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doodle-pops · 2 months

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A Love That Burns

Celegorm x reader

Request: I'M SO GLAD YOU OPENED THE REQUESTS NONNY!!!!!! You are an absolutely wonderful writer, I eat every one of your writing like the best steak ever🥺🥺 I live for angst, so👉👈 Can i request a fem!reader x celegorm or carantir? Reader is the human wife of one of our angry boys, and although she loves her husband very much, she still feels insecure in relationship with the elf because of societal prejudices(( And the boy is tired and doesn't want to deal with anything and the reader has been subjected to some taunts and tries to tell her beloved about it(( But doesn't have time and her elf snaps at her and they fight a lot... And this hothead forgets to control his stupid mouth and says he regrets marrying the reader((((( Of course he didn't mean it, but now he still has to deal with the consequences of his words and his lovely wife's low self-esteem(( Happy or unhappy ending, your choice! – anon

A/N: This was different from what you requested anon, and I’m terribly sorry. I do despise not writing what someone requested, however, I got lost in the writing because it was ANGST, a beloved theme of mine. I did try my best to stay on the part of the dispute and angst theme, but the reasons were entirely different from what you described. Apologies in advance, yet I hope you all enjoy it!

Warnings: heavy angst, breakup, dispute, mentions of Tyelko’s physical altercations, hurt/no comfort or happy ending

Words: 2k

Synopsis: You've decided after years of following the leader, to make your own stand and create a new path in your life.

As you stormed into the cosy room, the door slammed shut behind you, capturing the attention of your husband. He sat there, aloof and unperturbed, even though the anger coursing through your veins was impossible to miss. You shot him a fierce glance, and he casually raised a wine glass to his lips before turning his attention back to the dancing flames in the fireplace. Curiously, Huan, his loyal companion, was absent from the room this time, offering you a rare moment of solitude to confront the silver–haired, nonchalant elf.

With the room now yours alone, you felt liberated to unleash a torrent of fury and horror upon your husband. “You certainly left your mark today,” you seethed, your voice dripping with suppressed rage as you rifled through the closet, yanking clothes from drawers and shelves. Celegorm’s back remained turned, allowing you to carefully plan your approach without escalating the impending argument prematurely.

A scoff escaped his lips, followed by an eye roll and a leisurely yawn. It was a familiar scenario, one that played out every time he committed some outrageous act that grated on your sensibilities. Tonight was no exception. He seized the opportunity to make it a grand spectacle, leaving some unfortunate young elf languishing in a jail cell, beaten and bruised. While his actions might have warranted a more measured response, your husband was hardly one to concern himself with propriety when his adrenaline surged.

“I’ve always had a knack for leaving a lasting impression, my dear. It’s part of who I am; you ought to know that by now,” he retorted with a snide undertone. He exuded an air of regal charm and charisma as he spoke, seemingly immune to the consequences of his deeds, convinced that they were merely lessons in “respect” and “superiority.”

A surge of disgust welled up inside you as you shot a sidelong glance at him while continuing to stuff your clothes into his hunting bags. His utter lack of self–awareness and compassion left you bewildered. The Celegorm you had once known, a carefree, compassionate, and admittedly stubborn elf, seemed like a distant memory. Well, the stubborn part was still very much intact, but the night he had sworn that ominous oath had marked a turning point. It was as if you had witnessed the elf you once loved killed a part of himself, only to be reborn as a living nightmare. At times, you had even tried to convince yourself that this transformation was a necessary response to the darkness lurking in the world.

Day after day, night after night, you made promises and excuses for his behaviour. “He’ll change, he’ll change. This isn’t truly him,” you chanted to yourself after every heated confrontation. Yet, Celegorm had a knack for shattering your hope and turning it into a cruel mirage. You had lost all your friends, and any family who had wished to reach out had distanced themselves, fearing Tyelko would turn their presence into yet another issue. Jealousy had never been an issue before, nor had paper–thin insults. Things that could have been brushed off and ignored were now carefully nurtured by him, allowed to fester and destroy your life.

You were utterly alone, with even his presence feeling non–existent.

“It’s quite fascinating how your idea of making a lasting impression involves beating up those who dare to voice their whimsical comments. Must you inflict harm upon people for their veiled statements?” you snapped, unable to contain your thoughts any longer, your frustration with his demeanour finally bubbling over.

“Are you still dwelling on about that?” he retorted, irritation lacing his voice as he tightened his grip on the wine glass, causing a hairline crack to snake its way along its delicate surface.

Furious and fed up, you flung the clothes onto the ground, your anger and frustration boiling over. You spun around and shouted at him, “Yes, I am! And I won’t apologise if it bothers you, since you never bother to do the same for me!” Your inner turmoil had reached a breaking point, and you longed to shake some semblance of compassion into him. His obliviousness to the pain his thoughtless actions caused you only added more fuel to the fire. “All you ever do is harm people for senseless reasons and act as if no one should ever dare to criticise your actions!”

Growing tired of craning his neck and straining his ear to hear your grievances, he abandoned the sofa and turned to face you. He remained by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth it offered. He stared at you with his piercing forest green eyes, a silent warning that seemed to say, “Choose your words carefully.”

“No one has the right to speak about my family and our actions! They have no idea what we’re going through—”

“Well, I do, because I live it every day with you, and your methods of releasing your frustrations are unbearable!” You yelled in frustration, your voice rising in pitch. “I’ve tried to help you, and you’ve pushed me away, so now you resort to displaying your insecurities.”

“Insecurities?!” His right eye twitched, and he strode across the room to confront you, his fists clenched in frustration. His bewildered expression betrayed genuine hurt at your accusations, as if he couldn’t fathom you taking jabs at his struggles. It was a side of you he hadn’t expected; you had always been the compassionate and thoughtful one. “How is me defending you and my family from naysayers an act of insecurity?”

He shifted his weight to his left leg, his hips rolling in a display of astonishment. You locked eyes with him, your anger still burning as he threw a seemingly irrelevant question your way, acting as if he had no knowledge of the answer. He had witnessed your slow withdrawal from him and his circle, even from his family, but he seemed oblivious to anything beyond power, glory, and the oath. The Tyelko you once loved and grew with had faded away, and it wasn’t just the oath that had changed him; his true ambitions had rendered your presence obsolete, especially if this was the outcome of your arguments.

“Tyelko,” you began with an exasperated sob, “I’ve loved you for so many years, through thick and thin. I stood by your side even when your father was wrong, and I was foolish not to see it. I endured the silent suffering of Formenos, standing with you through your transformations. You think I wouldn’t recognize your insecurity? You only lash out when things don’t go your way to make yourself feel better.” Tears welled up in your eyes, and a few escaped, staining your clothes. Ignoring his judgmental gaze, you lowered your head to wipe your eyes and nose, sniffling as a mixture of tears and snot streamed down your face.

“That still doesn’t explain anything,” he snapped.

Casting him a look of disbelief, you realised that explaining this to him like he was a child was futile; he refused to see your perspective. “You’re becoming just like your father in the later years of his marriage, and I’m forced to walk in your mother’s footsteps. I have no friends left because of you; they’re terrified you’ll harm them if they speak up about my new life. I’m lonely, and you’re not listening. I take part of the blame for following you, but you...you’re tearing apart the rest of my life.”

“They’re not your friends if they’re worried about me making advances,” he retorted, his tone dripping with an air of self–righteousness, as if he had just uttered the wisdom of the ages. “But seriously, how am I ruining your life when I’m just clearing away obstacles?”

A surge of rage erupted within you, the lid of your patience finally blown off, and your words spilt out uncontrollably. “Because you never listen to me! You always believe what you’re doing is for the best, even when I’m clearly unhappy! I’m lonely because you drive everyone away; you don’t offer me the comfort and support you used to! You dismiss my concerns, telling me I’m complaining too much or that I’m a bother. You pick fights with anyone who disagrees with your family’s actions, and it terrifies people! I can’t go on like this anymore, and I’m exhausted!”

He stood there, silent and immobile in the doorway, his face contorting in a mix of confusion and disbelief. His expression seemed to ask, “What are you saying?” as he gingerly placed the wine glass on a nearby shelf in the closet. He opened his mouth to respond, but then hesitated, a deep frown furrowing his brow as he watched you spin around and begin gathering the clothes scattered on the floor, stuffing them into a bag. “W–What are you doing?” he stammered, his voice tinged with concern.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you groaned, forcefully shoving another set of clothes into the bag, your frustration evident. “I’m leaving. This life here isn’t for me.”

Your words hit him like a ton of bricks. Leave? You couldn’t be serious. Your home was with him, your lives were intertwined, and the idea of you leaving him was incomprehensible.

Stumbling forward in a state of shock, he cried out in anguish, “Y–You can’t leave me! We’re married, we have a bond, a life together! You can’t just abandon me! Tell me this is some kind of cruel joke, my love?” Your silence only fuelled his panic, pushing him toward hysterics. He knew that when you fell silent, it was a grave sign of your seriousness, and the waves of displeasure and dissatisfaction coursing through your bond were tearing him apart. He wanted to reach out and shake you, but he had no idea how you’d react.

“Y/N, please answer me, darling? I beg you, tell me you’re not leaving, that you’re just taking a break, perhaps some time away in the cabin?” His voice was filled with anguish and guilt, only now realising the gravity of your pleas as reality crashed down upon him.

You breathed heavily as you continued to gather your belongings, doing your best to avoid eye contact with his anguished performance. Where was this reaction when you first voiced your concerns? “I have every reason to leave, Your Highness. Removing myself from your presence is what I need, and I hope it brings me peace.”

“No! You can’t leave me. I—I love you! Can’t you see that? All those fights I got into defending you from insults and harm, it was because I love you! There was more to them than what meets the eye!” He pleaded with a heavy burden of guilt and regret, willing to get down on his knees if it meant you’d stay, but his pride seemed to hold him back.

Finally gathering all your belongings and slinging the bags over your shoulders, you didn’t bother changing into travel clothes. You’d do that later at a tavern along the way. As you moved toward the exit, Celegorm’s presence blocked your path. “I—…You have every right to be upset with me right now, and I know this, but… Give me a chance, just one chance to make things right! I can change.”

“Why didn’t you change before when you had the chance, instead of now?” He stood there, mouth agape, speechless. “I’ve had wonderful moments with you for most of my life, but these last few years have tarnished everything. And as much as I blame myself, you bear a share of responsibility. Now, step aside and let me leave in peace.” With that, you pushed past him, determined to embark on a new chapter of your life, leaving behind the turbulent past that had brought you to this point.

You didn’t spare him a glance, even though your heart ached with the weight of your decision. It was a wonder how his mother had managed to stand her ground and leave his father, but now you understood what separation felt like. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to leave your heart at the doorstep or cast it aside entirely. All you knew was that making the right decision for the betterment of your life was a painful, but necessary, choice. You only prayed that you would manage successfully on your own without crumbling to the floor.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

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lovefairymina · 3 months

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You: Hey, blondie! What's your body count?

Celegorm: *shrugs his shoulders* I don't know. Probably over 1,000 or something.

You: *shocked* Oh my god! You're a whore!

Celegorm: *confused* How does that make me a whore?! *realization* Oh wait! Are we talking about the number of people we slept with?

You: Yeah...?

Celegorm: Oh! I haven't done that yet, so...

You: *paling* Then why did you say over 1,000?

Cold sweating, he took an audible gulp and a step away from you. “Because that's how many people I've hugged and...had friendly accidents with. You know how life suddenly takes a turn and you got to be...different with people in a uh...violent way...ha. Anyways, what about you?”

#♡{sweet.hugs} ~ {celegorm}#tyelkormo #turcafinwë #celegorm x you #celegorm x y/n #celegorm imagine #celegorm #tyelko #house of feanor #silm imagines #middle earth imagine

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quinthejester · 10 months

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celegorm, the bastard man amongst bastard men

#celegorm #Turcafinwë #Tyelkormo #Tyelko #silmarillion #silm fanart #silm #silmarillion fanart #the silmarillion #silmarillion art #silm art #my art #fanart #digital art #tolkien #jrrt

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i-did-not-mean-to · 13 days

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BBB - Celegorm

Favourite Pairing: Celegorm x ? (Oromë?)

Nominated by: @elentarial

Art Link: /

Fic Link: A Compass Pointing North

Ah, Elentarial has nominated Tyelko.

Besides Turgon and Russingon, my dear friend has a major soft spot for this wild child :D

The fic she's promoted is one hell of a wonderful ride (please heed the tags and the warnings!) that I can only warmly recommend to anyone and everyone!

I am so happy that we're getting eyes on a few less generally adored characters in this event!

So please, take some time out of your day to give Celegorm some love! (And @elentarial of course who's a wonderful author and a terrific friend!)

-> Masterlist

Stay tuned for more recs, more blorbos, and the odd surprise!

#og post #IDNMT's birthday #Birthday Blorbo Ball #Birthday 2024 #Rec your favourite blorbo #give me art #give me fic #give me promotional material #Celegorm #Tyelko #Turcafinwë #Tyelkormo

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mag-lore · 1 month

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@feanorianweek day 3- Turcafinwë Tyelkormo

#ive made several tyelko edits and this is the only one i like #so yay for that #celegorm #honorary huan mention #silmarillion #feanorianweek #my edit #silmarillion edit

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lamemaster · 2 months

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My Personal Brand of Annoyance

Pairing: Celegorm x Reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: You tried to rationalize with yourself that punching a royal was not worth the satisfaction it provided it in your daydreams. The prince, however, continued with his unreasonable demands as you tried to tune him out.

“He’s back again,” a flustered Awaldo rushes to you. Fighting the urge to hurl the hot pan at your annoyance's face, you carefully rest it on the counter. Awaldo gives you a concerned look as you angrily slam the knife in your hand. "Remember y/n, he is a prince. Don’t be too harsh," he says, discreetly hiding all the sharp objects in the vicinity.

You feel the beginning of a headache behind your eyes. It had been a whole month, and much to your dismay, the third son of Crown Prince Feanor, Prince Turcafinwë, had taken an unwelcome interest in your restaurant.

Taking a deep breath, you pause right behind the kitchen door, preparing yourself to face the prince. Finally summoning the courage, you push open the door. "Finally! I’ve been waiting too long. You guys need better service," the prince exclaims, exasperation evident as he sits with his muddy boots on your tables.

Gently sliding his feet off the table, you instead focus on arranging condiments. "My prince," you try to lift the corners of your mouth in a smile, "what can we get you today?" Handing him the menu, you hope he won’t ask for the most bizarre things today.

Much to your usual disappointment, he throws the menu aside and rests his face in his hands, tossing his hair aside. From the corner of your eyes, you see the elleths at the next table giggle and swoon over the flaunting ellon.

“Oh, dearest y/n, serve me something so potent that it gives life even to a dead prey, something as unpredictable as me, a bite of it should make the taster prance like the deer of the wild,” he demands, and you try to rationalize that punching a royal is not worth the satisfaction in your mind. The prince, however, continues with his unreasonable demands as you try to tune him out.

It had been a month of this. Out of nowhere, you had stumbled into this predicament when one of the hunters of Orome had come to drop off some venison. The cursed hunter had brought Prince Turcafinwë along for some reason. As thanks, you fed them lunch, but this turned out to be a significant error as the prince came every day to demand the same treatment as that day.

In fact, things turned drastic when, the next week, he came alone to deliver meat, exclaiming that he preferred a certain type of texture for his roast and that he would provide all the supplies instead of your past partner. “Consider it an honor to be able to cook my catch. Now off you go,” he had almost hit you with the very meat he delivered as he shooed you off.

For hours, he lingered in the same place, bothering you to be the only one serving him. But it did not end there. With him came his extraordinary demands and a bunch of idle elleth and ellon who sat idly admiring him.

You notice that the prince’s rambling has stopped and look at him to find him staring at you. By Mandos! Had he noticed your blank expression? Panicking at the sudden eye contact, you try to bow and return to the kitchen. “Ahh…I see, my prince. Give me a moment,” the sudden voice crack at the end makes it worse.

“Remember, make it yourself. I want no one else making anything for me,” of course, you expected this weird condition. You nod at him and start walking towards the kitchen. Awaldo is just as good, if not better than you. There had been one time when you were busy, and your coworker had made his order, and that day could’ve been the day you got the chance to visit Tirion’s prison. Your dearest customer had whined dramatically at a perfectly delicious meal. All of Prince Turcafinwë’s antics had disrupted the whole place, baring all else from their food until he was served by you. Your cutlery seemed sharper than normal days that fateful day.

“How did it go? I hope you didn’t commit treason outside?” you huff at your amused partner who continues to work on his end of the fire.

You ignore the obvious jabs as a picture of revenge presents in your mind. Assembling the ingredients for a light sandwich, you resist the urge to seem too eager. “Ai, nilde, you’re scaring me with that expression,” Awaldo shuffles away with his order ready. Seeing your only chance, you quickly grab the freshly arrived batch of red peppers.

The prince would surely get a dish that makes the person eating it prance like a deer, a dish that represented him perfectly. A distant part of your mind wonders if you had lost hope for peaceful co-existence. You steel your resolve and add the peppers to the sandwich, or add the sandwich to peppers. With great difficulty, you suppress the laugh that rises in your throat.

Re-entering the kitchen, Awaldo gives you a worried look as you pass him on your way to deliver your masterpiece. The unsuspecting prince perks up, looking at the arrival of his food. For a second, you doubt your plan. Cooking is a revered activity to you. Food that brings joy to others’ faces makes you happy… you shake your head. No, this needs to be done.

“Here you go, my prince,” with a flourish, you put the innocent-looking sandwich on the table. Drumming his fingers on the table with childlike excitement, Prince Turcafinwë gets ready to eat. You wait for maybe ages before he finishes inspecting the sandwich and gently holds it to take a bite. Just one bite, and it would ensure your peace.

Your eyes are fixed on his hands and mouth as he inches closer to the sandwich. You prepare to shove the glass of water his way right after the first taste. Just as he takes his bite, you prepare your ears for expected damage, but it never comes.

“Mmm, it’s delicious as always,” your heart stops when he goes for another bite without a wince. Just as he is about to take another bite, out of a stupid instinct, your hand stops his wrist. “You shouldn’t,” you whisper.

Looking closely now, you can see slight redness in his eyes. Yet, Turcafinwë just smiles as he takes another bite and finishes the whole thing in two others. He does all this while your hand still holds his wrist.

Your world stops when he turns his wrist and grabs your hand in a smooth motion. “Oh, mele, how could I ever not finish the food you made,” with a wink, he kisses the back of your hand. You feel the tingle of pepper on your hand as he walks away with a promise to come back tomorrow.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #tolkien elves #celegorm x reader #fluff #banter carries the plot #celegorm

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cilil · 12 days

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Day 4 ~ Friendship & Alliance

𓂃🖋 Characters/pairings: Celegorm x Aredhel 𓂃🖋 Synopsis: Aredhel has an idea for the next Feast of Horns. Celegorm is quite taken by it 𓂃🖋 Warnings: / 𓂃🖋 Oneshot (~550 words) | AO3

Tyelko,

I have an idea for the next Feast of Horns.

I assume I neither have to ask if you will be participating as well nor which role you are going to take — we will be hunters, of course — so:

The best way to prove oneself as the best among the Hunters is to catch the greatest prey, and none could be greater than Lord Oromë himself. Yes, he will be among the Hunters as well most likely, and either of us may not be fast or strong enough, but together I bet we have a chance.

Of course we could never overcome one of the Great Ones in battle, but thankfully Lord Manwë has decreed that no violence shall be used against one another. Why not take advantage of the Valar's own rules?

It wouldn't be the first time a Hunter chose different game than the Hunted either, if I may remind you of certain incidents.

Is the great Tyelkormo brave enough to join me on my quest? I would enlist the help of Artanis otherwise, though I would prefer to have a companion I am used to hunting with by my side.

Let me know what you think. Írissë

Tyelkormo smirked to himself when he read the note Írissë had sent him, cleverly placed inside his quiver — hidden from unsuspecting eyes, yet a place he would undoubtedly check while readying his gear for the next hunt.

Her suggestion was bold to say the least, but he had never been one to doubt or hesitate. In fact, the mere thought of hunting Oromë together with Írissë sent a rush of adrenaline through him — Tyelkormo could already imagine his surprise, likely followed by a graceful, benevolent acceptance of their challenge. The Huntsman of the Valar was not known to be overly formal, nor did he care much about rank and status; his hunters were his pack, his to protect and cherish, and they had taken advantage of his fondness for them before.

Not to mention the admiration of their peers if they managed to take a trophy from him. Tyelkormo could already imagine making necklaces out of Oromë's antlers for himself and Írissë and how lovely they would look combined with the ones he had gifted them to wear for the hunt.

Dropping his quiver and leaving his gear as it was, he pocketed the note and went back to his room to write a response.

Írissë,

I accept your challenge. You can count on me for both support and secrecy regarding your plan.

Join me on a hunt before the Feast of Horns as soon as you can, so that we can talk in private and come up with a strategy. I shall postpone the one I had planned for that purpose.

If you are thinking about possible strategies already — which I know you are, and I will be as well — do keep in mind that we may have to compete with Lady Vána too if she chooses to be part of the hunt, as she has done in past years.

I am looking forward to hearing from you. Tyelkormo

Pleased with his response, Tyelkormo folded the paper. Today's trip would take him to his uncle's house instead, and he already knew where he was going to hide the note for Írissë to find.

Thanks for reading! ♡

Note on names: While Celegorm is often known as Turko for short, due to his father-name Turcafinwë, I like to think that Aredhel at least prefers Tyelkormo and to shorten it instead (to Tyelko).

The Feast of Horns headcanons can be found here.

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

#celegorm #tyelkormo #aredhel #irisse #celegorm x aredhel #feast of horns #silmarillion fanfiction #silm fanfic #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #silmarillionepistolary

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nothinghereisworking · 9 months

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Mercy

Celegorm & young!Finrod Teen & Up ~600 words

Celegorm has many lessons to teach, not all of them expected or wanted.

Warning for animal death and blood under the cut.

inspired by @polutrope

____________________________________________________________

“Draw a breath, then draw the bow,” Turcafinwë said.

Ingoldo drew his bow. It was still heavy for his strength, but it was a new gift and he was eager to make the attempt. His left arm shuddered with the effort, making it hard to keep his aim.

“Steady,” Turko admonished. “If you cannot hold it steady, let it slack and try again.”

Unwilling to be patient, Ingo loosed it - more for his hold failing - but it flew wide of the target and into the brush. It was disappointing but no great surprise to miss. What he had not expected was the anguished squeal that followed.

Dropping the bow without a thought, he raced past the target and into the low line of trees, ignoring his Turko yelling at him to stop.

In the underbrush he found the rabbit, his arrow having gone through its neck and out its shoulder. It was panting and flopped about frantically when Ingo got closer. He managed to get it into his arms by the time Turko had caught up.

“You can fix it, right?” he said, gazing up in earnest faith to his elder cousin. He knew Turko was close with Oromë, surely he could do something. “I didn’t mean to hit it!”

Turko’s gaze fell to the animal and his face hardened. “Give it over,” he said.

Ingo eased the animal into Turko’s waiting hand. But Turko drew his knife and, with only a moment to breathe a little prayer over it, slit its throat.

Ingo’s mouth fell open, and for a moment he was too shocked to even cry out, though the tears streaked his face. Turko carefully worked the arrow out of its body and Ingo recoiled from the gruesome sight.

“You killed it!” Ingo choked out at last.

“It was the merciful thing to do,” Turko said, his voice rough but quiet.

Ingo gripped his sleeve. “But you didn’t even try!”

He turned his grief-filled face up to his cousin, who only tugged his sleeve out of his grip and pushed the arrow into Ingo’s hands without a word. Ingo’s fingers trembled when he touched the blood on the shaft, dropping it in horror.

Turko moved a short distance away and knelt down, using his knife to scrape away the soft earth. Ingo edged closer as Turko laid the animal in the shallow trough, then furrowed the earth over it.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ingo mumbled miserably. “I didn’t know it was there.”

“But the deed was done, whether you meant it or no,” Turko said, though not unkindly. “Understand, you hold an instrument of death. Once you loose your arrow you cannot recall it, nor guide it after it leaves the string.”

Ingo wrapped his arms around himself. He was not altogether certain he wished to learn archery any longer. He gave a deep sniffle and said, “But you… you could have-”

Turko held his gaze, and for a moment he seemed to soften in sympathy. “My skill could not undo it,” he said, brushing a bit of hair out of Ingo's eyes. “Any more than your tears can. It was a mercy to end its pain; cruel would it have been to let it suffer.”

Ingo buried his face in his cousin’s tunic, shaking with the grief of death which he had never known in such a manner.

With a sigh, Turko hoisted Ingo into his arms. “Lesson over for now.”

Ingo wrapped his arms around Turko’s neck and wept all the way back to the house.

#author: cuarthol #celegorm #finrod #young!finrod #animal death #tolkien fanfiction

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polutrope · 9 months

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Hello your highness… could I perhaps request some Celegorm/Orome reunion sex with “you still I love”? Love youuuuu

Thanks for the prompt! Delighted to add a spicy piece to the collection 🔥.

820 words, rated M. On AO3.

The day Celegorm came forth from the Halls, Oromë planted the seed of a linden tree near the gates of his home.

That tree’s many branching arms now reach far over the open space before the gates, thick with whispering leaves. Oromë often stands beneath its shadow, breathing its breath, his spirit seeping through the soil and nourishing its roots.

The day Celegorm comes to him at last, the tree is bursting with butter-yellow blossoms. The bees flitting from flower to flower scatter as if in deference to the elf. Their sudden flight sets the flowers trembling, and the air is dense with their honey-lemon scent.

It is how Oromë, deep in the knotted recesses of his forest dwelling, knows that Celegorm has come. Should Oromë take the form in which he first appeared to the Quendi? The Huntsman: antlered and huge, terrifying, majestic, commanding reverence and obeisance. There are those of his brethren who would do so, invoking fear to test the blasphemer’s repentance.

Oromë will not. With Celegorm, he has never been a god. From the first time his spirit brushed up against the white flame of Fëanor’s third-born son, Oromë has cleaved to him as the steadfast wolf cleaves to its mate.

For all the transgressions of Celegorm's former incarnation, Oromë does not want to see his beloved abased and pleading. He wants to see him unbowed, strong: Turcafinwë as he was and should have been.

So it is that Oromë dons that raiment in which he so often took delight when they coupled flesh-to-flesh. A nimble hunter, muscled but lithe, smooth brown skin painted with black ink, eyes of starlight.

Still, Celegorm drops to his knees when Oromë appears on the threshold. His pink mouth silently quivers around the words My lord. So Oromë too falls to his knees before him, and cups his pale face in one strong dark hand. He searches the bleached white of Celegorm’s eyes, the pure but light-sapped silver of his irises. The black wells of Celegorm’s pupils swell, and in them Oromë seeks out a confirmation: that death and this new milky flesh he wears have not diluted the restless, ravenous spirit Oromë has lusted for oh! these long years.

Under Oromë’s gaze Celegorm’s cheeks flush, his frown quirks up into a hungry smile, and once more Oromë is ensnared by that ancient fragment of the One’s imperishable flame. Lo, how he burns.

But as he is Celegorm’s, so Celegorm is his. Oromë claims him with hands and lips and tongue and teeth. He tumbles him into the dirt beneath his linden tree, and Celegorm laughs. Panting into each other’s mouths, Celegorm bucks and writhes beneath him, driving his heels into the spongy soil. But Oromë resists, resists the insistence of his lover, revelling in the blissful straining of his body, all hard and brimming with want.

Besides this, he discovers Celegorm’s new body coiled tightly against any intrusion.

In answer to the question in Oromë’s hooded eyes, Celegorm, his voice taut with desire, says, “For you. I saved myself for you.”

At that Oromë groans and clutches the heaving chest of his beloved, nails marking tiny pink crescents in his taut skin. Celegorm arcs his body and begs, begs to be filled, but Oromë silences him with a thought. Then Oromë winds a song between his fingers, and Celegorm unspools, his arms falling limp to either side of his shining chest, his head twisting from side to side, catching browned leaves and dirt in the fine silver strands of his hair. His blushing crown shines, leaking white over his stomach, and Oromë bends to taste him, sticky-sweet and slightly salty with sweat.

Enraptured, Oromë is unaware of the forward thrust of his own body, of finding purchase in his beloved, until he is taken entirely into Celegorm’s supple warmth. Oromë's pleasure howls. Overtaken by his need, he rocks his hips, claims his lover again and again with each long and purposeful stroke, chasing friction, chasing release.

It is the spurt and tremor and cry of Celegorm’s climax that brings Oromë to his. It thunders through him, scarcely able to be contained in this humble raiment he has chosen. But contain it he does, holding himself in this form. For thus can Oromë imagine that they were created alike and might suffer like fates; that he will never know a severance from his beloved more permanent than that which he has just endured.

His lust spent, Oromë collapses over Celegorm’s body and twines him in his limbs. Yellow blossoms fall from the tree above them and brush over their bare skin, still prickling with pleasure.

At length Oromë says, “Why did you not come sooner?”

Celegorm hums and winds one long black braid around his hand. He confesses, “I feared you would no longer have me.”

“No.” Oromë pulls himself up onto bent elbows to look into his eyes. “No, Tyelkormo, dearest. You still I love.”

#celegorm #orome #celegorm x orome #prompts #silm phrase prompts #I don't often write about the Valar #but when I do I write from their pov apparently #elf/vala ships challenge me #but once I found my angle on this it was a delight to write

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riding-with-the-wild-hunt · 1 year

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fëanorian week day three ✷ celegorm

“Then Celegorm arose amid the throng, and drawing his sword he cried: ‘Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, or Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing in Arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the Valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of Fëanor’s sons, if he take or find a Silmaril and keep it.’”

-JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Of Beren and Lúthien”

[ID: An edit comprised of three graphics, each split into two images horizontally with lines cut out of each image. The main color is warm, desaturated green.

1: Misty treetops. Cream-colored text reads “turcafinwë” with an ornate green letter “t” in the background / 2: A painting of a deer in white on green wood / 3: A green tunic with a layered brown belt / 3: Paw prints in mossy ground. Text in the middle reads “cruel & fair” / 4: A light-skinned person on a black horse holding a bow with an arrow nocked / 5: Blackberries on a bush. Text in the same format as Image 1 reads “tyelkormo” with the same decorated “t” in the background /End ID]

#edits with the wild hunt #brought to you by me #feanorianweek #celegorm #sad disaster boys #elves elves elves #the professor’s world #the silmarillion #graphics #tolkienedit #silmedit #oneringnet #tolkiensource #fandomaesnet #described

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 months

Text

Morifinwë

Rating: M

Pairing: Melkor x Caranthir

Others: Mairon

Prompts: Stalking | Attention

Themes: Dark | NSFW

Warnings: Revenge | Manipulation | Corruption | Kissing | Possession/ Necromancy

Wordcount: 3.8k words

Summary: After he is humiliated by Fëanor, Melkor devises a way to take revenge

A/n 1: this is the last of the three fics that have been inspired by these prompts by @cilil

A/n 2: In this AU, only Utumno was destroyed, as the Valar did not know yet about Angband. Furthermore, Mairon did not join Melkor prior to his capture and chaining. He still served Aulë, but secretly functioned as Melkor’s lover and spy. This story takes place just after Melkor is released from Lumbi, and before to the Darkening of Valinor

Etymology of Maglor’s wife’s name, Indilien: Indil(Lotus) ien (suf. feminine ending; feminine patronymic). This is her father-name, and Morilindë ("Nightingale"), is her mother-name.

Minors DNI | 18+

This is also available on AO3

The fourth son of Fëanor was whom Melkor sought first, much to Mairon’s dismay. “Of all the sons of that accursed Fëanor,” he asked, incredulous, “why him, my lord?”

Ah, why him, indeed. “Because his father shamed me before the others in Tirion and cursed me,” Melkor returned. They always met in secret, near the dark and lonely slopes of the Hyarmentir, where a primordial being was supposed to have devised their liar. Few came this way for fear running afoul of that dark creature; for Melkor and Mairon, it was a place where they could meet and talk freely, far away from the prying eyes of others. “That is why.”

His most trusted servant did not understand him. “Morifinwë is in a dour mood during the best of times, my lord, and too quick to anger during the worst of it. Besides, his gifts are middling at best. Pray tell me how one such as he would serve your purpose when one of the others would do.”

“Nelyafinwë and Turcafinwë command the affections of the Valar they serve.” Melkor did not lose patience with Mairon. Then again, he never did. The Maia served him diligently and well and loved him the way no other did. And if he was to serve Melkor properly in all things, he needed to know what plans his master had conceived. “And Oromë and Tulkas will stop at nothing to shield them from me.”

“Kanafinwë and Curufinwë the younger, then,” Mairon countered in return. “One is a gifted minstrel; the other is said to be as gifted a craftsman as his lord father. Their corruption would add more luster to your victory over Fëanor, surely.”

“Kanafinwë?” Melkor answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Bah! What use would I have for more minstrels? As for Curufinwë the younger… He is too fond of his father, while the warbler everyone swoons over is all too fond of his lady mother. You told me this yourself. I cannot afford to have either of them confiding with their parents; it will ruin all my plans.”

"Which, of course, leaves you with the one everyone calls Moryo and the twins.” Mairon now understood. Trying to influence the other four sons of Fëanor could lead to their undoing, and then all would be lost once the Valar learned of their schemes.

“Yes. Those three will do. They may not be as formidable as their brothers, but I will still have three sons. Three sons, Mairon, to help bring down the mighty Fëanor and heap shame upon his head. It is only proper, I think, given how he shamed me.”

“The twins would be harder to influence,” Mairon pondered aloud. “So, we should start with Morifinwë. He is often by himself; I have seen it with my own eyes. He should be the easiest to convince to join your cause. I will find out what he desires, my lord, and you must offer it to him. You, my lord, and not I. Your path will be easier to traverse after that.”

“And this is why I am convinced I made a wise choice by seeking you out.” Melkor caressed Mairon’s hair, his cheek. The Maia shivered and closed his eyes, coming ever closer to him. “Will you be vexed by this, precious? My seducing others?”

“I take no quarrel with you giving of yourself to others, my lord, so long as I am not expected to just sit in a corner and watch while you enjoy yourself,” Mairon jested, his blazing eyes filling with wicked humor. Melkor threw his head back and laughed.

Thus began the Vala’s quest to corrupt Caranthir and bring him under his influence. He started by listening to Mairon’s tales of where the elf went and what he did. It had been easy for the Maia to coax such information out of the lips of others. He listened to maids and stewards and cooks alike, for they saw and heard more than their lords and ladies ever did. They called on the Great Forge, needing something mended or something new crafted, and they talked with him while they waited. And Mairon took great care to welcome them well and reward them with harmless little tales in return, just enough to rouse their curiosity and encourage them to continue confiding in him.

He discovered much. Caranthir did not just wander off by himself. He was often lonely, having pushed the others away because of his dark moods and fiery temper. Oh, his kin loved him, to be sure, but he made it hard for them most of the time. And he envied his brothers for how each of them had neatly paired off with another, leaving him with no one. That little morsel of knowledge was repeated to him by a cook who had oft seen his lord looking on wistfully while Maedhros listened to Maglor sing, or while Celegorm taught Curufin the finer points of hunting, or while the twins drove everyone and themselves to distraction with their many capers.

And that was not all. “He craves to be known for his own skills,” a handmaid of Nerdanel said. “And he wishes to wed a lady of high birth and fortune. My lady tried to counsel him. She urged him to be patient with himself and to temper his expectations when it comes to marriage, advising him that it is better to wed for love than for wealth. Alas, such is not enough for Lord Caranthir when he weaves his world of dreams.”

It may not have been enough for Caranthir and his ambitions, but it was certainly enough for Melkor and his. He took advantage of the knowledge Mairon had gleaned from the others and appeared in all the places Caranthir frequented. He would linger just long enough to capture the elf’s particular attention, rewarding him with the occasional smile and going no further than that. Mairon counseled him to conduct himself this way, so that Caranthir approached him first.

“Make certain you are seen by him and by him alone. And wait for your prey to come to you, my lord,” he had urged, “for only then can you truly ensnare him in your clutches.”

Melkor heeded all Mairon had to say, and he agreed the Maia’s way was best.

Melkor listened to all that Mairon had to say, and he agreed the Maia’s way was best.

And wherever Caranthir went, Melkor was there: in the great library of Tirion, in the city square, walking along the paths of the city’s many gardens, or seated by the edge of a fountain, trailing his hand over the surface of the water. Wherever he found himself, Melkor was there.

It unnerved the elf in the beginning. His father and mother and all the others warned him, saying, “If you should ever come upon him, turn sharply on your heels, and walk away. Melkor is full of cunning and treachery. He will no doubt try to trap you with his lies.”

But Melkor did not approach him, strange as it may have been. The Vala never sought him out and never introduced himself to him. He did not even speak to him. He would simply turn his piercing gaze toward him and then look away. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, Caranthir swore he smiled before he turned his attention elsewhere. The elven lord was amazed, for Melkor was said to be cold and cruel, and the crimes he had committed while he held lordship of Utumno were nigh unspeakable. And yet, there he was, rewarding an elf, a being he was believed to hold in contempt no less, with a sliver of his regard. Caranthir did not utter a word of such encounters, not to his mother and father, and not to his brothers. He thought they would insist that he be accompanied by one of the others, like he was no more than a child. The notion, quite rightly, chafed at him.

And, truth be told, Caranthir found himself enjoying the attention.

“Hail and well met, my lord.” He had espied Melkor seated upon a marble bench and approached him after mustering his courage. He looked around. The gardens were empty; there was no one to see them together. “It is not often I find anyone here at this particular hour.”

Nor would there be, had Mairon not learned of it from the others.

“Hail and well met, my lord Morifinwë,” Melkor replied warmly. “I came here because I was told the gardens were best enjoyed when there was less of a throng moving about them.”

It was a lie. Melkor did not care a whit about the gardens. He missed the smoky mountains he called home, the great keep he delved beneath it, and the ice and snow that lay thick around the great realm he had claimed for himself. Nevertheless, he was willing to endure the growing things that lay all about him if it meant achieving his goal.

"Indeed, my lord,” Caranthir agreed, and he moved to sit beside the Vala after he was invited to do so. “I too prefer the gardens this way, when the others are not present.”

Do you truly enjoy the gardens when the others are not present, or do you prefer it that way so as not to remind yourself that you are alone? Melkor guarded his tongue even as he studied the elf discretely. Caranthir was ruddy of skin like his mother, and black of hair like his father. His clear amber eyes, a rare thing among his kin, held within them the light of Telperion, as did the eyes of all the elves of the Blessed Realm. And they glittered like new gold.

Find out what he desires and offer it to him. And thanks to his beloved, Melkor now knew what the elf desired: companionship, the affections of one of high birth and rank, and a chance to stand out from among his brothers. Easy things to be sure, and Melkor prepared himself to offer them all.

“Tis a strange thing to see eyes such as yours,” Melkor observed with a casual air. “Of grey and green and blue and brown I have seen aplenty, but not eyes such as yours. They are like new gold, fresh from the forge.”

Caranthir flushed, never having received such praise before. Oh, he had received praise before, but never like this, and never from one of the Exalted Ones, no less.

“If only the others saw the same,” he grumbled to no one in particular, and looked at the heavens. The stars shone brightly against a vivid indigo and lilac sky. The spectacle took his breath away and made him feel grateful to have someone, even one such as Melkor, seated beside him. It made him feel less alone. “I thank you, my lord, for your words. Pray why are you here? I was told there is a great feast in Valmar for all of the Valar.”

“Feasts and frivolous frolics are of little interest to one such as myself,” Melkor lied again quite easily. In truth, he rather enjoyed the occasional feast; he just did not enjoy being around those that played a role in his downfall and the destruction of Utumno, like Tulkas and Oromë and that dark-haired herald of Manwë, Eönwë. If asked by Mairon, Melkor would admit that he would rather dine with the ravenous creatures of the Void than eat and drink and laugh with the likes of them. “I prefer quieter pursuits, such as enriching my knowledge. The great library is a special favorite of mine.”

“Indeed, I have seen you there myself,” Caranthir said, thinking this explained why Melkor was there at the same time as him. “The solitude and the smell of books are quite wonderful, are they not?”

“Yes,” Melkor agreed, smiling. “They are quite refreshing indeed.”

He invited the Elven Lord to join him for a meal. Alas for Caranthir, he could not tarry for much longer. Maglor had pledged himself to another, and his mother and father had planned a great feast to announce it to the others.

“Lady Indilien is a fine lady, to be sure,” he went on to add, “and everyone is quite pleased with my brother’s choice of bride.”

“Everyone but you, that is?”

“My brother is a prince of the Noldor,” Caranthir answered disdainfully, “and his lady is of low birth. Still, I suppose, it is better than him marrying one of the Teleri, like that half-uncle of mine did.”

“A prince of such a great House must be mindful of those he invites into his inner circle.” Melkor took care not to overreach his aim. Caranthir was easy to anger and easy to drive away. His plans would still come for naught if he took one misstep even now. “It is well and good that you see it this way. Farewell, Lord Caranthir. I will not keep you here any longer.”

“Farewell, my lord,” said Caranthir. He was pleased to see that Melkor thought the same way as him, for those such as the children of Fëanor had to take care with those they invited into the family. “Until we meet again.”

Caranthir never ceased his visits to the gardens of Tirion, having been intrigued by the Vala he met. He always came when it was devoid of elves and Ainur, and he always came alone. Melkor made certain to be there, seated upon the same marble bench and feigning to admire the starlit indigo and lilac skies, when he arrived and found him.

They talked, and of many things. Caranthir’s ambitions, his thirst to be as known as his brothers, Maedhros and Maglor, and Celegorm and Curufin, his mother and father, and his aspirations when it came to marriage. And Melkor listened to it all, counseling him, guiding him, and steering him down the path he wished for him to follow.

“Hunting and crafting and singing and playing at statecraft is all well and good,” he opined many a day later, after they sat down beneath the still leaves of a mighty oak and indulged in a light supper Melkor had prepared and brought with him to the gardens. It was very good. Fish roasted in herbs with thin disks of fry bread, Caranthir’s favorites. It was another sliver of knowledge Mairon had carefully gleaned from the cook. “And while they may be noteworthy skills, to be sure, they are not the only skills to be had. Has no one spoken to you about this?”

“They have.” Caranthir stopped eating and furrowed his brows in distaste. “Sewing and dancing and poetry and sporting in the arena. I confess, my lord, that while I enjoy such pursuits, I cannot see myself achieving lasting glory with them.”

Because the gifts you possess are middling at best. The Vala said not a word of this. He did not want to insult the elf and prick his pride. Instead, he sought another way to appeal to the elf and his designs for his future.

“Indeed,” Melkor agreed. “Such unimaginative interests are quite beneath a scion of the noble House of Finwë.” His words were honey, carefully concealing within them the poison he wished to feed to his prey. “There are other skills, my lord Morifinwë; other gifts that could be bestowed upon you. Such things are beyond your wildest imaginings, I am sure. They have been concealed from elves such as yourself in order to keep you shackled to a life of eternal service and your eyes closed to the many glories you could truly achieve. I can help you attain such glory if you like.”

Melkor is full of cunning and treachery. He will no doubt try to trap you with his lies. Those were the words his lady mother and his lord father uttered after Melkor was rebuked before the elves of Tirion and sent away. And each word rang out like a loud bell, warning him of some great and unseen danger.

What if this is another trick of his? he thought, A ploy to get back at father for humiliating him in the full view of others? Am I allowing myself to fall into some sort of trap?

“Is this one of your deceptions?” Caranthir demanded, rising. “Is this all part of some scheme of yours to rake revenge on my father?”

Melkor was perfectly calm, perfectly amiable. “It is no deception, my lord, I assure you.”

The elf was not appeased. “Do you think I am ignorant of all that you have done, my lord?” he snarled. Anger flared in his eyes, hot and sharp, marring his otherwise fair countenance. "You, who my father rightly called the jail-crow of Mandos?”

Melkor bristled at the insult but maintained his composure all the same. Careful now, he thought, or else all will be lost.

“Forgive me, my lord, for not making myself clearer,” he said, remaining seated. It was another ploy of his to appear humble and contrite. Caranthir had been raised with a prince’s pride, and he did what he could to appeal to it. “I have been thoroughly chastened by my imprisonment and by your lord father, and I consider them lessons well learned. Come, my lord. Sit with me and hear me out. You will see that there is no trickery.”

“I am quite content to stand, my lord.”

“Very well. I have seen you, my Lord Morifinwë. I have seen how you are often by yourself, and I was moved to make myself known to you. And I have heard how you desire to set yourself apart from your brothers, how you wish to be seen as more than just a son of Fëanor. And I know how much you crave the affection of someone worthy of your devotion. Well, here I am, Lord Morifinwë… Moryo… offering all that you desire, and so much more besides. Take my hand, and all that you have envisioned will be made real.”

Caranthir regarded him, his resolve wavering, pondering if Melkor could indeed be trusted, if he would make good on all that he promised.

To have someone such as him for myself, to learn from him, the first and mightiest of the Valar… Oh! There is so much he must know! So much he could teach me! I could finally step away from the shadows cast by others, and make a name for myself. But to join with him, I cannot…

“I see you are still plagued with doubts,” Melkor observed, rising. “So let me show you what you could possess if you heed me.”

He offered his arm, and Caranthir allowed himself to be led down a paved path to a pool gilded in silver and gold. They stood side by side, while the Vala made an elegant gesture with a blackened hand, and the still water rippled as if disturbed by a pebble that had been dropped into it. And Caranthir watched, transfixed, as a vision rose to the surface of the water once it had stilled.

He saw a mighty keep deep within the bowels of a great mountain, rich in boundless wealth and splendor. Warriors and servants and slaves and mighty beasts roamed freely throughout its many tunnels and passageways, while fires roared in great furnaces and the making of weapons and armor and objects of rare beauty could be seen. Then the water rippled again, and the vision changed. Sprites and fays and other Ainur were seated together in a chamber of dark stone, chanting and swaying, the flames of nearby candles flickering violently with the dark magic they summoned. Shades moved all around them, dreadful spirits that had left the light, and they did as they were commanded, inhabiting the forms of wolves and bats and dead things, allowing themselves to be trapped in vessels of flesh and blood. Caranthir was amazed. To hold such power, to wield the mastery of it, was more than anything he had ever dreamed of. He turned to face Melkor, overawed by what he had witnessed.

“A share of all this I am willing to give you,” Melkor said. He saw golden eyes burn like flames and recognized for himself the slow-creeping hunger for power they concealed. And now that Melkor had found the key, he knew that all he needed to do was to turn it into its proper place, and the fourth son of Fëanor would be his. “All you need to do is accept me into your heart. Accept me, Moryo, and a rich portion of what I have shown, along with my affections, will be yours.”

I would be the first elf to willingly join his cause. Nevertheless, Caranthir still dithered. To accept one such as Melkor meant to stray from the path of light and from his kin. If he left, if he pledged himself to darkness, he would never be able to return to the Blessed Realm nor see his family again.

“You still waver,” Melkor remarked, hiding his sense of triumph. Caranthir was nearly there. All he needed was a gentle shove in the right direction, and Melkor knew exactly how to do it. “Here, Moryo. Let me offer you another morsel of what you could enjoy once you pledge yourself to me.”

Without warning, he leaned forward and kissed Caranthir on the mouth. He kissed the elf for a long while, and then he growled in triumph when his new-found follower clutched desperately at his robes, sighing and kissing him back with something akin to raw hunger. Caranthir had indeed been hungry, and he feasted like an elf that had denied a great many things for an age. His kiss became mostly teeth and tongue, and Melkor more than allowed it. He wrapped his arms around him and offered all that he was willing to give. The elf accepted what was given and yielded easily, growing pliant in the Vala’s embraces and losing himself in Melkor’s smoky fragrance, the welcomed heat of his breath, and the sweet taste of his mouth. And then Melkor drew back, exulting.

Caranthir was his. He could see it in the lust flaring in the elf’s startling eyes.

“That was all so good,” Melkor began, “but it is not enough. Come with me, Moryo, and let me take you somewhere more secluded. I wish to show you the joys of flesh cleaving to flesh.”

What is there for me here, truly? The elf regarded him, then looked over his shoulder at the path he walked down on. What chance is there for me to achieve what I desire if I remain here? And to master the powers that he showed me, to taste more of what he is willing to offer—his knowledge, his body...

When he turned to face him again, a decision had been made.

“Long have I craved to experience this,” he confessed, flushing. “Lead on, my lord.”

Original image: Ed Robertson/Unsplash

#dark romance series #caranthir #melkor #caranthir x melkor #the silm #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction

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