i-did-not-mean-to

[i-did-not-mean-to]

I did not get a notification for this. Why? 😔😔😔

Either way, this was very very hot 🥳🥳🥳 I love them so much ❤️

Beautiful, evocative writing (as always). Absolutely obsessed 💜

rare pair bingo

⸙ Prompt: One-bar prison | Gothmog x Eönwë ⸙ Synopsis: Gothmog decides to put his pretty bird on display. Eönwë may or may not enjoy it more than he wants to admit. ⸙ Warnings: Sex toys, dirty talk, smutty ⸙ Triple drabble

"You look lovely like this," Gothmog purred. 

The only response he received from Eönwë was a strained groan and a small rattling sound as he attempted to shift his position. His favourite enemy was currently standing atop one single iron bar, its end snugly wedged between muscular cheeks, its tip inside him. To ensure that he would stay in place, his ankles were fettered and chained to the bar, and his hands were bound behind his back. A gag Gothmog had forgone for the moment, wanting to hear the song of his lover's pleasure. 

Eönwë's awkward shifting caused the toy at the tip of the bar to press inside him at a different angle, and he moaned softly. "D-do I...?" 

"Yes. Very much so." Gothmog affectionately ruffled his pale golden locks, his fána glowing with pride. Such a pretty little angel, bound and helpless, and he belonged to him and him alone. 

"Will you leave me like this?" Eönwë asked, eyes half-lidded and slightly teary. "Will you go attend to your duties and make me wait for your return?"

"You ask me as though you want me to make you suffer a little," Gothmog laughed. "So you tell me. Do you enjoy being on display like this? Do you like standing here with a toy inside you, waiting for your master? Do you want to beg for my attention when you can't take it anymore?"

He watched Eönwë's muscles tense and flex as he tried his best to keep his bound fána from reacting to his words, but the effect they had on him was obvious. Grinning, Gothmog reached down to give his hard, leaking cock a few lazy strokes. 

"What my pet bird wants, he gets," he cooed, "so be good for me now, and I'll reward you later."

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @saintstars @singleteapot @urwendii @wandererindreams

#tpcrarepairbingo #gothmog #eonwe #eönwë #gothmog x eonwe #firebird #drabble #silm smut #silm rare pairs #silmarillion #fic rec #random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Exploration, New Lands - Firebird

Let's continue with the rarepair of my heart! <3

To Eönwë, herald of Manwë, owner of my blackened, petrified heart and soul.

My sweet bird,

Please accept my apologies for the soot and the ashes staining my haphazard confession—I must burn this letter as soon as I’m done writing, as I have no way of getting it to you safely and I can’t let it fall into the hands of any who’d wish you harm.

Isn’t it funny that there should be no trustworthy messenger for an irreproachable herald such as you and no dutiful foot soldier willing to accomplish in my name the humble service I fulfil so unerringly every day? Don’t we deserve better?

Despite all that has happened lately, I still remember how fond you ever were of new, exciting sights and novel experiences, so I yearn to tell you about the paradise of exile.

No doubt, your Master speaks of flight and cowardice—exaggerating the squalor and misery in which he surmises we must be duly writhing—and you’ll flinch violently in a valiant effort to dissimulate the instinctive reaction of your generous essence.

Worry not, my dove, for Endórë is beautiful. Wild, churning, alive, it is blooming with potential and progress!

I know that you’ve always been frightened of anything boundless—be that the land or the extent of my affection for you—but you must believe me when I swear that I’m happy here.

There are warm springs like pools of precious tears, shed by an unseen power deep within the belly of this foreign land, and I often visit them and think of you.

Also, I have a favourite spot—high upon the jagged cliffs, overlooking the seemingly endlessly vast terrain—in which I like to sit, imagining you tumbling through the crisp, cool air in unbridled joy.

After an eternity of stale mediocrity within the golden cage of the Blessed Realm, I revel in the sharpness of this unconquered world which bends and bows to my will like nought I’ve ever known before except your pliable, sensuous flesh.

Of course, you’d probably scoff at the asseverations of a deserter and traitor, but, Eönwë, my love, I truly am convinced that you could love this savage realm of prospects and perils—it was made for you, and I sorely regret that you can’t be here with me.

It would be despicably wrong of me to now claim that I miss you, wouldn’t it?

Irrevocable and grievous choices have been made, and we both need to accept the consequences. Were those not your parting words?

You shan’t ever receive this missive, written in the blood of one who’s paid his morally dubious or even reprehensible freedom by sacrificing his true love, and so I don’t hesitate to confess that I have hope still.

Brighter than the flame within Arda, more enduring and endless than the Void, my faith expands to caress your soft face once more.

Maybe, one day, we shall be reunited again. Until then, I’ll see you in every starlit night sky and feel you in every stormy breeze.

I’ve lied, my sweet, righteous beloved, for my felicity shall never be anywhere near complete or satisfying in your absence.

Thus, I’ll work harder in the ruthless, selfish pursuit of my most intimate wish: getting you here, by any means necessary.

Link on Ao3

#queutie-pie #fanfiction #writing #my writing #random reblogs <3 #queue-tie pie #queuetie-pie

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Healing Time Will Vary (rated M)

Written as part of the 2024 @thorinsspringforge event!

I had the pleasure of working with @i-did-not-mean-to, who created some wonderful art for this fic. Check out their art here!

I can't overstate how much I LOVED writing this fic. Consider this my love letter to the art of tattooing, as well as to all of us perpetually working through some personal loss. <3

Modern AU | Tattoo Artist AU | Angst and Hurt/Comfort | Angst with a Happy Ending | Mild Smut

Summary:

“Care to explain all of this?”

In answer, Thorin handed him the request printout. “My custom bookings have been closed ever since, well…” He knew that Bilbo would get it. “I tried drawing something new tonight. Tried and failed.”

“You haven’t failed. Every artist gets blocks now and again.”

“Blocks of months on end?”

“It’ll take time, sorting out whatever you need before you’re able to get to that place. But I do know you’ll get there.” And Bilbo smiled so goddamn earnestly that Thorin almost believed him.

-

Thorin is the head tattoo artist at The Lonely Mountain, struggling to adjust after the sudden loss of his younger brother. Steady work is found in repeating old flash designs, but creating something new in his art—and in his life—is less than straightforward. A new artist at the studio may help lift him from the pits of his grief, but the dull pain of Frerin’s death lingers like a fresh tattoo. Like any wound, it must be cared for.

Click the link above to read on Ao3!

#TSF 2024 #Thorin #Bilbo #Bagginshield #random reblogs <3 #fic #fic rec #writing #fanfiction

[i-did-not-mean-to]

TSF 2024

Fic

Fic by me, Art by @shrimpsthings

T - 8,8 k - Thorin x FOC, Ori x FOC

Art

Art by me, Fic by @isclanel (check it out!)

M - 18,5 k - Bagginshield

#og post #events #TSF2024 #TSF #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #idnmt draws badly #digital art #contributions #Thorin

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Exploration, New Lands - Firebird

Let's continue with the rarepair of my heart! <3

To Eönwë, herald of Manwë, owner of my blackened, petrified heart and soul.

My sweet bird,

Please accept my apologies for the soot and the ashes staining my haphazard confession—I must burn this letter as soon as I’m done writing, as I have no way of getting it to you safely and I can’t let it fall into the hands of any who’d wish you harm.

Isn’t it funny that there should be no trustworthy messenger for an irreproachable herald such as you and no dutiful foot soldier willing to accomplish in my name the humble service I fulfil so unerringly every day? Don’t we deserve better?

Despite all that has happened lately, I still remember how fond you ever were of new, exciting sights and novel experiences, so I yearn to tell you about the paradise of exile.

No doubt, your Master speaks of flight and cowardice—exaggerating the squalor and misery in which he surmises we must be duly writhing—and you’ll flinch violently in a valiant effort to dissimulate the instinctive reaction of your generous essence.

Worry not, my dove, for Endórë is beautiful. Wild, churning, alive, it is blooming with potential and progress!

I know that you’ve always been frightened of anything boundless—be that the land or the extent of my affection for you—but you must believe me when I swear that I’m happy here.

There are warm springs like pools of precious tears, shed by an unseen power deep within the belly of this foreign land, and I often visit them and think of you.

Also, I have a favourite spot—high upon the jagged cliffs, overlooking the seemingly endlessly vast terrain—in which I like to sit, imagining you tumbling through the crisp, cool air in unbridled joy.

After an eternity of stale mediocrity within the golden cage of the Blessed Realm, I revel in the sharpness of this unconquered world which bends and bows to my will like nought I’ve ever known before except your pliable, sensuous flesh.

Of course, you’d probably scoff at the asseverations of a deserter and traitor, but, Eönwë, my love, I truly am convinced that you could love this savage realm of prospects and perils—it was made for you, and I sorely regret that you can’t be here with me.

It would be despicably wrong of me to now claim that I miss you, wouldn’t it?

Irrevocable and grievous choices have been made, and we both need to accept the consequences. Were those not your parting words?

You shan’t ever receive this missive, written in the blood of one who’s paid his morally dubious or even reprehensible freedom by sacrificing his true love, and so I don’t hesitate to confess that I have hope still.

Brighter than the flame within Arda, more enduring and endless than the Void, my faith expands to caress your soft face once more.

Maybe, one day, we shall be reunited again. Until then, I’ll see you in every starlit night sky and feel you in every stormy breeze.

I’ve lied, my sweet, righteous beloved, for my felicity shall never be anywhere near complete or satisfying in your absence.

Thus, I’ll work harder in the ruthless, selfish pursuit of my most intimate wish: getting you here, by any means necessary.

Link on Ao3

#Awwww thanks #all the glory goes to the replies #I feel so honoured

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Just checking.... We all pronounce Miette like My-TAY in our heads, right?

#being francophone I pronounce it like the French word #random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Exploration, New Lands - Firebird

Let's continue with the rarepair of my heart! <3

To Eönwë, herald of Manwë, owner of my blackened, petrified heart and soul.

My sweet bird,

Please accept my apologies for the soot and the ashes staining my haphazard confession—I must burn this letter as soon as I’m done writing, as I have no way of getting it to you safely and I can’t let it fall into the hands of any who’d wish you harm.

Isn’t it funny that there should be no trustworthy messenger for an irreproachable herald such as you and no dutiful foot soldier willing to accomplish in my name the humble service I fulfil so unerringly every day? Don’t we deserve better?

Despite all that has happened lately, I still remember how fond you ever were of new, exciting sights and novel experiences, so I yearn to tell you about the paradise of exile.

No doubt, your Master speaks of flight and cowardice—exaggerating the squalor and misery in which he surmises we must be duly writhing—and you’ll flinch violently in a valiant effort to dissimulate the instinctive reaction of your generous essence.

Worry not, my dove, for Endórë is beautiful. Wild, churning, alive, it is blooming with potential and progress!

I know that you’ve always been frightened of anything boundless—be that the land or the extent of my affection for you—but you must believe me when I swear that I’m happy here.

There are warm springs like pools of precious tears, shed by an unseen power deep within the belly of this foreign land, and I often visit them and think of you.

Also, I have a favourite spot—high upon the jagged cliffs, overlooking the seemingly endlessly vast terrain—in which I like to sit, imagining you tumbling through the crisp, cool air in unbridled joy.

After an eternity of stale mediocrity within the golden cage of the Blessed Realm, I revel in the sharpness of this unconquered world which bends and bows to my will like nought I’ve ever known before except your pliable, sensuous flesh.

Of course, you’d probably scoff at the asseverations of a deserter and traitor, but, Eönwë, my love, I truly am convinced that you could love this savage realm of prospects and perils—it was made for you, and I sorely regret that you can’t be here with me.

It would be despicably wrong of me to now claim that I miss you, wouldn’t it?

Irrevocable and grievous choices have been made, and we both need to accept the consequences. Were those not your parting words?

You shan’t ever receive this missive, written in the blood of one who’s paid his morally dubious or even reprehensible freedom by sacrificing his true love, and so I don’t hesitate to confess that I have hope still.

Brighter than the flame within Arda, more enduring and endless than the Void, my faith expands to caress your soft face once more.

Maybe, one day, we shall be reunited again. Until then, I’ll see you in every starlit night sky and feel you in every stormy breeze.

I’ve lied, my sweet, righteous beloved, for my felicity shall never be anywhere near complete or satisfying in your absence.

Thus, I’ll work harder in the ruthless, selfish pursuit of my most intimate wish: getting you here, by any means necessary.

Link on Ao3

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Epistolary Week 2024 #Interactive event #write me a letter #silmarillion epistolary #Firebird #Eönwë #Gothmog #Exploration #New lands

[i-did-not-mean-to]

One thing I love about the Silmarillion is that because it’s so massive, its fans have to specialize.

Like I love everything but my Silm major is in Finrod studies, with a minor in obscure background characters.

Reblog this post with your Silmarillion “speciality,”

#not enrolled at all #hands in papers on everything just to fuck with the teacher #actually knows nothing #makes everything up on the spot #eerily accurate at times #completely besides the point most of the time #random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Tummy Ache

Yes, I am wicked and cruel. LOL

@the-red-butterfly, @cilil I entirely blame you for whatever this idiocy is...

Thank you for being my friends and for inspiring me every day <3 I love you! (Also, I am sorry)

I want everyone to know that Abril made art for this, even though it's secret, and Cílil has pushed for this to be naughty. I deny all responsibility!

Pairing: Ulmo x Manwë

Words: 1,5k

Warnings: Valar slander (affectionate), NSFW, smut, anal play, is that even oral sex?, anal penetration, Ulmo's weird water hands, Ulmo's weird water penis

Manwë suppressed a shiver as the noise swelled into a storm to rival even his most violent outbursts—he was tempted to relinquish his wife’s hand, but Varda’s grip was unyielding.

Through their connection, all his senses were heightened—even at times when he wished they could be dulled.

Sometimes, he wondered whether his cherished friends even knew how loud they could be.

“We should intervene,” Aulë thundered, his voice ringing like a hammer on an anvil.

“I agree,” Tulkas screamed for no evident reason as the others sat close enough to have heard him even if he’d merely whispered. Tulkas clearly enjoyed roaring.

Not willing to be outyelled by his friend, Oromë interjected something unintelligible that reminded Manwë of the deafening rutting call of the mighty deer the Huntsman so loved.

Feeling dizzy and supremely uncomfortable, the Lord of Winds felt his powerful breath catch in his throat painfully and averted his eyes from the spectacle, only to meet the understanding, empathetic gaze of Nienna from across the room.

“I shall confer with the one who does not come hither,” he declared quietly and rose cautiously. “Feel free to discuss the matter of my brother’s misdeeds amongst you to your heart’s content. I will be back shortly!”

He was, evidently, not at all certain or even willing to return promptly, but he didn’t want to alarm his peers and friends to his temporary malaise.

In a rare display of impatience, he stalked over to the high window and, tearing off his heavy robes, leapt off the narrow sill unhesitatingly to seek out Ulmo’s council and comforting presence.

He could but rarely be convinced to attend those meetings, and Manwë ever missed his conciliatory presence sorely.

In the distance, the sea glimmered like liquid gems, beckoning to the flighty bird alluringly.

As soon as his lithe body broke the surface of the water, Manwë felt a minute fraction of the torturous pressure, having since congealed into a burning weight in his stomach, dissolve, and he gave a shivering sigh of relief.

For a while, he merely floated—weightlessly cradled by the gentle waves—and let his mind wander in hopes that the phantom pains wracking his body would eventually subside enough for him to return to his own halls.

“My King,” a voice bubbled upon from beneath and around him. “Are you unwell?”

Leave it to Ulmo to notice right away that something was awry, Manwë thought fondly and mellowed further into the tender caress of the ocean against his half-naked body.

“They’re arguing again,” Manwë admitted, twisting his head ever so slightly to feel Ulmo’s cool presence lap against his heated cheek.

“They won’t come to a resolution anytime soon,” the other replied soothingly. “You should relax and let it wash off you like dust.”

At first, Manwë wanted to protest—he had duties to fulfil and promises to Eru to keep—but, quickly, he started to see the wisdom in his friend’s suggestion. Ulmo was right; there was nought he could do now, and he might as well bask in the solace he’d so desperately craved.

“Let me help you.”

The Elder King was dimly aware of the motions rocking him to and fro growing more purposeful until he was almost standing upright on an eddying dais of ever-flowing crystal, but he was too weary and heartsick to mind.

Hands of soft, warm water seemed to materialise out of the voguing pool of consolation to knead his stiff shoulders and aching back with rhythmical insistence.

Usually, Manwë didn’t hold with that kind of antics—his peers’ tendency and predilection when it came to sprouting additional limbs and appendages were highly suspicious to him—but, in his heart of hearts, he trusted Ulmo.

Held aloft like a treasure, his whole body—rigid and taut with unspoken grief—was now being massaged by countless unseen digits, and the exhausted king soon felt another kind of tension take root in his aching midsection.

The shift in his attention and thoughts did not go unnoticed. Manwë was gently pushed back until he was reclining against numerous liquid palms, supporting his broad shoulders and his reluctantly spreading thighs as if he were an exquisite sacrificial offering to the endless blue sky overhead.

A tiny frown of incomprehension and alarm spread on his noble brow as he felt the thin, translucent fabric slung around his hips to cover his groin be drawn aside by an errant current.

Progressively, the hitherto placid underwater streams solidified into solid torrents that kept him pinned mercilessly, and he resisted instinctively.

“You’re safe with me,” Ulmo promised.

“Reveal yourself, friend!” Manwë couldn’t bear being so helpless and exposed beneath the unfocused and yet all-seeing eyes of his friend who was hiding in his element while playfully preventing his Lord from taking refuge in his own. “If I, stripped of my power, am to be submerged and held down by yours, I at least deserve to look upon you as I bob around like a demented duck!”

“You are beautiful,” the Lord of Waters opined with a gurgling chuckle. Nevertheless, he gathered the deep, dark hues of the abyssal ocean floor and the merrily dancing sea foam around him so he could appear, clad in all the iridescent shades of his realm, before the one he loved so profoundly. “What sorrows assail you, Milord?”

It felt so utterly silly to admit that he felt disorientingly topsy-turvy when he was literally hurled around by the teasing waves, so Manwë begrudgingly admitted that his stomach was a writhing knot of white-hot tension and agony.

With a knowing hum, Ulmo nodded solemnly, ducking his mighty head and extending a deceivingly solid-looking hand.

The white-capped swell of his hair whipped eagerly, making the Lord of Winds feel ever more at a disadvantage.

A second later, Ulmo’s finger, smooth and yet textured like sharkskin, slipped beneath the sodden loincloth, flapping in the undertow like a derelict flag of soiled purity.

At the first touch of gentle pressure and familiar coolness, Manwë uttered a strangled cry—his legs now fell open of their own accord to accommodate the swelling and ebbing girth of Ulmo’s circumfluent form, and his mien of fretful doubt melted into a grimace of forbidden, distinctly guilty pleasure.

He remembered that his wife and friends were waiting for his return and final verdict, but he could and would not disentangle himself from the gentle currents that held him up and spread him open with patient determination.

The smell of salt and spray filled his nostrils—he closed his eyes, willing his rigid muscles and taut tendons to slacken gradually as he felt the old-familiar pressure of a steady stream of hot water splash against his entrance.

At once, the caress pushed beyond the ring of unyielding muscle to dance along the rim in a maddening swirl that effectively sucked out pain and weariness out of Manwë’s overwrought body.

The ocean was so vast and bottomless that even the Elder King’s immense secret suffering was diluted and carried away within a single moment, and—allowing himself to relent little by little—he consciously shifted his focus on the innumerable blandishments flowing against his tingling skin.

Invisible hands were still massaging his shoulders and stroking his trembling legs, but he couldn’t help but concentrate on the slick intrusion of semi-solid fingers sliding into his body to ripple against unchartered flesh in the joyous rhythm of a racing heart instead.

“You should come more often,” he gasped. “I miss you.”

Manwë thought he heard another peal of laughter, purling like a forest stream, and then his mind went blank.

In his unrelenting, careful way, his friend had worked his way deep into Manwë’s body, opening like a lotus blossom under the onslaught of amicable care, and was presently curling and uncurling slowly against hidden pressure points that filled his keen vision with undulating, throbbing flashes of blue light.

“I shall come back with you—as soon as you’re feeling better,” Ulmo promised, in hopes that it would help the Lord of Winds unwind the painful knot of expectations and burdens tormenting his core.

No longer struggling, Manwë let himself be unfolded and unfurled, embraced by his friend’s element without and within until he could taste the salty tanginess of tempestuous lust on his tongue as the waves around him rose in a crescendo of passion.

His whole being was awash with the savage beauty of the ocean, and—relieved of all agonising weight—he felt almost at home.

He, who knew sudden storms and devastating deluges, was swallowed in a sea of raging red, blind and deaf to reality.

Yet, Manwë was unafraid when he came undone, releasing a fountain of merrily dancing air bubbles into the soothing waters for he felt Ulmo draw closer yet, cradling him like a fledgling, fallen out of its native nest.

“We should return,” Manwë sighed, leaning against a broad, damp bosom.

“In a moment,” Ulmo replied with a laugh.

Again, this was a private, intimate exchange (lol), so no Masterlists or tags!

Lots of love! Thank you and sorry!

#queutie-pie #fanfiction #writing #my writing #random reblogs <3 #queue-tie pie #queuetie-pie

[i-did-not-mean-to]

I called him finkedano by accident; someone kill me.

#that’s his name now #finkedano it is from now on

[i-did-not-mean-to]

MY BOOOOOOOYYYYYY!

(Also Fëanor you slut lol! I love you, you wild, cranky gnome!)

Ah, that was tense and beautiful...and I chuckled a little! Tssss, so insecure and on edge, my poor boy!

Gosh, I really adore Caranthir, I cannot deny it!

Wonderful fic! Made my night!

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐬 | 𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

𓄌 Characters/pairings: Caranthir & Fëanor, hints at potential Caranthir x Turgon 𓄌 Synopsis: Fëanor offers to craft accessories for his sons to wear at the next Feast of Horns. Caranthir has what he believes to be an unusual request. 𓄌 Warnings: / 𓄌 Oneshot (~1.2k words)

Carnistir had both dreaded and looked forward to this moment, though the former outweighed the latter. 

His father had announced that he would be crafting accessories for all of his sons for the next Feast of Horns, celebrating that the entire family would be in attendance for the first time, and promised that each of them could pick whatever they wanted and he would make it. 

For most, if not all of his brothers, it was an easy choice and they knew exactly what they wanted, or so Carnistir believed at least, but for him, it was more difficult. Not the choice itself, if he was honest with himself — he had an idea what he wanted — but he grappled with it regardless and disliked the idea of having to explain himself to his father. 

It wasn't Carnistir's first time participating in the Hunt. His brothers had dragged him along once before, with Tyelkormo in particular claiming that he couldn't miss it, and as was tradition for debutants, he had been among the Hunted. The greater battle had been with himself rather than the Hunters, finding himself strangely enchanted by the idea of being desired and pursued, while unable to admit it to anyone else and acting aloof to hide his inner turmoil. 

In the end Carnistir had successfully hidden in the woods of Oromë — no small feat as he liked to think, especially with Ainur participating in the Hunt as well — and rejoined his brothers at the end of the night. Nobody had bothered to inquire about his whereabouts after his declaration that everything had gone well, and he preferred it that way. Even so, the aftermath had left him with a sour taste in his mouth, his mind ever wandering to all the possibilities he had denied himself out of pride, shame and, as much as he hated to admit it, cowardice. 

But this Feast of Horns would be different. Carnistir had promised himself that it would. 

And then he had also learned that Turukáno would be a Hunter. 

I could hunt as well. Maybe alongside him, if he agrees to it.

Though perhaps I should be hunted instead to rectify my mistake. Any other choice would only be further cowardice.

Turukáno could hunt me. I think I would like it if he did. 

But why would he? Especially if Findaráto joins in as well. And he most likely will.

Such was the back and forth between the two warring forces in Carnistir's mind, unfulfilled desire raging against what he believed was his better judgement, yet his perceived lack of courage and bravery was what eventually tipped the scales in favour of the former. He was a son of Fëanáro after all, he couldn't hide in a corner while his brothers participated in the Hunt. 

Even so, choosing the Hunted meant that he would have to ask his father for a necklace or even a collar instead of horns or antlers, and Carnistir dreaded having such a conversation. 

Thus he made his way to Fëanáro's forge reluctantly when Nerdanel told him that it was his turn. He announced himself with a short, sharp knock and entered in tandem with his father's invitation to come in. 

Fëanáro was sitting at his workbench and bent over an elaborate sketch he was working on. A quick look confirmed that it was most likely Tyelkormo's gift, and Carnistir tried not to let his mien sour too much. Of course he's still busy with someone else. 

"Ah, Moryo," his father greeted him and looked up with a smile. "Do you already know what you would like or do you want to take a few more minutes to think?"

"I am ready," Carnistir replied curtly. It hadn't escaped his notice that Fëanáro appeared to be in good spirits, and he was about to ruin it all; but it was too late for second guessing himself. A plan of action had been made, and he would stick to it, come what may. 

"Very well. What are your ideas?" Fëanáro asked and finally reached for an empty sheet of paper to place on top of the sketch, ready to take notes. 

"I want a collar and I don't want gold."

Silence fell between them for a brief moment. 

"So you wish to join the Hunted?" 

"Yes." Carnistir pressed his lips together, ready to defend his choice, but his father took notes without further inquiry.

"Do you know which materials you want instead if gold is not to your liking?" he then asked conversationally. 

Carnistir gave a light shrug. He had thought of everything, every complaint or counterargument that might be brought against him for making what could be considered a strange choice for a Noldorin prince, but not the gift itself. 

"Something practical," he said eventually. 

Fëanáro smiled. "I hope you will allow me to craft a silver one then. I think it would look lovely on you." 

"Fine by me." 

More notes were added. 

"And what kind of details and ornaments do you want? Maybe some jewels or gemstones?"

Another shrug. "Plain." 

"You know you can choose freely, Moryo?" 

"Yes." Picking up on the hint, Carnistir thought about it again. "Lots of people have little charms attached to their collars, like antlers or spear-tips or arrowheads. I think I would like that too."

"Anything in particular?"

"A dagger." Inspiration came spontaneously, but for once Carnistir allowed himself not to overthink it. 

"And what about the gems?" 

"No gems. They sparkle too much." 

Fëanáro grinned at him. "Ah, I see. You don't want to make it too easy for the Hunters to spot you."

"Of course not."

"And you are right. A favour from one of the princes of the Noldor should not be won too easily after all." He wrote down more notes. "Anything else?" 

"No." Carnistir paused for a moment, then added, "I leave the rest to you, Father." 

"I shan't disappoint. If you like, you can have a look at my sketch in a few days — I will take some time to think about it." 

He nodded. "Thank you." 

They fell silent again, but no further words were needed. An unspoken understanding that the conversation had concluded hung between them, and Carnistir turned to leave. 

On his way out, he spotted another sketch at the very edge of the workbench, slightly crumpled as if it had been hastily swept aside in favour of Fëanáro's tools and the other notes and sketches he had made. To his surprise, this one depicted a collar as well, not too dissimilar from what he had asked for and imagined for himself. 

Unable to resist, he stopped and pointed at the sketch. "Someone else is joining the Hunted as well?" 

Fëanáro looked up to meet his inquisitive gaze, and his eyes sparkled with the same sort of mischief Carnistir would normally see in Tyelkormo and the Ambarussar. 

"That one is for me," he said, lips twitching as if he had to suppress a bout of laughter when he saw his son's shocked expression. 

Carnistir left the forge without another word, his cheeks flushing bright red. He needed a moment to process what he had just learned, only to decide that he neither needed nor wanted to know the implications of Fëanáro's words regarding his parents' relationship.

Well, he thought to himself, if I was wrong about Father, maybe I was wrong about Turukáno as well and he may hunt me after all. 

taglist: @blauerregen @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @saintstars @urwendii

#feastofhorns #caranthir #carnistir #feanor #fëanor #silmarillion #oneshot #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #cílil writes #random reblogs <3 #fic #fic rec #writing #fanfiction

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Masterlist

Silmarillion Events 2024

I'm always sad when I discover a public event too late, or during it without time to participate in. So, I decided to make (firstly for myself) a masterlist of the events in the Silmarillion fandom for this year. All events are linked (with the author if the account is not focused on the event).

If you have more infos or more events I didn't include, please tell me, I'll add them !

Disclaimer : Some of them are clearly NSFW or 18+, go check their profil descriptions for more triggers warning.

January

February

♣ Valentine event by thelien-art (1 february - 14 february) : DTIYS

♣ Femslash February by tolkienpinupcalendar (1 february - 29 february) : ship f/f

♣ Maedhrosmaglorweek (18 february - 24 february) : Maedhros and Maglor

March

♣ March-of-the-noldor (1 march - 31 march) : the crossing of Helcaraxë

♣ Rare pair bingo by tolkienpinupcalendar (1 march - 30 april)

♣ Manweweek (11 march - 17 march) : Manwë

♣ Candcweek (17 march- 24 march) : Celegorm and Curufin

♣ Tolkienrsb (17 march - 30 september) : collaboration between artists and writers

♣ DTIYS by naarisz (18 march - 18 april/may ?) : DTIYS

♣ Feanorianweek (25 march - 31 march) : Feanor's family

April

♣ Focus on Friendship and family by spring-into-arda (8 april - 30 june) : relation's chains of characters

♣ Silmarillionepistolary (15 april - 20 april) : Silmarillion story as letters

♣ Glorfindelweek (29 april - 5 may) : Glorfindel

May

♣ Angbangweek (6 may - 12 may) : ship Morgoth/Sauron

June

♣ Russingon-week (10 june - 16 june) : ship Maedhros/Fingon

July

♣ Tolkienofcolourweek (29 july - 5 august) : Tolkien of colour content

♣ Tolkiengenweek ?

August

♣ Silvergiftingweek (5 august - 11 august) : ship Celebrimbor/Sauron

♣ Eonweweek (12 august - 18 august) : Eonwë

♣ Tolkienocweek ?

September

♣ Halfelvenweek ?

♣ Ainurweek ?

♣ Sindarweek ?

♣ Silmsmutweek (30 september - 6 october) : writings sexually explicit

October

November

♣ Nolofinweanweek (10 november - 16 november) : Fingolfin's family

♣ Tolkienlatamandcaribbeanweek ?

December

♣ khazadweek ?

#random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Tummy Ache

Yes, I am wicked and cruel. LOL

@the-red-butterfly, @cilil I entirely blame you for whatever this idiocy is...

Thank you for being my friends and for inspiring me every day <3 I love you! (Also, I am sorry)

I want everyone to know that Abril made art for this, even though it's secret, and Cílil has pushed for this to be naughty. I deny all responsibility!

Pairing: Ulmo x Manwë

Words: 1,5k

Warnings: Valar slander (affectionate), NSFW, smut, anal play, is that even oral sex?, anal penetration, Ulmo's weird water hands, Ulmo's weird water penis (also Manwë has a tummy ache, hence the title)

Manwë suppressed a shiver as the noise swelled into a storm to rival even his most violent outbursts—he was tempted to relinquish his wife’s hand, but Varda’s grip was unyielding.

Through their connection, all his senses were heightened—even at times when he wished they could be dulled.

Sometimes, he wondered whether his cherished friends even knew how loud they could be.

“We should intervene,” Aulë thundered, his voice ringing like a hammer on an anvil.

“I agree,” Tulkas screamed for no evident reason as the others sat close enough to have heard him even if he’d merely whispered. Tulkas clearly enjoyed roaring.

Not willing to be outyelled by his friend, Oromë interjected something unintelligible that reminded Manwë of the deafening rutting call of the mighty deer the Huntsman so loved.

Feeling dizzy and supremely uncomfortable, the Lord of Winds felt his powerful breath catch in his throat painfully and averted his eyes from the spectacle, only to meet the understanding, empathetic gaze of Nienna from across the room.

“I shall confer with the one who does not come hither,” he declared quietly and rose cautiously. “Feel free to discuss the matter of my brother’s misdeeds amongst you to your heart’s content. I will be back shortly!”

He was, evidently, not at all certain or even willing to return promptly, but he didn’t want to alarm his peers and friends to his temporary malaise.

In a rare display of impatience, he stalked over to the high window and, tearing off his heavy robes, leapt off the narrow sill unhesitatingly to seek out Ulmo’s council and comforting presence.

He could but rarely be convinced to attend those meetings, and Manwë ever missed his conciliatory presence sorely.

In the distance, the sea glimmered like liquid gems, beckoning to the flighty bird alluringly.

As soon as his lithe body broke the surface of the water, Manwë felt a minute fraction of the torturous pressure, having since congealed into a burning weight in his stomach, dissolve, and he gave a shivering sigh of relief.

For a while, he merely floated—weightlessly cradled by the gentle waves—and let his mind wander in hopes that the phantom pains wracking his body would eventually subside enough for him to return to his own halls.

“My King,” a voice bubbled upon from beneath and around him. “Are you unwell?”

Leave it to Ulmo to notice right away that something was awry, Manwë thought fondly and mellowed further into the tender caress of the ocean against his half-naked body.

“They’re arguing again,” Manwë admitted, twisting his head ever so slightly to feel Ulmo’s cool presence lap against his heated cheek.

“They won’t come to a resolution anytime soon,” the other replied soothingly. “You should relax and let it wash off you like dust.”

At first, Manwë wanted to protest—he had duties to fulfil and promises to Eru to keep—but, quickly, he started to see the wisdom in his friend’s suggestion. Ulmo was right; there was nought he could do now, and he might as well bask in the solace he’d so desperately craved.

“Let me help you.”

The Elder King was dimly aware of the motions rocking him to and fro growing more purposeful until he was almost standing upright on an eddying dais of ever-flowing crystal, but he was too weary and heartsick to mind.

Hands of soft, warm water seemed to materialise out of the voguing pool of consolation to knead his stiff shoulders and aching back with rhythmical insistence.

Usually, Manwë didn’t hold with that kind of antics—his peers’ tendency and predilection when it came to sprouting additional limbs and appendages were highly suspicious to him—but, in his heart of hearts, he trusted Ulmo.

Held aloft like a treasure, his whole body—rigid and taut with unspoken grief—was now being massaged by countless unseen digits, and the exhausted king soon felt another kind of tension take root in his aching midsection.

The shift in his attention and thoughts did not go unnoticed. Manwë was gently pushed back until he was reclining against numerous liquid palms, supporting his broad shoulders and his reluctantly spreading thighs as if he were an exquisite sacrificial offering to the endless blue sky overhead.

A tiny frown of incomprehension and alarm spread on his noble brow as he felt the thin, translucent fabric slung around his hips to cover his groin be drawn aside by an errant current.

Progressively, the hitherto placid underwater streams solidified into solid torrents that kept him pinned mercilessly, and he resisted instinctively.

“You’re safe with me,” Ulmo promised.

“Reveal yourself, friend!” Manwë couldn’t bear being so helpless and exposed beneath the unfocused and yet all-seeing eyes of his friend who was hiding in his element while playfully preventing his Lord from taking refuge in his own. “If I, stripped of my power, am to be submerged and held down by yours, I at least deserve to look upon you as I bob around like a demented duck!”

“You are beautiful,” the Lord of Waters opined with a gurgling chuckle. Nevertheless, he gathered the deep, dark hues of the abyssal ocean floor and the merrily dancing sea foam around him so he could appear, clad in all the iridescent shades of his realm, before the one he loved so profoundly. “What sorrows assail you, Milord?”

It felt so utterly silly to admit that he felt disorientingly topsy-turvy when he was literally hurled around by the teasing waves, so Manwë begrudgingly admitted that his stomach was a writhing knot of white-hot tension and agony.

With a knowing hum, Ulmo nodded solemnly, ducking his mighty head and extending a deceivingly solid-looking hand.

The white-capped swell of his hair whipped eagerly, making the Lord of Winds feel ever more at a disadvantage.

A second later, Ulmo’s finger, smooth and yet textured like sharkskin, slipped beneath the sodden loincloth, flapping in the undertow like a derelict flag of soiled purity.

At the first touch of gentle pressure and familiar coolness, Manwë uttered a strangled cry—his legs now fell open of their own accord to accommodate the swelling and ebbing girth of Ulmo’s circumfluent form, and his mien of fretful doubt melted into a grimace of forbidden, distinctly guilty pleasure.

He remembered that his wife and friends were waiting for his return and final verdict, but he could and would not disentangle himself from the gentle currents that held him up and spread him open with patient determination.

The smell of salt and spray filled his nostrils—he closed his eyes, willing his rigid muscles and taut tendons to slacken gradually as he felt the old-familiar pressure of a steady stream of hot water splash against his entrance.

At once, the caress pushed beyond the ring of unyielding muscle to dance along the rim in a maddening swirl that effectively sucked out pain and weariness out of Manwë’s overwrought body.

The ocean was so vast and bottomless that even the Elder King’s immense secret suffering was diluted and carried away within a single moment, and—allowing himself to relent little by little—he consciously shifted his focus on the innumerable blandishments flowing against his tingling skin.

Invisible hands were still massaging his shoulders and stroking his trembling legs, but he couldn’t help but concentrate on the slick intrusion of semi-solid fingers sliding into his body to ripple against unchartered flesh in the joyous rhythm of a racing heart instead.

“You should come more often,” he gasped. “I miss you.”

Manwë thought he heard another peal of laughter, purling like a forest stream, and then his mind went blank.

In his unrelenting, careful way, his friend had worked his way deep into Manwë’s body, opening like a lotus blossom under the onslaught of amicable care, and was presently curling and uncurling slowly against hidden pressure points that filled his keen vision with undulating, throbbing flashes of blue light.

“I shall come back with you—as soon as you’re feeling better,” Ulmo promised, in hopes that it would help the Lord of Winds unwind the painful knot of expectations and burdens tormenting his core.

No longer struggling, Manwë let himself be unfolded and unfurled, embraced by his friend’s element without and within until he could taste the salty tanginess of tempestuous lust on his tongue as the waves around him rose in a crescendo of passion.

His whole being was awash with the savage beauty of the ocean, and—relieved of all agonising weight—he felt almost at home.

He, who knew sudden storms and devastating deluges, was swallowed in a sea of raging red, blind and deaf to reality.

Yet, Manwë was unafraid when he came undone, releasing a fountain of merrily dancing air bubbles into the soothing waters for he felt Ulmo draw closer yet, cradling him like a fledgling, fallen out of its native nest.

“We should return,” Manwë sighed, leaning against a broad, damp bosom.

“In a moment,” Ulmo replied with a laugh.

Again, this was a private, intimate exchange (lol), so no Masterlists or tags!

Lots of love! Thank you and sorry!

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Abril #Cílil #Ulmanwë #Ulmo #Manwë #anal sex #anal play #weird Valar #water penis #water hands #lots of silly stuff #many words for water

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Aaaaaw thank you so much 🥰🥰🥰

Snow Day

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to @maglor-my-beloved for having submitted that beautiful drawing (please share it!!!) for me to get out of my writer's block.

It's my joy and honour to share the result of my toiling with you! <3

Characters: Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel

Words: 1550

Warnings: It's pretty cold, there's a sword, a bit of sadness, use of the M-slur for Melkor 😂

“Morgoth be cursed,” Erestor muttered, looking out of the window with boundless annoyance that made his face look drawn and pale. “It’s snowing.”

“It’s actually not,” Glorfindel contradicted, strolling into the study with a sunny grin. “It has just stopped. We could steal a few shields and slide down a hillside? Make the best out of it?”

At that uncautious suggestion, no matter how enthusiastically it was presented, Elrond lifted his head sharply from the letter he’d been perusing, hitherto having desperately tried to shut out the ongoing discussion between his friends.

He now realised that this had been a grievous mistake!

Neither one took well to being cooped up inside—the reasons for their mounting cabin fever might have been opposed, but the nerve-wracking effect of their continuous arguing was unfortunately much the same.

“I have too much work as it is,” Elrond finally interrupted the ensuing squabbling patiently. “I’d much rather you don’t add to it by wilfully engaging in dangerously reckless behaviour.”

Erestor nodded smugly, but his eyes returned to the icy desert outside longingly again and again as if he was earnestly considering Glorfindel’s proposal.

Shrugging, Glorfindel meanwhile leaned against the wall, crossing his long legs and smirking deviously at the much put-upon Lord of Imladris. “If you’re so opposed to a bit of innocent fun,” he drawled seductively, “I guess you’ll have to set aside your boring paperwork and come with us. Just to make sure that we won’t do anything you deem too foolhardy.”

“Can’t you just build snowpeople?” Elrond asked tersely, exasperation colouring his fatigue-laden voice. “That should keep you out of trouble.”

As he returned his attention to his correspondence, he missed the exchange of meaningful glances between the other two who’d instantly recognised the minute crack in Elrond’s usually so impervious mask of calm efficiency.

"Glorfindel is right," Erestor declared slowly.

Elrond’s head snapped up again in wordless shock—clearly, the bad weather had driven them stark raving mad if Erestor had taken to agreeing with Glorfindel.

“You should rest a little. Why don’t you come with us? Not everyone has had the chance of being parented by a hundred different people,” Erestor continued with that corrupting mix of petulant aggression and wide-eyed vulnerability that made him so wickedly convincing. “You could show us how it’s done.”

Before Glorfindel could snigger that there was but little mystery to the matter, Erestor had firmly kicked him in the shin to keep him from destroying their joint efforts by innocent bluster and ill-advised encouragement.

“There were hardly a hundred,” Elrond muttered, his resolve and interest in the dry reports about taxes and weather changes already waning inexorably. “And I would think that the two of you can figure it out on your own.”

Two mouths, pouty and rosy, opened to protest, and he lifted his hands to placate the storm of remonstrances and well-meant sermons before it could arise.

“As you wish. Please make sure that you’re wearing appropriate apparel—the wind can be quite chilling—and meet me by the Eastern gate. I’ve got to drop these off and retrieve my winter cloak and mittens before I even think of venturing outside.”

Watching them scamper away hastily before he could change his mind, Elrond wrenched his thoughts away from the duties he’d have to postpone until his return and, with an indulgent shake of his head, swiftly made his way to his own chambers.

When he finally arrived at the appointed meeting point, swaddled in several layers of insulating fabric, Glorfindel and Erestor were already waiting for him—they were also already viciously fighting about something the late-comer could not yet discern.

Elrond sighed and joined the fray fearlessly.

“I can’t believe you’d double-cross me like that!” Glorfindel muttered, visibly vexed, while eyeing the short sword in the other’s hand. “When I propose we take a detour to the armoury, I am an imprudent fool, but when you simply sneak in and out, you’re a genius!”

“Your words, not mine,” Erestor laughed and danced away when his colleague lunged forward to pluck the weapon from his grasp in a petulant attempt at checking the other’s glaring aura of petty triumph.

“Let’s go!” Elrond, growing uncomfortably hot as he helplessly watched them chase one another through the deserted hallway, exclaimed.

He sincerely hoped that the bracing cold and the creative endeavour would distract them sufficiently from their spat so their little outing would not end in the kind of grievous injury he had so adamantly wanted to prevent from the beginning.

In sullen, determined silence, they trudged up the snow-packed path leading away from the sheltered, cloistered paradise of Imladris until they reached a small hill, covered in fluffy, white powder and cruelly exposed to the presently dormant violence of the weather.

“So,” Elrond said quietly. “As Erestor has previously remarked upon so brazenly, this snowstorm might well be one of Morgoth’s curses which linger still within the darkness plaguing our world. When I was…young, we’d craft effigies to dismay and mock him so we’d be less afraid...”

Struck by the incandescent intensity of his friends’ regard, he fell silent for a moment, kneading the strap of his bag nervously for fear of having already said too much.

“I like this,” Glorfindel finally cheered after having given the idea some thought. “Let’s create cool guardians for Imladris. How about that?”

Thus, it was decided. Snow was progressively heaped, rolled, and pressed into the approximate shape of three lumpy Elven bodies under much grunting and giggling until they were satisfied with the raw building blocks they had assembled.

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair!” Glorfindel thundered as he watched Elrond reach into his trusty satchel and extricate a handful of sturdy chiselling tools from an old leather cover. “Erestor! Come look at that—our Lord Elrond, who claims to be blessedly free of the curse of ambition, has dragged scalpels and tiny hammers along.”

“Didn’t expect anything less,” Erestor mumbled, entirely enthralled by his own project—he envisioned a fierce warrior, armed and armoured, who’d stand stolidly atop the knoll and keep a cold, watchful eye on the landscape,  ever-vigilant to the enemy’s scouts growing bolder and roaming closer to Imladris with every passing day.

Miffed by the others’ clear attempt at cheating, Glorfindel rushed down the hill and into a nearby grove of tall trees to countervail his evident disadvantage by gathering supplies and aids that were readily available by nature’s grace.

As he emerged once more and clawed his way back to his snowy canvas, though, both Elrond and Erestor had nearly finished their snow elves.

Uttering a snorting noise of dismay, Glorfindel stuck the two perfectly beautiful branches he’d found into the slender, shapely body of his creation and took a step back to let his appreciative gaze drink in the unexpected success of his opus.

Indeed, he was inordinately pleased with the ferocious, aggressive look of his crookedly grinning gelid sentinel, and so he beamed with pride as he turned back to his friends.

Of course, Elrond’s snow statue had expertly chiselled features and wore a thick, blue scarf that blew like a banner of a House long-fallen in the icy wind, and Erestor’s piece was bestowed with a sharp blade, glittering in the sallow sun, but it simply wasn’t in Glorfindel’s nature to become truly enraged with envy.

“Foresight, caution, and good health shall keep Imladris safe,” Elrond said ponderously, patting the sharp, high cheek of his snow sage, who was unnecessarily well-dressed to withstand the freezing temperatures. He truly had been made in the image of his creator, one had to admit, as Elrond now cleaned his thick gloves of the last remnants of sticky, melting snow before dutifully preparing and packing his tools.

Diligent to a fault, he certainly yearned to return to his study and letters before the weather could turn on them and make them regret ever having considered so foolish a plan as to leave the safety of Imladris in these meteorological conditions.

Scoffing, Erestor nodded at his own fearsome, sword-wielding oeuvre with grim satisfaction. “Sharp blades and unwavering vigilance shall serve us better, methinks,” he hummed gently as he further imbued it with stern tenacity.

Both turned to Glorfindel who grinned sheepishly. “I’m with Erestor on this,” he admitted. “Thus, I…made him. Erestor will keep us safe.”

For a seemingly endless moment, Elrond—who’d undeniably gone somewhat overboard in the execution of his planned distraction—merely blinked as the wind was picking up again and now buffeted them with glacial needles.

“I can agree with that,” he finally said, mellowing. “Let’s leave our brave companions to guard the Realm—each in their own way and as best they see fit—and return to our lit fireplaces and comfortable chairs.”

It looked as if the other two would demur, so he quickly swore that there would be no more work of any kind upon their return.

“Let’s merely sit together, have a cup of warm tea, and talk about our childhood traditions as if they were not lost forevermore yet!”

With a last solemn, laughably superstitious salute to the resplendent results of carefree fun and amicable competition, they threw themselves against the near-solid wall of snow-laden squalls and fought their way back to Imladris.

There are no Masterlists nor tags this time.

It's just a random art/fic exchange as we're gearing up for TRSB!

Lots of love!

#imladris trio #awesome writing #fic rec #og post #fanfiction #writing #idnmt writes #jrrt #tolkien fanfiction #snow day #random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Yessssssss 👯👯👯

It comes in Threes

✍ Prompt: Throuple + veni vidi vici | Arien/Eönwë/Melkor x Mairon ✍ Synopsis: On Almaren, Mairon finds various lovers; in his hubris, he wants them all. ✍ Warnings: Mairon is a little shit ✍ Triple drabble ✍ SWG archive

The first time Mairon acquires a lover, it is purely by happenstance. 

It is Arien who seeks him out, who comes to him when he is by himself and makes the effort to get to know him. 

He is the only fire spirit left beside her, and she desperately craves a companion who understands her, Mairon knows. But he too grows fond of her — her grace, her pride, her temper, her nature that is so similar to his own. 

And it's a comfortable position to be in, to be sought after by one of Almaren's most admired and desirable Maiar.

Eönwë has been watching them, both him and Arien. Mairon has long since seen his longing glances and observed his attempts to be near either of them, visiting Vána's meadows and Aulë's forges to talk to them under some pretence. 

His attention, too, is flattering, much like Arien's, as he's the chief of the Maiar and renowned for his strength in battle. 

Arien thinks of him as a cute little toy. Mairon agrees. They decide together that they want him. 

Eönwë is overjoyed when they embrace him, having expected rejection; yet now he's a part of the love he desired. 

Melkor has little consideration for Mairon's Maiarin lovers and thinks himself the victor of any competition before it has even begun. 

At first Mairon is irate and rejects him, but later he begrudgingly sees a strange wisdom in his stance. For would he not be a fool to trade a Vala for a few Maiar, lovers he so easily acquired no less? 

To become Melkor's would be effortless, Mairon thinks, but to claim him on his own terms would be a challenge. 

The willful Vala has his own plans, but in his hubris, he wants him for his collection still. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @destinyeternity1 @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @melkors-defense-attorney @saintstars @sauron-kraut @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @urwendii @wandererindreams

#mairon #sauron #arien #eonwe #eönwë #mairon x arien #mairien #eonwe x mairon #melkor x mairon #angbang #fic rec #random reblogs <3

[i-did-not-mean-to]

I love that Elrond basically does the “love” sign in ASL ♥️

Snow-elves

Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel building snow elves, for @i-did-not-mean-to who wrote a lovely fic for it! Go read it!!!

#elrond #erestor #glorfindel #maglor arts #random reblogs <3 #art #beautiful art

[i-did-not-mean-to]

#phaedra