide the air through your lungs.” His lips lingered over yours not that half his body coveted your trembling one. You could feel the cold air floating over your skin as your lashes fluttered urging you to exhale for a taste of his air. The icy burn of mint travelling throughout your lungs, revitalising your consciousness; it was as though you had been resuscitated.

Eagerly parting your lips for more and falling into a rhythmic breathing pattern, the Elder King’s lips dangled above yours, just an inch apart, as he blew cool air. You could taste the richness of the air on your tongue and a burning desire to kiss and satisfy your cravings for more. Attempting to crane your neck to reach his lips, he pulled away in the nick of time with a playful laugh and tsked at your desperation. “Not so fast, rose. Not so fast. We still have a long wait ahead before I can reward you with a kiss,” he whispered with allure.

Lips forming a pout, you kicked your feet at the rejection and fretted loudly. Attempts at crying out his name and begging for one small kiss were shot down with a silent arched brow and a subdued chuckle before reaching over to the nightstand for another blue strip of silk and flashing a look of naughtiness. Him dangling the light silky material before you with smugness left you wondering whether he was about to silence you or something else.

“What is that for?” you hurriedly imposed.

“Look not so terrified, my rose. It is all in good nature and cause,” he reassured and knelt closer to your head with the cloth. “Will you close your eyes for me, dove?”

The look of relief shimmering in your eyes once the dawn of realisation came about, you offered a dazed, lopsided grin and a nod of your head. As he inched closer, the sight of him became blurry until you could see no more once your eyes were shut. You could tell the deliberation of his gestures as his fingers brushed certain areas around your neck or his breath fanned your face while he tied the blindfold. Every hitch in your breath, his fingers would pause and hover over the area before brushing over it again to entice another provocation in your erratic heartbeat. Even with the proximity of his body inches away from yours, the coolness radiating off him was enough to subdue the raging heat he awakened from his temptations.

“There you go,” he murmured with purpose as his fingers came front to swipe the tresses that fell into your face, blocking the colour of the blindfold. His lips hovered close enough to taste the mint once again as he spoke. “Blue has always been your colour, rose. One might say pink, yet my colour takes you the best,” he praised and ghosted his lips closer, brushing at the corners of your mouth to elicit a soft gasp, followed by a whine as he pulled away before you could capture them.

“Manwë,” you groaned. Slumping further into the mattress, prohibited by the noose around your wrists, there was a series of shuffling nearby before the sudden jerk of feeling your legs being lifted and spread into a debauching position. Widened as though you were on display, your knees were being folded into the mattress, giving entrance to the obscene parting of your legs for Manwë to view a favourite sight of his.

With your lack of vision and dependability on your hearing, it was impossible to determine what his sequence of actions was. The only sounds audible were the blue jays and mockingbirds outside the chamber, whistling their daily melody. Not a squeak, whisper, cough or hum was echoed once your legs were widened for viewing. Then, the first touch came with sudden calamity, creating a series of wiggling and urges to buck upwards and into the sensation.

You didn’t know if it were his feather or another piece of cloth being dushed over your bundle of nerves, but it was the cool wisps of wind falling from his lips and landing on your clit to provoke your unpredictable thrashing. Forcing an odd cry of his name from your lips as he continued, you fought to thrust your hips to meet the sensation and grind against it, instead, all Manwë did was held your hips down and brought his head closer for more wisps of cool air to fall against your clit. His determination to prevent your body from having a mind of its own drove you to insanity the more he applied pressure to immobilise you while basking in his delighted fun.

To Manwë, the idea of using his abilities for pleasure in this manner was unheard of and unusual at first when cornered with the idea. However, the more you enticed him with his titles of being King of Arda and Lord of the Airs, he easily fell for your idea and appreciated the thought the deeper he indulged. Who knew using breath play in a different form would be so refreshing? To witness the ethereal form of your body, wriggling under his powers through the simplest usage; no strength, no thunderstorm and lightning, just the very air you breathed.

“Does it feel good, rose?” he queried, causing the flow of air to stop momentarily.

Squeezing your chest to force words out, you wheezed, “Yes! Fuck it feels so good! Please Manwë, more.”

And then he wondered if it would be possible to obtain that from his choice of method. Cocking his head with a challenging smile and gazing at your clit with thoughts of how to go about it, he abruptly agreed with himself and redirected his attention to you once more. “Why don’t we see if you can cum from such a delicate touch.”

The decision to dip his head closer to your cunt, close enough for his tongue to slip out and flick your bundle of nerves, he blew more cool air against the nub. Finding the perfect balance of torture, reaching for the discarded feather on the bed, he dragged the dainty threads over every fissure until it came to the one destination he desired. The first flick alongside the wisps of air was light and didn’t stimulate any reaction, prompting him to switch completely from the use of air to the feather. He was charmed by your response; heavy cries as the tip of the feather fiddled with your clit like a switch nonstop.

“Hmm, oh my god! Feels so good!” Your arms tugged the scarves fervently as the sensation of his feather was perfect against your nub. Paired with your sense of sight being cut off, you were able to easily direct all your focus into relishing the pulsation in your clit and the rising heat in your stomach. It was much faster than most orgasms you had achieved, and it was coming on with great intensity with the pace he devised.

“Please don’t stop, please don’t stop! Manwë please—” Falling short with your words the moment your legs began trembling, a loud sob ripped past your lips and your head lulled into the pillows. The desire to push him away and pull him closer was great as the pressure and heat increased to insurmountable summits.

All the while his fingers flicked his feather continually, tickling your clit and appreciating the minimal effort required to bring you to his peak. The softest touch of his feathers and the air surrounding him could release your most ethereal disposition known to his eyes. The power and confidence you made him feel knowing that he would never allow this moment to extinguish and to be able to tease you endlessly with his ability. Ready to incorporate into every session possible, he kept the stability of his wrist and fingers as the trembling of your body reached its limits.

There wasn’t a moment to lose as your body thrashed against the restraints, back bowing off the bed and legs wiggling in his grip to shut as a flow of warmth overcame your body. Manwë’s refusal to release his grip as he continued the movement of his feather, pushing your body into oversensitivity elicited waves of cries and attempts at escaping his horror. Though his will was greater than yours a testament to the power he held over your body, he pursued his actions, discarding the feather midway through and dropping his cool mouth onto your oversensitive bundle of nerves.

Suppressing his laughter at the back of his throat, his mouth formed a suction to quickly bring about another orgasm, pushing cool air from his lungs onto your clit to rekindle the fire. He was relentless and desperate for the reaction of your delicacy being put to the test—there was bliss from the smallest response you reacted with to the largest. Swirling the air and mouth around your clit, his head shook to increase the stimulation, knowing that you weren’t that far apart from the second oncoming wave.

“Manwë, please! T–Too much—ngh!” You wanted to consider him evil for his unwillingness to grant you reprieve and eagerness for his determination to desire as many orgasms as possible from this session. Having you tied up, blindfolded and at his mercy were the second best combinations.; the first being his heat cycle.

Flickering his tongue in correspondence to your trembling, he laughed at the airy whines you emitted, shooting more pleasure into your body. There wasn’t anything you could do any more as the beads of sweat pooled in your stomach and clavicle, your arms growing weary from the incessant tugging and your legs cramping from the feverish shaking. All you were capable of was lying there and being hit with your second climax in a row while you mumbled pleas for mercy and rest.

Lost in the bliss of being semi–conscious, your body finally collapsed into the mattress, leaving you a panting sweaty mess with small bits of your sanity keeping you awake. Somewhere along the fade of heat, you were able to make out the chilled swirls of air crawling up your body to aid with cooling you down and relaxation. Unfortunately, it only made your sensitivity worsen from the heightened pleasure and stimulation your entire body was engulfed in.

“Manwë, it’s too much…hmm,” you whined.

“My apologies, rose,” he replied and ceased the travel of air over your body. Crawling to lay beside your lethargic body, he pushed the blindfold off your eyes, bringing light into your world again. “How was it for a first attempt?” he curiously asked, eyes brimming with keenness.

Taking a moment to resuscitate as the brightness flowed through your senses, your brain was feeling fuzzy from the aftermath of his…cruelty. “Uh, um, oh God,” you muttered disappointed as your words were attempting to fail you. “It was uh—It was better than I imagined when I proposed it.”

“Then we can incorporate it into our nightly routine,” he suggested with a raised brow and leaned in closer to merge the gap with a playful peck to your lips. “I did enjoy your explicit responses to my talent. So fragile and sensitive like a rose.”

Feeling a wave of sleep coming on after the tumultuous battle you faced against him, you gingerly nodded your head in agreement and wryly smiled. “Whatever you say, Lord of the Air, just give me my kiss and we’ll make it work.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @lilmelily @koyunsoncizeri @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @the-phantom-of-arda @wandererindreams @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365 @bunson-burner @ilu-stripes @batsyforyou @asianbutnotjapanese

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Lord and Master

Pairing:  Manwë x Fem. Reader (Elf |Third Person POV)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Angst | Dark

Warnings: Dark Manwë | Arranged marriage | Dub-con | Manipulation | Imbalance of power | Oral (male receiving) |Medieval sexism

Wordcount : 3.4K words

Summary: Manwë finally agrees to marry, but is angry because his ability to control his life is being stripped from him. Finally, on his wedding night, the chance to take back some of that control presents itself to him.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form here.

A/n: This is my first foray into dark/dub-con, so I apologize if there are any mess-ups in the story.

The wedding passed like an ugly dream. Manwë did all that was required of him, biting the inside of his cheek the entire time.   

When word of his trysts with Námo made its way into the light, ladies refused him one by one. Varda was the first to rescind her offer of marriage. She had declared she did not think highly of a prince who threw the one he loved to the dirt and walked away like it all meant nothing to him. And where she went, the rest followed: Vána and Yavanna agreed with their lady’s choice, as did Arien and Ilmarë. Even the dutiful ones like Uinen, Lëa, and Melian refused the prince’s proposal with a courteous chorus of "Thank you kindly, your grace," followed by "But no." Nienna would never accept a proposal, and Meássë simply laughed in the messenger’s face when he showed her the king's letter. The king had purpled and raged for days when he heard.

Manwë turned to his bride, a wave of deep-seated anger and resentment surging through his veins. Lady y/n was not his choice for a wife. After Meássë refused, Eru finally had to stoop so low as to ask a minor lordling for his daughter’s hand in marriage. That stung as well. 

He glanced at his wife again. She was well-bred and well-mannered, so the others said. Y/n loved singing, sewing, and reading, but she was not what the crown prince wanted in a companion. She was too quiet and docile. She certainly was not Námo, yet he must wed her and secure the line of succession. That was his father’s order and the council's. 

"Wed her, bed her, and put a child in her," the king commanded once the offer of marriage had been accepted. "You are capable of this, yes?” 

Manwë had clenched his fists so hard they turned white at the knuckles. "You command I wed someone I do not desire," he spat, "Yet you heartily agree to your Lord Commander's wedding and bedding a lowly serving girl. How do you justify it, your grace?"

His father’s icy glare pinned him to the chair he sat in. It made Manwë feel so small. "Our Lord Commander is not my son. He will never wear the crown. And Eönwë commands the near-fanatical loyalty of our army. He even saved your life once. Do you not remember? How he fought your brother and bled in your name?" 

Manwë flinched when reminded. "Father...” 

"Keeping a warrior like our Lord Commander happy is in this realm's best interests." Eru interrupted him and picked up his quill and a piece of parchment. The sight made Manwë feel like he was in a ship already listing dangerously to one side. "And yours. That is how I justify it. But if you wish to refuse this marriage," Eru said while dipping the quill in new ink. "You need only say the word, and I will marry the lady instead.” 

And if I refuse, Valinor will learn my lord father has yet another son who flees his duty, the prince thought bitterly. Oh yes, I can hear it now. Poor king Eru, plagued with selfish, disobedient sons who care for nothing but themselves. 

Manwë did not want others to see him as no better than Melkor, but he wished for the days when his brother was heir and life was a carefree dream, where he was master of his destiny and lived how he pleased. Now, with every word and every stroke of his father's quill, he felt his sense of control being stripped from him, sliver by painful sliver. Each day he felt a little smaller and a little weaker. He started to feel more like a boy desperate for approval and nothing like the man he wanted to be.  

Forever bowing my head to the will of someone else. Father, the council, the crown. Is that what I am? Someone who readily acquiesces? Someone helpless and weak?  

Someone coughed. It was the priest. The time had come to exchange vows. The bride and groom turned to face each other, one with eyes full of hope and the other wishing to see nothing before them. 

"One heart," they repeated in unison, "One soul, One flesh. Bound in word, body, and spirit, from this day until the end of all days." 

Y/n looked at her new husband through her veil, thinking how comely he looked in his rich black velvet doublet, and his silver hair falling down to his shoulders in beautiful waves. She hoped to find blushing cheeks, bright eyes, and a shy smile. All she found was darkness in his deep blue eyes and anger in his clenched jaws. It was a warning, a sign of dark things that may come to pass. There was great danger here, but she shrugged the growing sense of foreboding away and still gave him her hand, shivering when he slipped a thin gold band onto her finger. There was nothing else she could do. The contract had been signed, and the vows had been said. For good or ill, she was his now, and her duty as a wife was to obey her husband. That was what she was taught. 

"With this ring," Manwë declared to all present, his words clearly forced. "I pledge my love!" 

His bride did the same. Y/n’s words were sweeter, and filled with tender hope. Her lord father came forward and lifted her veil. Manwë ground his teeth and did his duty, leaning in and kissing her chastely before swiftly pulling away. He accepted the necklace his father presented him in a beautifully carved box and draped it around his bride's throat. Y/n was overcome with the shivers. Her new jewels felt like a noose. She took deep breaths to compose herself and clung to the hope that the prince was as kind and courteous as the songs said he was and that love would bloom between them over time.  

"What the Gods have brought together," came the priest's cry, "let no one tear asunder!" 

The crowd clapped and cheered in approval when the crown prince and princess turned to face them. Manwë dutifully offered his arm, but y/n felt his stiffness as they walked down the aisle together. The chapel was aglow with the light of a thousand candles. A riot of color bled from the stained glass windows onto the floor. Those standing in the upper walkways threw rose petals onto the couple while they walked beneath them. Swirls of red and white rained down on y/n and Manwë even as the doors to the outside world opened. Crowds gathered outside Taniquetil’s great chapel cheered even louder than those inside. Y/n raised her arm and waved to them, thinking her heart would burst with joy. She turned to face her husband, her joy soon wilting like a flower under the scorching heat of the sun. When Manwë turned to her, his eyes filled with something akin to hate. 

“Come, wife," he said stiffly. "It is time we took ourselves to the feast." 

An hour later, they were walking into the great hall for the feast. Y/n tried to talk with her husband during the carriage ride to Ilmarin to engage his attention. Manwë would look at her with little interest before turning away. His cool indifference stung, but y/n chose to be patient. She thought he was grieving the loss of his first love. This will pass soon enough, she thought. Someday she would be rewarded. She was certain of it. 

The feast was a splendid affair. Eru had spared no expense. Minstrels strolled between tables, singing and fluting and strumming lyres. Fire dancers walked on stilts, juggling flaming batons in their hands. Guests dined on thick mushroom soup and salads of beans, onions, spinach, and beets. There was roasted boar and roasted quail and squab, and pears soaked in red wine. There were flagons of mead and flagons of ale, glass pitchers of iced summer wine, and the finest hippocras money could buy. Many broke into loud applause when servants walked into the hall carrying a great swan pie between them. The dish was reserved only for royalty. On this day, it would be served to everyone. Seated at the high table on an ornate chair under a richly embroidered canopy, y/n had little appetite for her food, fine as it all was. Her stomach would tie itself into unpleasant knots whenever she glanced at her husband.  

Manwë's mood had darkened even more. Irmo of House Blackgrave was seated with the other high lords and ladies, but Námo was nowhere to be seen. He had been ill since Manwë sent him away. A common illness, so the messenger said, one that would go away under the tender care of his sister. The prince knew differently. Námo was sick because of him.  

It should be me tending to him, and not Nienna.  

He could not tend to Námo now. The chance to do so disappeared when Manwë put his name on parchment and agreed to take y/n for a wife. With each stroke and flourish of the quill, he felt his sense of control slip away even more, making him feel helpless and angry. 

Weak. Helpless. Forever bowing to the will of others. This cannot continue. 

He heard gentle laughter. It was the Lord Commander's wife. She was wide-eyed while she watched a troupe of tumblers perform incredibly daring feats. Her doting husband kept her in his lap, not caring a whit for what other people thought. Eönwë was content to feed her morsels from his own plate before stealing unexpected kisses, his arm tightening around her waist in a protective gesture when she leaned in and cupped his face. He would listen indulgently whenever she said something, beaming like a man who knew his love was well returned. The sight filled Manwë with despair. He wished to hold Námo the same way, feed him the same way, and drown in his laughter. He turned to face his wife. She was playing with her food. Anger seared through his veins again.  

"Does the meal not please you?" he asked in rough, clipped tones.  

Y/n was startled. It was the first time the prince had asked anything of her since their first meeting half a year ago. 

"It is excellent, your highness," she replied meekly. "But I fear my appetite cannot do it justice."   

Your highness. The way she said it, all soft and submissive. Manwë gave her a measured look.  

Small. Meek. And bound by oath to obey me. The thoughts came swiftly and unbidden. Manwë ignored such thoughts and looked away just as a herald called the guests to dance. His wife placed her hand over his.  

"Shall we dance, your highness?" she asked hopefully. 

Manwë’s mouth twisting into an ugly sneer was all the answer y/n needed. He did not want to dance, eat, or join in the merrymaking. He wanted this night over and done with. 

There is only one thing left to do, he decided, and rose. The music slowly died when he stood to his full height. Everyone's attention turned to him. 

"I confess, my lords and ladies, as much as I would love to dance," he declared with a forced smile, "I have more... pressing matters to tend to with my lady wife. Come, my lady. It is time we did our duty." 

The others laughed. Y/n forced herself to smile. When her husband offered his arm, she rose and took it, turning a deaf ear to the ribald jests shouted their way. She let Manwë lead her through lofty halls and cool corridors, all while her stomach was a roil.  

She had been prepared for her bedding, but the way Manwë looked at her, his eyes ablaze with cold fury, frightened her. She looked straight ahead, clinging to the hope that her fears were unfounded and the prince would surprise her with tender words and gentle embraces. 

That was not to be. When the couple entered an airy bedchamber and the doors closed behind them, Manwë pulled away from her. He walked over to a side table and helped himself to a cup of wine.

Manwë studied her critically. Quiet. Dutiful. Perhaps this can work.

"You must now obey me in all things, yes?"

“I am your wife, your highness. I must obey."

Small. Meek. Bound by oath to obey me. This time, he did not push the thought away. Y/n was bound by oath to obey him. Whatever he asked of her, she had to do it without protest. The knowledge of it was too much for him to resist. 

It is time I regained some control over my life. I will not bow my head to yet another. 

"Undress yourself," Manwë commanded. He walked to the bed, his new boots clicking over the stone floor.  

Y/n blushed furiously. She dreamed of her husband undressing her, giggling while he fumbled with the clasps and lacings in her dress. She did not expect him to order her to undress herself in front of him. 

"Undress yourself," Manwë urged, his words like honey. "Come now. You are a true and obedient wife, yes?" 

Y/n wrung her hands. "I... I wish to be, your highness." 

Manwë lifted his cup and drank deeply, draining it to the last drop. "Then prove to me you are a true and obedient wife. Undress." 

Y/n flushed. She was his wife. She pledged herself to him. Swore to obey him in all things. And obey him she did. She first undid her braids, removing the pins and clips, her fingers fumbling at her hair like they were all broken thumbs. Manwë was content to watch. Seeing her hair fall free in loose strands did something to him. Watching her comply with his command did something to him. Whatever it was, he soon grew drunk on it.  

"You are still dressed, my lady," he observed. "Your gown… it is beautiful to be sure, but it is too much. Unburden yourself. But leave the necklace; I like it."  

Y/n flushed again. This time in humiliation. "Your highness, I... should I be doing this?" 

"Yes, sweet wife," Manwë replied, enjoying himself thoroughly. "It is only proper that you do so." 

His wife managed somehow, her cheeks aflame the entire time. Her heavy gown and sash slowly slipped off her shoulders and pooled around her feet. Her stays and slip followed. When she finally stepped out of the wisps that passed for smallclothes, Manwë put his cup on the ground and stood up, surprised to find himself already hard. 

There were gooseprickles all over y/n's exposed skin. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. Manwë circled her once, then twice, like a predator circling his prey. He let his hand glide up her spine and play with her hair. She shivered when he palmed the soft expanse of her breasts. Manwë felt her tremble. He liked it. It made him feel powerful, for the first time in many moons.  

"Undress me," Manwë ordered, slipping out of his boots.  

Y/n kept her eyes on the clasps on his tunic. She fumbled again, her fingers turning back into broken thumbs. Manwë smirked and kept still.  

Her hands were soft and warm when they brushed against his flesh. She was unsure of herself and hesitant, but she did her work dutifully and quickly. Once freed of his doublet and undershirt, Manwë returned to the bed and stood by the edge. 

"Come, wife," he said, holding out his hand. "Come here." 

His wife took one hesitant step after another, uncertain of what he wanted. Y/n had not been taught much concerning matters of the flesh. Her mother had told her to expect certain things, like discomfort and pain, but she also said such things would go away and the rest would be nothing but magic. Y/n studied her husband. There was hunger in his eyes, and flashes of something far more sinister. She feared there would be no magic this night. Not for her at any rate. 

"Closer," Manwë cooed. "Closer. Good. Now. On your knees." 

Y/n looked at him, shocked. "Your highness... I... I do not understand."  

Manwë grinned wolfishly. "Get on your knees and undo my belt. Go on. You would do it if you really wanted to be a dutiful wife, yes?" 

Y/n licked her lips. Of course, she wanted to be a dutiful wife. From the first moment she saw Manwë all she had ever wanted was to be a good wife and earn his love. She nodded and sank to her knees, grateful for the rug beneath her. She undid the clasp of his belt, then the drawstrings on his breeches. Her cheeks heated when Manwë tugged them down just enough to free his cock. 

"Open your mouth," he said, and caressed her cheek. He ran his thumb across her lips, imagining what they would look like, swollen and glistening with the remnants of his spend. "Go on."  

Y/n looked up at him, thinking she had heard wrong. Manwë caressed her cheek again, almost in affection. "Open your mouth. You do not want to disappoint me, do you?" 

"No," she sputtered. It was a strange feeling, having his cock slip past her parted lips and sink further and further into her mouth. She felt him, thick and salty and heavy on her tongue. Y/n glanced up at him, surprised to find his eyes closed and his head thrown back. 

"Loosen your jaw," he hissed, and wrapped his hands around her hair, pulling it out of the way. "There. Like that."

Manwë's mind soon grew hazy with bliss. Gods, her mouth feels so good. His grunts grew louder and louder. There was nothing else���no whispered endearments—that would soothe his wife and inflame her passions. Manwë did not care. He simply wanted to regain some control. And it felt so good, to take back what control he had over his life. 

I am in control.

Y/n did not know what else to do. She let him thrust into her mouth, her eyes stinging with confused tears. Manwë wiped the tear away with his thumb and brought it to his lips, as if to taste. He shivered when he tasted the saltiness of her tear on the tip of his tongue, and shivered when he felt the warmth of her mouth and the softness of her sinful lips. He wanted to kiss those lips while he claimed her maidenhead, but not now. He was so close that he could already feel a tightness in his belly. He brushed his hands over her hair and groaned when her lips tightened around his cock. Just a little longer. He needed to hold on for a little longer. And that was all he had. The world went still. Manwë let out a deep moan while his body splintered and shook with ecstasy. Y/n could do nothing but grip his thighs while the warmth of his spend filled her mouth.

Manwë panted and drew back, satisfied for now. "Swallow," he insisted, not moving another inch until y/n had swallowed every last drop. He stood back and admired the sight of his wife on her knees before him, her lips glistening and swollen just like he hoped they would be. That sense of feeling powerful returned, this time stronger than before. 

I am in control.

Manwë grabbed that feeling with eager hands, not wanting to let go of it. 

I am lord and master.

He finally walked away, setting himself to rights and picking up the rest of his clothes as he did so. "I will sleep in here," he said, opening the door to a smaller bedroom. "Good night." 

Y/n rose and turned to face her own bed. Her knees were sore, and her jaws hurt. She thought there would be more to this night. "But your highness, this is our wedding night. Should we be…" 

"Do not fret," Manwë yawned contentedly. An hour or two of rest was needed, and then he would consummate their marriage. "I will claim your maidenhead and consummate this marriage. But it will be at a time of my choosing. Not yours. Never yours. Am I understood?" 

Y/n opened her mouth in reply. She thought she deserved to have some say on how this night went. Manwë leaned against the door, his arms crossed, and his eyes darkening again. It frightened her, made her whisper, "Yes." 

"Yes, what?" 

"Yes, your highness." 

"Good," Manwë muttered. "Never forget what I am, wife. Your lord and master, nothing less than that." 

Y/n tried to blink back her tears when he slammed the door behind him. Her hopes slowly crumbled like brittle clay. There would be no love. No tenderness. Not with him, not after tonight. Manwë made it plain with his few words that she should not expect more from him. Suddenly more tired than ever, she crawled into bed and slipped beneath a soft pelt, waiting for him to come for her again. 

The thought made her blood run cold.

tags: @cilil​ 

[cilil]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝒾𝓇𝓈

Characters: Manwë, Varda, Oromë, Námo and Irmo; reader's gender is unspecified - all up to your imagination~

Featuring: Dom/sub dynamics/undertones, predator/prey kink, soul sex

Warnings: Possessive themes, bit of rough foreplay and sex, smut/suggestive

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who voted on my recent polls. I'll be trying out a bit of a new format, combining headcanons with small scenes/imagines, with this one and hope you'll find it enjoyable. If there are other characters you'd like to see for this, feel free to suggest and keep an eye out for future polls!♡

Manwë

ଘ The Elder King is a romantic lover and enjoys courting you, though even during these early stages he finds ways to subtly claim you for himself: He showers you with gifts like jewellery with sapphires (his signature gemstone), robes in his colours, objects decorated with feathers or bird-shaped items and writes poetry for you which he recites and sings for you both in private and in public.

ଘ Once Manwë has successfully conquered your heart, he makes sure to publicly display his affection for you by making you sit on his lap, kissing you and wrapping his wings around you at every opportunity.

ଘ In the bedroom, little remains of Manwë's calm, serene demeanour. He loves marking your body with his talons, covering you in love bites and engaging in breath play to make you feel just how much you need his element - need him.

ଘ Manwë has a breeding kink that gets particularly strong when he's in heat or nearing it and loves filling you up to make sure that his essence remains inside you as long as possible and his scent stays on you, deterring any other suitors from approaching you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Your lips part to release a soft gasp when Manwë pulls you closer and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck, biting and sucking gently to leave blossoming marks. His mighty talons draw patterns on the naked skin of your back, causing you to arch and lean into his embrace; he is careful not to hurt you, though you already know you will be covered in thin red lines once he's done with you. 

"My little dove," Manwë croons between kisses, his voice deceptively soft; he caresses you like a warm, gentle breeze, though you know a mighty storm is slumbering underneath his calm exterior, ready to be unleashed, should anyone else attempt to touch what is his.

"Yours," you whisper. Your hands claws at his robes as Manwë continues to mark you as his for all to see; the Elder King's mate and lover that no other would ever dare to lay claim to.

Varda

✧ The Queen of Stars is often absent from the daily affairs of Valinor in favour of tending to her creations in the depths of Eä, but she makes sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to even when she's not present.

✧ Varda loves giving you pretty necklaces, bracelets and other jewellery adorned with charms that are filled with her starlight, protecting you and burning anyone who attempts to touch you without her permission.

✧ When she makes love to you, she ensures that you will remember her touch and others see the marks she left on you as will - in case anyone was doubting that you are hers - by painting luminous constellations on your skin with her fingers, twinkling little stars reminiscent of notes in a song of her love for you.

✧ Varda also gives you water from her wells to drink, enjoying the thought of her essence filling you and providing you with light and refreshment. She will stop at nothing to make sure the powers of darkness and evil stay far away from you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Hold still, my little light," the Queen orders, pushing you down and into the soft sheets of her bed with gentle authority. 

You blink nervously when you see the tip of her index finger glowing with sacred, primordial light, ready to paint the canvas of your bare chest with tiny, glittering stars. 

"Will it hurt?" 

Varda smiles and leans down to kiss your brow. "Of course not. There is no evil in your heart, dearest; my light would never hurt you." 

Her starlit touch is hot, and for a moment you fear it'll sear your skin, but as soon as she begins caressing you, reminiscent of the gentle strokes of a paintbrush, the sensation changes to a comfortable heat. You raise your head to watch as she turns you into another one of her masterpieces, and your beloved Queen looks pleased whenever her nimble fingers elicit small noises from you, her luminous eyes holding your gaze while she slowly works her way lower and lower. 

Oromë

♘ Oromë is a hunter with all his heart, so once he has caught you, he certainly won't let anyone take away his favourite prey. He loves giving you trophies from his hunting trips to wear as accessories, a not-so-subtle message to all that you now belong to him.

♘ But that won't satisfy him for too long. The huntsman of the Valar is a wild and passionate lover and covers you in bite and scratch marks every time he takes you, making sure they are visible too.

♘ Oromë loves all sorts of cuddling and physical affection and actively initiates it whenever an opportunity presents itself. While this is certainly done for his and your enjoyment, he also wants others to see that you are his and his alone and ensure that his scent will be all over you even when he isn't around, in order to ward off unwanted attention from other suitors. For the same reason, he also breeds you thoroughly.

♘ If you are a good little pet for him, Oromë will reward you with a lovely collar he made specifically for you, letting everyone know that he has claimed you and intends to keep you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Oromë's large hands hold on to your hips with a strong, bruising grip that has you whining into the moss below. You already know not to expect mercy whenever you play his favourite game of hunting and catching his prey, a symbolic earning of his right to claim you. 

"What a lovely little deer," Oromë purrs and leans forward to bite the juncture between your neck and shoulder while he enters you with the fierce determination of a feral beast. 

Your cries and moans only spur him on to thrust deeper and harder, his hands keeping you in place with the strength and steadiness of an experienced hunter. As far as you know, you two are alone in this part of his woods, yet something tells you that he wouldn't mind if one of the other hunting parties found you – to see him taking you, marking you, filling you with his seed to ensure that his scent you be on you for days to come. 

Námo

☯ The mark of a Fëantur may be subtle, though no less intense than those visible on your skin. Once Námo has taken you as his lover, he binds your fëa to his, leaving an echo of his song and a ghost of his touch with you wherever you go. Those proficient in ósanwe and/or attuned to spiritual matters feel the Doomsman's presence wherever you go, no more than one call through your bond away.

☯ Nevertheless, Námo knows that not all Incarnates are able to sense and heed his silent warning, so he also presents you with clothes and jewellery to adorn your body. He likes long, flowing robes in dark colours, veils and little charms shaped like crows and ravens, similar to his own attire, and greatly enjoys seeing you wearing those, an unmistakable sign of belonging to him.

☯ When he isn't present and you are outside of his halls, Námo may occasionally guide your fate in whichever way he sees fit to make sure you return safely. Those who attempt to harm you will face the Doomsman's wrath.

☯ Yet as much as he wishes to protect you, Námo wants nothing more than to own and mark you in the most intimate way possible - which is your fëa. Should you ever be slain, or once his need and longing overwhelm him, he will whisk you away to Mandos, keep you there until the end of the world and fill your spirit with his song and essence time and time again until you know no other than him.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Cool lips kiss the nape of your neck when Námo takes you, slowly and deliberately, enjoying the way your smaller form trembles in his arms. He's sitting on his throne with you on his lap, your robes covering the illicit image of the Master of Fate penetrating you, yet the small moans falling from your lips and the movement of his hips betray the truth. 

"Let me have you," Námo whispers, and you know he wants more than to claim just your body, so you open your mind to him as well. 

The sensation of his fëa reaching out to touch and intertwine with yours is just as intense as the joining of your bodily forms. Your helpless noises increase in volume despite your best efforts to hold back, yet Námo doesn't seem to mind – in fact, you begin to suspect that he wants the residents of Mandos to look up at his throne and watch, so they will know who you belong to for all ages to come. 

Irmo

☾ No one has escaped the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams without remnants of glittering dream dust on their clothes and skin, and you are certainly no exception, quite the contrary: As Irmo's favourite little butterfly, he makes sure to touch, embrace and cuddle you to his heart's content, and ever since your courtship started, you feel like the dream dust has never left you again. He feigns innocence, yet you suspect that this is very much his intention, so everyone can see his touch upon you even when he isn't around.

☾ Irmo crafts a special dream catcher for you and makes sure you wear it at all times, an unmistakable sign of his love for you. It contains a small part of himself and his power, and he taps into it to ward off nightmares.

☾ He also likes entering your dreams, spending time with you there and, most importantly, ensuring that no other suitors may ever find their way there, because you belong to him and him alone. When you sleep in his gardens, you often wake up feeling his lips and hands kissing and caressing your body, leaving trails of dream dust and, at times, colourful patterns on your skin.

☾ As much as he enjoys claiming your body, he desires nothing more than to possess you in spirit as well, so that the union of your fëar leaves a permanent mark on your very being, filling you with his song and his essence.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Here? In the middle of your garden?" 

Irmo merely laughs in response and rolls you over on your back to climb on top of you, his iridescent butterfly wings fluttering excitedly. 

"Why not, my darling petal? Is our love not the fairest and most beautiful thing my garden has ever seen?" 

Glittering dream dust falls from his wings and hair as he leans forward to kiss you, and you soon find yourself feeling both soothed and excited by his presence and the comfortable weight of his fána on top of you. 

Sensing your emotions, Irmo's gentle hand sneaks between your legs and finds you willing and eager for him, ready to be taken. He breaks the kiss to gaze at your face, delighting in your blushing cheeks, half-lidded eyes and parted, wet lips, panting softly as you look up at him. 

"I will make love to you until you fall asleep in my arms," Irmo whispers, "and when you do, I will continue to make love to you in your dreams." 

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[ainur-confessions]

Can you do a headcanon for what Manwë would do for fun on a winter day?

♡. taniquetil typically has snow, especially in the early morning. but during the winter, sometimes snowfall can really up the ante, and depending on your mood depends on what the two of you do 

♡.  if you are more of an indoor person, then manwë will stay with you, cuddled up in blankets whilst he wraps his wings around you. the two of you would enjoy warm meals and maybe even a dip in the warmer pools 

♡. he would also read to you. sometimes it's the poetry that he has written for you, or a novel of your choice

♡. watching you fall asleep because of how comfortable you are against him is something that he adores. if he can, he'll snuggle up with you for the remainder of the day

♡. if you are up for going outside, then he'll take you on a little walk upon the mountain. he'll make sure to wrap you up in lots of warm robes, even his own if he must 

♡. if you decide to be sneaky and pelt him with a snowball, you better be prepared for a war. he always loves letting loose and just having fun with you 

♡. you both end up falling into the snow at some point and laughing to the point your stomachs hurt. this often will result in a plethora of kisses - until you start sneezing and manwë immediately scoops you up and takes you inside to enjoy some warm tea and cuddles 

[edensrose]

“and if I were — ” he slips the ornament from atop his pale head of hair. “ — to give you the crown that speaks my title. . .”

manwë clears his throat. he lifts his eyes from the headpiece that proclaims him king. a shimmer of hope dawning upon him.

“would you find it in your heart. . . to love me once again, brother?”

yet as melkor stares onto the crown, his face falters not. if only to fall darker.

and as he parts his blackened lips — his voice cuts through in all its icy muster. straight through his sibling's heart.

“I would not.”

[crownedwithstars]

Yeah, and somehow at the same time it's such a cynical take but also wilfully ignoring that Fëanor has turned to the dark side at this stage (which seems to be Tolkien's point, anyway - I think there's a line in the Silm that of Morgoth's deeds, the corruption of Fëanor is among the worst). It doesn't even look like he's trying to get justice for Finwë anymore but simply wants to burn the world, because if he still cared about justice then why does he keep alienating allies and weakening his own chances? And not just his own chances but also those of his sons who took the Oath with him? Fingolfin had become a Kinslayer because of Fëanor and had no choice but to try and find a way into Middle-earth. Essentially Fëanor abandoned him and his host to die or to bear the consequences of what he himself started. I don't know, it looks like apologising for Fëanor is a special kind of rabbit hole.

Also the nonchalance for burning the Swan Ships... it's arguably worse than Morgoth's theft of the Silmarils, because at least the Silmarils still exist and might be reclaimed. But the Ships are Gone forever.

I do not understand those readers of the Silmarillion who say that Fingolfin should not have gone through Helcaraxe, but should have returned to Valinor. This is usually said by apologists for the Feanorians, to justify the burning of the Teleri ships. They overlook the fact that Fingolfin lost his father. He had no less a moral right to avenge his death. But Fingolfin also loved Valinor. And the light was taken away by Morgoth from all the Elves, including those who followed Fingolfin. They all had a motive to fight Morgoth. Besides, the Noldor people wanted to go to Middle-earth. And those same people wanted to go to Middle-earth with Fingolfin. No feud between brothers was worth burning ships for. And Fingon and his people were caught up in the kinslaying in Alqualonde. After that, there was no turning back. Fingolfin would never abandon his son. He had to go to Middle-earth. But no one had the right to destroy ships and put his brother and his people in a hopeless situation, when there was no choice but a deadly crossing.

[balrogballs]

I'm still sad about this heartwarming and mildly amusing little section where feral adolescent Aragorn brings some joy to Maedhros in his unhinged little way, which I had to cut out of Cast in Stone for structural reasons, especially as I had gone to the trouble of illustrating it!

But I realised it reads perfectly fine standalone, so you guys can have my crumb of Maedhros-joy instead. No context required: Maedhros and Maglor are temporarily staying in the Shire during the late Third Age, Maedhros had a horrible night of traumatic dreams and was being maudlin — until young Aragorn, aka Elros II and the bane of his life, turns up like a bad penny, as he often does. Enjoy!

---

"You look unhappy," said Estel, sitting down before Maedhros, legs crossed. "Does your hand hurt? Surely it can't be as bad as when it got chopped off, can it?"

"No, but leave me be, Estel, I have —"

"All right, but let me ask just one question. I promise, then I'll go away. I just remembered something from my lessons, and every time I ask Ada he looks up at the sky and asks the Valar where he went wrong in raising me," Estel moved closer, looking around for eavesdroppers. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I would like to know."

Maedhros frowned, swallowed the lump in his throat and dragged in a breath. "What?"

"Fingon rescued you on one of those enormous eagles, didn't he? On that mountain with Morgoth and all of that. It was one of those, right? Manwë's Eagles."

"Yes. He did. I do not wish to answer any further questions on the matter, clear off."

"And it was quite a long journey, wasn't it?"

Maedhros grunted.

"I've always had a question about it… and again, you don't have to tell me if it's too traumatising," Estel's eyes shone, as though he were about to hear a state secret. "And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Spit it out, boy, or leave me now. I am in the mood for neither company nor memory."

"Did it… you know…?"

"If you're trying to ask me if losing the hand hurt, yes it did," Maedhros snapped. "Now leave me alone, I've had enough reminiscing for a damned century. Get off home, now!"

"Oh, shut up, I wasn't asking about your stupid hand, I don't understand why you think everyone sits around thinking about your hand," Estel scowled, pursuing his lips, before deciding his quest for scientific knowledge was more important than whatever had crawled up Maedhros' arsehole and died. He widened his eyes conspiratorily, looked around again. "My question has nothing to do with that! I just wanted to know, did the eagle… you know?"

"Estel, I am not going to repeat this, get out of my sight right this —"

"Did it take a shit?"

"Did… what?"

"Did it take a shit?" Estel flushed as he said the word, Elrond's parental touch finally taking hold, though in a predictably useless manner. "And if it did, how big was it? As in, was it normal bird crap, or was it, you know — like a bucketload of it?"

Maedhros blinked. Estel held his hands out to demonstrate.

"I've always wanted to know that about them, you know," the boy continued, stroking his chin like a philosopher. "Manwe's eagles, that is. Surely if they're big enough to carry two people, one being a towering beast like you, their droppings must be massive."

"What…?" Maedhros couldn't formulate words, a state of being Estel clearly had no familiarity with. "Their… what?"

"And yes, I know they're divine, all of that, but surely they can't be toilet trained, can they? I just don't see Manwë having enough time to toilet train an eagle, you know. Could you imagine just… going about your day, and having this massive tub of birdshite fall on your head? Oh, it could drown a person, I'm sure of it!" Estel grinned, as if said occurrence would be the best day of his life, had it happened to him. "So, did it? And if it did, did you see if it went on someone?"

Maedhros sat there blinking at the boy in complete silence before rising quietly, taking the now-extremely-familiar ear, and slowly — like he were a corpse — leading Estel to the village gate. He didn't say a word, only gestured weakly and put up three fingers, a signal the now sulky boy was very used to.

And as Estel, muttering darkly all the while, neared the completion of his first punishment-lap of three around the village green, he heard something that sounded like a donkey in immense pain. It was a sound so tremendous and unexpected that it brought Maglor running from the house, gaping at the source, having not heard such a thing in centuries. It was no donkey, but Maedhros in complete hysterics, sitting on the ground exactly where he was when he beckoned Estel to run, sobbing with laughter, actual tears pouring down his face, which itself was screwed up and flushed so pink he looked like he'd been badly sunburned. He was trying to explain the situation to Maglor (who had been glaring at Estel as if he had personally killed his brother, and now looked upon him like he was Iluvatar himself) but Maedhros was howling too hard to even stand, let alone form coherent words.

Estel pretended not to notice, and started on his second lap. Though objectively speaking, the laugh itself sounded like something between a foghorn, a pig and whatever noise he imagined Ungoliant would make — there was something rather lovely about it that brought an inexplicable little smile to his face.

[erendur]

Maedhros needs a hug.

I think we all agree (well, most of us at least), that Maedhros needs a hug, at the very least.

So I was thinking, what if he was adopted by a group of lesser fire spirits after he threw himself in the chasm (I could bet good money on the fact that a fanfic has already been written based on that idea, but am too lazy to check).

The chasm he threw himself in is probably a major, big-ass one - he’s a Fëanorian after all, I think he would leave in style. So there were bound to be at least a few lesser fire spirits hanging out there, with not much to do. Corrupted evil spirits have plenty to do, what with torturing people, murdering them or creating monsters, but the non-corrupted ones probably have plenty of time on their hands.

So suddenly, there's this gorgeous Elf throwing himself in their chasm. And they’re super thrilled, because the Ainu of Valinor get plenty of pretty elves hanging around them, but the lesser spirits of Middle-Earth, not so much. Plus, when they get closer, they notice that it’s not just any Elf, but a Fëanorian, a super-fiery one, one they’ve probably sneakily had a look at when he was in his Father’s forge at some point (I’m convinced fire spirits regularly sneaked into Fëanor’s forge fire to have a good look at him and his family of fiery hotties).

I’m imagining a kind of Monthy Python’s Holy Grail’s Castle Anthrax situation there : they all jump on his fëa as fast as they can, to make sure he doesn’t escape towards Mandos’s halls or any funny business like that, and of course Maedhros doesn’t put up much of a fight given that :

He’s super tired, even in disembodied fëa form ;

He very much does NOT want to go to Mandos and, as far as he had planned ahead, was determined to give him the slip. He’s already been imprisoned once, thank you very much, he’s not doing it again.

So when Mandos finally comes looking for him, the fire spirits hide him in under a fire blanket and pile of throw pillows or whatever the equivalent would be in a fiery chasm, put on their most innocent look, and say they’ve seen nothing.

“An Elf ? Why would there be an Elf in a fiery chasm ? We haven’t seen any Elves around here. And even if we had, they’d been gone by now. In this direction, yes, over there. Nothing to see here, no Sir, certainly no murderous fiery Elf.”

Mandos doesn’t press the matter too much, because he’s got a group of Avari Elves that have eaten poison berries to take care of, and he already feels the start of a headache coming.

Maedhros spends the next age or so being absolutely pampered by the fire spirits, who can’t believe their luck. They braid his fëa hair and make him fiery buttered crumpets. They chill on the fiery sofa and they make him laugh by telling mean jokes about the water spirits and making funny impersonations of Ulmö. I’m picturing an Odysseus/Calypso situation there. He’s having a nice time. He’s got no one to manage, he’s not in charge of any siblings, he’s got no hopeless war to fight and no Oath to fulfil. He can finally relax with his fire spirit pals.

Eventually, someone spills the beans to Mandos. Of course, it’s a water spirit. They’ve been eyeing Maglor for an age, holding their breath as he gets closer and closer to the water, hoping - surely, this time he’ll go in !- but he never does, so since they can’t get their hot pet Elf, it’s unfair that the other ones do.

Mandos decides to kill two birds with one stone on this one, and sends Fingon to get him. He’s been trying to get rid of Fingon for almost as soon as he’d arrived - “You did a magical rescue ! Manwë sent you his eagle ! You waged a war against Evil ! You died a heroe’s death ! You have nothing to do here !” - but Fingon has always stubbornly refused to be reembodied until Maedhros had at least arrived. He’s got five other Fëanorians plus a bunch of their followers who also refuse to leave for the same reason. He thinks he’s finally got a solution.

So by the time Fingon arrives in the fiery chasm, Maedhros has chilled and relaxed enough that he is able to consider the whole atone for his sins in Mandos thing in a more sanguine way. It will be mostly fine. He did some terrible things. He won’t be tortured. He’ll be ok. Fingon will be there. So he only puts up the bare minimum of a fuss before following Finno.

“I can’t go back, I’m an accursed kinslayer. Everybody there reviles me. There is no hell so profound that is sufficient to punish the tenth part of my sins…” (He has spent hundred of years hanging out with Maglor, who has some serious Drama-Queen tendencies, and also came up with that last line before Marguerite de Navarre).

“Come on, Mae, not everyone reviles you, there are many people who are waiting for you there, and you’ll get reembodied eventually…”

“Do not insist, dear friend, I am the most accursed of the accursed, I’ll never finish atoning for my sins, I'll be cast aside, universally hated, like I deserve…”

“Maitimo Nelyafinwë ! Stop it this instant ! You’re going to Mandos now, and you’re going to be reembodied, and you’ll give a kiss to your Mom you’ve been waiting for you all this time !”

So he leaves, much to the chagrin of the fire spirits. Well, at least, they all had a good time.

[edennill]

Namo headcanons since we seem to be doing an interrompu Namo week round here:

While the Ainur can obviously look like they want to so it's not a given, the chosen appearance of the Fëanturi (Nienna included) makes them easily recognisable as siblings. This is in part because there are certain patterns that a spirit might naturally gravitate to and none of them feel the need to make a conscious choice to diverge from that (i.e. it's also a mirror to some similarity on the primary level) and in part because they like it that way.

He doesn't have a scary "aura" or anything; most elves might feel certain unease around him because of his office (the disembodied are another matter yet because the soul perceives other beings differently), but at most he has a deep and serious one.

He can be scary if he goes all into a "wrath of the Valar" mode, and coincidentally he's also the Ainu that the largest number of Eldar have seen that way.

He does have a sense of humour; he doesn't really laugh often.

In so far as he does represent a "Dark Is Not Evil" vibe, it's not that his aesthetic is entirely black either. Clothing is something slightly different to the Ainur than to the Children, but in any case he always wears grey robes that look the same, with an alternative slightly fancier design of dark blue on the great feasts.

It's not that he doesn't understand wearing a fana, but he's pretty austere about it. He doesn't find any of it unpleasant or uncomfortable, but he will never eat or drink outside of a few drops of wine on the feasts, and rarely uses physical senses; he just doesn't feel the need to. It may have something to do with spending more time around the disincarnate Children than the living

Outside of the Fëanturi and Vairë, his closest relationship among the Valar is probably with Manwë. On his part, the other trusts him completely, enough to ask him to pronounce a judgement all will abide by without yet knowing what he thinks (this part is canon, cf. the statute).

Manwë being the only other person in the world to know where the souls of Men go has also become something that ties them together. They discuss from time to time.

...I have no idea how a certain Maia's certain... detour near the end of the Third Age (meaning there now are three such people, although their knowledge might be in different degrees of fullness) might impact this balance; Namo is certainly going to have thoughts about it.

It is my self-indulgent headcanon to imagine that however bothersome a bored philosopher king with copious theories on the one subject you're not allowed to discuss with him might be in the Halls, Finrod does still regularly talk philosophy with him after he is reembodied. In any case, those who have passed through the Halls tend to be less jumpy about the whole "Lord of the Dead" aspect as a general rule.

That post I reblogged recently has gotten me thinking: to be honest his "Judge" and "Prophet" personas are two facets of the same coin — he is the one who proclaims what shall without doubt be.

[quixoticanarchy]

Maglor saying "the oath says not that we may not bide our time" is very interesting (not, unfortunately, conducive to conciseness). bear with me.

a) if they can bide their time, that kind of undermines the idea that they are driven by the oath into atrocity; rather, they can choose the moment to obey it (to some degree). the truth of this statement is unclear because it does seem that they spend a lot of the First Age biding their time, but also when they try to bide their time before the third kinslaying, it was said that they were tormented by the oath. was that false? what is it that pushes them into action, if not the pressure of the oath? or, is it the knowledge and shame of the unfulfilled oath combined with events that enable them to strike out for the jewels, but not actually any metaphysical pressure forcing their hand?

b) Maglor is also saying here, let's go back to Valinor and just see what happens. maybe eventually we can get the silmarils peacefully and be forgiven (I have to agree with Maedhros that that seems.. unlikely). probably correctly, Maedhros envisions the difficulty of trying to get the silmarils in Valinor while unforgiven, and what it would entail and cost to do violence there again. Maglor imagines peace; Maedhros definitely anticipates violence

c) I think Maglor also just wants to go home. he wants to stop. he would probably like to fulfill the oath (or be freed from it), but also would be fine with kicking the can down the road, presuming the oath will allow that. but once Maedhros talks him out of the likelihood of success if they wait til Valinor, he's also willing to break it entirely. his contention that Manwë and Varda making the oath impossible to fulfill would also make it void could be interpreted as a hope that both these things would happen

Maedhros makes the points that they can't be released bc they swore also to Ilúvatar, and therefore they're still facing the Everlasting Darkness if they fail. to which Maglor makes the fair point that if they can't be released, then either they hold themselves bound by the oath and keep trying for the silmarils (and if they fail, face Everlasting Darkness), or try to give up the oath, find they are still bound by it and, having auto-failed their task by breaking the oath, face Everlasting Darkness anyway. therefore yes, they would do less evil in the breaking, but the result is the same to them - as long as in neither case do they actually anticipate fulfilling the oath. Maglor therefore is maybe ready to give it up as impossible; possibly, Maedhros is arguing that it remains achievable for now, but "its fulfilment be byeond all hope" only once back in Aman, lending urgency to the final attempt to get the silmarils now.

a follow-up question: do they at this point believe that success is still possible? what is success? if they have to get all 3 silmarils to satisfy the oath, they're up against Earendil, but they never mention that. what does fulfilling the oath mean - that they evade the consequence of failure? is the force that 'drives' them to stick to the oath not so much (or not only) a metaphysical pain or burden that torments them, but the fear of the failure condition itself - the Everlasting Darkness?

this would explain Maglor's interest in wanting to stop pursuing the oath, but also wanting it somehow neutralized - whether by biding time or having the oath declared void. and Maedhros is arguing that a) they can't be released, b) they can only keep the darkness at bay by continuing to actually try for fulfilment, and c) they should take this one last shot while arguably they still have a chance (or at least it's easier than it would be in Aman). it may not matter whether success is ultimately possible (i.e. if Earendil does come into the picture, or the crosshairs), but it matters that they are trying.

but then, what to make of them reportedly realizing Eönwë was right and they've lost their right to the silmarils? what does that matter to the oath? the oath declares they'll do anything to get them back, and they do. as much as it sucks to get burned, getting them back (ignore the 3rd silmaril) should mean their deed has not failed so they should not face Everlasting Darkness.

I see a couple of possibilities here: a) they ceased being bound by the oath when they lost their right to the silmarils, which would make it vain and mean none of the atrocities had to happen. but is that how the oath operates? did they stop being bound by it long ago and just not realize? or, alternately, b) does their losing their right to the silmarils mean they auto-fail the oath bc they’ll never truly “reclaim” them? and therefore, rather than their never being at risk of Everlasting Darkness, are they consigned to it now no matter what? (but Maglor at least seems to evade that, unless it’s very metaphorical…) or, c) were they indeed bound by the oath all along and indeed fulfilled it, it just doesn't really matter bc the victory is hollow, and they themselves can’t hold the very things they killed others for holding? could be harsh enough on its own, whether or not the oath responds to the status of their “right” to the silmarils.

there is also the matter of we don’t know what the Everlasting Darkness is. lol. but I’m not touching that now beyond I think it��s a thing the SoF are genuinely afraid of

[outofangband]

Posted about it briefly here and in a few other posts on the description of the Darkening from Morgoth’s Ring, but the shadow of Morgoth over Finwë is something I find so compelling and horrifying.

Morgoth to the early elves is this darkness manifested, this nameless monster called a dozen things in the dawn of the Quendi language, when the anguish he caused, stealing elves in the shadows, the fear wrought by the uncanny creatures that stalked them, barely had words to describe it.

Morgoth appearing to the elves as the dark rider, cementing himself in their collective memory and nightmares to the point where they do not trust Oromë when he comes to them is such a cruel detail I think

But some do eventually trust Oromë and through the Valar, Morgoth is given a name, an explanation and an identity. He is not a sole power but part of a system. There is relief, even religion for some, in this.

The physical power he wields over them does not change but he is no longer a faceless evil in the shadows and thus lessens the power, the reach of his fear. And also through the Valar comes the offer of protection. Perhaps it is because of their kinship to the monster that haunted the elves that some refused or fled the offer.

Finwë is not among those. He accepts and his people come to Valinor and then Morgoth comes to Valinor in chains. He has a distinct physical form, one that can be bound and confined. And bound and confined he is

And so the nightmare of Morgoth is relegated to the nightmares of sleep, to dark murals and whispered tales. The grim memories remain

Even upon his release, even though there was whispers of resentment, betrayal, fear and fury at the decision of the Valar to unleash the monster that had overshadowed them…Morgoth is no longer the nightmare, the dark rider. He still has a distinct form, and when his influence spreads beyond limbs and the boundaries of his robes, they can be written off as the influence of nightmares, of change and uncertainty. Melkor walks beneath the same light as they do, closely watched by powers believed to match or beat his own.

Things do change when that influence is shown to have been the deliberate work of Melkor. I do not doubt that in addition to the direct result of interfering in the Noldorin royal family, Melkor hoped to undermine the Valar more generally, to sew fear, mistrust and uncertainty. And he succeeded in that.

I wonder sometimes if Finwë agreed to go in exile with Fëanor in the hopes that a smaller realm would allow him some higher degree of control. He could see the enemy coming and would not have to second guess the motives in the faces of his subjects, aides and neighbors.

Of course he does not see the enemy coming on that day when the lights have gone out. But Finwë feels him.

But even as we drew near to Formenos the darkness came upon us; and in the midst was a blackness like a cloud that enveloped the house of Fëanor.

This is what Maedhros says in his testimony to Manwë in Morgoth’s Ring. I imagine Finwë felt that mist of blackness envelop his house. Indeed, Maedhros also testified that his grandfather had felt uncertain, agitated and troubled from the start of the day, even before the trees were attacked, it was why he decided to remain while Fëanor had gone. Was it foresight? A premonition of dread?

Regardless, he must have known as he faced the demon upon his threshold that he would not survive this encounter. I imagine he wondered if his grandsons had already been struck down, perhaps even took some fleeting comfort in the knowledge that he would know within moments.

[doodle-pops]

Manwë Discovering Your Lightning Scars

Request: Hello Mina! How are you going? I hope you’re well 💕 May I please request a fic or headcannon for Manwë or Namo x reader who has lightning strike scars? She (or Gn!) has lightning patterned scars across and down her shoulders and up her neck, nothing crazy, maybe a pale red color but definitely noticeable. It can be something like the story of how she got them or insecurities if a fic. If headcannons then just their general reactions and things in headcannons I guess? Thank you! - Anon

A/N: A pleasure to fulfil your request dearie. I did an all-in-one with the request, meshing both the headcanon and short imagine because I still could not decide between a headcanon and a fic. I also took an angst route with this >.<

·⊰ When Manwё discovers his lover has lightning scars, he would be a mixture of awe, terror and confusion. If you had managed to be struck by lightning, then it was a miracle you survived such a violent interaction.

·⊰ Being marvelled at the gorgeous patterns intricately dancing and interwoven across the expanse of your back, his hands would lightly ghost your skin. There is a part of him itching to touch the red spider-like veins, but he’s also petrified, believing that they would cause pain if he were to.

·⊰ His face would falter when he learned that you were insecure about your scars, always covering up and never wearing any clothing article that revealed the slightest skin. Giving small praise as his eyes fell on your scars and creating poetic phrases as he went along.

·⊰ Eyes growing soft and heartstrings tugging, he's determined to get you to love yourself and see your beautiful. Along the way, he'd make a mental note to have more garments designed to show off or highlight the beauty of your skin.

·⊰ Manwё would consider you blessed and gift you a name signifying how lucky and blessed you were at the same time. But knowing the Elder King, since lightning were an extension of him and his abilities, he would also feel guilty.

·⊰ Feeling as though he had some part to play in your accident, he would begin to apologise for mistakenly losing control or releasing a lightning storm so absentmindedly without being aware of anyone around who could possibly be struck.

·⊰ His heart would clench at the idea of him being responsible for your scars even though you would explain to him that it was your fault for running outside in the middle of a lightning storm precariously.

·⊰ But it doesn’t matter how much you preach to the Elder King that he wasn’t to feel guilty or to be blamed, his ability to feel immense levels of empathy and sympathy for others would urge him to behave apologetically. In his heart, he believes that he has some part to play in the incident.

·⊰ As his lover, you would have to spend a copious time holding his face within your hands, stroking his over his worrisome features and attempting to straighten them out. “Manwё, my sweet radiant love, please. I am well and I do not hold you accountable— it’s my clumsy self.”

·⊰ Your worrying King would perhaps crumble into your arms feeling distressed because you had no idea that lightning storms only occurred when he was enraged. So your lightning scars were an outcome of a moment he was having over his brother’s despicable actions.  

·⊰ Poor you still hadn’t understood why he was so apologetic and constantly hugging you while crying into your hair.

“Manwё? What are telling me?” you whimpered as the words fell from his lips while he buried his face into your hair. The arms that were snaked around your waist had tightened, terrified of you running away and abandoning him after learning the truth. He hadn’t meant to; you weren’t even a target. A simple outcome of anger— losing control in the spur of the moment— and his rage came crashing upon the earth in a series of violent intricate patterns. Striking the earth furiously for every action his brother precariously displayed.

Breathing shakily, the Elder King's muffled voice cried out, “I’m sorry for harming you my dove. I truly did not mean to injure you or take your life. Forgive me please.”

His words took time to register within your mind and when they did, your eyes widened in horror at what they meant. Despite the horror on your face and the skip in your heartbeat, your mind sang a different song to you, ‘He didn’t mean it Y/N’. You knew the Elder King would never bring harm to you purposefully, but hearing that an injury you gained was a result of his losing control, you found it alarming. “I…don’t blame you Manwё, it was an accident— a life-threatening one, but I don’t hate you. I’m alive, a survivor,” you consoled with small rubs and pats to the King’s back and head.

Withdrawing from your embrace while keeping his arms around your waist, he raised his head to be at your level. His stormy blue eyes gazed into yours with the utmost sympathy and concern, apologies were written across his crinkled face. “I never thought that I would truly injure someone with my…unruly outburst. I’m always careful, I always remember to be careful,” he whimpered. You could feel his fingers pressing into your lower vertebrate, careful not to touch the areas where the scars were present. It was no mistake that you felt his hesitancy to touch his accident.

“My love, my sweet ĕrĕmelda,” you cupped his face in your smaller hands, “even if you created the lightning storm, it was me being clumsy and running outside to only be struck. Blame not yourself.” You then leaned in to bump noses against the other and brought him in for a kiss.

“…You are right, I shouldn’t worry so greatly…” his voice then fell into silence before piquing up in confusion, “but why did you run outside in the middle of a lightning storm?”

Fumbling with your response, you cautiously laughed at the foolish reason for the result of your injury. You knew he'd stare at you as though you grew five heads. “. . .Well, um. . .I wanted to see the lightning storm up close. . .” you softly mumbled, fiddling with your thumbs, “it was just me being clumsy.”

Staring at you flabbergasted, the Elder King didn't know if to reprimand you or remain silent. Gripping your shoulders and giving you a firm shake, he commanded with concern in his tone, “You are staying inside during all lightning storms. In fact, you're stay inside during any flashy event. . .for your own good!”

Masterlist

Taglist: @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @starborne0661 @floraroselaughter @the-phantom-of-arda @rain-on-my-umbrella @singleteapot @wandererindreams @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

May I have some Yandere Manwe and Yandere Irmo headcanons?

I must confess, I am still a bit lost when it comes to Deres, but I hope you like these all the same.

Warnings: Unhealthy romantic obsessions | Possessiveness and jealousy | Stalking (through dreams) | Irmo dipping into his bag of tricks to create false thoughts and visions | Manipulation | Deception | Gaslighting  | Punishment through silent treatment | Training/Rewards | Guilt tripping | Cutting SO off from others | Confinement | Dark! Irmo | Dark! Manwë

Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

Yandere Irmo will include:

Him dipping into your deepest thoughts and dreams without you even knowing. He will pry into every action, conversation, and meeting before making note of everyone you spoke to during the day.

This "need" to know will start from the beginning of him knowing you. This will continue long after you agree to be with him. Irmo justifies it as him protecting you and your interests.

If you ever learn of his spying on your thoughts and confront him, he will defend himself and insist he only does it for your own good, as you have no idea how much those others could hurt you.

What you don't know is that Irmo has even gone so far as to pry into the thoughts of those you interact with, searching for any crumbs he can find and use to his advantage.

He will take great care to show you the other person’s so-called dangerous thoughts, even fabricating false images after making use of his mastery over visions and dreams. He will then assert that this other other person is indeed harmful to you and convince you, little by little, to push that other person away from you.

"Do you see that, little moth?" He declares after showing you one conjured vision after another. "Do you see all the dark ways they fantasize about you while you carry out your tasks?"

Nothing gives him greater happiness than seeing his efforts have not gone to waste and that you agree with him.

“I am glad you agree with me, little moth,” he coos. “Now will you heed me and stay away from this person?”

Once you have successfully distanced yourself from that other person, Irmo will reward you greatly, especially granting whatever you desire during sex.

Yandere Manwë will include:

Him convincing you that everyone else will hurt and betray you, for he alone is free from evil and cannot comprehend it.

He will go on to insist that as the Elder King, he is duty-bound to protect you from all harm. Manwë will keep you within Ilmarin, confining you to the boundaries of its outer walls when you refuse to listen to him and try to leave.

“Come now, little dove, why do you need to leave me? Is a king not enough?” Manwë would grow glum and forlorn before gesturing to the slender towers and domes of the palace. “Is the magnificence of Ilmarin not enough?”

When you grow insistent on leaving, Manwë changes tactics. He will stop acknowledging you, ignoring you whenever you come upon him walking along paths and corridors, and even going so far as to ply you with guilt whenever you ask why he is doing all of this.

“How can I even look at you when you insist on leaving me,” he would lament. “And after everything I have done for you! Was your regard for me a lie?”

Manwë does not stop at mere words, however. He will find other ways to point out everything you would miss out on if you left him.

One of them would be to put you on a pedestal.

“Will anyone worship you like this little dove? Will anyone else treat you with complete adoration?”

Another way would be to get his attendants to play along.

“The king adores you like no other,” one attendant would say. “He looks at you like no one else exists,” another would say.

His words and actions soon have the desired effect. Manwë welcomes you with open arms when you come to him and declare that you will never leave him and that you are sorry for even thinking of leaving him. The king showers you with attention and riches beyond imagination as a reward.

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese @edensrose

[cilil]

Any Yandere Manwe headcanons?

𝓐𝓝 ~ Sure thing! Here are some ^^

𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ~ 2nd person POV, reader insert, gender-neutral reader

𝓣𝓦𝓼 ~ Yandere, manipulative behavior, emotional manipulation, unhealthy relationships

ଘ The key thing about Yandere!Manwë is that everything is insidious. Everyone, including himself, believes that he is nothing but pure and good, so you yourself may question your own feelings time and time again - Are you the one who is in the wrong? Doesn't the Elder King in his divine wisdom indeed know better than you? Are you merely paranoid? Are you going against Eru's will if you even think about resisting him?

ଘ However, to even arrive at a point where you sense that something may be wrong, you have to escape Manwë's web, an illusion of perfect romance and companionship. With his skills as a poet, writer and singer, he does his best to woo you and pull wool over your eyes while he continues to draw you in.

ଘ You find yourself in an enviable position, with the Elder King himself doting on you and showering you with kindness, affection, attention and even special favors - whatever you desire, you may have it. Though there may be a price to pay, just a tiny thing he so very nicely asks for in return...

ଘ Once Manwë's interest in you slowly morphs into obsession, you're never alone. Even when you think no one is nearby, he either keeps his own eyes on you from his throne on Taniquetil or sends his bird servants to spy on you. Everything you do, everything you say, all is reported back to him.

ଘ Whether you resist or reject him doesn't matter. Manwë is used to (almost) everyone loving and adoring him, so why don't you? He immediately concludes that something must have corrupted you and of course he will be there to help out a poor little thing like yourself who can't free themselves from their "evil thoughts" without his "help".

ଘ Being a palace on top of a tall mountain, Ilmarin is the perfect place to "keep his darling safe". A golden cage, if you will. You enjoy a life of luxury and have no chance of leaving or escaping so Manwë can watch you and have access to you whenever he wishes. You may not even recall at which point he figuratively plucked you, his favorite little bird, out of the air and clipped your wings to make you his pet.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

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[neechees]

In the spirit of Pride month & gay lotr I've been thinking about Ayakwêw Cree Gandalf, and it really fits:

Crees (especially East & James Bay Cree) have traditional hoods that are pointy, so the pointy wizard hat checks out

Ayakwêw as twospirit ppl are meant to be mediators for conflict, commune with spirits as medicine people, are considered sacred, & are healers, not dissimilar to the Istari & Gandalf's schtick

Ayakwêw are also eligible to be firekeepers in the camp: Gandalf has fire powers. In Cree, fire in Cree (Iskotêw) means "woman heart", & in Tolkien legendarium, the Maia of the sun Arien is a woman, and Gandalf weilds the flame of Anor

Gandalf serves Manwë, Vala of birds & all things related to air. I'm imagining Gandalf with an eagle staff as a wizard's staff

[heavenlayt]

I would never reject my angel, Irmo! ❤️❤️🥺

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ ainur ⠀〳 ⠀reader ❜᭡

─────── .°୭̥ ✿ˎˊ˗ “ dodging their kisses ’ ❪ reaction of the ainur when you decide to goof around a little and dodge their kisses <3 ❫

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ mairon.

ʚ he's quite confused at this, begins wondering if he's done something to upset you — even if that was the case, why be stubborn?

ʚ tries one more time and when you dodge him again he catches the ghost of a smile on your lips. he excellently deduces that this is another one of your silly games

ʚ fine, he could play games too

ʚ grabs beneath your jaw and turns your head to him, kissing you with little regard for how you weren't prepared, or how he steals your breath away

ʚ kisses you until you're weak in the knees and when he pulls back to witness his dark lipstick staining your lips, he smirks before leaning in so that you're eye to eye

ʚ "next time I won't be as forgiving, dollface."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ melkor.

ʚ wasn't having it the first time that you dodged his kiss but decided to eye you carefully. watching to see exactly what you were up to

ʚ grabs you by the waist and turns you to face him so that you're met with his narrowed, violet hues

ʚ "that's fine, you don't have to kiss me. would you prefer my boot?"

ʚ as you splutter and try to explain that it was only an innocent joke, you watch as he chuckles and brings his hand to your throat. you pout at the realisation, knowing that he used his frightening demeanor to out with your little game when in reality he wasn't even angered

ʚ "you do have to make it up to me, though. come here."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ manwë.

ʚ thinks that perhaps you didn't see him leaning down to kiss you while the two of you cuddled and so, tries once more

ʚ pouts a little when you dodge him yet again. you don't look at him, not yet, knowing that his eyes would be your ultimate downfall

ʚ doesn't say anything for awhile, until it clicks. he then begins peppering kisses on your face instead, trapping you in his arms as you squeal and squirm due to his fingers tickling at your sides

ʚ "aww, what is the matter little dove? what will it be, my kisses or tickles?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ irmo.

ʚ full on whines when you dodge his kiss the first time. stops, pouts and tries again — only to whine louder this time

ʚ he had his arms looped around your waist and was just about to fall asleep, so he wished to give you a little kiss. now he slumps into your stomach and pouts

ʚ brings your hand to him instead and peppers little kisses along your knuckles. "dearest, what have I done to anger you? I truly am sorry."

ʚ you give in after seeing his sleepy puppy eyes and lean down to give him all the kisses he desires

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ námo.

ʚ definitely was not expecting this, but he doesn't push any further nor comment. he simply backs off and looks to the side, assuming you may have been having a bad day

ʚ until he notices the corners of your lips curl into a smile — and that's when he knows you're up to your tricks again

ʚ "ah, I suppose I shall return to my duties, then."

ʚ two can play at that game. try kissing him throughout the day after that and he'll conveniently turn his head to talk to a maia or cut you off with a question, sometimes even turning away altogether

ʚ it's only when you're clinging to him and whining apologies does he even consider to reward you but cupping your cheek and giving you much needed kisses

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ·⊰ ꒰❀꒱ eönwë.

ʚ like a confused puppy. he looks at you as though he's done something wrong and would probably just remain silent as he stares at your face

ʚ leans over to kiss your cheek and frowns when you dodge yet again. he takes your hand in his and immediately asks if he had done something wrong

ʚ he's so worried y/n, shame on you. he's practically ready to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness

ʚ due to this, you tell him it was merely a joke and hook your arms around his neck. he sighs with relief, looping his hold around your waist and pressing a much needed kiss to your lips

ʚ "such strange games you come up with. I hope you will have as much creativity in training later on."

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