#news findy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sulieykte · 1 year

Text

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 // 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ✧˚ · . 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒗

‣ Pairing: Adult!Neteyam (20) x Fem!Omatikaya Reader (19) ‣ Warnings: mentions of weapons and blood. emotional damage and a slightly nicer Neteyam ‣ Word Count: 2.9k ‣ A/N: I had fun with this one. I finally gave some side characters time to shine and I hope you enjoy getting to see some other important players. I've had a clear out of the taglist, I've gotten rid of any empty blogs and dead links so I apologise if you're no longer tagged but it needed to be done. Good news is, this leaves more room for anyone else who wants to be tagged, so just shoot me a message or reply to this if you want to be tagged in the next part just remember that I will not be tagging ageless blogs. English is in bold italics all other dialogue is in Na'vi. ‣ Na'vi word bank: tìyawn - love, taronyu - hunter, kllkä - descend, uniltaron - dream hunt, kuru - neurul queue, tsaheylu - neural connection, sa'nu - mum, maktoyu - rider, mawey - calm

SERIES TAG | SERIES PLAYLIST | JOIN THE TAGLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

previous | next

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m n- Lo’ak. What are you talking about?” Your hand drops from his face, halting your decoration of his face to match the markings he had adorned your face with. You fix him with a questioning gaze, urging him to go on, even though you already knew what he meant.

“Look, you’ve been acting strange ever since-“His eyes dart across the tent, ears flattening against his head as he looks to Spider for support and receives only a shaken head in response. “Fine, you’ve been weird ever since you and Neteyam got stuck in that cave. And it’s not just me that thinks so, Kiri agrees. Dad even said you seemed upset when they got you out. I just thought something might have happened in there?"

You sigh and turn to look at Spider, who’s trying desperately to look uninterested in the conversation as he prepares the paint for his own blue markings. It was good he was there; you had been prepared for this conversation, felt the Sully’s concerned eyes on you every time you declined a dinner invite or rushed off after clan meetings. And as much as you had believed it would be best to keep it from Lo’ak, sharing what his brother had told you about Ralu would hopefully stem any further questions about your attitude.

“Lo’ak, before we got trapped, Neteyam told me that Ralu had been discussing our activities with him and other warriors in the clan.” Your tail curls around your middle, the topic still stings, as much as it had been lapped twice over by the hurt caused by your dalliance with Neteyam. “He didn’t have anything kind to say about me it seems. Right Spider?” You add, looking to the human for back up.

“Yeah bro, I was there. The guys a dick.” Spider confirms, his eyes flashing with the same annoyance that he had displayed the next day when he’d tried to insist on confronting the hunter and you’d had to talk him down and make him promise not to share any of it with Lo’ak. The rage in Lo’ak’s eyes told you that it had been the right call.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you’re not.” You laugh, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop his attempt to stand. After all, you’d be left without a flying partner for the days raid if Lo’ak were to follow through with his threats. You were sure if you approached Jake to ask to be paired up with another warrior, he would oblige, but you could not bring yourself to explain to the man who had been like a father to you why you didn’t want to work with Ralu. “Bro, it’s fine. You know I don’t need you to fight for me, I can fight my own battles. And I am okay now.”

Lo’ak seemed to accept that, with a few grumbled expletives directed towards the taronyu. You breathed a sigh of relief as you dipped your fingers back into the paint, sweeping a stripe along Lo’ak’s cheekbone, careful to steady your shaking hands.

The wind whipped against your cheeks as you weaved through the mountains, eyes finding your target. The barrelling metal vehicle Jake had called a ‘train’ wasflanked by two gunships. You hear Jake call out for the ground team to go ahead and you send a parting salute to your left, to Lo’ak, and follow closely behind Neytiri.

The first explosion is devastating. It throws the train from the tracks, flipping it over as its path is encompassed with flames. It’s almost beautiful, to see the Sky People’s creations alight as forest had been when they razed the ground to build their city of metal. The airships soon follow, dispatched by Jake and Neytiri, meeting the ground with more flames and destruction. You raise your arms, meeting Neytiri’s victory cries with your own.

“Kllkä Anì.” You guide your Ikran through your bond and descend to the ground, Ralu settling down beside you. Sliding from your mount, you sever the bond and give her a gentle pat to the flank. ‘Let’s go. Two minutes, let’s go.’ Jake’s voice rang through your ear, urging you forward. You tilt your head to Ralu to follow along.

No sooner than you reach Norm is a case of human weaponry thrust into your arms. “Go, get out of here kid.” Norm had been about as happy as Jake was to let you partake in the raids. It was just as common for you to burst into Hells Gate with Spider as a child as it was for you to invade the Sully’s home and Norm had become a constant in your life. But there had been no grounds to deny you, the same argument had been made by Lo’ak and Neteyam. You had all passed your uniltaron and been accepted as one of the people and you would fight for your people.

You reach Anì with your spoils and get to work tying them to her saddle, preparing to follow Norm’s orders and Jake’s earlier commands to grab what you can and “Haul ass out of there.”

“Lo’ak!” and the cheers that followed were unmistakable. You turn, delaying your departure to locate the voices of the two brothers, unsurprised at the sight you found. Lo’ak stood brandishing a gun and even out of earshot, you could tell Neteyam was scolding him by the tension in his shoulders and the deep set scowl on his face. Rolling your eyes, you finish tying off the leather straps that secure the case.

You have Anì’s kuru in hand, ready to make Tsaheylu when you hear Jake’s voice booming in your ear. “Gunships inbound, fall back!” Pulling yourself up onto her back, you hear Ralu’s voice, an urgent call of your name and a demand to hurry. But your attention is drawn by the projectiles you see the ship release and the direction they take. How they land where you had seen the Sully brothers stood just moments before.

As smoke and flame fills your vision, your mind cannot will your body to leave. They weren’t there. They heard their fathers voice the same as you had, they had fled. You tell yourself that as you slide down from your Ikran and run towards destruction.

“Lo’ak!” Your cries for your friend go unanswered, your throat tightening as you repeat the calls and they continue to go unanswered.

Until you recognise one of the bodies on the ground.

“No. No. No. No.” His body is face down, unmoving and your heart skips several beats before you scramble over the rock separating you. “’Teyam?” You roll him over, hands reaching to grasp his face. The tension in your throat releases when his eyes blink open and he lets out a groan of pain.

“Y/n?”

His eyes meet yours and you realize how close your faces are as you hover over his body. You don’t move, finding it hard to tell your body to let go when moments before you’d believed he was gone. Heart pounding against your chest you squeeze your eyes shut, a shaken breath in turning into a steady exhale. You didn’t have time for this. The gunship was sure to not be the only one and you had to figure out how you would get you and Neteyam to your ikran and you couldn’t even think of Lo’ak. You prayed he’d gotten himself to safety.

“Neteyam!”

“Jake! We’re here. I have him!” You pull away from Neteyam, standing to direct Jake to your location. Jake clambers over the metal debris, hands finding your shoulders as he observes you for any injuries. “I’m fine, but Lo’ak I couldn’t-“

“He’s safe. Get out of here.”

Your shoulders sag as he releases you from his hold, moving towards his eldest son. Lo’ak was safe. Neteyam was safe, or at least he would be once his father got him out of there. Jake barks another command to leave at you and you purse your lips ready to call for Anì, who settles beside you before you can even release a sound. She had been waiting for you, your loyal sister. You make Tsaheylu and feel her worry through the bond, soon soothed by the connection and the reassurance that you are safe.

Climbing onto her back, you spare one last glance at the Sullys, seeing Jake lift Neteyam over his shoulder before you take to the sky. Your chest heaves and the dam breaks, allowing the tears loose to stream down your face. “Stop.” You tell yourself, swiping a hand across your cheek, hand coming away damp with paint and tears.

Your head is pounding as you slump back to you Marui, unsure if it was the explosions or Jake’s lecture that had done more damage. You knew better than to argue when placed in a line up with the Sully boys as Jake demanded to know why the three of you were anywhere near the train car when the missile hit, when he’d given clear orders to be in and out of there as soon as you’d grabbed supplies. You knew better than to point out that you hadn’t been anywhere near the explosion.

You’d found your escape when Jake noticed the scrapes you’d acquired in your search for his sons and sent you to the Tsahìk to get them looked at. You had debated arguing then, your injuries were insignificant compared to Neteyam’s who had been forced to stay behind. His father was still not finished expressing his disappointment in him. But you didn’t. With the adrenaline of war dying off, you couldn’t look at him without recalling the last moments you’d spent together before today and decided that you weren’t upset at the idea of him suffering for a little longer.

“Come here ma ‘ite.” Your mother’s comforting voice greets you and you fall into her welcoming arms.

It was hard on your mother, that you had chosen to follow in your fathers footsteps. You knew this, though she never complained or tried to dissuade you from what you’d declared as your path as a child. Instead, she would greet you on return with open arms, a meal and a bowl of warm water to wash yourself.

She holds you at arm’s length, eyes falling to your legs that were smeared in the healing paste not so gently applied by the Tsahìk. Worry lines that hadn’t existed a only a year ago sullied her skin, before your father returned to Eywa and you committed yourself to this war. If it was even possible, it made you hate the Sky People even more.

“Sa’nu, I am well. It’s just a few scratches, they won’t even scar.” Your reassurances do little to dim the concern in her eyes. “You should go assist the Tsahìk, there’s many wounded.”

She nods, your sweet mother, and allows you to remove yourself from her grasp. The last thing you want is to be coddled right now, as much as the warmth of her arms is inviting, you want nothing more than to end this day and find peace in slumber. So she leaves you, departing with a kiss pressed to your forehead and a strained smile.

The water she set aside for you smelled sweet and soothed your sore eyes as you scooped a handful to rub the paint from your face in a haste to remove it. It was the symbol of a warrior and you felt more like a scared little girl. Pathetic. You had never cried after a battle, not even as you watched clan member after clan member be laid to rest. It was something every warrior knew possible and accepted when going to war. So why had you cried until you had no more tears left to give?

The water has turned a murky orange by the time you are happy that your skin is free from any undeserved adornments.

“Y/N?”

The voice calls from outside the Marui and your heart skips a beat. Neteyam was the last visitor you expected to receive. For a moment you consider pretending you are not home, but the candlelight was a dead giveaway. You didn’t know if you had it in you to take whatever he had to throw at you tonight, a lecture you were sure, an echo of his fathers insistence that you should not have disobeyed orders. Not when today had been the first time he’d spared you a glance since the night by the lab and he’d had little choice in the matter with your face inches away from his own.

“What do you want Neteyam?”

His face appears around the flap of the tent, brows raised in question which you answered with a nod. He enters your home, his toned form covered in the same paste that Mo’at had applied to your own wounds. Good, that shit stung.

You stare for far too long and he notices, a smile spreading across his face that has you turning to grab for a cloth to dry your face for an excuse to hide your face and the heat rushing to your cheeks. He still hasn’t spoken when you uncover your face, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Why are you here?” You ask, and you hate how desperate you sound but you can’t do this with him again. Whatever fight you had left to give to this war between you and him, he had taken from you at the lab.

“I came to check if you were okay.”

“Are you being serious?” The laugh that you let out is bitter and catches in your throat and his ears drop at the sound.

“Yes, you were hurt.” He gestured to your legs before his eyes meet yours. You know they must be red and bloodshot, the water had done little to stem the irritation. “And you seem upset Tìyawn.”

The word falls from his tongue like it’s nothing, but to you it’s like a maktoyu to their ikran.

“I seem upset? Did you notice that yourself, Neteyam? Or did someone have to point it out to you? I find it hard to believe that you’d have any chance of noticing when you haven’t even looked my way, or spoken a word to me since you abandoned me. After something you started. And you claim to be a better man than Ralu, but he didn’t abandon me as soon as he was finished with me.” You curse yourself for the tears that prick at the corner of your eyes, how did you even have anything left? “Eywa, just tell me what I did to make you hate me this much because it must have been truly awful for you to want to cause me this much pain.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve hated me since we were children, you have made that very clear.”

He crosses the tent, the impulse to step back quelled by your will to stand your ground. He does nothing more than hold onto your arms, his touch gentle but firm.

“Do you know what my dad said to me back there?” His jaw clenches, fingers tightening around your arms for a moment before they relax, and his hands gently run up and down your arms as if wiping away his grip. “I’m the older brother. It’s my responsibility to take care of my siblings and I am fine with that. It’s my duty. But you… You became my responsibility too, and you didn’t make it easy. You and Lo’ak dragging each other into so much trouble. I think I resented you for that for a long time.”

“We were just kids Neteyam.” You shake your head, his perception of your childhood far different from your own. You’d always looked up to him, the mighty fisherman Neteyam who seemed to excel at everything he did. Your first years spent clung to him until his dismissal of you dulled your admiration for the boy. “And I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

“No, you’re not.”

“So why are you here?”

“To apologise.” His hands drop from your arms, a hand intertwining with yours, fingers idly playing with your own. It sends a shiver down your spine and you pull your hand back, not allowing yourself to get pulled back in.

“Did your mother send you again?” He laughs at that, fangs poking at his bottom lip as he shakes his head.

“I deserve that.” He steps closer, bringing a hand up to your face to cup your cheek. You have no choice but to look him in the eyes, his face only inches from yours of his doing this time. “I am sorry. What I did at the lab, it was wrong. I should not have left you like that.”

Your breath hitches and there’s nothing more you can do to stop the tears that fall as a sob that rips through your chest. The emotions of the past few weeks, of everything he’d put you through, the bruises, the abandonment, his body lain lifeless as you found it all coming tearing from your body as he pulls you into his chest.

“Mawey Tìyawn. Mawey.”

taglist: @lili-of-the-dream @arminsgfloll @aliceantalus @afro-hispwriter @syulangg @strongestangel @jjkclub @grxcisxhy-wp @cl0esblogg @thehalalboy @avatarmasterlistblog @violet-19999 @itzgabz22 @zeysartzone @justasimps-blog

#~ lys writes #action // reaction #neteyam angst #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam reader #neteyam avatar #neteyam #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam imagine #avatar fanfiction #avatar fanfic #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam fanfic #atwow fanfiction #atwow fanfic

900 notes · View notes

meluiloth · 8 days

Text

Here’s my artwork for @silmarillionepistolary day 4, love and creation!

More time has passed, and Finwë still loves his art, his people, and his growing family. His eldest son, Fëanáro (shown on the top left and right), has grown into an ambitious and genius adult. He is always creating and inventing new things - even a written language! Finwë has spent much time learning the script (a few failed attempts are shown in the top left corner), but he is immensely proud of his son (and his wife, Nerdanel, pictured below him).

Finwë’s ‘other family’, so called by Fëanáro (who doesn’t get along with them at all), has grown over the last several years. Indis is a ray of sunshine in his life, and as strong a woman as she is a Queen - she has borne four children and remains as joyful and sturdy as ever. Nolofinwë is the eldest, followed by Arafinwë, then his two daughters Findis and Írimë. Finwë adores children, and would love to always have them near him forever. (Though his own are swiftly growing up, Nerdanel is already pregnant with her first child, which is very excited about).

Still, though his first wife makes no more appearances in his sketches … she always lingers in the back of his mind, a phantom he could not erase even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to, no matter how much guilt he feels about pining over Míriel when his living wife is ever beside him.

Tengwar translations (the language is English transcribed into Tengwar):

#lord of the rings #art #my art #the silmarillion #finwe's sketchbook #finwe #house of finwe #silmarillion epistolary #indis #Fëanorian #nerd #fingolfin #finarfin #findis #irime lalwen #fandom event

103 notes · View notes

newsfindy · 2 years

Link

19 Mayıs Atatürk'ü Anma, Gençlik ve Spor Bayramı'nın Tarihi

5 notes · View notes

tanoraqui · 7 months

Text

Lalwen caught everyone's attention by slamming a fresh wine bottle onto the center of the table.

"Alright, new game," she said. "'The Worst Thing I Ever Did To You Was...' It's like The Worst Thing I Ever Did, but it has to be specifically to someone else in this room, and you have to apologize for it. And you only get to drink if everyone else agrees that your apology was good enough."

Fingolfin raised one finger. "Point of order: what if you need to be drunker in order to apologize for something?" He didn't look at Fëanor, but his gaze was sliding around a bit, so in order to achieve this, he turned his entire head to the right.

"Tough luck," said Lalwen.

"Point of order," said Findis. "What if we don't want to play this one, either?"

"Then you have to sit here and endure it without getting to drink any more. Because - " Lalwen forestalled Fëanor's imminent query - "the door is still locked and no one is leaving until Family Game Night is over."

The boys all radiated rebellious pedantry, probably still not over how she'd lied to get them all here. But they didn't say anything, so Lalwen smiled brightly and said, "Great! I'll do an example to show you how it's done."

She retook her own chair, wobbling only a little as she moved from standing to sitting, leaned toward her youngest brother and said earnestly, "Ara, I'm sorry that I lied to you that Gil-galad was Fingon's son and your foster-great-grandson. It was politically expedient but essentially an orc move, and mostly I just did it because I was bitter at you for swanning in with all your golden armor and righteousness and optimism, when we had none of any of that. That was wrong of me. Also, obviously it fell apart as soon as he and his parents were all re-embodied."

Fëanor still had half a glass of wine from the now-lost bottle. He'd started slipping it slowly while glaring pointedly at Lalwen, to prove that he didn't need her stupid game.

He nearly spit it out.

"That's why a random half-blood became High King of the Noldor?" he demanded. "You just lied that he was part of the House of Finwë? And nobody challenged it?"

Lalwen was laughing too hard to answer. Findis was also laughing, more quietly.

"To be fair," Fingolfin offered, swallowing his own snicker in favor of loftiness, "from what the elf himself has told me, at the start of the Second Age, Galadriel, Elrond, and Celebrimbor between them could have crowned an unwoken tree High King if they'd all agreed on a candidate. Support from each of our lines, you know."

"Fëanor, how did you think Gil-galad became High King?" Finarfin asked curiously.

"I hadn't thought about it much - I've been busy, you know. I suppose I assumed he'd been elected, as we do now."

Fëanor tipped his head back to drain his glass, then rather slammed it down on the table. Yet again, the jewel-grade goblets proved themselves the right choice for the evening.

Lalwen could barely breathe for laughing. "No Noldor on either side of the Sea did that until nearly the end of the Second Age!"

Fëanor scowled.

Findis smiled serenely, and twisted the top off the new wine bottle. A melodious scent swelled forth of sweet grapes, bruised peaches, and warm summer sun.

"Well, that seems well-apologized to me." She refilled Lalwen's glass - though she paused before handing it back, and asked, "Ara?"

Finarfin nodded grandly, and for good measure took Lalwen's hand and kissed it. "We are well-reconciled, sister, and have been for many years."

"Good, good, gimme!" said Lalwen, grabbing at her well-deserved wine. "Ahh..." The Yavannandil wine was soft and soothing against her laughter-dried throat.

When she'd downed a good third of the glass, she gestured broadly and declared, "There! You see how it's done! Your turn!"

She pointed to Fëanor, then jabbed her finger at his chest. "And you're not allowed to say 'burning the ships', that's too easy."

#the silmarillion #ficlet #wanted to write something pleasant so i wrote this #lalwen #feanor #findis #fingolfin #finarfin #my fic #feanor and feanor's kin #aman ever after

166 notes · View notes

echo-bleu · 10 months

Text

Noldor hair headcanons (1/4)

With AO3 down, it seems like a good time for some good old tumblr bullet-point pseudo-fic (I'll post it on AO3 eventually).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Note: Inspiration for some parts of this came from @mynameisjessejk's wonderful Otter Mayhem series which you should go read when it's possible again.

The Noldor wear their hair in elaborate braids.

Hairstyle is a status thing, so noble Noldor have the most complex styles. They’re meant to show off craft, so there’s a lot of jewellery and gemstones involved, and the nobles’ hairstyles purposefully can’t be self-braided.

But touching hair is a very intimate thing and it’s never done by servants, always by family (spouse, siblings, parents or children). It’s a show of love and respect, if someone has a particularly complex hairstyle it’s supposed to mean that they’re well-loved.

Now Finwë as the king must have the most complex hairstyle of all. Míriel was of course very good at it, she’d weave and sew beads into his hair every morning, making each hairstyle a work of art.

When she fades, Fëanor is still really young, and he has to learn real quick to do his father’s hair, which he of course takes as a challenge. He starts making all of Finwë’s hair jewellery himself, he experiments with dozens of braiding styles. In the early months/years of their grief Finwë finds a lot of comfort in having his hair braided and they’ll both spend entire days beside Míriel’s body, with Fëanor braiding his father’s hair over and over.

Then Indis comes along, and hair braiding is traditionally the spouse’s work. It’s very hard for Fëanor not to feel like he’s been replaced (and not just his mother), especially since Indis has zero interest in it and Finwë’s hairstyles grow markedly simpler. Which is also not great for his reputation.

Nerdanel and Fëanor, once they marry, are extremely competitive and keep trying to outdo each other’s braids. It’s highly entertaining to outsiders, especially since it’s the only remnant of the Crown Prince’s more playful side. When little Maitimo comes out with red hair like Nerdanel’s, Fëanor bitches about having to make even more copper jewellery (he’s secretly overjoyed because he loves Nerdanel’s hair).

Fëanor is also careful to always have better braids than his half brothers, though Findis starts braiding Fingolfin and Finarfin’s hair as soon as she’s old enough, and she’s pretty good at it, unlike Indis.

Anairë’s hair texture is very different from anyone Fingolfin knows. He’s never been that into hair before, but he learns to do her braids with his tongue poking out. Once she figures out what to do with straight hair, she braids his into brand new styles that Fëanor is terribly jealous of.

Fingon has extremely thick kinky hair that takes a ridiculously long time to braid, and he’s very proud of it, thank you very much.

Thankfully for Fingolfin and Anairë, none of their other children have hair quite as thick.

Eärwen is Teleri and keeps her hair mostly loose. She wants none of that nonsense, especially not gems in her hair, come on. If she puts anything in her hair it’s gonna be pearls. She’ll do Finarfin’s hair if he really insists on it but if he wants the children to follow Noldor rites so much, he’ll have to take care of it himself. (He’s pretty good at it, actually.)

Maedhros and Fingon start doing each other’s hair in secret before Fëanor’s exile.

Celegorm switches from Noldor style to hunting braids when he joins Oromë’s hunt. They’re more practical and involve a lot less metal.

People have whole legends about how great it must be to braid Artanis’s hair, but it’s actually really fine and fragile and a nightmare. She insists that the only one who can do it right is Finrod. He tries to foist that chore on others a lot.

Aredhel and Curufin bond over hating to have their hair touched (sensory issues). Eventually they start doing each other’s hair because they know what to avoid.

Fëanor asking Galadriel for her hair is an Actual Taboo given that they’re not close (by the time Gimli asks, Galadriel has adopted Sindarin hair practices, but it’s also a fuck-you to Fëanor that she accepts).

At Losgar, (lightly-toasted) Amrod has part of his hair burned off. He is, after that, the very first elf to sport a side-cut, as hair won’t grow back over the scars. He never let anyone but his twin do his hair again.

Crossing the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin’s people try to keep up with tradition, but hair-braiding is hard when your fingers are constantly frozen stiff.

Still, Fingon insists on doing his father’s hair every day, even when he nearly loses fingers to frostbite.

He refuses to let anyone do the same for him, though, and he’s the first to start braiding his own hair. That’s when he starts braiding in golden ribbons, because they’re easier to do than beads, and frozen metal can burn skin.

Gradually they move away from long flowing braids and start making up crown-braid styles that protect their ears. As they progress, braiding becomes less and less about status and more and more practical.

Turgon and Elenwë (who adopted the Noldor style upon marrying) still keep to the tradition and braid each other’s hair and Idril’s right up until Elenwë dies. After that Turgon doesn’t let anyone touch his hair again until Gondolin (and then only Idril).

Finrod and Galadriel do each other’s hair. Galadriel’s fine, brittle hair suffers a lot in the cold, and for a long time she’s afraid that it will never go back to its former glory. It does eventually, but it takes decades.

In Beleriand, Maglor’s main contribution as King Regent is the invention of Mourning Braids (and also a slightly unhealthy number of laments).

Let’s be honest, he’s wearing them more for Maedhros than for Fëanor or Finwë, even though Maedhros is demonstrably still alive.

(No one thinks that will last.)

(Maglor can’t go save his brother and the guilt is staggering.)

(For some reason, Curufin is the one who does Maglor’s impossibly complex Kingly Mourning Braids.)

Then Helcaraxë Team arrives with their frozen fingers and their crown braids and It’s A Mess, Actually.

The Sun has just risen and Fingon’s golden ribbons are really blinding, no one can even look at him.

Listen, they haven’t had proper light in about forty years, they’re really light-sensitive now.

Everyone argues, Fingon makes at least two attempts to sneak out to Thangorodrim but he’s caught because he’s just way too shiny.

Third time’s the charm.

The only reason Maedhros doesn’t see him before he hears him is that he’s even more light-sensitive and just keeps his eyes closed. Also he’s tired. So very tired.

In Angband, Sauron took great pleasure in hacking Maedhros’s hair off and messing with it. When he’s rescued, what has regrown is a tangled, discoloured mess and they have to cut it all off.

Fingon stays with Maedhros a lot throughout his (physical) recovery, which in my mind takes at least the 55 years between his rescue and Dagor Aglareb, and he braids Maedhros’s hair every day, even at the start when it’s barely past his ear. Eventually Maedhros stops fighting and crying when someone touches his hair.

Mostly.

Fingon does tone down the golden ribbons eventually. Mostly because he runs out of Valinorian gold and has to do with Beleriand gold, which just isn’t the same.

To be continued.

#silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #the silmarillion #feanor #maedhros #maglor #fingon #turgon #idril #echo's fanfiction #noldor hair headcanons

254 notes · View notes

amethysttribble · 10 months

Text

AU thought just hit me like a freight train, here’s a story concept:

Instead of making Tengwar, a teenage-ish Feanor makes the silmarils early. Everyone is shocked and awed, and a much younger Feanor still doesn’t know how he made them, and he’s a bit more overwhelmed than proud about the whole thing (still proud). He comes home and gives them to dad.

Finwe’s very proud, and Feanor’s wee brothers and sisters are mostly thinking “oooh, shiny”. Melkor still wants. Feanor still denies. Seeding unrest among the Noldor was going to be, ya know, fun, but this is far more interesting. Oh well. It wasn’t that important to make the ants fight.

High King Finwe is murdered not in remote Formenos, but in the Palace of Tirion upon Tuna. The Trees go out. The Silmarils are stolen.

Feanor is, basically, sixteen and now Indis is his legal guardian, the only facsimile of a parent he has left. His siblings are children, and now they also know what it is to lose a parent. There’s the crown to think about?

While the people debate, Indis decides. Feanor is young, but Nolofinwe is eight, Findis ten. And, she knows as she puts the crown on her stepsons head, this was always Finwe’s intention. Some of the Valar are reticent, some supportive, but more importantly, Varda and Yavanna are looking at, not a king, but the only one who got close to recreating their light.

We have a project for us to collaborate on, Feanor. What do you say, king?

Feanor thinks that he is scared. Fear does not come naturally to him but he is completely alone in the world without his father (is there Master Mahtan and Nerdanel? Perhaps. In some ways. Is there his father’s counselors? Some of them, perhaps. Is there Indis? His half-siblings? He… doesn’t know) and he is scared. There is a roar in his heart that tells him to go, go east, retake what is his and avenge his father and…

And Feanor is alone. Who would follow him? He is only king by Indis’s hand. And he killed his father- not intentionally, not even himself, but he cursed him and killed him, just like he did his mother. Feanor wouldn’t follow him either.

But perhaps he can make something new again. Something good this time, given to the right Valar freely, and he will be redeemed in his people’s eyes a little.

And he must wait. Father will surely come back to him soon.

The crown, the light, and his siblings are his responsibility in the meanwhile.

#feanor #tribble post #just a little thought #the silmarillion #tolkien

212 notes · View notes

justaninchident-f1xreader · 3 months

Text

max verstappen x reader part9

(incase you missed part8- https://www.tumblr.com/justaninchident-f1xreader/740597178369802240/max-verstappen-x-reader-part7?source=share)

themes-

ferrari female driver jealousy enemies to lovers possible spice (i will put the warning accordingly)

warnings- mentions of past abusive relationships

chapter 9- i'll be your anchor in the storm

It has been a few days since the saucy and spicy social media exchanges. All the drivers decided to go for a casual night out. The Monaco night thrummed with the usual post-race buzz, a symphony of tinkling glasses and boisterous laughter. Yet, amidst the revelry, Y/N's silence resonated like a discordant note. Her fiery eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were veiled by a layer of worry, her smile strained at the edges. She fidgeted with her phone, her gaze darting around the room like a cornered animal.

Max, ever the observant predator, caught the tension radiating from her. He approached her, a wary concern creasing his brow. "What's with the ghost act, L/N?" he asked, his voice low and gruff, devoid of its usual playful bite.

Y/N flinched, startled, as if his presence had snapped her out of a trance. "Nothing," she mumbled, shoving her phone into her purse, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her words.

Max wasn't convinced. He knew her well enough to recognize the telltale signs – the nervous chewing of her lip, the way her fingers danced anxiously on the clasp of her purse. He pulled out a chair next to her, his gaze unyielding. "Spill it," he commanded, his voice laced with gentle authority.

Y/N hesitated, her silence stretching like a taut chord. Then, with a deep breath, she began to speak, her voice cracking with repressed emotion. "He's back," she whispered, her eyes darting towards the doorway, as if fearing a phantom presence.

Max felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. "Who?" he asked, his voice hardening.

"My ex," Y/N whispered, her gaze finally meeting his. "He…" she choked on a sob, the memory of past trauma raw in her eyes. "He got out."

Max's jaw clenched. The details of Y/N's past were whispers in the paddock, rumors of a violent relationship, scars hidden beneath her fiery spirit. He had never dared to pry, respecting her private battleground. But seeing her fear unfold before him, raw and visceral, ignited a protective fire within him.

He pulled her chair closer, offering a silent sanctuary. Y/N leaned into him, seeking solace in his quiet strength. In a halting voice, she recounted the ordeal – the chilling phone call, the constant dread, the fear that had crawled back into her life like a venomous snake.

"He.. he used to hit me, use me and leave me like i was a worthless doll. He criticized every feature that i had and made me feel bad for existing. When I started to do better in karting and racing, he hated me for it," Y/N took a breath and continued, "One night, when my friend Percy gave me a new book, he got jealous and he tried to...he tried to force himself onto me and I lost it. I smashed his head with the nearby lamp and called 911. He went to jail but he's getting out now. And I know he's out to get me"

Max listened, his usual stoicism cracking as he witnessed her vulnerability. He clenched his fists, a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. The man who had hurt her, who had dared to dim her fire, would feel the full force of his fury.

When Y/N finished, her voice a trembling thread, she buried her face in her hands, tears soaking through her fingers. Max hesitated, then reached out, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear. He didn't offer platitudes or false promises. He simply held her gaze, his eyes pools of quiet strength, an unspoken vow etched within them.

"He won't touch you again," Max said, his voice deep and unwavering. "I won't let him."

The words were simple, yet they held the weight of a promise, a declaration of his unexpected but fierce protectiveness. Y/N's tear-filled eyes searched his face, finding validation, comfort, and something more – a spark of something she hadn't dared to acknowledge in the heat of their rivalry.

The night club dimmed around them, the music fading into a distant hum. The other drivers, sensing the charged atmosphere, retreated, leaving them alone in a bubble of shared vulnerability. In that intimate silence, a connection crackled between them, more potent than any post-race adrenaline rush.

Y/N reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and traced the outline of Max's jaw, the callouses beneath her fingertips a tangible proof of his strength. His gaze met hers, unflinching, reflecting the storm brewing within him and the tenderness reserved for her alone.

The lines had blurred. Rival, teammate, protector – Max Verstappen was now something more, a shield against the shadows of her past. And as their eyes locked, the unspoken tension between them, fueled by jealousy, competition, and now, a dawning protectiveness, threatened to ignite into something far more combustible than the champagne bubbling in their abandoned flutes.

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

The spark crackling between Max and Y/N ignited into a searing flame as their lips drew closer. The tension in the air, thick with unspoken emotions, finally found its release in their shared breath, a promise whispered on the cusp of a kiss.

But just as their lips met, a chilling voice shattered the fragile moment. "Y/N!"

A figure emerged from the shadows, his face contorted with fury. It was Ethan, Y/N's ex, the embodiment of her past trauma, a nightmare made flesh. He held a metal rod in his hand, its glint reflecting the cold anger in his eyes.

Max's hand shot out, clamping onto Y/N's arm, pulling her back like a shield. Her eyes, wide with fear, met his, a silent plea for protection flashing within them. His own gaze, now glacial, locked onto Ethan's, a silent challenge issued across the dimly lit room.

The tension crackled, thicker than the smoke curling from abandoned cigars. Ethan, fueled by a twisted possessiveness, took a menacing step forward, the rod held aloft like a twisted trophy. "You think you can steal her from me, Verstappen?" he snarled, his voice dripping with venom.

Max, ever the strategist, remained calm, his voice a low growl. "She's made her choice, Ethan. And it's not you."

The air crackled with the promise of violence. The other drivers, sensing the imminent storm, edged closer, forming a silent barrier between the two men. Lando placed a hand on Y/N's shoulder, his own anger simmering beneath his calm facade.

Y/N, however, refused to be a damsel in distress. She straightened her spine, her voice ringing with defiance. "I'm not yours to steal, Ethan. I'm my own person, and I choose who I want to be with."

Her words hung in the air, a declaration of independence that pierced through the suffocating atmosphere. Ethan, his facade of control crumbling, lunged forward, the rod aimed at Y/N.

But Max, faster than a lightning strike, reacted with lightning speed. He shoved Y/N behind him, taking the brunt of the blow on his arm. A sharp cry of pain escaped him, but his eyes remained fixed on Ethan, a predator protecting his prey.

The room erupted in chaos. Lando tackled Ethan, wrestling the rod from his grasp. The other drivers, spurred by a shared sense of protectiveness, formed a human wall around Y/N, shielding her from further harm.

Max, his arm throbbing with pain, held his ground, his gaze never leaving Ethan. The storm within him, fueled by jealousy, protectiveness, and now, a surge of adrenaline, threatened to break free.

But before he could unleash his fury, the security guards arrived, alerted by the commotion. They swarmed Ethan, disarming him and dragging him away, his screams of rage echoing through the nightclub.

Y/N, still shaken but unharmed, rushed to Max, her eyes filled with concern. She cradled his injured arm, her touch a balm on his pain. "Max," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He looked at her, the storm within him subsiding, replaced by a quiet tenderness. "It's okay," he rasped, his voice strained but reassuring. "He's gone. You're safe."

In that moment, amidst the chaos and the aftermath, a new understanding bloomed between them. It wasn't just about rivalry or competition anymore. It was about a bond forged in the crucible of fear, a silent promise of protection, and a connection that went beyond the surface.

The Monaco night, once a celebration of victory, had become a battleground for a different kind of victory. The race for Y/N's heart had taken a dangerous turn, and Max Verstappen, the unexpected hero, had stepped into the ring, claiming his place as her protector. But the battle was far from over. The shadows of Ethan's threat still loomed, and the race for Y/N's heart had just become a race against time, a gamble fueled by fire and the promise of a love forged in the face of danger.

writer's note- guys this was a bit different, i did want to add more emotional aspects to the story and i really worked hard writing this one. tell me what you think. WE LOVE LANDO IN THIS ONE.

#formula 1 #max verstappen imagine #red bull racing #charles leclerc #ferrari #max verstappen x reader #carlos sainz #f1 #lando norris #max verstappen #mv1 fic #mv1 #mv1 x reader #mv1 imagine #mv1 smut #redbull racing

72 notes · View notes