#but if anyone could do this it's feanor

[doodle-pops]

A Promising Future

Feanor x human!reader

Request: Hello!!! Hope everything is okie dokie on your end!! So this is like an alternative timeline sorta thing. Could I maybe request a fic where a severely wounded Fëanor does survive the battle, but he's badly hurt, barely holding on, and a mortal!reader helps him recover? We know Fëanor would be too proud to accept any help from anyone let alone a mortal, but over time he comes to rely on the reader, and secretly enjoys being doted on? And mayyyybe little bit of romance between them...?😁 Hihii! Thank ya and take care!!!💖💖– @koyunsoncizeri

A/N: This was an interesting piece to spend a long time concocting. Most pleased with this yearning troupe—gives me life. Thank you for requesting and giving me soft Feanor.

Warnings: canon-divergent (Feanor survives), pinning (deep-seated yearning), comfort, soft content, confession, soft Feanor

Words: 2.8k

Synopsis: And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?

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The dim glow of the fire flickered against the modest wooden walls of your home, casting long shadows that danced and shifted as the flames licked at the logs. Outside, the wind howled faintly, a distant voice in the vastness of the night, but inside, warmth and quiet enveloped the space—save for the occasional grumbling of your stubborn guest.

“Oi, cease your movements, your wounds are still fresh.”

Nothing.

“Will you put that down? That is not a toy.”

Nothing.

“Oi, elf boy! Quit moving or you will feel this hot wooden spoon.”

Well, that did something.

Standing there in a widened stance, hand on your hips, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a look of ‘so help me God, I will throttle you,’ on your face as you stared at the raven-haired elf trapezing your dollhouse-sized home—compared to his towering seven foot and more frame. Still covered in bandaged and faint scars from his tumble with those fiery creatures in the North, Feanor paused midway examining a jar filled with some liquids that smelt like alcohol and what appeared to be venomous creatures, to throw a look of ‘come hither.’

“You mortals,” he murmured, tilting the jar and watching the brown substance shift loosely within. “So quick to violence.”

“If only you knew,” you sighed, returning your attention to the bubbling cauldron over the fire. “I spent all morning hunting down your favourite mushrooms because you are a picky bastard, and yet here you are, prancing about my house like an overgrown child instead of resting.” You were tempted to launch your wooden spoon, freshly drawn from the cauldron, and wack his head with it, but that would only create another session of his temper tantrum.

As you stirred the soup, inhaling the fragrant steam curling from the surface. Behind you, you could still feel him, standing there, likely observing you with that unreadable expression of his. He had done so for days now—watching you as you moved, as if you were a puzzle he could not quite solve.

You heard him hum—a sound of neither agreement nor dismissal—but he finally set the jar back onto the shelf. A small victory, you supposed. “What is this concoction?”

Heaving, you focused on the heat and stirred the soup, adding in the fine herbs. “It is a cure for venomous injuries.”

“And how does it work?” he inquired, holding the jar up to the light. The size difference between his hand and the jar made it appear like a small bottle.

“If one were to be bitten by a venomous creature, consume a mouthful to purge the body of the toxins. Would you like to test it yourself?” you replied, unamused at his fascination. To this day, you still do not understand the fascination that his kind had towards humans. You were smaller, some matching the height of elven women, slower, aged and less refined—hardly any reason to be enchanted. Rather, disenchanted was a better response, yet you were stuck with one who broke the typical themes of interest.

“Once again, you mortals have sedated my curiosity—for a moment,” he muttered before seeing the jar once more and turning on his heel to scour the tiny house.

You rolled your eyes at his comment. There it was again—the ever-condescending ‘you mortals…’ followed by some half-hearted remark that barely qualified as praise. As if you should be grateful that a being as great as he had taken an interest in your primitive existence. First Thingol’s kin, and now him—a different race of elves who had a fondness for the arts, or perhaps just him.

Turning your head to catch him staring at the metalwork of your water system—which he had been learning for the last two weeks—his mouth was moving at an unrecognisable speed. Muttering calculations and theoretics of the mechanics he was taught by Aulë and Mahtan, comparing them to your craft.

“How long are you going to stare?” you called out, not breaking his focus or attention, but enough to earn you a grunt. “You are genuinely obsessed; most would not be.”

“I am not most.” Came his subtle response while he stroked his chin as though he had a beard.

Giving a small ‘humph’ and setting your spoon down, you stepped away from the fireside and began gathering the bits of mess lying around the house. “You are indeed not most,” you commented with a smirk. “You are simply an elf who had seen death which resulted in you being draped in excessive bandages. Most would not charge at three or more fiery beasts and expect to win—clearly, you are more.”

Thankfully, your head was down as you gathered the doily and withered flowers off the table, missing the ‘how dare you’ expression. Anyone else would have melted on the spot, even squeak out an apology, but you, unbothered. In the two weeks he had been within your company, you had done more damage than the Balrogs had managed—quell his pride. You could sense the heat of his glare, smouldering it was in fact, less than in the beginning, it only served as humour to your bored, tranquil days. Something that felt more like calm amusement than the wrath of a fiery storm. Tolerable.

“I will have you know that I—”

“—faced the mightiest of foes, the Great Enemy of the North, and survived to fight another day,” you interrupted, finally looking up to give him a tender smile with a small, reassuring shake of your head. “It is not something to be taken lightly.”

His arms folded across his chest—then immediately unfolded as he winced at the motion, pain flickering briefly across his expression. He tried to suppress it, his pride refusing to acknowledge his own weakness, but you had seen it.

Sighing, you step toward him. “Sit down before you rip your stitches,” you said, the amusement in your tone fading into something softer.

He did not move, prompting you to exhale slowly, tilting your head. “Fëanor.”

His jaw tightened as if warring with himself before he begrudgingly moved to take a seat on the wooden bench near the hearth. There, he sat stiffly, as if the mere act of compliance wounded him more than the battle itself.

You crouched in front of him, fingers reaching for the bandages around his ribs. He flinched—just slightly—but did not stop you as you carefully unwound the wrappings to inspect the wounds beneath. The deep gashes had closed, the flesh mending slowly, but bruises still painted his skin in shades of deep violet and blue.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting shifting patterns of gold and amber across the wooden walls. Shadows flickered along the grain of the floorboards, elongating the space between you and him, yet the air between you felt unbearably close. He sat stiffly on the bench, his mountainous frame oddly subdued, his shoulders still drawn taut as you crouched before him, carefully unwinding the bandages that bound his wounds.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the flesh no longer torn as it had been when you first found him—broken, battered, but not defeated. Never defeated. The bruises remained, deep smudges of violet and blue painting the edges of his ribs, but the worst of the gashes had closed, and healed over time and care.

“You heal well,” you murmured barely above a breath as your fingers ghosted over the smooth, newly-mended skin.

There was a sharp exhale through his nose, shifting slightly beneath your touch. “Of course I do,” he scoffed, but his usual sharpness was absent. The words lacked their customary bite, ringing hollow in the thickened air between you.

You glanced up at him then, your face close to his, close enough to see the exhaustion lining his sharp features, the way his lips parted slightly in an unspoken thought. The firelight caught the dark waves of his hair, casting a soft sheen over what should have been wild and untamed, yet now seemed almost...hesitant. He was always a force of motion, a wildfire that consumed all in his path, yet now, he was still—unnervingly still.

His mismatched eyes, filled with the sparks of something unknown, burned into you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He was watching you again—not as the strange mortal who had taken him in, nor as the healer who had bound his wounds. There was something else in his gaze now, something unreadable, something unwanted if the flicker of tension in his jaw was any indication.

“You should be grateful that you are here, alive,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, the corner of your lips barely curving into a smirk. “You should count your blessings.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Fëanor did not answer immediately, and for a moment, you wondered if you had finally pressed too far. He was not one to dwell on the past—his entire life had been defined by the forward momentum of his will, the sheer force of his existence too great to linger on what was. And yet, something unreadable shifted in his expression, something that did not belong to the proud warrior who had fought fire with fire, nor the brilliant craftsman whose hands had shaped wonders beyond mortal comprehension.

It was a hesitation. A pause in the storm.

He swallowed, the movement barely perceptible, but you caught it, nonetheless.

Grateful?

He should have been dead. Would have been dead, had it not been for you, a mere mortal who had found him among the scorched remains of battle, who had dragged his barely-breathing body from the clutches of death itself. He should have resented you for it.

He had been a king. A leader. A father. A husband. He had known what it meant to be bound to another, to share space, to accept care. But that life was gone, shattered long before his body ever fell to the flames. His marriage had ended long before death had first reached for him. And yet here you were—offering him care he had long since forsaken, offering him patience, offering him something he had not asked for but had begun, over these weeks, to expect.

But he didn’t. And that was the problem.

No one had dared tend to him since Nerdanel had left. No one had been allowed. And yet, you—a mere mortal, a lesser being by every elven measure—had not only mended his wounds but had dared to scold him, to tease him, to touch him with the ease of one who did not see the legend, only a man.

That should have infuriated him. And yet, his gaze continued to linger.

On the curve of your lips, the delicate line of your throat as you tilted your head, the stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from behind your ear. The hands that had time and again seen to his wounds with the care he had not deserved. The very same hands that had struck him with a wooden spoon the first time he had tried to move before his body was ready.

He had scoffed at it then. But now, in this closeness, in this unbearable stillness, he was left to reckon with a far more troubling truth.

What was this? This need?

He had come to like it.

The doting. The attention. The quiet, steady presence of you in this little home.

He had craved it.

A sickness took root in his chest, something far more suffocating than his wounds, far more dangerous than the lingering weakness in his limbs.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles taut beneath his skin. It does not matter, he told himself. He was leaving soon. He had to leave. He had no place here.

And yet.

And yet.

His next words left his mouth before he could stop them, low and quiet, as if they had been stolen from the depths of his mind before he had a chance to cast them aside.

“Then I only have one blessing to be grateful for.”

Your breath hitched slightly, hands stilling against his skin. There was a brief moment as you searched his gaze, unsure if he truly meant what you thought he did. Enough for him to know that you understood. His expression remained unreadable, but the way he held your gaze—steady, unwavering—sent warmth curling in your chest. The space between you was unbearable now, the air thick with something unspoken, something vast and terrifying in its weight.

Your fingers, still resting lightly against his bandages, trembled for the briefest moment before you swallowed, pulling your hands away.

“The soup will be ready soon,” you murmured, standing and turning away.

Fëanor exhaled, slow and measured, as if that breath was all that was keeping him from being swept into something he could not control.

He did not stop you as you moved away. And yet, as he watched you—this stubborn mortal who had refused to let him die—he could not shake the thought that had begun to take root. That leaving this place, leaving you, would be a battle of its own. And damn anyone who prevented him—he could not leave without you. And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?

And before he knew it, the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. He did not look at you immediately. He stared at the floor, at the dying embers in the hearth, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I am leaving soon,” he said at last, quietly.

You stilled, spoon in midair and bowl in hand, swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I know.”

A pause. Then, you felt his hand reach out to gingerly curl around your wrist, prompting the spoon to be released, as if you were his most precious glasswork—enough to keep you there.

“I do not wish to go.”

Your breath stuttered.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turned to face him. He finally lifted his gaze, and in that moment, Fëanor, the great and mighty warrior, the King of the Noldor, was just a man. A man who had lost everything and had, in the most unexpected of places, found something worth holding onto again.

And for the first time, he admitted it.

“I do not wish to leave you.”

A quiet stillness settled between you. The weight of his words hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

You studied his face—the proud tilt of his chin, the flicker of uncertainty in his mismatched eyes, the way his fingers still curled lightly around your wrist as if hesitant to fully commit to what he had just confessed. It was not an easy thing for him, you knew. He had spent so long burning, consumed by his own fire, forging himself into something untouchable. And yet, here he was—revealing something raw, something fragile, something he had likely never intended to say.

You exhaled softly.

“Then don’t.”

He blinked. Just once. As if startled by the simplicity of your response. No grand proclamations, no desperate pleas—just a truth laid bare, plain and unembellished.

His grip on you tightened just slightly, as if testing whether he could believe in it.

You tilted your head, your voice quieter this time. “Stay, if that is what you want.”

There was no demand in your tone, no expectation. The decision had always been his to make—would always be his to make. And for a man who had spent a lifetime consumed by choices that had shaped empires and shattered worlds, perhaps this—this—was the one choice that truly mattered.

His lips parted slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then finally, his fingers slipped from your wrist, only to settle against your hand instead, turning it palm-up in his grasp. His thumb brushed absently over the skin there, his gaze still searching yours as though waiting for some unseen force to pull him away.

It never came.

“…Then I will stay.”

Not forever. Perhaps not even for long. But for now.

And somehow, for a man who had always burned too brightly, too briefly, that was enough.

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[valar-did-me-wrong]

Hey buzzword crowd, here's the simplest, most basic way I could put the core of the problem that imo is happening between you people and most of the fandom..

(won't call you Shippers here because I know some shippers who don't use your language or agree with your opinions )

This is also me trying to convey what I believe is why people have problems with you people's essays & posts (because it is not the ship that most people have problem with, I'll elaborate) maybe this will help prevent future toxicity..

Spoiler it has everything to do with the respect you give other people & their blorbos and nothing to do with everyone except you all being anti-feminist, anti-sex, anti-shipping, anti-biotic, anti-ageing, anti-oxidant, anti-body etc etc etc..

I'll use 3 characters and 5 points, here we go!

(Ditch the namecalling and insults before you interact)

(again this is my opinion & interpretation of the situation)

1. Elrond in Adar's Tent

If you read it as Sauron as Elrond

What it adds to the story: one ship & it's characters' dynamics with each other and othes in that tent

What it takes away from the story: Elrond coming to himself as a leader, his quick thinking, his skill with words and politics, the growth of his character

What it gives Galadriel: a non consenting kiss & more ship dynamics

What it takes away from Galadriel: her friend saying sorry for treating her horribly through out S2

If you read it as Elrond in the tent

What it adds to the story: a young man coming into himself as a future leader, a friend realising his mistake and asking for forgiveness, a half elf being reminded that he has a powerful Maia in his family (he isn't less than any elf lord)

What it takes away from the story: nothing imo because the siege still happens and it doesn't negate Sauron & Galadriel's S1 dynamics so Your ship can still sail

What it gives Galadriel: she gets the apology she deserved and reconciliation with her friend

What it takes away from Galadriel: a non con kiss

You see how your interpretation of this as canon erases a whole character and his arc but the version most Elrond fan's prefer doesn't affect your ship a bit..

Now this interpretation wouldn't have been a problem if you all weren't framing your posts as feminist & show canon & the correct way of interpreting media & then start name calling & insulting anyone and everyone who disagrees.

Just like you guys don't like the show haters on reddit etc trying to disrespect you & the whole Haladriel dynamics, other fan's also don't like to be called assholes, misogynists, conservatives & Haters etc etc for simply liking the show in another way.

2. Celebrimbor and the elven rings

If you read it as Sauron's engagement rings

What it adds to the story: one ship's dynamics

What it takes away from the story: Celebrimbor's part in their creation & his talents as the greatest Elven smith of his time, the show runners statments that Sauron is not there when the rings are being actually forged

What it gives Galadriel: a personalised ring specifically for her from her enemy and all the dynamics of it

What it takes away from Galadriel: her knowledge, her trust in her family member Celebrimbor.. all of which backs her claim that the rings are untouched by Sauron

If you read it as Celebrimbor's elven rings made with Sauron's help

What it adds to the story: Celebrimbor's hardwork, his skills that he has in part learned from his grandfather THE Feanor of Noldor, his ambition, his Feanorian hubris, his partnership of equals with Annatar, call back to his love for Galadriel in a version by Tolkien (for Nenya seeming to choose Galadriel)

What it takes away from the story: a plot hole imo of Sauron having the skill to make rings of power all by himself this early in the story & not using that to make the other rings alone.. still doesn't invalidate any of Galadriel & Halbrand dynamics so Your ship can still sail

What it gives Galadriel: a correct opinion about the nature of the rings that all her people eventually come to agree with

What it takes away from Galadriel: a mistake imo which is either not correctly judging the nature of the rings or knowing and still risking the future of all middle earth by insisting every time that the rings are safe

You see how wanting the rings to Not Be engagment rings doesn't do any harm to your ship and it's dynamics & neither does it reduce Sauron's talents as a Smith.. he is still a Maia who worked under Aulë and helped in Creation Of The World & who will go on to make the One.

But constantly saying that the rings are Sauron's engagement rings erases the whole point of Celebrimbor as a character.. not to mention his talents that Sauron needed to make the other rings and Celebrimbor's input that also helps him in making the One.

And understandaby Celebrimbor fans don't like this interpretation that reduces & erases him. But nobody would have had problems if again you guys weren't framing your headcanon essays as absolute feminist truths & calling other takes Bad Takes.

3. Nenya healing Adar

If you read it as Nenya giving him redemption by fixing his evilness

What it adds to the story: a plot hole with this magic healing ability that can fix everything and everyone who falls to darkness and evil, making way for sauron to find quick redemption

What it takes away from the story: a realistic worldview where individual choices have impact not only on the person themselves but also to everyone around them, an understanding of how healing works irl

What it gives Galadriel: a mistake for not giving away a ring of power to Sauron to heal him

What it takes away from Galadriel: her wisdom that one cannot heal another person out of their evil or mistakes (heal yourself)

If you read it as Adar gets redemption because of choosing to see his mistakes & trying to correct them after being healed by Nenya out of the torture and dark magic that turned him into uruk

What it adds to the story: Adar's commendable ability to see his huge mistakes and accept them infront of his enemy & try to fix them

What it takes away the story: the ability of the rings to heal Sauron

because in this reading it requires acceptance to look your mistakes in the eye & choice to do better that redeems a person which Sauron in show gets many chances to do but doesn't repeatedly. This still doesn't invalidate Sauron & Galadriel's dynamics so Your ship can still sail

What it gives Galadriel: an example that if someone who was under the shadow for so long as Adar can come to the light by choosing to accept their mistakes then she too despite her tryst with darkness can still come to the light by acceptance if she chooses

What it takes away from Galadriel: the burden of healing her abuser

Again reading Adar's redemption as his own achievement doesn't affect your ship at all & neither does it prevent Sauron from ever getting redeemed. It just gives him a truer to life way to get redeemed someday; even makes his future redemption more compelling imo.

But when you make the redemption all about Nenya it takes away the little good this already tragic & tortured character of Adar has. Add that to the usual insensitive framing & you'll get Me in response, an Adar fan fuming.

4. Adar's villian arc

If you read him as solely a villain

What it adds to the story: another villian

What it takes away from the story: Sauron's narrative foil and all the complexity that has been put into his character from his introduction in S1

What it gives Galadriel: a mistake imo it makes Galadriel's pity & understanding of the suffering of Adar & Uruk a mistake if he is only a villain & does everything wrong in all lights.

What it takes away from Galadriel: an example of what becomes of people who accept darkness despite love still existing in their heart and also an example of how good intentions and horrible actions can go hand in hand

If you read him as a morally grey character who had a villain's arc in one light but an anti-hero's arc in another light

What it adds to the story: a complex character that creates an emotional connection with some people who might see flashes of their persecution in the Uruk, a character who grounds the story in real world by having elements of freedom fighters & rebels choosing wrong paths in desperation, a great portrayal of the Cycle of Abuse creating abusers out of some victims

What it takes away from the story: a similar or less complex villian than Sauron but doesn't affect the dynamics of Sauron & Galadriel so Your ship can still sail

Again see how having Adar as not fullly a villain doesn't affect even a bit of your ship. It also doesn't affect Sauron and his existence as a compelling villian with a repentance arc & some good intention behind all the deception. You can still read good in Sauron's actions, Adar doesn't need to be a villain to make Sauron's goodness more visible.

But your insistence that he can only be read as a villain & people who see him as anything else are supporting genocide can irk Adar fans because the scenes showing his good traits exist & were placed conciously & weren't a collective hallucination.

5. Gay Adar being forced into ships with women

This one I'll just simply say.. The people who insist that he's gay are also the ones I see that say his relationship with Sauron was only one sided where Adar was in love but Sauron wasn't.

Here are my problems with this reading:

Adar is queercoded.. the showrunners' interview from SDCC mentions LGBTQIA+ & we all assume it was about him right..

Nowhere is it specificed that he's gay.. why can't he be Bisexual? Pansexual? Or something else or just Queer who doesn't want to be labelled by anything?

Why is this one specific way of reading him so important to you by invalidating everyone else's reading when nothing is concrete canon about this anyway?

Why can't all kinds of people from LGBTQIA+ explore their sexuality via Adar just like you all like to explore female sexuality & dark fantasies etc via Galadriel & Sauron? Because it isn't wrong in anyway I agree, I used to ship them too in S1. And most people you call names every day will agree with that too!

All this was the long way of saying, if you'll be mean to people, their reading of the story, their fav characters and their author.. some will retaliate in the same way.

It's not because they hate your ship or women or women's sexuality or villain ships or gays etc etc etc it's just simply about the respect you give out into the world & the ability to differentiate between fans of the show who like other things than you and Haters of the show.

[braxix]

I love a Elrond kidnaps Maglor to take him to Valinor, or a Galadriel tracks him down and manhandles him onto a ship, but I want a Celeborn sees the pain of his family and dispite his own dislike and pain he tracks Maglor down and forces him to come home. I want a angsty hurt/comfort where Maglor thinks Celeborn is here to kill him, but Celeborn just hands him some bread and tends to his wounds. I want Celeborn deciding that the only way to stop the cycle of hurt is to forgive and to be the one to show kindness. I want the war in Celeborn's mind over the morals of doing this. I want the slips where Celeborn accidentally hurts him without realizing. I want enemies to friends. I want Celeborn to decide that, in the least, kidnapping Maglor can't be that bad. It's for the elf's own good and he talks himself into it by saying that it's a revenge kidnapping.

I want Galadriel to be so worried about where her husband disappeared to that when he comes home with a kinslayer trailing after him she's so surprised she doesn't even put on a mask of indifference and tries to keep Maglor out. She's more worried about what her husband is doing to Maglor than what Maglor could possibly do to Celeborn. Celeborn is the one to talk her into letting Maglor in, forcing her to let him stay.

I want Elrond's surprise/hurt/worry when he finally sees Maglor. I want him refusing to look at Maglor because he thinks Maglor doesn't love him because he stayed away. He thinks Maglor went to Galadriel before him on purpose and that because he wasn't told that Maglor wants nothing to do with him. I want miscommunication. I want Maglor thinking Elrond hates him. I want Celeborn to be so confused by what's going on between Elrond and Maglor because didn't Elrond say he wished Maglor would come home? Didn't Elrond say he misses the son of Feanor? Didn't Maglor talk non-stop the entire way home about how he doesn't want to be a bother to perfect wonderful Elrond? I want the realization. I want the tired of this bullshit sigh from Celeborn before he locks them in a room together so that they'll realize that they both miss each other dearly and want to be father and son. I want their painful realization of how deeply miscommunicated everything was. I want their fight. Their stories. I want them all to be a crazy family.

I want it to be because of Celeborn deciding to forgive, but not forget. I want it to be Celeborn who does this because he's the one who remembers all of the wrongs Maglor did, he has no reason to forgive, but he does. Celeborn stops the hurt. Celeborn's the one to bring him home, not Galadriel or Elrond or anyone related to Maglor. It's Celeborn.

[noldolante14]

I absolutely love that Nerdanel was not considered beautiful, because it adds so much to her and Feanor's characters. Feanor is the Greatest Elf of All Time™ who is a PRINCE, and could have married ANYONE, but he chose her.

Like imagine this from an outsider's perspective. Feanor, the most talented and intelligent elf of all time, next in line to the throne, greatest craftsman, presumably very attractive elf falls in love with someone who is considered ugly. Not only do they get married, but they do so almost scandalously young, to the point where it is technically okay but still very young. This and the fact that they had more children than anyone ever just goes to show how much they must love each other.

Feanor is not one to do things by halves. He would put great thought into choosing his wife, and this guy must have been simping SO HARD. Nerdanel is the daughter of his favorite teacher, which makes her even more off-limits if anything. Nerdanel's personality perfectly counteracts Feanor's, and she takes absolutely none of his shit. She was the first person to stand up to him and the only one that can make him listen (until silmaril times). She is a sculpter, so presumably very strong. Feanor marrying Nerdanel likely brought some of his personality to life that others did not see, the part of him that made people follow him.

[curufiin]

Do you guys think that maybe Feanor was massively overprotective of Celegorm when he was younger, to the point of him feeling stifled and felt like he wasn’t allowed to do anything that he wanted? I always imagined Feanor and Celegorm having a strained relationship bc whatever my friends write is canon but I never really could put my finger on why.

Because logistically they should have a great relationship. Celegorm is very similar to his father with his love for wandering, his interest in languages, and his power in speech being said to be “as potent as were long before in Tirion the words of his father that first inflamed the Noldor to rebellion”.

But maybe because of Celegorm’s hair, especially when he was younger, it cut a little too deeply into Feanor’s mommy issues wound and the reality of death lurking in every corner hit Feanor like a truck again. Maybe he refused to sleep in a different room than baby Celegorm. Maybe he didn’t let anyone other than trusted servants and Nerdanel hold him. Maybe when Celegorm grew up, he was forced to adhere to a very strict schedule that Feanor put together, always supervised by either him, Nerdanel, or a servant, because he wanted to be able to know where Celegorm is at all times, and know that he was safe at all times. Maybe he wouldn’t let Celegorm around his cousins, and told him to stay with Finwe when he traveled.

Of course, he does all of this out of love, and a desire to make sure that his little Miriel come again doesn’t suffer the same fate that his mother did. But Celegorm doesn’t know any of that. I doubt he even knew much about Miriel except for whatever Feanor told him (maybe Feanor even called him Mirion and had hoped that he was a girl for a bit, but i’m sure he told Celegorm lots about Miriel). All he knew was that for some reason, he was being singled out, when his older brothers (and then younger brothers) were allowed to do as they please and talk to whoever they want. He starts sneaking out when people aren’t looking, getting himself into trouble, running away to stay at his uncles’ places, and generally make Feanor have a heart attack every two days. This only makes Feanor even more controlling, which leads to Celegorm rebelling more, and so forth.

I also HC that Celegorm spent several years with Oromë when he was an elf teenager, and during those times nobody could find him, and the only way to even contact him was if you could somehow get letters to Oromë’s woods, but even then Celegorm rarely ever answered. This is also when he really became the hulking giant I like to envision him as, since I think he wasn’t nearly as muscular when he was younger. So by the time he finally returns to his family, he looks like a completely different person, he behaves differently, he dresses differently, he speaks differently, and Feanor almost isn’t sure if that’s his son or not. I think at this point he does realize that there’s not much he can do to make Celegorm do what he wants, but he doesn’t acknowledge that what he was doing is unhealthy. And afterwards he doesn’t really talk to Celegorm, and Celegorm doesn’t really talk to him. He never tells Celegorm why he acted the way he did, but I think Celegorm, now that he’s older, knows. He’s still angry about it, but at least he can see why Feanor treated him like some fragile thing that might break if handled wrong.

All of this must be painful for Feanor too. He lost his mother, then he drove away the son which reminded him of his mother the most. I feel like when Celegorm was born, and when he was little, he was Feanor’s favorite son. Even now that Curufin is his favorite, I think Feanor’s heart still aches any time he looks at Celegorm and thinks a little too hard. The shadow of Miriel never really faded from his mind.

[pretty-hills-i-die-on]

Fellowship Shenanigans

History Lesson Pt 2

(Pt 1 here)

Maglor: *Walks up the to the history lesson circle*

Aragorn: *Sees him first, he’s already talked through the wars over the Silmarils and the Sons of Feanor’s role in them.*

Aragorn: Oh shit. Ok, I think that’s enough history for today.

Maglor: What’s going on?

The Hobbits all turn around to look at him, and one by one realise who they’re looking at. Frodo is first, then Sam and Merry.

Elrond: A history lesson.

Pippin, to Maglor: What’s your name?

Merry elbows him, hard.

Pippin: Ow! What- OH!

The Hobbits are staring at Maglor like mixed expressions of shock, fear and awe.

Maglor puts two and two together.

Maglor: Ah.

He looks to Elrond

Maglor: May I?

Elrond: Of course.

Maglor sits.

There is a long pause.

Maglor, to the Hobbits: Celegorm snored something terrible, you know. He sounded like a fog horn. Nelyo, that’s Meadthros to you, would tell him to can it or he’d wake the twins, but he needn’t have worried, those two wouldn’t be woken by the End of Day’s itself, much less their brother’s snoring. Caranthir was the light sleeper, and Curufin would be up at all hours of the night, I swear he hardly slept. So most nights Nelyo would be up at midnight telling Curufin to get to bed, Caranthir whacking Cel to get him to shut up, and everyone telling everyone else not to wake the twins.

The Hobbits smile.

Maglor: Now I’m no light sleeper, but four people arguing will get anyone up, so I’d tell them all to take their noise somewhere else until Mom yelled for all of us to go back to sleep. Waking Russandol, of course, and boy could they scream up a storm.

The Hobbits laugh.

Maglor: More often than not Russandol would end up in Mae’s bed, when they were small, Amrod got nightmares, you see, and Amras would sooner sleep on the floor than without his brother.

Pippin: Who’s Russandol?

Maglor: Oh, that was the name for the twins.

Frodo, mentally translating: Red… hair?

Maglor: Yep. They had their own names, but they were hardly ever apart and it was easier just to say Rusandol sometimes.

Pippin: Huh.

Maglor: My mother was a sculptor, but you know that, what you can’t know is how bloody terrifying it is to get up at night to get a drink of water, only to see a half finished piece, as lifelike as could be, staring out at you through the darkness like some demon of the unseen world.

Pippin: Do you still play the harp?

Maglor: As often as I can.

Pippin: Who taught you?

Maglor: My father.

Pippin: Oh.

Maglor: And I in turn tried to teach Elrond and Elros. *to Elrond* I do say “tried”, your brother never would sit still.

Elrond: No, no he wouldn’t. You’d turn your back on us for two seconds, then turn around and find my brother gone-

Maglor: -And you with your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Elrond: It’s been 6 thousand years and still-

Maglor: I still remember the time you tipped my harp into the fire because you wanted to see if the music would be backwards if you played it with your back towards the instrument, yes, I do. And I always will.

Elrond: To be fair, on the same day you found my brother up a tree and sitting in a falcon nest trying to catch a bird.

Maglor: Fair point. I still crack up about that.

Elrond: To this day I don’t know what his plan was once he caught one.

Maglor: I don’t think he knew either, to be honest.

Elrond: Maethros used to joke that the eagles could adopt him and no one among them would notice.

Maglor: Was he wrong?

Elrond: Perhaps not, you would have noticed though.

Maglor: Why thank you.

Maglor turns to Arwen

Maglor: Also, yes, you do look like Luthien, insanely so. Almost gave me a heart attack the other day.

Glorfindel: For good reason, you’re gonna get your ass whooped in Mandos.

Maglor: No joke.

Maglorm, to Glorfindel: And you look so bizarrely like your great-uncle it’s not even funny.

Glorfindel: I’ll take that as a complement.

Maglor, to Elrond: But even that’s not as weird as the fact that you are the spitting image of the two halves of your family that spent an Age murdering each other.

Elrond: Galadriel spent like, half an hour staring at me when I asked for Celebrian's hand.

The Hobbits are staring at the gossiping Elves in confusion and horror, they have no idea what just happened. Aragorn sees this.

Aragorn: And that is why we were going in chronological order.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

see i think. i do think melkor would act sensual and seductive and feign interest in people to manipulate them, even becoming sincerely fond of some of them on some level. but on a truly emotional level, i see him as only ever invested in his relationship with manwe. feanor getting angry upon realizing his deception and telling him to go to hell? "damn it! things could have gone so much smoother. well i guess i have to bash his dad's head in and take the silmarils by force now." sauron renouncing his actions as melkor's servant and turning his back on his ways after determining that melkor's actions were only ever detrimental to his own goals? "ugh, i put work into his corruption! i made him my principal lieutenant! this is how he repays me after all the favor i showed him? that little twat." he's irritated and pissed off, but not truly upset. if anyone has seen sinbad legend of the seven seas, i imagine that melkor in his dealings with the beings he corrupts is very like eris in her dealings with sinbad; the whole "you're cute. but you're not that cute." when it comes to manwe though... when his relationship with manwe takes a hit, when his relationship with manwe is threatened, when manwe refuses him, he becomes frustrated and resentful and furious. it should be so easy. they're brothers. they're the same thought of their father split in two. they were made together and they belong together. so why won't manwe, the being that's most like him in all of creation, side with him? why won't manwe join him? everything would be as it's meant to be if his brother would just see things his way

[mur4sak1]

Elves with an insecure reader (part 1)

A/N: I apologize in advance but for this time I preferred to divide the story into two parts because I really wanted to deeply analyze this aspect of insecurity which I care a lot about. For this reason, putting them all together would have been too long and chaotic. There will be 4 characters in this one and 4 in the next one, who do you think they will be? (Remember that English is not my first language so I hope I wrote in the best way <3)

For the following part click here -> Part 2

Characters: Galdor, Maedhros, Maglor, Glorfindel

Galdor: I think we can all agree that with Galdor by your side it would be IMPOSSIBLE to feel insecure. The brown elf is so loving and caring that, whenever you have any insecurity, he would shower you with sincere and affectionate praise, making you feel like the most precious creature in all of Belerian. He would never allow a doubt to creep into your heart, especially when it comes to the way you see or perceive yourself. If your insecurity issues were purely aesthetic, I can assure you that he would never make you doubt your beauty. In his eyes you are an angel, a pure soul that only deserves to be preserved and he would be the last elf in the world capable of making you compete with anyone else. He wouldn't look at any woman and would never do anything disrespectful towards you, so it would be more unique than rare to have this kind of insecurity with him. However, as regards non-aesthetic problems, which therefore come from you, he would be by your side like no other person could. Even before you could say anything, he would already be working on it. In fact, Galdor would have a natural talent in capturing the moments when his beloved is feeling down. He would notice it from the little things; the way your breathing becomes shorter and more held, your gaze lowering, or your body movements becoming slower and less confident. And promptly, as if it were written in his DNA, he would have the most suitable reactions to comfort you and bring you back to him. Even in moments of panic, where you could become aggressive and seemingly intractable, he always managed to make you calm down and realize how far from reality your paranoia was. One thing guys, he would NEVER judge you, he would NEVER belittle any of your fears, he would always and only try to make you understand how distant the monsters in your head were from real life, from you. He was always so kind, so reassuring, so perfect that it seemed unreal. Any praise he would offer you would be genuine, not dictated by the need to make you feel better, but because, in his eyes, your qualities are evident. And it hurts him so much every time to see how much pain he causes you needlessly. How can you not see how perfect you are? He would really like you to see yourself through his eyes…

Maedhros: I firmly believe that with Maedhros, your insecurities would definitely come from his role and family situation. Being the first son of the king he would certainly have countless expectations behind him and his role would require many responsibilities which would inevitably fall on you too. Most likely you didn't come from a noble family, you didn't have a large inheritance and in addition you weren't even a pure elf, so this created quite a few insecurities and shortcomings that couldn't be calmed. However, this did not interfere with your love. Maedhros has always been by your side from the first moment, supporting you and making you understand that he did not want any woman other than you, even if that other met the requirements expected from the wife of a future elven king. There had certainly been some attempt on Feanor's part to match his son with an elf of noble lineage before you were accepted by him, but without success. In fact, he always feared that you wanted his son for money and power, and he was indignant that, not being able to offer anything, you only wanted to rip out his heart and exploit it. But he soon realized that, despite the benefits that marriages between powerful people could provide, the feeling would be in vain, and therefore a useless force (on the other hand, remember that Maedhros never married, so I imagine that was not of vital importance for Feanor). It took a while to change his mind and make him realize that you really cared about him, and when that happened the situation calmed down slightly. Feanor's strong and greedy character was difficult to identify and you never understood if he had ever really accepted you or if he just tolerated you, and not being fully appreciated by him made you suffer a lot. But the fact that he knew how deep your love for his son was, was enough. Furthermore, the redhead would become even more sensitive and sweet after Angband. He himself had fought against his insecurities after his imprisonment and the pain caused by the loss of his hand... precisely for this reason he understood more than anyone else what it meant to feel vulnerable. You had always been by his side, you had never judged him for his fears and weaknesses, giving him all the strength he needed, so he would never have allowed himself to let you suffer alone. Maedhros would be patient, never forcing you to talk about your insecurities if you don't feel like it, but always remaining by your side, ready to offer you his comfort when you are ready to open up.

Maglor: Maglor would be very capable at dealing with an insecure person. Although he wasn't the eldest brother, he was certainly the most mature and empathetic in the family and for this reason he often found himself having to deal with little crying pests or giving them strength when they didn't feel up to Feanor's expectations. I want to clarify one thing, because I believe that in Maglor's eyes, having an insecure person alongside would be a great fortune. In fact, if on the paternal side traits such as strength, determination and pride were strengthened, on her side, Nerdanel placed great emphasis on maintaining humility and humanity, love for life and the attempt to preserve it. Their mother was in fact against all the atrocities that her husband wanted to commit and it was she who had kept his impulses in check for the first period of their marriage. However, when he urged the Noldor to abandon Valinor, she refused to follow him, remaining faithful to his values. The separation, however, caused great pain to Maglor who, in part, felt responsible for following them as the "only maternal and reasonable figure" who could stand by her brothers. He never wanted to leave his home but he was afraid of what could happen to them in the hands of his father's violent obsession with power. Consequently, for him it was like being able to always keep a part of your mother and all of her teachings alive in you, not having to always be forced to pretend to be "detached" to gain respect in a world much crueler than he would have ever imagined. In fact, when your insecurity arose, helping you overcome it made him feel good, made him feel useful. Maglor was also very unsure of himself, not in terms of his diplomatic or artistic skills, but in terms of feeling valid, feeling necessary. In fact, he thought he was not usefull and was a simple secondary character without any fundamental role... but when he helped others he felt important, as being someone's support, as his mother had taught him, becomes the necessary condition that allows your sun to shine, and you surely were all his light.

Glorfindel: Despite his imposing figure and status, Glorfindel would be very attentive to the feelings of the person he loves and would make it his main goal to eliminate even the smallest traces of insecurity or worry in you. But the way he would do it, oh boy, would it really make you laugh. Given how deep the love and the respect he has for you is, just to see you smile and stop the cold tears from staining your face, he would go so far as to embarrass himself; he would never worry about appearing uncomfortable in public if it meant making you feel better. In fact, very often, Glorfindel would resort to gestures that are both exaggerated and unexpected. Imagine finding him in the middle of the square in Gondolin telling some awkward joke or improvising some stupid interaction with the world around you to try to make you smile. If someone looked at him with perplexity, the blond elf wouldn't worry in the slightest: the only thing that matters to him is seeing your face shine again. And if that meant putting aside his heroic and dignified figure for a few minutes, he would do so without hesitation. His clumsiness is not just an attempt to distract you, but also a way to show you that you are much more important to him than his reputation or pride. And when he finally sees your expression relax and your eyes shine again, he would approach you with a disarming tenderness. "You see?" he would say with a playful smile but a very serious tone, "If I can make fun of myself to make you feel better, then no doubt or insecurity should ever faze you. You are much stronger than all of that."

[animatorweirdo]

Caranthir's twin gets married and has a baby, who looks and behaves like Feanor

You marry your husband and have your first child together.

Requested by @sephir0thwife

Hi hi! I hope you're having a great day, or night, it's my first time doing a request so please bear with me lol I was wondering if you could do a imagine about being Caranthir twin, maybe a type of sequel where the reader ends up falling in love and marrying a Vanyar royalty or something, ends up pregnant and gives birth to the most cutest baby boy, who has a permanent blush like Caranthir and Nerdanel, yet is identical to Fëanor, and even as a child seems to have his grandfather temper (yet with mommy he's a tiny angel) just want to see all the fluff and comedy too (big Fëanor and mini o Fëanor) kisses kisses 🤭😘😘

(Author's note: Not gonna lie. This one was fun to write. )

Original headcanon: Imagine being Caranthir's twin...

Warnings: your father and brothers ruining your love life, a bit of manipulation to get your family to accept your partner, pregnancy, childbirth, your father being worried about you, your son having a temper, and your father being impressed when he learned the truth.

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

- Your life was great with your family. You had certain perks and privileges as you were your father’s only daughter, so you were pretty much free to do anything you wanted. But, when you came to the age where you were old enough for marriage, your father and seven very protective brothers decided to make it nearly impossible for you to start courting anyone. 

- Like many young women, you began to yearn for romance like the characters in the novels you had read. You might have even based your standards around them, but your family decided to get in the way when you tried to talk to possible partners. You understood their protectiveness and loved them for it, but their need to ruin your chances was really starting to get on your nerves. 

- You don’t even have the chance to judge your possible partners yourself— to see if they fit your standards because you do not want to judge them like judging a book by its cover. 

- You nearly gave up because it felt like your family was never going to allow you to marry. Until… you met him. 

- He was a Vanyar prince, a beautiful one too, and around your age. You first saw him standing silently in a corner at a party, seemingly enjoying it from the sidelines. This really piqued your curiosity so you decided to approach him and start a conversation. 

- You two hit it off and decided to start seeing each other. Eventually, you fell for him and he fell for you, so you started courting. 

- However, due to your father’s negative views on the Vanyar and your brothers’s past shenanigans when it came to your quest for love, you agreed to keep your courtship a secret for the time being. Also to bid time for you to formulate a plan to get your father and family to accept your partner. 

- You did not like hiding things from your father and your twin, however, you were set on marrying your beloved even if he was a Vanyar. You have finally found what you wanted, and you are not going to give up on it, so you figured out a plan to have your family accept your partner by slowly introducing him to specific members of your family. 

- You decided to start with the safest option first, your mother. She already started suspecting something and when you told her about your partner, she was accepting and understanding enough to keep your courtship a secret. You introduced her to him in secret and she gave her approval. 

- You then decided to introduce him to your cousins, especially from your uncle Finarfin’s side, knowing they would give their approval without a hassle. They became friends with your partner and promised to keep it a secret. 

- You figured out that having your partner become friends with your cousins would pave an easier way for your brothers, so you then introduced him to the most calm-headed pair of your brothers, Maedhros and Maglor. 

- You introduced your partner as a friend at first and they were accepting of him, though Maedhros was quick to notice that something was off. He had always been aware when you were up to something so in the end you revealed the truth after a day of getting to know each other and that you had been courting your partner for some time now. 

- He complimented how cleverly you had him and Maglor to get to know your partner, and deemed your partner good enough. Maglor was a bit dramatic about the scheme but gave his approval. 

- You then turned your attention toward Celegorm and Ambarussa. You introduced your partner to them by joining them on a hunting trip with a couple of your cousins. Celegorm had always been a rebel when it came to your father, so when you revealed your Vanyar friend was actually your partner, he gave his approval also because he found the idea of you courting a Vanyar and your father being angry about it amusing. Ambarussa teased you relentlessly when they learned but after getting to know your partner, they approved him. 

- At that point, you already have half of your family in your favor. As an additional backup, you went to your grandfather to reveal you were seeing someone, who was both a Vanyar and a royal. He was pleased about it and promised to give his support in case your father tries to oppose your option of marrying your partner. 

- Now that you have secured your family’s support, you introduced your partner to your father and twin. 

- You decided to take the safe option and introduce your partner as a friend first. Caranthir was calm about it and even though your father looked at him suspiciously, they suspected nothing and allowed your partner to be. 

- You then let it go on for some time, trying to get them used to his presence. Having your partner be friends with most of your brothers worked in your favor and they no longer looked at him like a stranger. After some time after, it looked like they were ready to hear about your courtship. 

- However, knowing their temper, you decided to play it safely and claim you started courting your partner sometime later. 

- Caranthir felt displeased but voiced little opposition. Your father gave his opinion about the affair but backed down when you said how much you liked your partner and when your grandfather added how perfect you two were for each other. He always had a soft spot for you and with your grandfather giving his approval, he begrudgingly accepted your partner and the fact you were courting someone. 

- And thus, your relationship with your partner was secured. You decided to keep it a secret that you had been courting longer than your father knew because if he knew, he would have shown anger unlike any other. 

- Time passed forward, and after your courtship, you married your Vanyar prince and were expecting your first child. 

- You were kinda worried as you had heard about your mother’s rough pregnancies, but thanks to the assurance of your husband and the support of your family, your pregnancy went smoothly and you gave birth to your son. 

- The labor was rough, your father was especially dead worried that something would happen to you like what happened with his mother, but fortunately, you endured the labor and he got to meet his grandson. 

- Your son was just the cutest little thing. But it seemed, he decided to skip sharing your and your husband's looks and look like your father instead with your mother’s permanent blush. It didn’t matter. You two loved him regardless. 

- However, it became evident that he inherited his grandfather’s temper. 

- Your son would start crying and screaming if he was held by anyone except you and your husband. He did not like being held by strangers, even by your brothers. He did tolerate your parents and on one occasion he mimicked your father and sent a nasty look toward your uncles and cousins when they came to meet the new member of your family. It definitely looked like you gave birth to another Feanor. 

- With your family’s support, your journey to parenthood started easily. Curufin was glad Tyelpe had a cousin to play with. 

- Your secret about courtship eventually became known to your father and twin, but since you were already married and had a child, there was nothing they could do about it. Your father was actually impressed when he learned that it was you who orchestrated his acceptance of your partner and felt proud. Caranthir was mad that you lied to him, but since he had a soft spot for his nephew, he dropped it.

[sweetteaanddragons]

If Maedhros had died in Morgoth's ambush, do you think Maglor would have given up the kingship?

I think Maglor would - a big gesture is definitely needed to reunite everyone, and I think of Maglor as someone who appreciates the value of a good "big gesture." Additionally, I don't really see him as someone who actually wants to be the big picture guy for the war effort; he's much more comfortable being the second in command.

(Also, if we're going with my personal headcanons here, he's also just lost his wife, so. Definitely not in a great headspace to fight for the kingship.)

But let's explore deeper!

What if . . .

Celegorm is the oldest left standing?

Yeah, absolutely not. I also don't think Fingolfin would bow to High King Celegorm, so I guess we're having another division of the Noldor here.

Caranthir is the oldest left standing?

I - hm. It's not so much that I think he wants the high kingship, exactly, it's that I think he couldn't bear to just give it up. Maybe if there's some sort of deal he can feel like he got the better end of?

Or maybe with Feanor and three of his sons dead Fingolfin feels like it would be in bad taste to angle for it. I'm not sure.

Curufin is the oldest left standing?

He is definitely not giving it up. None of the Nolofinweans ever thought for a second he would.

Everyone is deeply concerned about the death toll the Feanorians have taken.

The Ambarussa, either or collectively, are the oldest left standing?

We have basically no canon characterization for them. My personal view is that it wouldn't occur to them to offer, but that if someone suggested it, they could be talked around.

Nolofinwe arrives and discovers the Feanorians have crowned little Tyelpe king for lack of other options:

He is taking their word for it that Celebrimbor is still alive. The very protective Feanorian army is not currently letting anyone in to see their king, thank you, especially not anyone that might potentially be holding grudges.

His main concern at the moment has very little to do with who gets what title and a whole lot to do with convincing them that he has never in his life considered holding Tyelpe responsible for any of this and that's definitely not going to change now.

But let's not take my word for it! Let's vote:

[eyedye-11]

The Silmarils ARE Feanor. Or rather Feanor IS the Silmarils.

But what if Feanor actually put his fucking soul (his fea) into the Silmarils?

Because it would explain EVERYTHING!

The Silmarils are described as having an "inner fire" that "is it's life", probably referring to the Flame Imperishable that all of Iluvatar's children are made from. Light/Fire is the domain of Iluvatar that none of the valar ever reigned over (Balrogs are spirits that clad themselves in the flame that makes up there core, but even in this case the flame was given by Iluvatar and not created by a Vala). But how did simple gems ever get a life source like that?

The only logical explanation to me would be that Feanor realised that he could create his own fire of life and therefore literally gave up a part of his own fire to grand his greatest creations a sort of life source.

We've read about someone putting their "power", as it is phrased is that case, into a creation one time before (obviously that is Sauron with his One Ring, that also seems to have a kind of life of its own), so Feanor doing basically the same wouldn't be that far off.

Feanor going mad at the loss of his Silmarils and him being unwilling to give them away to the Vala wouldn't be out of pure spite, but rather out of fear of literally loosing his soul. He's going mad, because a part of himself got taken away from him.

And we all know what happened to Sauron after the destruction of the ring. Breaking the Silmarills could literally break his own spirit.

That way Melkor's longing for the Silmarils parallels his desire to possess the flame at the centre of Adar.

It would also explain why Yavanna couldn't recreate the trees again, for she also already had to give up a part of her soul before to create them and doing so again would be to much, even for a powerful Vala like her.

No idea if this makes any sense or if I'm just interpreting wayyy to much into the revelation that I had at 1 am, when I could be sleeping, or if I'm just realised something that was incredibly obvious to everyone else, but I just wanted to share my overachieving headcanons with anyone who's interested I guees

[lamemaster]

Kidnap Fam Gets Kidnapped

Request: @asianbutnotjapanese Listen LISTEN!! Maedhros is my favorite Alright But this is so unsettling, disturbing and the anxiety?😨 At first I was like okay it's fine ZombieMae but then I was like?????! Oh God I don't know if I love it and bury it down and forget about it.

Genre: Zombie au

Pairing: Maedhros x gn Reader

Summary: Stories told of the first of the ships arriving from Aman, its golden flags shimmering in the sunlight. Soaked in the ichor of the Valar. That was how it began, the first corruption. The last of the great eagles had spoken of it, their golden blood staining the shores of Aman.

AN: First of all sorry for how long this took. Second- this isn't the traditional zombie au but it's got the spirit. I hope you like it! I did not intend for it to be this goofy but boy do I like crack fic humor lol (somehow zombie Maedhros is pookie-coded)

The coying scent of a decaying bog filled your nose, followed by the sharp tang of monsoon pine. The contrasting smells teased at your senses, threatening to overwhelm you with a migraine.

Forests were like this, deceitful and alive with memories. They still clung to the Firstborn, their cherished ones who once walked beneath their shadows.

But this was no longer their sanctuary.

Cloaked in the dark of night, you crept through what had once been elven lands. That was before the plague. Before the disease hollowed out the dwindling numbers of the Firstborn who remained in Middle-earth.

Men, it seemed, were untouched by the plague.

The elders whispered that it had been the work of Mandos himself, the God of Death, corrupted by the relentless passage of time. Once the Prophet of Doom, Mandos had become doom itself, plunging Arda into darkness again.

Stories told of the first of the ships arriving from Aman, its golden flags shimmering in the sunlight. Soaked in the ichor of the Valar. That was how it began, the first corruption. The last of the great eagles had spoken of it, their golden blood staining the shores of Aman.

Now the Firstborn had returned to these lands, but they were no longer the elves who had sung to the stars. Their vacant eyes hid the will of Mandos.

You crouched low behind a bush, wary of the trees shuffling suspiciously nearby. Away from sight, you pulled out your map. Rivendell had to be close.

Elrond’s map was your only guide, the closest thing to an accurate depiction of the region.

The faint rustle of the Bruinen confirmed it. You had come closer than anyone had dared before.

The mission was supposed to be simple, or so you kept telling yourself.

Kidnap the minstrel son of Fëanor, the one luring the Avari into Mandos’ lair.

It sounded straightforward enough.

You groaned, forcing down your doubts with the liquid courage in your flask.

While the plague could not touch men, its victims had no such boundaries. Villages had been raided. Children and cattle taken, along with women. Only cold, lifeless carcasses were left behind.

The plague had changed everything.

Elves who once wept for felled trees had turned cannibal, their cruelty surpassing even the orcs, creatures that had once been twisted forms of their kind.

The most terrifying among them were the Feanorians.

Bound by their unbreakable oath, they were Mandos’ fiercest servants.

Many had tried to kill the Seven Doomsmen. Fire, swords, poison, even sorcery had failed. Death was Mandos’ domain, and death could not stop the plague.

The only solution had been imprisonment. The weaker ones had been chained, bound with the hymns of Varda to soothe their rage. But these methods failed against the sons of Feanor.

None of them had ever been captured.

Until tonight.

From your pouch, you pulled out the lock of Elrond’s raven-black hair, placing it in the clearing.

If anything could stir Maglor Fëanorian’s conscience, it was his adopted son, or so Elrond had hoped.

The scent was sure to draw him in. All you had to do was wait, acid ready in hand. A splash to his eyes would cripple him long enough to bind and gag him. After that, you would run to the nearest town, where your party awaited.

That had been the plan.

But the elf you picked up felt far larger than what Elrond had described.

No. This one was missing a hand.

A curtain of red hair brushed against your face, and the realization hit you. This wasn’t Maglor. This was someone worse. Maedhros.

Nelyafinwë.

There was no time to hesitate. Hauling the wrong elf onto your spooked mare, Leia, you whispered a promise to treat her later.

Maedhros, draped awkwardly in a cloak, groaned and ripped at Leia’s mane in his pain. The mare, impatient with his antics, snapped at him hard enough to draw a yelp.

“Good girl,” you muttered, gripping the reins tightly as Leia trotted through the night, her breaths sharp and uneven.

Elrond was going to kill you.

Of course, that was assuming the mountain of an elf in front of you didn’t do it first.

For now, Maedhros seemed more preoccupied with rubbing at his damaged eyes. The acid would leave him blinded for a week. A week of pain for him, and perhaps a moment of peace for you.

With his suffering eyes hidden behind a blindfold, Maedhros was still the very picture of elven beauty. The plague had failed to strip the Firstborn of their otherworldly grace. If anything, Mandos had enhanced it.

Elves were what men could never resist. With their predator’s allure cloaked in perfection, they were a trap for the Secondborn, captivated by flawless features and haunting charm.

Sitting across from Maedhros, you tried your best to feed him lembas, the closest thing to calming his mind. Yet the stupid elf kept going for your fingers, snapping like a feral creature.

Leia, your ever-patient mare, turned out to be a better disciplinarian than you. With one sharp, annoyed snort, Maedhros froze. After a reluctant pause, he finally opened his mouth, accepting the morsel of lembas.

“I know this is no substitute for Vala blood,” you muttered, guiding another piece toward him, “but trust me, you’ll want to be sober to meet Elrond.” He chewed, his movements finally more controlled.

“ You lot have traumatized him enough already. He needs a parent,” you said, your words tumbling out in a nervous ramble. “Maglor would have been better, but I think you’ll do. Maybe. Hopefully.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t kill both of us. You know what I mean?”

The question hung in the air, rhetorical. Or so you thought.

Maedhros answered it with a sickening pop of his shoulder, the sound sending a shudder racing down your spine.

Bound and subdued, Maedhros listens to the voices curling through his mind. They come in layers. His lord’s commanding presence, intertwined with the ghostly, persuasive echo of his father’s voice.

He remains pliant under your hold, his every movement deliberate, his compliance masking the storm within. The whispers weave themselves into him, insidious and unrelenting.

“Do not run, my son,” Feanor’s voice purrs, brimming with a chilling mix of affection and command. “Find their weakness, my dearest Nelyo. Uncover the fault lines of Arda’s last hold for our lord.”

This is the way. Maedhros will obey. He will do whatever is required to restore his father’s glory. Feanor, alive again, is no longer a memory but a shadow of the brilliance he once was. This existence, this chance, is a mercy granted by Mandos.

And for that mercy, Maedhros will give everything.

“Follow the mortal,” Mandos commands, his voice cutting through the whispers like a blade. Maedhros freezes mid-step, his sudden stillness sharp enough to make you glance back warily.

“You will be our mole,” Mandos continues, his tone crackling with malice. “The doom of men is near.”

The whispers grow louder, swelling until they drown out Maedhros’ thoughts completely. They dull his mind, sinking it into the numb, blissful haze of his lord’s power. This borrowed peace, stolen from the dominion of his brother, blankets his every sense. It is comforting, suffocating, and absolute.

“Bring us the fall of the Peredhel, Maedhros. Do it.”

The words burrow into him, deep and unshakable, sealing his purpose.

And so, he follows you.

In the fractured world cloaked in darkness, hidden within the fortress of doom, Mandos had unearthed the means to ensnare the Secondborn. The boon of death lay cradled in his palm, a gift as cruel as it was powerful.

The final mystery of Arda rested within his grasp, and the Children of Eru were now his. His to own. His to toy with as puppets. Mandos was no longer merely the keeper of souls; he had become the master of Arda itself.

Yet, as with every tale that shaped the fate of Arda, this one came with the most unlikely of heroes: a broken elf haunted by whispers of the past, a weary mortal clinging to the last threads of hope, and a horse whose temper could rival Tulkas himself.

[thephoenixandthecrocodile]

A Light in Dark Places - Chapter Two: Adar Meets Sauron’s Other Ex

Alternate Title: We Really Need to Get Adar A Boyfriend

Summary: Adar wasn’t expecting his son, Glug, to bring him the fallen lord of Eregion. Now he must decide how best to use Celebrimbor to his advantage while ignoring the rush of long suppressed memories and forgotten emotions triggered by the Elf Lord’s own relationship with Sauron.

EDIT: Here's a link to chapter 1:

Tagging: @adventurepunks @angel-astre @eowyn7023 @plotdesigner @illegalcerebral

Adar forced himself to remain an unbending, unaffected fixture on the front line. His children needed to see him as they marched to their deaths and he needed to acknowledge the ones he sacrificed for Sauron’s downfall. He knew the name of every Uruk as they marched by, remembered their first steps, their first set of armor, their endless cries of pain as Morgoth and Mairon shaped them into unloved but not unloving creatures. No, despite the worst of Morgoth’s designs, love still existed in their shattered hearts, even if it was a love unrecognized by Elf, Dwarf, Man, or Valar. The world’s disdain for the familial love that bound every Uruk in this camp made it all the more precious. Maybe the most precious thing in all of Middle-Earth.

He was willing to sacrifice it all to end the last remaining architect of their fallen condition. Better to kill all his children by himself than see them enslaved to Sauron once more. Was that not true love?

He inhaled and forced his face to adopt his determined facade. His children trusted him to do what was best for them. He could not shatter their trust with even a hint of doubt. He had always been the battered but unbreakable defensive wall they could shelter behind as the world threw its worst at them. A being that did not doubt, that did not hesitate, that did not mourn what had to be sacrificed for his children’s safety and happiness.

“Lord Father?”

Adar glanced at Uzog, the cautious archer with a metal prosthetic hand like their father.

“Yes, my child?”

“Glug brought back a prisoner when he shouldn’t have. A golden haired elf.”

Lady Galadriel.

Galadriel had escaped only a day ago and, while he assumed she would remain near the battlefield, he had not expected her to be recaptured so easily. Then again, Glug was growing into a capable Uruk commander.

“The Elf is as bloody as a warg’s breakfast, Adar. He is as dark as the one you hunt.”

This did not sound like Galadriel, unless Sauron found her first, although Adar doubted he would let her go if that was true. Galadriel was many things, but she wasn’t stealthy enough to escape Sauron’s grasp unless he willed it. Nor could Sauron expect Galadriel to return to Adar considering the last time Sauron saw them together, Galadriel had threatened to kill all of his children in front of him.

“What game are you playing, Gorthaur,” Adar muttered to himself in Black Speech.

He commanded Uzog to take him to Glug and this strange prisoner. They rushed through marching ranks of proud and shouting Uruks. War was the one thing they knew how to do better than anyone. War was the one thing Adar swore they would never have to indulge in again, once they created their homeland. Was it not Morgoth’s and Sauron’s nature to twist and break all promises and was he not their child?

Uzog led Adar to the clearing in front of his own tent where several Uruks gathered together around Glug and his prisoner. Before he could properly identify the elf, they ran straight into him. Adar grabbed the Elf’s arms to prevent them from falling and he was bewildered to see that not only were they not Galadriel, but for a moment he thought he was looking into the face of Feanor himself.

Bloody, defiant, on the verge of losing his mind, but also warmer, older, handsomer, and wilder. Not the wilderness of a trapped and starving wolf. No, it was one of a trained falcon. Domesticated and loyal until someone awoke its deepest instincts and then it became overwhelmed by its desire to fly, hunt, and kill.

There was a familiar darkness to this Elf. One that passed by unnoticed until it was already worming its way into his mind and soul. A darkness and eternal fire that led to the Oath of Feanor and to the rise of Morgoth and Sauron. But it was not of the Elf, this bloody and battered Elf who even now seemed on the verge of running away. It was around the Elf, a part of the Elf, but not an integral part, not a natural part given by the Valar. A part that had consumed Adar and his children whole except for the faint, struggling spark that kept them united. He knew this was the work of Sauron, but he could not call this Elf a servant of Sauron nor a servant of the Valar. More like Galadriel, a being caught between the two. An almost kindred spirit if Adar dared to call an Elf this beautiful kin.

The Elf was filthy and bloody, hardly something he expected from a citizen of Eregion, which he was judging from the holly designs on his robes. Tear streaks cut through the dirt on his round cheeks and his wrinkles, not common for Elves, betrayed a life of unrecoverable sorrow and pain. His curly golden hair did not shine like Galadriel’s nor was it combed in any manner expected from an Elf, even one in combat, but Adar liked this Elf’s stronger tones of gold and undertones of brown better. Adar met the startled Elf’s gaze and caught the light of the two trees in his hazel eyes. Galadriel was the only other Elf familiar to Adar who carried their light and Adar found this Elf’s eyes as enchanting as hers.

“Who is he and why did you bring him here?” Adar asked Glug in Black Speech.

Logic caught up with memory and he knew this couldn’t be Feanor, so who was he? All of Feanor’s sons were dead or missing. Although didn’t one have a son? It wasn’t easy nor desirable to purposely recall memories from the First Age. Yes, there was a son. So similar and yet so different from the father and the grandfather.

“This elf has something of Sauron’s,” Glug explained. “I felt a dark presence.”

At this, the Elf broke down sobbing, catching Adar off guard, a strange feeling of discomfort creeping up his spine. Even the other Uruks shifted uncomfortably and some half glanced away. How long had it been since any of them had shed a tear? Even Uruk babies stopped crying after their first year.

“Strange is the servant of Sauron who remembers how to cry,” Adar gently reproached the Elf.

It was as if he had slapped the Elf back to his senses. He stepped from Adar’s grasp and stubbornly wiped his tears away, spreading blood across his cheeks in the process and Adar noticed a missing thumb. The Elf stood tall, like Feanor himself stood when insulted and he snapped back, “I may have been a willing fool for the Great Deceiver once, but no more! Unlike you, I have escaped from his grasp.”

“Not very far, if we willingly served Sauron,” Adar replied and the Elf’s face twitched in confusion. “I assure you, you won’t find a single friend of Sauron’s in our company for we are his greatest foes.”

“Then why serve his purposes by attacking Eregion?”

The Uruks grumbled and shifted threateningly, but Adar gestured for restraint.

“We serve no one’s purpose, but our own,” Adar growled, noticing Glug’s shifting expression.

His son never believed in the assault on Eregion and Adar knew others agreed with him.

“We attack Eregion because they warmly welcomed Sauron into their city and set him up as a king. The people of Eregion are nothing more than his slaves who willingly protect him from my children.”

The Feanorian fire flashed in the Elf’s eyes and he puffed his chest as he stood eye to eye with Adar, pointing at the Uruk Lord.

“You are as great a deceiver as your former master. You murder the innocent and call them guilty to justify your actions. The people of Eregion did not welcome nor do they serve the Dark Lord. They were betrayed, betrayed by their lord who should have known better.”

The Elf’s anger grew, but his stature diminished.

“By their lord who knew better, but wanted what he wanted, even if it was something he never deserved,” the Elf continued, his own bitterness and hatred sharp enough to wound Sauron himself. “And so he accepted a poisoned gift and loved a being incapable of anything but malice and deceit and in doing so, condemned his people.”

The Elf defiantly and desperately met Adar’s gaze and said, “The fault is mine for I am Celebrimbor, the former lord of Eregion, fallen consort of the Great Deceiver, and the only servant who must pay for the Dark Lord’s crimes.”

Adar’s face softened and he was once more chained to a mountain cliff, abandoned and forgotten, the pouring rain chilling his very bone marrow, and he called into the wind and rain for death. Instead, a golden light that burnt his very skin appeared and took the face of a fiery haired Elf with cheekbones as sharp as Caradhras and flaming eyes that promised to consume one’s fea in the utmost pleasurable ways. Promises of children, of power, and of wine were exchanged and Adar drank them all, deeply, fervently, deliriously.

He instinctively rested a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder, and softly said in Quenya, “He is terrible in his beauty, isn’t he?”

“The most terrible and the most beautiful,” Celebrimbor replied in Quenya, his harsh features softening as well.

“Lord Father,” Glug urgently interrupted and Adar remembered his place.

He stepped back and ordered a pair of Uruks to take Celebrimbor to the tent they prepared for Galadriel and ensure he couldn’t escape. The fallen Elf argued and resisted, but it was obvious he was exhausted from his escape and Adar’s children were bred for kidnapping and war.

This would be the second Feanor to escape Sauron’s grasp. The Dark Lord’s wrath would be swift and severe.

“Lord Father, should we not call back the assault?” Glug said.

“Sauron is still in the city.”

“Yes, but we do not have the Elven rings and if the strange Elf contains something Sauron wants–”

“Continues the assault as planned,” Adar snapped, Glug flinching at his tone. “I must question the Elf further.”

“But the Elf said Sauron wants–”

“Continue the assault, Glug,” Adar commanded and marched to his tent, despite feeling unprepared to face Sauron’s latest victim.

Adar entered his tent and ordered his guards to leave him alone with Celebrimbor. They hesitated, but knew not to question him in his current mood. The golden haired Elf was chained to the same chair Galadriel used only a day ago, the dinner table void of any food.

“Please, you must call off the assault,” Celebrimbor begged. “You cannot defeat the Great Deceiver through strength alone. Surely, you know this.”

“I know Sauron has many needs, the first of which is allies,” said Adar. “Was that why he came to you? To spread his influence?”

“What does it matter if you can’t defeat him?”

“Sauron is weakest when he’s isolated. We’ve neutralized whatever following he gained in Eregion,” said Adar and Celebrimbor’s face flinched with rage and sorrow. “But he’s like a rat. He always looks for a new place and people he can infest.”

Celebrimbor hesitated before admitting, “He briefly treated with the dwarves in Khazad-dum through me, but I doubt he will flee there.”

The Elf squeezed the pouch clenched in his right hand and Adar demanded, “Give it to me.”

Celebrimbor struggled against his bonds, almost tipping over his chair in the process. Adar caught him by the chin and said, “I’d rather avoid further damage to your handsome features.”

Celebrimbor stiffened at his touch, a mix of terror and surprise crossed his dirt and blood smeared face. The blood dashed across his cheek bones was reminiscent of war paint favored by some of his children. His skin was hot to the touch, as if the fires of Eregion’s furnace formed his core. Even with the dirt and the blood and the sweat and tears, he was beautiful. The light of Valinor still within him, like all Elves who crossed the sea.

Adar’s hand traveled up his cheek, caressing the weathered skin, a thumb tracing the wrinkles that branched from the corner of his eyeas. Celebrimbor inhaled sharply and pulled his head away and Adar dropped his hand at the same rate his face fell. Marion used to comfort him the same way after the worst of Morgoth’s punishments. Of course he would use the same trick for his latest toy.

Adar turned away sharply and took two steps towards the barren table, his hand finding his hilt and squeezing it to soothe his fluttering nerves. Not even Galadriel with her own special relationship with Sauron and her own embodiment of Valinor brought back so many memories and long lost emotions.

“Does it surprise you that a Uruk would mimic his former master’s acts of false affection?” He demanded, although he wasn’t sure the true target of his sudden rage and embarrassment.

“He spoke to me,” Celebrimbor softly began, wrestling with each word as if Adar was dragging each syllable out from him. “He spoke of Morgoth and their…their “game” is what he called it.”

Adar barked a laugh and glanced at Celebrimbor with dark amusement.

“I’m sure he spared no details, reveling in his ability to withstand the worst of Morgoth’s tortures and humiliations.”

“For a moment, I…I pitied him.”

Adar whirled around and Celebrimbor shot him a desperate and despairing half grimace.

“Pitied Sauron?”

“For a moment he was just another victim of Morgoth’s, no different from my own uncle, Maedhros. Often I would look into my uncle’s eyes and see nothing but hollowness. He had the same look, only for a flicker of a second, and then it was gone, replaced by the same ravenous hunger that drove Morgoth’s darkness. All the pity in the world cannot call him back.”

“Would you?” Adar asked softly in Quenya.

“Wouldn’t you?” Celebrimbor replied.

Adar had not known fear like this since he held Morgoth’s crown in his hand, about to kill Sauron with it. He recognized Sauron’s hold on Galadriel and used it to his advantage, but that had been different from this. Galadriel was still fighting the depth of Sauron’s hold over her. Still stubbornly believing she had a choice when around him, but Celebrimbor…Sauron shattered him from the inside out. Whatever Sauron needed Galadriel for, he needed her still whole but cracking, but Celebrimbor had to be broken and mended and broken and mended over and over and over again. As if Sauron wanted no one to benefit from his abilities after he was done with the Elf. Maybe Sauron even meant to keep him, a pet to honor the start of his new reign as dark lord of Middle-Earth.

“What did he offer you?” Adar asked, still speaking in Quenya.

Another painful half grimace and Celebrimbor said, “The opportunity to create a legacy that would overshadow my grandfather’s.”

“You do not need him for that.”

Celebrimbor’s face twitched and it took several seconds before he seemingly regained control over his voice, “What did he offer you?”

“Children,” said Adar with a half smile of his own.

Celebrimbor glanced towards the entrance of the tent.

“Then for the sake of your children, you must let me go. He will come for me and will slay any who stand in his way.”

Yes, the pouch. The very thing that brought Sauron’s dark presence into his tent. Something solid to focus on instead of whatever had passed between him and Celebrimbor during the last few minutes.

“What is in the pouch?”

Celebrimbor hung his head in shame, once more wrestling for words, but Adar didn’t have time or patience or ability to wait. Better to act out on his sudden confusion and anxiety, even though he often scolded his children for such behavior.

He wrestled the pouch from Celebrimbor’s clenched fist and Sauron’s flaming, burning, gorgeous form surrounded him, his soft, coaxing voice promising power renewed, the entirety of Middle-Earth for his beloved children, and Mairon’s love regained. Flames licked at his scarred and beaten skin once more and Adar closed his eyes to hold back his tears. How he missed this incredible, painful glory and love.

Pain. Something heavy landed on his chest. Was he on the ground? Adar blinked and stiffened as he realized his own lips were mere inches away from Celebrimbor’s, who seemed as startled as he was. The Elf must have tried to take the pouch back. His hand with the missing thumb had slipped out of his chains and Adar mentally scolded him for not noticing that. However, it must have been too painful for Celebrimbor to use or rest on for it laid sprawled out above Adar’s head. The Elf’s other hand was still chained to the chair, which was lying across Celebrimbor’s legs. Yes, it must have tripped him and now he pinned Adar down with nothing more than the weight of his own body, the Elf’s chest pressed against his own armored chest.

The Elf’s weight was strangely soothing. The same kind of soothing he felt when Galadriel held him while pointing a knife to his throat. How long had it been since he felt another’s touch? Surely before Morgoth’s fall. How long had he hungered for something that could never be found until this very moment revealed it was nothing more than knowing someone else truly existed in a physical form he could touch and feel. That the world was more than a non-existent grey, full of sacrifice and loss and even his children were nothing but specters in a dying world.

How expressive Celebrimbor was. Something he had not expected from Feanor’s heirs. His round and handsome face revealed the clashing thoughts that raced through his mind: confusion, uncertainty, embarrassment, fear, planning a new escape attempt. How Adar wanted to run his thumb across Celebrimor’s chapped and split lips before pulling him into a kiss to quiet his mind.

“Adar!” “Lord Father!”

Celebrimbor yelped as Glug grabbed his curls and ripped the Elf off of Adar. Uzog scrunched their nose nervously as they offered their own hand to their father.

“Glug!” Adar snapped, rising by himself in an attempt to overcome his own shame and embarrassment. “Do not harm him.”

Glug, his knife already drawing a trickle of blood from Celebrimbor’s throat,opened his mouth to argue, “But Adar–”

“Fetch me chains, Glug,” Adar commanded.

A half sneer half pout crossed Glug’s young face, the knife defiantly drawing one last drop of blood before he rose and stomped out of the tent. Uzog ran their hand across their twitching nose, another nervous tic that meant they had thoughts they would not dare share, and followed Glug. Adar grabbed Celebrimbor by the front of his robes and arranged him back into his chair as if he weighed no more than a hollow, wooden puppet. Blood pooled along the back of Celebrimbor’s robe and matted the curls in the back of his head. How was he still resisting, let alone standing and talking?

Adar pinned his hands on Celebrimbor’s shoulders to ensure he would stay still, the Elf hissing and wincing in the process.

“Stop fighting,” Adar commanded, embarrassing himself by using his exasperated father's voice instead of the Lord of the Uruk’s voice. “You are injured far more than you wish to admit. You cannot undo your crimes by leaping into Death’s arms.”

If it had been that easy, Adar would have done it long ago.

Blood rolled down the side of Celebrimbor’s face and Adar gently swept back his curls to identify the deep gash that ran across the Elf’s forehead. Celebrimbor stiffened as expected, but only half pulled away, as if catching himself in the middle of the act and forcing himself to remain still. A part of Adar wanted to run his matted, but still soft, still perfumed and pampered curls through his fingers. How happy his children would be when they could care for their own bodies with the same love and attention as that of the Elves.

Glug and Uzog returned with heavy black chains and Adar pulled away from the Elf. Celebrimbor winced every time a length of chain wrapped around his chest and pinned him to the chair, but he had left Adar with no other option.

“Not so tight, Glug,” Adar said in Black Speech and his son spitefully tightened the chains wrap around the Elf, causing Celebrimbor to moan and wheeze. “He is our guest, Glug.”

Uzog wiped their nose once more and Adar internally sighed. Children.

As Glug circled him one final time, Celebrimbor gestured to grab him and he said, “That’s Elrond’s brooch.”

Glug sheepishly turned to look at Adar and, yes, the Elf was right. Glug was wearing the very pin Elrond gave to Galadriel to make her escape. When Adar asked him why in Black Speech, Glug looked down and muttered, “It’s shiny.”

“Was it taken or was it given?” asked Celebrimbor, desperately wiggling to escape his bonds despite the obvious agony it caused him. “Show me his body, if taken.”

“Leave us!” Adar snapped at his children before they could confirm one way or another.

Glug tied off the chain and left with a huff as Uzog shot Adar one last concern glanced before following their brother. Strange that life had been easier when they were simply looking for a homeland. Now that Sauron had dragged they back into the conflicts and contradicts of Middle-Earth everything was on the verge of falling apart.

“How did he get that brooch?” Celebrimbor pressed.

“It was a gift.”

“From Elrond?” asked Celebrimbor, tears forming in his eyes.

Adar nodded and Celebrimbor swallowed.

“I saw,” he sputtered, his voice hitching as he struggled to control what could not be controlled in his condition. “Elves wearing Lindon’s armor. I thought they were rescuing the city, but why would they?”

Again, that painful half grimace crossed his chapped lips and bitter resignation darkened his face, as if some brutal understanding had finally been accepted.

“They, too, think my people willingly betrayed them. That I dedicated myself to the Great Deceiver and his desire to dominate all life on Middle-Earth. How can they think otherwise? After I ignored Lady Galadriel’s warning, after I lied to the High King, after–”

He choked back another sob and hung his head. Adar slowly bent before the broken Elf and gently raised his chin.

“What did Sauron ask of you?”

Celebrimbor inhaled a few times to calm his nerves and regain control over his voice.

“Rings,” he half cried, half laughed. “Rings like the Elven three. Rings for Dwarves…Rings for Men…”

Celebrimbor trailed off and his gaze traveled over Adar’s shoulder. He glanced behind him and saw the pouch lying underneath the barren table.

“For Men?” Adar asked, unable to hide the incredulousness from his voice. “Men would never be able to withstand their power.”

“No,” Celebrimbor said pitifully. “That is why they must never return to Sauron. That is why you must release me and let me escape while I still can.”

“You will not make it far, not with your wounds and even if you did, you won’t be able to avoid Sauron forever.”

Celebrimbor’s jaw tensed in Adar’s grasp and then a spark burst in his eyes.

“You take the nine to Elrond.”

“What?”

“You take the nine to Elrond who will ensure they reach our High King. He will know how to use them to destroy Sauron’s plans. Release me and I will return to Eregion to buy you and Elrond time.”

“To return to Eregion would be mean endless torture and death.”

“It is my city and I failed her in life. Maybe I can redeem myself in her eyes in death.”

Adar withdrew from the Elf, half tempted to believe this was the talk of blood loss and pain and, yet, he also sensed opportunity in Celebrimbor’s words. He crossed the tent and using his prosthetic hand, he retrieved the pouch, Sauron’s influence flaring across his metal fingers. He hesitated for a moment before turning to Celebrimbor and unbuttoned the top three clasps of his robes. Celebrimbor sputtered objection after objection, twisting and turning the best he could, until Adar slipped the pouch into the secret inner pocket all Feanorians sewed into their outfits. That paranoid family made it a habit of having multiple hidden pockets and compartments in all of their clothes and furniture and traveling tools. Thieves and murderers knew better than to trust other thieves and murderers.

Celebrimbor shot him a look that was a mixture of outrage, confusion, and something Adar refused to name for his own sake.

“I will send a healer to you,” said Adar. “Do not attempt to resist or escape while under her care, otherwise she’ll make you wish you were back in Sauron’s hands.”

“You can’t keep me here!” Celebrimbor called to his retreating back.

Adar left the tent and saw Glug, arms folded across his chest, and Uzog, wiping his nose vigorously, waiting for him.

“Uzog,” Adar cut in before either child could speak. “Send for Shazzash. Tell her she is to care for the Elf as one of our own.”

“One of our own, all father?” Uzog could not help himself but ask.

Adar sighed as he heard his own phrasing echoed back. He needed peace and quiet and a chance to think.

“I need him alive, Uzog, alive and in the same or better condition than when he was brought in, understand?”

“No, Adar, but I will tell her,” said Uzog, sharing a glance with Glug before scurrying off.

Adar didn’t need Glug to speak to feel his anger and confusion.

“I ask you to trust me a little longer, Glug,” Adar said, holding up a hand to silence Glug’s diatribe. “I need time to think and plan.”

“Adar, let me help.”

“Help me by keeping up the assault and ensuring I’m not disturbed,” Adar said as gently as he could, but it didn’t soften the blow at all.

Glug’s face was heavy with sorrow and pity and Adar knew his fearless, faultless persona was cracking.

[softlysilverfountainsfall]

Bear with me while I rules-lawyer the spirit of the Oath of Feanor because I'm pretty sure that's exactly what Maedhros did.

The Oath is specifically targeted at anyone who "hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril" which I do not believe means anyone who touches a Silmaril, despite "in hand taketh" because all the other stipulations are targeted specifically at people who keep the Silmarils away from the Feanorians, by hiding, hoarding, keeping, or even throwing it far away. It would also just be bizarre if, say, a Feanorian follower returned the Silmaril to their lords and the Oath required that they kill them.

However, the strongest evidence for the Oath only applying (or being interpreted to only apply) to people who deliberately withhold the Silmarils from the Feanorians are Maedhros'/the Feanorians' actions before the 2nd and 3rd kinslayings: in both cases, they send a letter demanding the return of the Silmaril. Now, if by touching/posessing the Silmaril, the deaths of Thingol, Dior, and then Elwing are already demanded by the oath, why in the world would they send a letter (losing part of the element of surprise), not even to declare war, but demanding the Silmaril's return? Sending that letter implies that this can still be resolved peacefully if the Silmaril is handed over.

It's my interpretation that Maedhros/the Feanorians are rules-lawyering this tiny loophole in the oath (regardless of whether the oath is present magically/compulsive/just their own dedication) by deliberately closing their eyes to the fact that the current holder of the Silmaril definitely believes it to be their possession and is deliberately keeping it from the Feanorians---which lasts as long as that holder hasn't confirmed that desire.

After all, Thingol, Dior, and Elwing didn't steal the Silmaril, they received it from family members. If the Feanorians ignore the intent behind their keeping it (before that intent is confirmed by the holder's response to the Feanorian's demand), then they could consider Thingol et al to simply...coincidentally...happen to be holding a Silmaril, not possessing it for themselves and therefore not liable to the oath.

Actually, one line in the text from after Thingol refuses to return the Silmaril even hints that even after that, the situation might be salvageable if the Silmaril is returned by free will: "Celegorm and Curufin vowed openly to slay Thingol and destroy his people if they came victorious from war [this is pre-Nirnaeth], and the jewel were not surrendered of free will" (emphasis mine, Of the Fifth Battle, The Silmarillion).

Of course, the Oath drives the Feanorians to reclaim the Silmarils, and so I view the letters to Thingol, Dior, and Elwing as last-ditch attempts at solving this peacefully (via exploiting the above loophole). (Note: this is not necessarily meant to make the Feanorians more sympathetic, this is just me trying to figure out why they sent those letters.) However, this also dooms them to a kinslaying, because as soon as Dior and Elwing reject returning the Silmaril, they have explicitly or implicitly claimed it for themselves and have now "in hand taketh" the Silmaril instead of just touching it and happening to have it around, which means their deaths are now demanded under the Oath.

[autumnshighlady]

A Lesson in Language

Fëanor x female!reader

part of The Professor Series

summary: challenging your linguistics professor is your favourite past time, until he decides it's time for you to face consequences for it

warnings: smut, power dynamic, daddy kink (only a little bit at the end), rough oral sex (m receiving), hate sex, roughness, Fëanor is a raging asshole

word count: 4.4k

request: Professor Feanor x reader? With fiery smut and snarky student reader ;) I was thinking something like he’s a linguistics prof (since he did come up with a new system of writing) and he teaches this one course that reader needs to graduate but she’s annoyed that he teaches it’s either his way or nothing at all so she argues with him all the time in office hours for her marks and etc?

So since we seem to be imagining everybody as a professor: Feanor. He'd be mean, and condescending, and the gods may help you if you're not good in his class (wth is he even teaching, he's good at everything💀) But if you're his best student, and a bright mind beyond class assignments? You'll want the gods to help you for wholly different reasons.

a/n: Fëanor is a massive douche in this fic ladies pls never let a man treat u like this lmao

series playlist on Spotify here

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

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You rolled your eyes as you doodled in the margins of your notebook, trying to ignore Professor Fëanor’s arrogant voice echoing in the classroom. He was droning on about pragmatics, a topic you had mastered last year already. You hated this class – it was tedious at best, and like watching paint dry at its worst. The only reason you were begrudgingly taking it was because it was your last requirement for graduation, as the class involved drawing up your own research study instead of a final exam. Everyone who was in this class took it for one of two reasons – either they were the same as you and just needed it for graduation, or they were lovestruck morons enamoured with the professor.

Admittedly, he was an attractive male. His long, raven-black hair suited his sharp face, with grey blue eyes that surveyed the class like a hawk, picking on daydreaming students to answer difficult questions. He was always impeccably dressed, and spoke with more confidence than anyone you had ever met. Yet he was arrogant and stubborn, insisting his way was the only way to learn linguistics. He spoke to his students as if they were dumb, incapable of being anywhere near his level of knowledge. And it irritated you beyond belief.

You were well known amongst your peers for getting into arguments with the professor. Dr. Fëanor had a nasty temper that frightened most, but amused you. You were the only student who didn’t hesitate to challenge him and stick up for yourself when he decided he wanted to bully his students. You were confident in your linguistic skill set, marching to his office to argue your grades whenever he gave you a shitty mark. You could tell it infuriated him, how his best student didn’t kiss his ass like he had clearly expected you to.

“Am I interrupting your artistic time, (Y/N)?” Dr. Fëanor’s bored voice sounded a few feet away from you, snapping you back to reality. You looked up, and he was standing in front of your table, glaring down at you. The students beside you shrank back, afraid to be caught up in the professor’s wrath. But you didn’t back down, only sighing and looking up to meet his gaze.

“What was that, sir?” You asked, widening your eyes and faking innocence knowing damn well it would piss him off further.

“You haven’t been paying attention to a single thing I’ve said all week.” He snorted. “How you are my top student is beyond me, with such a short attention span.”

“I’ve been paying attention, sir.” You lied, bringing your elbows to rest on the table. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then you won’t mind a little pop quiz, just for you?”

You shrugged. “Fire away.”

“What are the three airstream mechanisms in phonetics?” His shoulders were tense, a sign of his visible annoyance towards you.

Your answer rolled off your tongue. “Pulmonic, glottalic, velaric.”

“Define a morpheme.”

“The smallest meaningful unit of language. It must have a meaning of its own, either lexical or a grammatical function, and it must be minimal, not containing any smaller units that have meanings of their own.”

“And what are the four maxims of conversation?”

“Quality, quantity, relation and manner.” You smiled, watching your professor’s face get redder as you answered his questions easily.

“Name the distinctive linguistic properties of Quenya that make it differ from Sindarin.” Dr. Fëanor smirked, cocking his head arrogantly. You knew he would ask this question, it was too predictable. He was the master of Quenya, having played a huge role in the development of the language and construction of the Tengwar alphabet. 

But as usual, he underestimated you. You took a breath, pretending to think for a moment before lifting your chin and meeting his gaze once again. “Where do I begin?” You said confidently. “Quenya is a more complex agglutinative language that strings morphemes together into long words using an inflectional system with a flexible syntax, while Sindarin has a much easier to follow language structure. Quenya uses 5 tenses to conjugate, Sindarin has 6 and words often begin with vowels whereas in Quenya, they typically end in vowels. They both use the structures SVO and OVS structures, but Sindarin uses VS and VO, although it lacks the OSV structure that Quenya has. Additionally, Quenya adopted case endings for nouns in nominative and genitive cases, using the dual plural to represent plural form since it lacks a definite article to mark the regular plural. Would you like me to go on, sir?”

The entire class was utterly silent. No one dared breathe in the moments following your monologue as you waited for your professor to reply. You expected him to yell at you, maybe throw a manuscript at your head. But he didn’t move. It began to make you uneasy, and you noticed a strange look cross his face for a half second before he finally spoke. 

“I’ve heard more than enough from you for one class.” Fëanor’s voice was leathally calm, sending goosebumps up your arm. “Keep your mouth shut for the remainder of the lecture, and pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up your pen and sitting back in your chair as the professor continued his lecture. You crossed your legs, making your skirt hike up on your thighs, but you were too annoyed to fix it. Your professor was an arrogant bastard who couldn’t comprehend that not everyone around him was as dumb as rocks. But your skin flushed as you drifted off into one of your many daydream scenarios of Fëanor bending you over his desk and taking his anger out on you. You just knew he was rough and dominant in bed, having fantasised about being on the receiving end of that fire within him.

Your daydreaming was cut short as the professor began distributing last week’s quizzes back to the students. He didn’t acknowledge your presence as he ungracefully dropped yours in front of you. You noticed quickly a note was attached to it, that read:

Be in my office at 5pm tonight. We need to have a talk about your attitude.

You sucked in a breath. This was new. Not once had he invited you to his office – you were there of your own volition often enough to challenge him about your marks. You wouldn’t be surprised if he put up a sign on his door barring you specifically from entering. You knew he hated your visits to his office, so why invite you now? Talks with your professor about your attitude were done in public, specifically to try and humiliate you. 

You folded up the note and slid it into your pocket, nervousness beginning to churn in your gut. Was he going to fail you out of spite? You’d be unable to complete your degree if he did that. While Fëanor was an arrogant asshole, you didn’t think he was cruel. Or at least you hoped so.

Tears began to well in your eyes as the possibility of failing dawned on you. Perhaps there were consequences to mouthing off to your professor after all. 

*******************

A few hours later, you knocked at the elaborate wooden door to Fëanor’s office, then wiped your face one last time. You had spent an hour in the bathroom attempting to fix your makeup and conceal the evidence of your tears and failing, miserably. Your mascara was wet, giving you more of a smokey eye look than you had intended. Your smudged face was a stark contrast with your perfectly put together outfit – a short brown pencil skirt and tall boots, paired with a tight fitting, slightly cropped t-shirt. You felt ridiculous now, going to your professor’s office like this, but you had no other choice.

“Come in. And close the door behind you.” His deep voice echoed from inside the office, and you pushed the heavy door open. His office was its usual organised mess, manuscripts and books everywhere, laid out across every sitting space available save for the single chair in front of his desk. The room glowed orange from the roaring fireplace off to the side, making it look more like an ancient cave than an office.

You carefully walked over to the chair in front of the desk, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Sit.” Fëanor ordered, finally glancing up at you when you hesitated. “Unless you prefer to kneel on the floor?”

Your face burned bright red as you scrambled into the chair, ignoring the way his insinuation made your thighs tingle with need. He ignored you for a few minutes, continuing whatever he was translating on his desk. You shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do. None of your interactions had ever been like this – quiet, suspenseful, behind closed doors. No, it was always bickering arguments that turned heads in the hallways. Something was different about him.

“Do you know why I really called you in here today?” He asked, still not looking up. His long hair was tied back, except for a few loose strands that hung around his face as he wrote.

“To fail me.” You said quietly.

He barked a heartless laugh. “Gods, no. Failing you would mean I’d have to endure a whole extra semester of your arrogant attitude. I refuse to put myself through that.”

You felt all nervousness fade away, quickly replaced by that hot anger only he seemed to be able to get out of you. “I’m arrogant?” You snapped. “Take a look in the mirror.”

Fëanor’s writing ceased, and his grey blue eyes met yours and narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.” You fired back, unable to stop the words from coming out of your mouth. “You’re the arrogant one here, sir. You try to belittle me every time I prove myself to be smart because you can’t imagine that everyone around you isn’t a complete imbecile.”

You expected the male to snap back, to call you an idiot and ask how dare you say these things to him. Truthfully, you couldn’t believe you were saying these things either. All your arguments had been about the material so far, veiled insults hidden beneath your words. Never were you this open, this bold, about how you felt. 

“Anything else?” He said in a bored manner.

“Yeah, you’re a real prick.” You continued your angry rambling, sick of being looked down on by this male. “You know as well as I do that I’m your best student, yet you treat me like the problem kid at the back of the class. It’s ridiculous, and the only reason you do it is to feel better about yourself. Am I wrong, sir?”

A long pause followed, and you swallowed a lump in your throat. If you weren’t going to fail before, you definitely were now. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You simply sat there, eyes locked with your ill-tempered linguistics professor. After a few minutes, you couldn’t take it anymore, averting your gaze to inspect a loose thread on your skirt.

“Do you know why I’m such an arrogant… prick, did you say?” He stood up, walking around to the front of his desk and leaning against it, crossing his large arms. “Because I’ve earned it. I invented the Tengwar script and am the most knowledgeable person on the Quenya language there is. I have created and invented things that nobody else has, and nobody will ever come close to achieving what I have achieved. I have earned my arrogance, you have not. You’re just a little girl who’s in way over her head.”

You saw red, angrily pushing back the chair as you stood up to challenge him . Fëanor was a good foot taller than you, making you strain your neck to meet his gaze. “Call me a little girl one more time, I fucking dare you.” You hissed.

“Or what?” He smirked. “You’ll cry? Just like you did before you came in here?”

Your jaw went slack, “Wha–”

Fëanor scoffed, pleased with himself. “Oh, please, don’t even try. It was written all over your pretty face. I like it covered in tears, by the way. It’s a good look on you.”

WIthout thinking, your hand reached up and connected with his face, a dull slap echoing throughout the office. “Fuck you.” You spat, turning to storm out before you could face the consequences of hitting your professor.

But Fëanor was faster, his large hand firmly clasping around the hand you just slapped him with and yanking you back around to face him. His other hand grabbed your other wrist, and no matter how much you squirmed against it he didn’t budge. His eyes were dark as he pulled your hands up and across each other, pushing them into your chest as he stepped even closer to you. 

“You wish.” He purred mockingly. “Isn’t that right? Is that not one of the reasons why your attention drifts off in class? Because you’re fantasising about being bent over my desk and fucked until you can’t remember your own name?”

“You think way too highly of yourself–” You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off as if you hadn’t even said anything.

“You think I’m blind? That I don’t notice how you always wear those revealing outfits on the days you have my class. Don’t play dumb, it’s not a good look on you.”

You thrashed in his grip, ignoring the effect his words had on you. “Let me go right now you self righteous, narcissistic–”

“Kneel.”

That made you freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You really need to learn how to shut up.” Feanor growled. “And that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve had enough of that mouth of yours, it’s time to make it useful for once. Now kneel.”

You were utterly dumbstruck, unable to do anything as your professor gave you a shove, making you fall to your knees on the ground in front of him. The wooden floor made your joints ache, but you knew better than to protest.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Fëanor began, the sound of his belt unbuckling distinct in the background. “Do you think you can follow simple instructions for once?”

“Yes.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, throat dry with anticipation for what was about to happen.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He paused his movements, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at his towering form. “I’m going to stuff that smart mouth of yours with my cock, and you’re going to take it like the desperate little slut I know you are. If you please me enough, I will bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow. And you’ll have learned your lesson to keep your mouth shut when I tell you to, understood? Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated, trying to keep the shake out of your voice. Your core throbbed at his words, exactly as dominant as you imagined him to be.

Fëanor finally unzipped his trousers, letting them fall to his feet along with his boxers, revealing the thickest cock you had ever seen. Your jaw dropped, but you didn’t even care that you had just boosted his ego. All you could think about was how it would possibly fit.

“What’s the matter?” He mocked. “Too big for you? Scared you won’t be able to take it? You’ll be able to take it because I’ve told you so. Now open.”

You parted your lips, letting your professor slide his cock between them. You sucked on the tip, earning a groan of pleasure from the male above. Forcing your jaw to relax, you took him deeper, aching with the stretch.

Without warning, Fëanor impatiently grabbed the back of your head and pushed you down further. Tears blotted your face as you gagged around him, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him. Clearly, he wasn’t concerned with having you come up for air, forcing you to breathe through your nose.

He set a rough pace, guiding your head up and down his cock as far as it would go without making you gag too much. Your mascara began to run down your face, and you made sure to keep eye contact with him despite the strain on your throat.

“There’s a good little slut,” Fëanor growled, tightening his grip on your hair as he thrusted faster. “I told you you looked better with tears running down your face.”

You couldn’t protest with his cock around your mouth, so you only whimpered, focusing on taking him deeper. You sucked hard with each stroke, letting your tongue run along the vein underneath his shaft as you bobbed your head. Your professor moaned shamelessly above you, a sound that set your nerves alight.

Mindlessly, your hand wandered between your legs, attempting to relieve some of the pressure building there. Your fingers hadn’t even grazed your panties when Fëanor halted his movements, holding your head down at the base of his cock. 

“Don’t even think of touching yourself.” He hissed angrily. “I didn’t give you permission to do so. Try it again, and I won’t let you cum. Got it?”

You nodded around the base of his cock, whimpering. Your jaw was in agony, stretched to the max to accommodate his length. When he finally moved your head once again, you doubled your efforts, determined to make your arrogant professor fall apart. You sat on your hands for good measure, trying to avoid the temptation to ignore his orders altogether.

Fëanor began thrusting his hips to meet your mouth a few minutes later, his pretty eyes screwing shut as he tilted his head back. “Fucking swallow every last drop.” He grunted between thrusts, his grip on your scalp tightening right before his cock twitched in your mouth. He came with a loud groan, shooting spurts of warm liquid down your throat. You kept bobbing your head, sucking up every last drop and letting it slide down your throat. He panted, hips sputtering as you sucked him dry before finally pulling your lips off him. Your jaw ached like never before, but you were strangely proud of yourself. The image of your high strung professor climaxing into your mouth would be forever burned into your mind.

“Looks like you’ve earned your reward after all.” Fëanor grabbed you by your shoulders and hoisted you up onto his desk with impressive strength. You didn’t have time to ask if you should move the papers on his desk before his mouth crashed into yours. His lips were hot and dominating, overwhelming your senses. You barely had time to kiss him back before he was pulling away, attaching his lips to your neck and biting down, making you cry out. He sucked and bit every inch of your throat in a manner you knew would leave dark bruises the next day, undoubtedly an intentional choice on his part.

You felt your shirt being yanked up, Fëanor quickly pulling it over your head along and ripping your bra off then tossing both items somewhere behind him. His calloused hands eagerly grabbed your breasts, squeezing hard. You squirmed under his touch, wanting to get away from the harshness of it but also needing more somehow. Fëanor’s mouth assaulted your breasts, biting the soft flesh firmly before taking your nipple in his teeth and flicking the bud with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You couldn’t help but moan, tilting your head back.

“You like this?” Fëanor teased, lifting his mouth from your breast momentarily before hovering over the other one. “You like it when I’m rough, treating you like a dirty little whore? Leaving marks all over your body so you know that you’re my property, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir!” You cried out as he sucked at your other breast. It was overwhelming, his hands were everywhere except where you needed them most.

As if he read your mind, Fëanor pulled away, ripping his shirt over his head to reveal the most sculpted abs you’d ever seen. The bastard stood there for a moment, proudly watching you admire his form. Gods above, you’d never be able to focus in class again after seeing his muscles.

He reached down and roughly tugged your skirt and panties down, exposing your glistening cunt. Fëanor plunged a finger into you without warning, pressing a thumb to your clit and making you see stars. His mouth found your neck again as you squirmed under his touch, a hand reaching around your back and pressing you into his frame.

“You’re a fucking mess,” He growled into your neck, adding in a second finger and stretching your hole. “All for me, isn’t that right? I’m going to break you, my dear. Break you into a thousand pieces and put you back together so I can do it all over again and make you mine.”

You whined, feeling your muscles clench around him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were approaching your orgasm faster than you ever had in your life. “I’m close…” You mumbled through shallow breaths, legs beginning to twitch.

He smirked. “I know.” Was all he said before roughly pulling his fingers away, right before you could make the final stretch towards the edge.

“What the hell!” You exclaimed, angry. Before you could cuss him out, his hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed.

“What did I tell you about keeping that pretty mouth shut?” Fëanor growled. “I would threaten to stuff it with my cock again, but you’d probably enjoy that too much. Guess I’m just going to have to fuck you so hard you scream and lose your voice.”

He roughly turned you around, pushing you by your neck so you were stomach first down on the desk with your feet still on the floor. You breathed heavily, grasping the edge with your fingertips as Fëanor lined his cock up to your entrance. You forced your body to relax, knowing it was going to hurt at first.

His hands found your hips and he slammed into you, almost knocking the wind right out of your lungs. You barely had time to catch your breath and acknowledge the stinging stretch between your legs before he pulled out and did it again, setting a brutal pace. You began to scream, fully screaming in pleasure and pain as Fëanor pounded into you relentlessly. You couldn’t even think straight, all logical thoughts about there possibly being people in the hallway that could hear you as you cried out over and over again.

Fëanor’s grip on your hips was almost bone shattering, his thick cock slamming into your g-spot faster than anyone had ever fucked you. He was right, your entire body would be sore tomorrow. In fact, you’d be lucky if you were able to walk to class. Fëanor’s thrusts were so powerful, you were sure he was going to split you in half.

And you fucking loved it.

You loved being bent over your professor’s desk, unable to think about anything else aside from how hard he was fucking you. The male you had had verbal sparring matches with for weeks was taking his frustration out on you, and you loved it. You enjoyed being at his mercy, feeling things nobody else had been able to make you feel.

Fëanor grunted, reaching one hand down and rubbing your clit. “You cum when I say you cum, got it?”

You nodded, whimpering as you felt your body try and pick up where it left off. You begged it to keep your orgasm at bay, knowing Fëanor would be less than happy if you came without his permission. So you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think about anything else.

He thrusted into you for what seemed like hours, to the point where your legs had gone almost numb. You were a sobbing mess, fighting to stop yourself from climaxing all over his cock. The papers on his desk were stained with your tears, and your determination to not beg him for anything snapped.

“Please let me cum.” You sobbed pathetically.

Fëanor only increased his pace on your clit, smirking as he pounded you. “Aw, are you crying again? Poor little thing is so desperate to cum for daddy, isn’t she?”

Daddy. Your brain went haywire. Normally, you were not into the whole daddy kink, but the way Fëanor said it changed something in you. You whined, nodding. At this point, you’d say whatever to get him to let you cum. “Please, daddy, I need to cum,” You cried, body shaking. “I’ll do anything you want, please just let me finish.”

Fëanor groaned behind you, his cock twitching inside of you, evidence of his pleasure with your response. “That was pathetic,” He grunted. “But I’ll let it slide. Cum for me, slut. Cum now.”

Your body let go before he finished his sentence, the dam that had been holding your orgasm back bursting, letting the climax wash over your body. You cried out, voice breaking with hoarseness as your legs twitched violently, your grip on the desk and Fëanor’s hand on your hip being the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

The world spun around you, and at one point you were pretty sure you lost consciousness. As you came down from your high, Fëanor moaned loudly, pulling out and stroking his cock while jutting his hips forward. Thick spurts of cum landed on your back mixing with the sheen of sweat already there. His loud groan echoed throughout the office as you panted, your entire body feeling both completely wrecked and on cloud nine at the same time.

You tried to speak, but no words came out. Your vocal cords were shot, jaw aching with every movement. You didn’t even hear Fëanor retreat, but he returned with a towel, gently wiping the seed off your skin. You wanted to thank him, but couldn’t. In fact, you weren’t sure if you could even move. 

Fëanor chuckled, bundling up your clothes and setting them beside you. He placed a glass of water to your lips, tilting it back and letting you eagerly drink it up. “You’re excused from Thursday’s lesson,” He said smugly. “Only because I know you won’t be able to get out of bed to get to class. Let this be your lesson learned not to question me, or call me an arrogant prick. Got it?”

You nodded weakly, defenceless, and knowing your linguistics class with Dr. Fëanor would never be the same.

[lesbiansforboromir]

Why you don't like Galadriel?

WELL. I mean this would need a complex answer, for one thing because you could say I don't actually dislike Galadriel as a character really. She's interesting, she has layers, her position in the story creates intriguing mysteries and insights into elven realities and her actions are always percieved in multiple different ways by different characters. She is both an object of world building and a lense to view it through, she had only contempt for Feanor but is the character MOST like him in the end, there's lots going on!

So as usual what I'd say I dislike is more fandom's perception of Galadriel than Galadriel herself, although don't get me wrong in terms of sympathy for her I have none to spare. But to the fandom she's like... well she's whatever anyone wants her to be, so long as that's pretty much perfect and always more right than anyone else around her. Idk if this question came because of my RoP Galadriel tirade post of a week ago, but the fact that people seem to believe Galadriel's right to the 'good guy' role is so irrefutible that it makes any negative portrayal of her 'bad' and 'tolkien's rolling in his grave' etc etc- it's just flabbergasting to me and is a symptom of this problem.

Like Galadriel's entire motive for coming to middle earth, declared and narrated, is to rule over people. She wants to be a Queen of a land that she controls with people inside it whom she has power over. That's it. Now, far be it from me to be on the Valar's side, lord knows I don't support their right to unquestioned rule either and the Eldar's urge to rule themselves is completely valid and Galadriel's no worse than any of her male counterparts who were also looking for the same thing. (In fact, given this is something she is apparently required to 'overcome' when none of those male elves must do the same, I'm inclined to believe this is another of those 'eowyn must reject violence for peace because war is bad except when men do it and for sure the men do continue to do it that's fine' misogynist tolkien moments.)

BUT STILL.. that's not like... a GOOD motive is it? It's neutral at best, right? And Galadriel never actually does anything that could be called more than polite for the rest of the time we know her. She never risks anything for the good of middle earth, she never solves any problems, she goes from place to place to avoid any conflict that threatens her until she and her husband finally decide to usurp a Silvan kingdom and magically isolate it from the rest of the world. They change Lindórinand's name to Lothlorien, thereby overwriting the language of it's native population and Galadriel then uses the power of her ring (that was given to her she didn't make it heself) to EMBALM (tolkien's words) the forest in time just so that she could make it appear as much like Valinor (her home, not the silvan's) as possible. Like!! This is not some paragon of virtue character!

Honestly RoP's portrayal of Galadriel is actually vastly more sympathetic than her actual character. PTSD, survivor's guilt and the maladaptive cope of needing to hunt down evil fanatically for all eternity is, to my mind, 100% more understandable than just... staying in Middle-Earth because she still wanted to rule over people and never believed she did anything wrong in the first place. Which is the canonical reason she's still in middle-earth post the first age, technically a sin by the Valar's standards! Galadriel is rebelling against the will of the west in doing this, but apparently SHE gets all the grace and chances to 'reform' in the world, unlike some other characters I could name >:|

... Maybe she aggravates me a little, but she does so IN COMPARISON to the criticisms other characters must bear as 'the reason they had to die to redeem themselves'. Like if Boromir wanted to take the ring once in order to save his people, is death really the only way to atone for that when Galadriel has been power hungry for 7000 goddamn years nonstop, acquired and used her own ring of power to satisfy that power hunger and then managed to 'overcome it' at the very last minute JUST before middle-earth became 'less elven' (and therefore her position there would be less prestigeous) to demurely sail off home to a gilded cage paradise where literally all her family are alive and waiting for her. Like is 'power hunger' really the sin Boromir comitted here that he needs to die for. Is Tolkien really criticising the desire for power. Is the narrative of lotr really so cohesive and consistent as to allow you to put all the characters into good and bad little boxes and declare those categorisations infallible?

Am I making sense, is this coherent. Does it make more sense if I say like... I do not dislike Galadriel as a character, I dislike what her fandom-reputation reveals about the way the story is engaged with by and large? When I am getting heated about this or that misconception or aspect of her character, it is not because I hate she has that aspect, I like a lot of morally questionable characters, what I am railing against is the double standard that her having that trait reveals. (And I'm not even really angry about it I'm more just very activated by what it reveals about the story, like it makes me feral) The narrative loves Galadriel, Tolkien loves Galadriel, characters regularly threaten violence in order to defend Galadriel from even mild verbal criticism and no one appears to see this as a kind of ominous aspect of her when she's done very little to deserve it. Other than, of course, be ontologically 'pure' and 'divine' due entirely to the circumstances of her birth. I'm a bit manic right now so I hope literally any of that made sense.

Actually addendum example just to further affirm my point. So catholic tolkien scholars will tell you that Denethor's use of the Palantir was a sin, apparently even using a tool you have 'the right' to use to observe reality as it actually exists and then extrapolating that observation into a prediction of the future (ie seeing frodo is captured and the ring gone and extrapolating that the enemy has it and you're all doomed) is a sin. Because only god is allowed to see into the future. And this is somewhat backed up by the way characters treat Denethor's use of the Palantir, it was apparently foolhardy and bad and reckless and nebulously wrong etc. Remember, the Palantir is not a mystical artifact, it is like a satallite imaging tool + a one way video only skype.

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Galadriel's mirror literally sees the future 😂LIKE? WHY DOES SHE HAVE IT? WHY IS SHE ALLOWED TO USE IT? WHY CAN SHE JUST SHOW IT TO OTHER PEOPLE? It's because she's holy!! But that doesn't mean anything about her actual character, it's just an attribute she inherited from her family and her place of birth that actively changes what her existence means entirely by it's own virtue. Imagine living in this world for a second, imagine if it was ontologically true that you (an unblessed child of eru) would never be as right or as good as Galadriel, no matter what the reality of both your actions were. LIKE. !! WOULD YOU LIKE GALADRIEL?