fics

[sesamenom]

I kid you not, there is an actual fic out there where Gil-Galad started off as a elven child who was one of Morgoth's failed attempts to create the Orcs.

Celebrimbor finds the kid wandering around in a daze (somehow they escaped) and he just decides to build the elf-equivalent of an android body for him?

What gets me most is that the story is very well written even if it is crack-tastic.

Oh this sounds like Scion of Mystery by Tilion! Mithril galad is in Variations VII, though if this is referring to a different fic with a similar origin I'd definitely want to draw that.

[rabiddoqq]

I promise I'm working on the abo starstruck fic but in the meantime have this little snippet of another fic I'm cooking up:

[syn-cho]

Driver meets Tom Ryder for the first time and sees how he treats Colt. That night, he goes to Tom’s trailer and scares the shit out of him. For the rest of filming Tom is so nice and everyone is so fucking confused.

[random-rae-blog]

I cannot get these guys out of my head ever apparently sooo: boardwalk/beach vacation for the coltland gentry siblings! ft. uncle holland march (+ Healy™️) and cousin holly :D

what would these guys do on a boardwalk vacation you may ask?? here are my ideas! i’m kind of assuming that the twins are like 16 or 17 and Court is 23 or 24 (and NOT a sierra…but just know claire will still end up under his care at some point in the future). I’m still debating on if Holly should be younger or older than the twins- then March is in his 40s and Healy in his 50s 😌

First up is Ryland; each person will have their own post 🙂‍↕️

Ryland:

- He likes going to the beach the most- he’s one of those people who will get to the beach at the crack of dawn because he wants the best spot on the beach no matter how much sleep he loses dammit!

- …He ends up falling asleep by the time the rest of the family gets there…and he may or may not have the worst sunburn known to man. and that Percy Jackson (you cannot tell me Ryland wouldn’t have been a MAJOR fan) book he was reading may cause him to have a suspiciously book-shaped tan-line on his chest…Colt gains some new blackmail that day. Holland considered it too, but decided to be an uncle and help set up the umbrella over Ryland (he asked for those photos an hour later)

- The arcade isn’t Ryland’s favorite place in the world- the lights are incredibly bright and flashy and the noise gets on his nerves- but his twin LOVES it, so he will usually play a few games before having to either leave or at least take a break outside. He does get stubborn when it comes to winning prizes- Colt likes to play games for the tickets, so the two of them will team up to collect an egregious amount of tickets and bring home the most obnoxiously large or loud prize there is.

- He tells everyone that skee ball is his favorite arcade game, but if Colt is the one who asks him, he will truthfully say Guitar Hero. I feel like his party trick is that he is insane at Guitar Hero…my guy just gets locked tf in

- Never challenge him to a game of air hockey. He WILL win. Court seriously wondered if there were air hockey tournaments so he could sign Ryland up for one. Colt went home with a bruised finger. (ry: “It’s not *my* fault he was resting his hand on the ledge!” colt: “You were aiming for that finger! I know you would’ve went for my hand and stuff, dipshit-” holland: “Colt, what have we talked about, bud? Don’t say ‘and stuff’. Just say, ‘you would’ve went for my hand, dipshit.’ And uh…don’t call your brother a dipshit, I guess.”)

- He absolutely refuses to do any roller coasters- he’s gets motion sickness *very* quickly (Colt can attest to that- he has had multiple shirts ruined due to Ryland’s queasiness). Holland tries to get him on the ferris wheel one time, and Ryland agreed to it only because Holland said he would get him as much ice cream as he wants for the rest of the trip (and oh boy does he take advantage of that); this ends in Ryland trapping Court in a death grip and him having to dart to the nearest trash can after the ride. Holland doesn’t try to make him go on anything else...and Court needs a new shirt.

- Oddly enough, he likes go-kart racing! I liked to think he’s CRAZY competitive, so while the driving is the less exciting part for him, he really just wants to say he beat Colt in a race. I mean- he has been learning the physics behind go-karts for this very moment.

- Ryland and Colt both have a sweet tooth, so they will be devouring what they can on the boardwalk. I’m talking fudge, water ice, salt water taffy- *all of it*. He prefers fruity and sour candy, and when he does get his unlimited ice cream (thank you, Uncle Holland), he almost always picked strawberry with rainbow sprinkles in a dish (that’s right. a dish. because those waffle cones taste like nothing and they are messy for no reason, Colton—)

- He is AWFUL at the carnival games- he blames it on his glasses, but it’s really just him. Don’t tell him that, though, or he will blow all his money on trying to win. (Court and Healy both make a note to never let Ryland into a casino.) (Holland is already banned from one…he doesn’t like to talk about it.)

And that’s what I have so far! Lmk any other ideas for this silly guy! The other posts will come soon!

[thewiltingdaisy]

Me, watching Gray Man after watching PHM and Fall Guy:

Well, that movie was mediocre.

AAAANYWAY Time to make up a Coltland Gentry AU where Colt and Ryland find out their brother is alive join up with the plot of the movie when Court is in Prague. I'm imagining Colt (Or Ryland! comedy version) driving the red Audi during the chase scene and the whole thing ending with everyone getting in the car silently and Dani wondering if Six got fucking photocopied

The fanfic is already forming in my head

Some concepts for it

In this timeline, The Gray Man takes places after Fall Guy (which plays out mostly-as-is with the added inclusion that Grace is in contact with his brother throughout the plot and its an amusing cutaway gag in the film) and an alternate universe version of PHM where the Petrova Task Force is a team meant to prevent bio-weapon related disasters that Ryland is still a part of, but has been put on "Administrative Leave" After "Project Hail Mary", which in this AU is a 'super penicillin' that Grace was essentially forced to make by Stratt. (She infected him with a bio-altered virus in order to get him to figure out a cure for it. He almost died)

The coltland twins part in the movie starts with Ryland going to Prague to visit Colt on the set of a movie he's the stunt coordinator for (Jodi is in post-prod on a different film back in LA), and they spot their supposedly dead older brother in the streets - Six doesn't spot them and they follow him

at one point Ryland enlists the help of his QPR partner, Engineering expert and lowkey technical genius Robert "Rocky" Ortiz (And Adrian! Of course) who had joined him in Prague but don't come with one the hunt for Court

Even though they're not triplets they look so alike people keep assuming it - it gets annoying after a while.

Fitz is the only one that knows he has twin brothers of note. It was a point of concern for him since they all look so alike. He is not expecting them to show up during the rescue mission

The Fitz and Claire rescue mission somehow goes both much better and much worse due to their involvement

That's all I have for now. I might actually write this at some point but IDK lmao.

[scrambled-aegis]

@fandomsandfairytales

@bokuwaboku-datte

in reference to this post

[ghostimpala217]

Put Me In The Car ⛐

Ryland Grace (Project Hail Mary, 2026) x Casey/Driver (Drive, 2011) aka DrivingLessons

warning: Ryan Gosling x Ryan Gosling, dissociative episodes, Driver and Casey are the same man but are often referred to as separate entities when Casey is dissociating or reflecting, minor injuries, kissing, mentions of Colt Seavers and Holland March, Human!Rocky and Human!Adrian.

note: hihi! this is my first EVER fic, so please give me some grace (haha. heh. el oh el.) during this fic <3 these guys are very dear to me and i don’t see a lot of them so…yeah. requests are open for more fics!

just to help y’all out- chapter changes and pov switches are under the lined cuts! enjoy!

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Ryland Grace has never felt more embarrassed in his life. Here he was, standing in the middle of some small mechanic’s place (what was it, Dave’s? Dan’s?) asking for his bicycle to be fixed. Yes, a bike. He didn’t own a car- teacher salary barely gets him by, so paying off a car note wasn’t in the budget. Plus, cardio! But unfortunately, on today of all days, the chain of his bike had snapped. He was already running a little late to school too…Grace already took the initiative to call out sick and ask for a sub. Better get the problem fixed sooner than later.

There’s a blonde man in the corner that the unimpressed teen up front pointed to. He’s a little slim but well built, hiding halfway under a nice 1970’s Chevrolet Chevelle. Ryland feels a lump in his throat as he pushes the bright yellow bike up with him. Was it extra hot in auto shops? It had to be- normal San Francisco summer heat wouldn’t beat down on him this hard at 9am. Well, here goes. Dr. Mr. Ryland Grace clears his throat.

“Uh- Excuse me?” Grace feels himself shake. He didn’t book an appointment in advance, didn’t pay ahead, he should just turn around and walk back to his condo- NO! No. He’d get this done here and now. “I-I said, excuse me.” The man slides out from under the car. Oil splattered a little on his face, grease on his hands, sweat on his shirt. Ryland feels his face burn even hotter. Jeez, can he get a grip?

“The uh- the man at the front desk said you were available to help me?” He stammers. Get It Together Grace.

“With…what, exactly? Engine issue?” The Mechanic’s voice is rough, but gentle. Very contradictory, Grace.

“Oh! Well-no, not exactly. You see…my bicycle chain broke. I don’t own a car. So I need this to get to work, and I hate the bus and trolley systems around this city so it’s really not an option for me, so I-I was wondering if you could fix my bike.” There’s a pause. Oh no. “Or not! I-I see you’re already busy with a car and-“

The Mechanic interrupts him. “I can fix your bike. Bring it over to my workbench, let me take a look.”

Ryland Grace has never swooned before. But he thinks there’s always a chance to try something new..

Grace is sat on a stool next to said Mechanic’s workbench. ‘Casey’ is what reads on the Mechanic’s name tag. Huh. Casey’s focused on this bike as if it’s the most important thing in the world, and even just freshens up bits of the bike that were starting to rust or get old. Occasionally, he’d ask Ryland to hand him a tool. Now, Ryland’s not a dunce. He has a PhD in Microbiology, thank you very much. But when tasked in manual labor, it was always a quick call to his brother Colt or his best friend Rocky.

“Ratchet, please.” The Mechanic- Casey, as his nametag reads- asks, and Ryland has to play it carefully here. Ultimately, he takes too long, and Casey just points at a tool with a small grin. Grace stammers out a noise, and hands it to him. Good Going Grace.

The bicycle is better than ever. Ryland didn’t even know bikes could get this clean. “Thank you so much! Do uh- do you take card?” He beams.

“…No. We don’t take card. Cash or checks.” Ryland is, for lack of a better word, dumbfounded. A business in San Francisco in 2026 not taking card is a very, very rare sight. Unfortunately, until he gets paid, he only has the 50 bucks Colt Cashapped him.

He sighs, “Do you have an ATM nearby?” Casey shatters that strand of hope with a head shake. Fudge. “How…how about I get you lunch? There’s a nice place a few minutes from here- they serve breakfast all day but they have really good burgers too…” he pauses his ramble to avert his eyes from Casey. “I-If that’s not your style, I can make you something? Maybe?”

“…Okay.” Casey responds. Easier than Ryland thought. “We can go to that diner. I’ve…I haven’t had the chance to eat locally yet,” Casey shrugs.

“Perfect! We- um. Do you mind if we take your car?” Ryland asks sheepishly. He can’t really fit Casey on his pegs, and especially not on his handlebars.

Luckily, Casey nods. “Let me just finish the oil change on my car.” Ryland raises a brow at that, then realizes the car he was working on earlier is his car. So, after a few minutes of waiting, Casey eventually opens the passenger door for Ryland.

Lunch was a hit, at least to Ryland. He did most of the talking- Casey’s quiet, and an excellent listener. He gives his suggestions to Casey on the menu, cracks a few jokes, gets a little grin out of the mechanic. A fair payback for a broken bike.

————————————————————

That stupid, stupid bike! Ryland hates this thing now, he’s decided. The school year is over, luckily, so there’s no rush. But he was planning on having a nice little bike to the coffee shop and then heading over to Colt’s apartment. Colt’s in town for some movie shoot, and Ryland wouldn’t miss a chance to see his brother. But this bike! He completely ate the concrete while on the way to that coffee place. Handlebars broken, tires flat and the chain busted. “Oh-Fudge!” Ryland can’t help but groan, assessing the damage. Is he bleeding? His knees are skinned- of course today of all days he wore shorts. His face hurts a little too, and his palms sting.

“You know…” a softer, more monotoned voice says behind him. Could it be? The Mechanic? The one Ryland’s been constantly thinking about for the last two weeks? He perks up- Casey never starts conversations. But Casey continues, “for someone who can barely walk without tripping over his own two feet, I’m surprised you don’t have a car- you could end up hurt.”

“Yeah, well. Teacher salary.” Ryland sniffles. He gets up with a hiss. “I didn’t even know I was near your shop…” he sighs.

“You were too focused trying to not crash. Let me help.” Casey picks up his bike, and before Ryland can protest, takes it into the garage. Ryland follows with a wobble in his step.

Ryland’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Well, actually, he’s always getting himself into relatively embarrassing situations. But this one is just his most recent. Instead of fixing the bike and leaving Ryland with a shitty small first aid kit, Casey’s decided to fix him up. Ryland feels all eyes on him. The other mechanics look over to Casey’s lot occasionally to see not a car, but the same loser from last week who needs fixing up too.

“Skinned your knee pretty bad,” Casey murmurs. “This’ll sting.” A hiss escapes Ryland as the antiseptic wipe rubs the dirt and grime off of his knees. Casey continues to patch him up. It’s as quiet as an auto shop can get- the constant whirring and clanging of restoration and repair. After his knees and hands are all wrapped up, a bandage is placed gently on his nose. “All done. Wait here while I fix your bike.” Casey commands him once more, and Ryland stays.

After a little while, the stupid bike has been repaired. Ryland sighs. “Thank you again. I-I don’t really have time to get lunch, but I can bring you something?” He smiles gently, appreciating Casey.

“…Sure.” Casey gives a little thumbs up. And that’s enough for Ryland to smile even wider. They bid one another goodbye.

The next day, a brown paper bag is placed on Casey’s workbench by someone else. He looks up. It’s his older coworker, Jakob. He strays away from the rest of his coworkers- he doesn’t want a repeat of L.A. Casey steadily reminds himself that he’s left that life behind before taking the bag. Inside is a thing of tupperware, complete with a sticky note signed with the letters “R.G.” and a shabby doodle of a bike. Casey remembers the man from yesterday and two weeks before that, and how he promised lunch today.

“Someone brought you lunch, eh? You got a missus waitin’ on y’at home, huh?” Jakob teases. Casey doesn’t dignify the snark comment with a response, just shakes his head subtly. Inside the tupperware is a sandwich cut perfectly in half- loaded with what looks like alfredo sauce, chicken, and cheese. It's grilled a golden brown, and after one bite, Casey sees stars. He gets the realization that he’s been living off of takeout and instant noodles for too long.

“Your girl makes some good food, huh? Ask her to bring the rest of us guys some, alright?” Jakob pats him on the shoulder- ugh- before moving on back to his lot. Seems he didn’t see Casey’s head shake. Casey won’t correct Jakob though if it means more meals for him to enjoy. Despite being his payment for a good deed, Casey feels the need to give the man an even better payback. A series of one upping, if you will.

The man with the bike beats Casey to it.

Two days later, on Friday, another bag was dropped off from the front to his workbench. It’s definitely bigger than the one from Tuesday, and inside is a box of cookies. Snickerdoodles, to be specific. They’re perfectly golden, and smell delicious.

Another note is attached, reading, “Hello, Casey! I made some desserts for my brother and the rest of my family but I had a LOT left over! I hope you enjoy them! Share some with your coworkers, will you?” Signing the note was the same initials- R.G.- and the same shabby doodle of a bike. How cute. Casey takes a majority and places them in his own lunchbox, as well as pocketing the note, before leaving the bag in the break room.

His other coworker, Mark, confronts him in the break room. “Heard you got a little thang with you now, huh loverboy? Well. Tell her she makes a damn good pastry. What, she works at a bakery or something?” Mark teases. Casey sighs, shaking his head no. He’ll entertain the idea of a fake girlfriend for a while- he wanted his actual life to stay anonymous anyways. A little white lie won’t hurt them.

————————————————————-

Casey’s taken a liking to the awkward bicycle man. Ryland, he learns, likes to bike by in the mornings and wave at him. He sometimes eats lunch with Casey, or he’ll leave the food with another note. It isn’t another Irene- he feels no overwhelming anxiety for Ryland. Rather than making him alert, Ryland puts him at ease. It’s a different change of pace. He gets nightmares sometimes- flashes of Ryland in the elevator instead of Irene. Ryland grieving a husband and replacing him with Casey. Casey would always love Irene and Benicio, but he moved away from L.A. for good measure. Ryland is what he needs- someone to make him laugh, someone to make him calm.

Unfortunately, Casey’s coworkers are relentless. They ask about Casey ever proposing to the fake woman who brings him lunch. They tease and poke and prod, despite never saying anything about their own lives. It drives Casey up the wall. If he didn’t love his job, he’d skip town by now. Oh well. At least he’s getting free meals now.

One blazingly hot afternoon, Casey is running over time on his lunch break. An engine on this old pickup truck has a part that manufactures refuse to make, and he needs to find an alternative. Covered in grime, he hears the soft sound of heels against concrete. His mind flashes to a blonde bob in the apartment next to his before he snaps back to the engine. One of his coworkers would take care of the Woman With Heel’s car, then their day would continue.

But it wasn’t a woman. It was him- his light, his friend(?) with the kindest soul. Ryland. He’s dressed to the nines, holding a brown paper bag. He looks completely out of place.

“Hi, Casey!” He beams. Ryland puts the bag on his workbench. “I came to give you your lunch but the intern up front isn’t there to put it on your workbench. I can’t chat long though- my friend Adrian has some big art gala opening in an hour.” Ryland gives a sheepish grin.

Casey wipes his hands off on a towel, wiping his sweat away too. “That’s fine. I…I hope you have fun.” Casey can’t help but stare. He curses himself- this is a pattern of behavior he needs to end. Perversely going after kind blondes with soothing souls…get a grip, Driver!

“Oh, I will! Anyways, I gotta run- Adrian’s waiting for me in the car with their husband. It’s um- it’s fettuccine alfredo today, and I had a slice of chocolate cake leftover so I put it in there too.” Ryland smiles. There’s a pause, and it feels as if the auto shop has gone quieter too. “Well, um. I hope you like it!”

“I will,” Casey smiles. “Go have fun. Come by…anytime.” He offers out. A rare occurrence for him, sure, but love makes you do stupid things. Casey keeps telling himself it’s too early to feel love, but that flutter in his chest disagrees.

“Of course! Goodbye, Case.” Ryland beams. He turns, exiting through the doors with the clacking of his heels. Casey sighs once more, and takes his brown paper bag to the lunch room.

—————————————————————

Ryland’s crush on this mechanic is getting out of hand. With school out, he’s had nothing productive to do except lesson planning for the next school year. Rocky, his best friend since their senior year of Highschool, had suggested cooking. Adrian, Rocky’s spouse and a good friend of Ryland’s from his academic career years, agreed. Since then, he’s hand-made every lunch he could for Casey. Of course, Rocky and Adrian get their fair share. But Ryland is hoping for a new friend out of Casey, so he puts in the effort.

There’s a car show in town, and Ryland can’t help but instantly think of Casey. Rocky teased Ryland relentlessly, Adrian occasionally butting in, about taking Casey to this show.

“Grace, come on,” Rocky shakes his shoulder as they sit on the couch in his apartment. “This mechanic- Casey, he would love it! Grace says he always takes such good care of his car. Imagine his face around many cars!”

“I dunno, Rock,” Ryland sighs. “It’d probably be like leaving work and going straight back to it- but spectating instead,” he hiccups. It’s a Friday night- he likes to get a little wine drunk and crash with Rocky and Adrian.

“But Grace, you love what you do. You teach all year long and continue to learn and teach in the summer,” Adrian sits next to Grace calmly, topping off his drink. They hold Grace’s hand as Rocky leans on Grace’s shoulder. “I think all I’ve heard is that mechanic’s name for the past few weeks. Take the initiative, Grace. Ask him out to that car show.” Adrian’s voice is calm as they offer advice. They were opposite to Rocky in that way- two beautiful souls that gravitated around one another. Ryland loved being a part of their orbit.

“Well…jeez, okay. I’ll ask him Monday.” Ryland sighs. He’ll do it! He’ll take Casey out to dinner and a car show.

“That is the spirit, friend Grace!” Rocky bounces with joy, and before Ryland can blink, both Rocky and Adrian peck his cheeks.

“Rocky would like to be your best man at the wedding I believe. I’ll be the ring bearer,” Adrian teases gently. Well, if things ever go wrong with Casey, Ryland will always have his best friends.

————————————————————-

Casey’s night isn’t filled with the same warmth Ryland has. He lives alone in a small apartment near the auto shop- close enough to walk to. He barely sleeps most days. Sways on his feet or takes short bursts of naps. He’s grown accustomed to insomnia, but not to the nightmares. L.A has left him a shell of a man, a husk. Driver and Casey fell into two separate entities most days. Driver remembers the crunch of a face against his foot, the smash of an arm under his hammer. Casey remembers the warmth of Irene, of holding her and kissing her, of watching cartoons with Benicio. His mind torments him with these memories, especially now that Casey has a light in his life again.

Ryland. Sweet, gentle Ryland, who eats lunch with him and waves to him from his bike. Who doesn’t know the difference between a screwdriver and a wrench. Who sometimes sits at Casey’s bench and grades papers as he waits for lunch. It’s soft, it’s warm, but unfamiliar. Casey relishes in the light of him, whereas Driver feels like a child being thrown into the deep end of a pool.

He wakes up in a cold sweat on his couch- he hadn’t gotten the chance to go to bed. It was supposed to be Irene in that elevator. Irene, whose life was in danger, who he needed to kill a man to protect. But it wasn’t her. It hasn’t been for quite some time now. Driver sees Ryland Grace. Ryland standing beside him, splattered in blood and brain matter, crying as a man dies beneath Driver’s foot. Ryland, who kisses him and his stubble tickles Driver’s chin. Ryland, who calls and screams his name.

It’s 4am. Might as well get ready for the day. Casey sighs, wiping his face of sweat as he walks to the bathroom. He gets dressed in his uniform, but doesn’t recognize the face in the mirror. Doesn’t feel the familiar sting of the homemade stitches on his gut. Doesn’t notice a new warmth to his face when he thinks about the teacher that he’d befriended. Driver doesn’t know who, or what, it is. Casey tries to be as much of a man as he can.

——————————————————————

Ryland, despite being a little hungover, is going to listen to his friends and ask Casey out. He gets ready, Rocky pestering him to bring Casey an extra cinnamon roll and Adrian judging his choice of a polo and khakis again. Ryland takes the familiar bike route to Dan’s Auto Repair and locks his bike on the bike rack. He waves hi to the teenage intern always up front, Ellie. Then, he makes his way over to Lot 3, where Casey’s workbench resides. Casey’s tinkering with something on a beat-up pick up truck. Ryland lets his presence be known by pulling out the stool.

“Hey,” Ryland greets with a smile. Casey waves but doesn’t look up, as per usual. Ryland opens his bag. “I brought you some brunch. It’s a cinnamon roll and some coffee.” Ryland sets it down on Casey’s workbench.

“Thank you.” Casey wipes his hands and face, walking to the bench. Sweet, sweet Ryland, bringing him food. He reminds himself that he’s in a different part of California now. Casey bites into the warm, gooey pastry, a gentle smile on his face. Ryland’s whipped for him, and eager to see that smile again.

“I…I wanted to ask you something.” Ryland fidgets. Casey looks at him, setting the roll back in the tupperware. He nods for Ryland to continue. Ryland takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Well, there’s this car show coming to town. Free entry, pretty nice cars. It’s this Saturday. My um…my friends can’t make it so I was wondering if you wanted to come with me…?”

Casey feels his heart flutter. It’s good to feel something this morning other than the emptiness. He nods. “I’d like that.” He pauses. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in.”

Ryland whips his phone out, happily obliging. Casey puts his number in, naming the contact Casey from Auto Shop. As if they weren’t already more than that. Ryland sends him a quick and simple emoji so that Casey has his number too. He deletes the job title next to Casey’s name, and puts a little wrench and a heart. “Wait- I need a photo for the contact!” Ryland loads up the camera.

Casey pushes it away, a small smile on his face. “No, no, there’s no need.” Ryland takes the candid photo anyway, giggling. Casey just sighs and goes back to eating his cinnamon roll. They, well, Ryland, talk about nothing and everything. Casey listens. Casey listens to him complain about how doting his roommates are, about how annoying his brother is, about how he wants to visit his Uncle March in Malibu for the 4th of July weekend. It’s their routine. Familiar, sweet, and theirs.

——————————————————————

Ryland wouldn’t consider himself to be “fussy.” Attentive to detail is a better description for his actions. But Rocky and Adrian watch him pace around in his bedroom, attempting to get ready for his Not-Really-First Date with Casey.

“Ryland, not the khakis. Please,” Adrian shakes their head, rubbing at their temples. Rocky rubs Adrian’s back in sympathy. Ryland frowns.

“Come on! They’re a neutral color! It’ll tie my outfit together.” Ryland takes them off the hanger.

“Ew. Does Grace hear himself?” Rocky shudders at Adrian. They share a disinterest in Ryland’s choice of fashion. Years of academic study and career have left Ryland permanently dressing for work. But this is a car show! With cool, hip, young people! And sleek cars and nice drinks!

Adrian, unable to take it any longer, pushes Ryland out the way. They dress him in some loose fitting jeans that accentuate his hips, a black belt, white polo with subtle blue stripes, and matching white sneakers. “There, Grace. You look 20 years younger now.”

“Ha hah. Get out of my room.” Ryland deadpans, and the couple leaves with a giggle.

Similarly, not too far away, Casey is having a similar dilemma. He’s never had a real chance to care about what he wears. There’s been no one to impress since Irene. But lingering in the back of his closet, something gold catches his eye.

In its glory, curled up into a far corner, sits his scorpion jacket. The bloodstains have faded. There’s a rip where the stab wound on his stomach resides. But the scorpion…it remains spotless. Clean. Casey isn’t that man anymore- he’s trying his best to never revert back. But the scorpion calls to Driver. Beckons him forward like Sleeping Beauty and her spinning wheel. He picks it up. Tries it on. The familiar emptiness settled in his gut once more, and his hands strain for the hammer again. He shrugs it off a few seconds later.

Casey will burn the jacket later, get rid of all reminders of a town 5 hours away. But for now, he shrugs on a simple tee shirt and some jeans, and goes on to see his light. His Ryland.

————————————————————

Casey picked up Ryland around 5pm that night. He greeted him at the door, walked him to the car, and opened the passenger side door for him. Ryland gave him a polite smile and thanks as Casey rounded the car to the driver’s seat.The drive to the car show was silent- a comfortable silence, one that both men could relax in. Ryland chatted about his day and gave simple directions to the venue. Casey listened, nodding along or giving his own input. Their little routine.

The venue wasn’t necessarily packed, but there was a wide variety of cars. It was placed behind some shitty dive bar, neon lights illuminating each show car. Novelty cars, older models, high tech futuristic ones…you named it, a version of it was here. After parking, Casey and Ryland walked into the venue. Ryland noticed a shift in demeanor instantly. It was as if Casey was surveying his surroundings before judging each car. His element. Ryland was expecting more excitement, but at the same time, he knew who he was on a date with. Could he consider this a date? No, Ryland. A hangout between a few new friends. No need to be perverse.

Casey felt an uncomfortable sense of familiarity in the car show. Cars with janky parts, neon lights under heat, shady mechanics and drugged-up or drunk onlookers. Open area. A good amount of exits. Enough time to get Ryland out if an altercation were to occur. But then again…it was a nice night. The cars were something familiar but not uncomfortable. He took his time with each one, answering Ryland’s questions and nodding along to the owners of the cars.

Behind the venue was a beat up plastic sign with the words, “DRAG RACING- $100 DOLLAR CASH PRIZE, $20 ENTRY FEE!” written in red sharpie. Various cars zoomed by on the rocky homemade track, and an announcer stood on a few plastic boxes with a megaphone and a $100 dollar bill in hand. Ryland looked closer. That…that was a fellow scientist. One whom he recognized from the fated UNESCO conference. The one that ruined his career in microbiology. It wasn’t the staggering waste of carbon, but his intern-slash-groupie. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, huh? Waste Of Carbon was a failure, and it seems his protégé made money in slightly illegal places as well. Ryland sighed, and Casey looked over with a puzzled expression.

“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just- the guy with the speaker, I um. I know him. We weren’t on the best terms. I um… his boss was the man from UNESCO.” Ryland explains sheepishly, and blushes as Casey’s eyebrows raise. He hopes the neon purple lights drown out the pink on his cheeks.

Casey feels a semblance of embarrassment for Ryland. He’d be mortified if anyone from his past appeared in his current life, especially with how good things are going. “Do you want to leave?” He felt himself ask. Or was it Driver pleading with him to keep Their Light safe? God only knows.

“Oh-oh, no! We can stay.” Ryland protests. He doesn’t want to leave just because he’s a little uncomfortable. Casey’s expression softens in a way that makes Ryland’s heart jump.

“…I meant leave the racing area. There’s more cars to look at.” Casey clarifies. He’s been getting better at that- his coworkers tease him for being too vague. He can’t help it- he thinks he’s being clear enough. Even so, he tries even harder to be gentle with Ryland for reasons Casey isn’t ready to face.

Ryland blushes further. “Yeah! Yeah, let’s leave the race. I-I think I see the Mystery Machine down there. Y’know- from Scooby Doo?” He beams. The mood lightens once more. Ryland rambles and Casey nods. Their routine.

It’s around 11pm when they leave the venue. The car show was amazing- a chance for both of them to share an interest. Ryland still can't work on a car to save his life- but at least he knows the difference between a hatchback vs a wagon. Their hands brush as Casey opens the passenger door of his car for Ryland. It’s a gentle spark.

Casey turns to Ryland from the driver’s seat. It’s quiet, the soft hum of the radio playing a techno tune. “Wanna go for a drive?” He offers. Ryland’s eyes light up, and he nods.

They speed through an empty road, windows down and LED lights illuminating the road ahead. It’s fast, it’s quick, and it exhilarates both of them to their core. It settles the ache in Casey- the adrenaline Driver relentlessly chased after he left L.A. Ryland has an ecstatic look on his face and a warmth in his cheeks that Casey wouldn’t trade for the world. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

They pull over and back onto the main road around midnight. Casey drives Ryland home- walks him up to the front porch. Ryland stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a nervous expression before he gets the chance to walk back to the car.

“Casey. Before you go, I just-“ he sighs. “I just wanted to say that I really had fun tonight.” Ryland smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something else.

Casey, worried about the outcome of, well, their relationship after this, blurts out the million dollar question. “Was this a date, Grace?”

“Oh- um-well!” Ryland regains more warmth in his cheeks. Red as a tomato, he fidgets. “If-if um, if you want it to be. If not, that's fine!”

“I want it to be.” Blue eyes stare into green. The only noise following is the hum of cicadas in the trees.

“…Then it was a date.” Ryland sighs. The smile reaches his eyes again. Casey smiles back.

“I’ll see you soon, Grace.” He nods. “Thank you for the date.” And before Casey knows what overcame him, he kisses Ryland’s cheek. A peck. It felt unreal, an entity separate from Casey and Driver. He wants to dart to his car, crawl into bed, and dream of the angel in front of him. Stopping him from doing that is the warmth of lips against his. Ryland’s kissing him. Soft, gentle, and unfamiliar…but a kiss nonetheless. They can’t help themselves, and share a few more kisses on the front porch of Ryland’s home once more.

“If you need to go back to Casey’s for the night, Friend Grace, me and Adrian aren’t surprised." A creak in the front door and a little voice breaks the warm, magical spell around the two men. Ryland jumps like he’s been burned.

“Rocky!” Ryland hisses at the shorter man, redder than ever. He turns back to Casey. “I…Sorry. This is Rocky, my friend. Rocky, you know Casey.”

“Of course Rocky know Casey. Hello. But I would like to sleep, Grace. It is…one thirty. In the morning.” Rocky pokes Ryland’s side. Ryland pushes Rocky away.

“Jeez, okay,” he sighs once more. “Sorry, Case. I’ll um…I’ll see you soon.”

Casey smiles. Warm, sweet, loving. “I’ll see you, Ryland. Nice to meet you, Rocky.”

Casey walks back to his car, aching for Ryland’s touch again. Oh well. He’ll see him soon.

—————————————————————-

Ryland loves his best friends, he really does, but their teasing is simply relentless. After being caught practically making out with his date on their front, Rocky saw their opportunity for teasing and took it. It’s 9am on the Sunday after their first date, and Grace is slowly coming alive to the Earth while nursing a coffee. Rocky’s brewing another pot, and Adrian’s whipping up something for breakfast.

“Grace,” Rocky nudges Adrian, “did especially well on his date last night.” He giggles. Ryland makes a choked noise, trying to not spit his coffee out.

“What do you mean?” Adrian quirks a brow. He puts the pan of bacon on the stove to medium heat.

“I opened the door around…one am. Adrian, fast asleep. There was Grace and Casey, sucking face!” Rocky laughs once more.

“Ew, don’t call it that Rock!” Ryland groans. He turns to look at Adrian. “Me and Casey…might’ve gotten a little carried away. But it’s safe to say we like each other."

Before Rocky can let another annoying tease out, Adrian covers his mouth. They smile at Grace. “I’m very happy for you. I know how nervous you were for this date. I’d love for Casey to come over to dinner.” Rocky licks Adrian’s hand, and they just sigh and uncover Rocky’s mouth.

“You sound like my uncle, Adrian.” Ryland chuckles. “Thank you though. He…he makes me very happy.”

“Grace get happy somewhere else when Casey kisses him!” Rocky giggles before Adrian pops him on the shoulder. “What???!! It’s true!”

Ryland just sighs. Mornings like this aren’t uncommon- the retelling of previous events and the jokes that come with it. The morning is always warm with the buzz of his two best friends. He lets his mind wander, thinking about how well Casey would fit into their space. Casey behind Ryland as he makes breakfast, Casey helping wash dishes and clean the kitchen up afterwards. Possibly a messy day, where they attempted baking and ended up with batter and flour smeared all over one another. Ryland blushes, realizing how stupidly domestic his fantasies sound. It’s a sickening sweetness, but a welcome one.

Rocky and Adrian pull him back to reality- Adrian serving him a beautifully cooked breakfast and Rocky chattering about his day. Ryland happily listens, letting them do the talking. The birds chirp outside the window, and the sun shines down on all three roommates from behind lace curtains. A quiet moment, that Ryland wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

——————————————————————

Casey has a pleasant buzz in his chest as he goes to work Monday. His Saturday night date with Ryland had left him feeling like a new man. Driver was dead in his old car in L.A- Casey was here with Ryland. Both him and Ryland agreed to go on a few more ‘real’ dates before becoming official with one another. Casey was unable to deny the happiness he felt after Saturday though.

The garage was busy today. A few bad wrecks, a few oil changes, and unfortunately Ryland couldn’t come eat lunch. Oh well. Casey stands at his workbench, munching on Ryland’s homemade leftover chicken tikka masala. Soft indie rock floats through the garage from his new coworker’s station. Casey isn’t opposed to it- it’s better than whatever country music Mark plays.

As if on cue, Mark walks over to Casey’s station. “Hey- Case!” He beams. Casey acknowledges him with a head nod, so Mark continues. “I notice that face. Lemme guess- you took the missus out on a nice date and got a lil’ reward, huh?” He laughs, crudely.

Gross, Casey thinks. Sex has never been as important of an aspect of a relationship to him. Coincidentally, the new mechanic’s speaker plays a song that goes, “Why Do I Feel So Weird?” Casey often wonders the same. Answering Mark, he shakes his head no. He didn’t take this missus out on a date- and he’d have to reveal there is no missus soon. The thought of that is daunting.

“C’mon! You gotta take her out sometime. There’s a nice place downtown- me ‘n my spouse frequently go there. Real nice Italian joint.” Mark pokes him on the shoulder, and Casey subtly flinches.

“I’ll…I’ll think about it.” Casey sighs. It shuts Mark up, satisfying the other man, so they both go back to work. Jesus, what is he going to do?

———————————————————————

Grace is so bored. Unbelievably bored. Rocky and Adrian are redecorating their home and are preparing for Ryland to move in. Stupid landlords and their policies on late rent. Whatever. Ikea wasn’t as fun of an idea as Ryland expected. It’s mainly just him third wheeling his two best friends. And don’t get Ryland wrong-he loves them! But not when they’re arguing over what type of bedframe they want. He wishes sometimes he was a kid again so they could drop him off in Ikea’s kiddie area.

“Grace, listen! Adrian is stupid stupid stupid. The white wood is much much better with seafoam green walls, yes?” Rocky pokes him, huffing.

“I dunno, Rock. You’re the architect.” Grace shrugs, getting another poke in return.

“It’s engineer now. Grace is stupid stupid too.” Rocky walks away, and Adrian chuckles as they trail after him. Grace pushes their shopping cart, holding his phone in one hand to text Casey.

Grace 🧪💙: do u know anything abt interior design?

Casey 🚗❤️: No, not really.

Grace 🧪💙: crap

Grace 🧪💙: rocky & adri are fighting over new bedframes n shit

Grace 🧪💙: we’re redoing the whole house

Casey 🚗❤️: Sounds awful.

Grace 🧪💙: it is!!! but hey, we’re throwing a housewarming party! you wanna come.

Casey 🚗❤️: Sure. Just tell me when 👍.

Grace 🧪💙: hehe okay baby ❤️❤️

Casey🚗❤️: 💙.

Grace 🧪💙: ❤️!

Well, Casey would be at the housewarming party after refurbishing the home was done. There’s a bright side to everything, Ryland supposes. Even a brightside to being in the middle of a domestic dispute.

———————————————————————

Ryland’s family situation has always been…complicated. Colt, his twin brother, was a consistent rock that he could lean on. When needed, their Uncle March would step in whenever their Mom and Dad were unable to care for them.

Slowly, Uncle March gained full custody of Colt and Ryland. They stopped treating him as their uncle and more like their dad. Holly, March’s daughter, was like an older sister to them and Jackson Healy, March’s partner, was a secondary father figure for the twins. Ryland kept in contact the best he could as they grew up…and then Colt went M.I.A for a few months. His name was eventually cleared, and he changed it from Colt Seavers back to his birth name- Colton Grace. Ryland was overjoyed to be reunited with his best friend, his brother, once more. Now, they do weekly or monthly calls with one another.

“I’m telling you, Ry, that boy loves you.” Colt says over the phone, voice a little distorted as he drives in the car.

“You don’t think it’s too soon to tell?” Ryland sighs as he puts together a cabinet from Ikea. Colt was actually driving over to help with the construction of a few things around the house. Until he was cleared to work in Hollywood once more on stunts, he was stuck living off of his girlfriend, Jody.

“C’mon, Ry. That boy kissed you like that on your first date! He does a bunch of crap for you, listens to you…and this jackass didn’t use his turn signal. Fuckin’ asshole.” Colt sighed. “Anyways. Just keep goin’ on dates with him. God knows you need a win.”

Ryland snorted. “Hey, don’t get too cocky.” His hands tinkered with the screwdriver as he secured the cabinet door into place.

“When are you planning on telling Papa March?” Colt asked. Ryland froze. March was…over the top. Ryland would never forgive himself for the embarrassment he’s subjected Rocky and Adrian to. Casey would be unable to match his energy completely- he was reserved, a little judgemental, and his past was a can of worms that Ryland was intimidated to open. March would surely make Casey run back home with his tail tucked between his legs. Ryland thinks all this without answering. “Ry? Did I lose you?” Colt asks.

“Hm? No. I-um. I dunno if I’m gonna tell Papa yet. You…you know how he gets. Remember Linda? And-eugh, Tom? And Simon?” Ryland cringes at all the partners he’s introduced March to. “Don’t even start on Rocky and Adrian. Adrian barely keeps up with him and Rocky got into that fight with him on Christmas Eve once.” He groans.

“Shit, yeah. But you gotta say something eventually. He always has those big holiday parties- bring Casey to the fourth of July cookout!” Colt suggests.

“You mean the one where Jody almost got lit on fire by a sparkler?” Ryland sighs.

“HAHA! Yeah. Man, I forgot about that. Shit was funny. I promise you, Ry, you’re doing that thing again where you spiral and nothing can ever go right. It’ll be fine.” Colt pauses. “Listen. If Casey truly loves you, he’d accept our weird ass family for how it is. Yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, Colt.” Ryland tests the cabinet door he was working on. Minimal squeaking, well put together. Nice one, Grace!

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Okay, see ya soon, I’m pulling up.” Colt hangs up the call before Ryland can even reach his phone. Oh well, that’s just how his twin is.

——————————————————————-

Ryland didn’t anticipate exactly how hard it was to completely refurbish a home while keeping up with lesson planning and a potential new boyfriend. He was run ragged, barely spending time with Casey and absorbed in all his responsibilities. They finished the house though, and cleaned it all up for the housewarming party. Ryland could finally relax, sending Casey the address and laying down in his new bedroom to take a nap.

Casey pulled up to the driveway of a lively large home. It was in a smaller neighborhood with a visibly higher income than his own neighborhood. He wondered what Ryland’s roommates did for work to afford such a luxurious life. The mailbox had their last names, and the last name Grace, so he was sure it was the right place. Grace didn’t answer his arrival text though. Strange, but not unusual. He could be wrapped in conversation, helping serve food or just showing off his lovely home. Casey knocks on the door.

The man who answers is not Ryland, but looks strikingly like him. There’s a few differences. The shabby beard, the bad highlights and frosted tips, not to mention the purely athletic wear. And no glasses. Colt raises a brow. “Is…This is Ryland Grace, Rocky, and Adrian’s housewarming party, yes?”

“Yeah man, come in!” The Man (not Ryland) beams, letting him in. Casey’s suspicious of him immediately. Who was this man? Where was Ryland? He spots Rocky and Adrian- curled up in the conversation pit talking to some equally classy people. Casey feels just as out of place as the man in athletic wear next to him.

“Do you know where Ryland is? I came here for him.” Casey asks. The Man beside him instantly gives him a side eye. Casey notices the shift in body language, he’s locked up at the mention of Ryland.

“Why? He invite you?” The Man raises a brow at Casey. Casey matches his defensive stance with a roll of his own shoulders.

“He did, actually. And who are you to him?” Casey responds. Before either one of them could snap at each other, Ryland comes down the staircase. Rocky and Adrian greet him happily, teasing him. Ryland says hi to everyone then spots Casey. He beams, rushing over.

“Casey, you came! And you met Colt!” Ryland beams, hugging him.

Casey hugs back. “Hey. And…Colt?” He pulls back to look at Ryland, then gestures to The Man beside them with a tilt of his head. “That’s Colt?”

“Yeah, he’s my twin.” Ryland giggles. That explains the striking physical similarities and defensiveness against Ryland’s name.

“Oh, crap, you’re Casey!” The Man- Colt- says with a tease. “Ryland’s told me so much about you. Nice to put a face to the name. Colt Seavers.” He extends a hand to shake.

Casey sighs, shaking his hand with an equally firm grip. He doesn’t particularly like shaking hands, the last time he shook hands with a man in athletic wear it got him almost killed. But this is Ryland’s brother, there’s no cause for concern. They stop shaking hands after about 4 ½ seconds. No, he wasn’t counting.

“I’m glad you guys are getting along.” Ryland smiles, holding onto Casey’s hand. Casey squeezes his hand back. He’s missed him. They’d seen each other less and less as Ryland had more responsibilities to take care of. Casey would be a fool to deny the yearning feeling he gets for Ryland.

The party has music now, Casey sees out of the corner of his eye as Adrian turns a speaker on. Nice, lively jazz swings through the house. Seems as if Casey was the last to arrive. He isn’t upset about that, he’s glad no one followed him in. He notes the exits, the new pool outside, the wallpapers a cool seafoam green. Ryland snaps him back to reality.

“Hello? Earth to Casey? I was asking if you want a drink, honey. Or something to eat.” Ryland offers. Colt’s already pouring himself a wine and going to sit by some blonde woman that Casey doesn’t know.

“No alcohol, I’m driving home. I’d like something to eat.” Casey shrugs. Ryland’s made dinner, it seems. Wonderful as ever- it’s a wide selection of pasta and finger food. Everyone happily eats and chats in the conversation pit, which is where Ryland drags Casey to. Casey greets a few other people with a nod as Ryland introduces him.

Casey can’t leave Ryland’s side the whole night. It feels magnetic, as if something was forcefully pulling them together. They were almost as bad with PDA as Rocky and Adrian, and those two were awful. Ryland would laugh and curl against Casey tighter, grip his arm a little firmer. The warmth that radiated off of Ryland was entrancing, and like a moth to a flame, Casey gravitated toward it. They walked around the house together, Ryland giggling and smiling at him all the while. The party continued on for a good while, everyone a little wine drunk except for Casey and Ryland. They sat away from the party, sitting by the pool now. The soft blue hue of light shined on Ryland’s face perfectly in the darkness that surrounded them.

Music drifted from the house to outside. Inside, Ryland could see Rocky and Adrian dance together a little with their own friends. Colt and Jody had their own dancing going on as well. Ryland giggled, turning to Casey. “Do you dance?”

“…Not really. I never…I never really dance.” Casey shrugged. He ran his thumb over the back of Ryland’s knuckles. Ryland looked shocked.

“Never? You’ve gotta be kidding. I-I mean. Everyone dances at least once.” Ryland rolls his eyes when Casey shakes his head again. He stands. “Come on, just try it with me. We don’t have to do anything crazy.” Ryland pulled Casey up, interlocking their hands. The song drifted around them as Ryland led them to a comfortable sway. His hand on Casey’s waist, his other hand holding Casey’s hand.

♫ Strangers in the night

Two lonely people, we were strangers in the night

Up to the moment when we said the first “Hello,”

Little did we know, love was just a glance away

A warm embracing dance away…♫

Ryland blushed, glancing away from their eye contact. He chuckled. “Kind of…kind of fitting, huh?” He laughed nervously again. Casey returned the smile, breaking the tension in the air by placing a soft kiss to the side of Ryland’s mouth. Ryland sighed, going in for the full kiss. The music from inside slowed, the instrumental swelling around them as they shared a loving kiss right beside the pool. Mouth against mouth, a desperate yearn for one another that neither of them knew they had.

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Still swaying, still moving, until Ryland lost his footing. Soon, both of them fell into the pool with a startled noise, gasping as they came up for air. Ryland looked mortified, red in the face. “Aw, man! I’m so sorry Case…y.” He paused. Casey was giggling. Not even giggling, full on laughing. It was such a stupid, rom-com movie moment, and it had tickled Casey to hell and back. Ryland laughed with him, holding onto him once more.

“Hey, jackasses! Rocky and Adrian and Grace throw housewarming party! Not pool party!” Rocky shouts from the back door. Ryland looks up.

“I’m just showing him the water temperature, Rocky!” Ryland laughs again, swimming back up with Casey. Rocky mutters a few words of disappointment to himself, heading back inside. Ryland and Casey keep laughing until their sides get sore, going inside and upstairs into Ryland’s bedroom. The party still goes on downstairs, but up in Ryland’s room, they share a comfortable buzz. Casey borrows some of Ryland’s clothes, and unless one of them is showering, they can’t keep their hands off of one another. They continue their poolside activities, laying down with one another, giggling and kissing. It’s beautifully domestic, and it’s theirs.

[atlantablack]

WIP word game - (share your latest few lines/ sentence starting with the letters!)

@nerdanelparmandil tagged me <3 and my word is GOLD!

These are all from my curufinrod fic that is still growing and I am still typing away at - I have at this point just resigned myself to it being chaptered and much longer than I wanted it to be - coming to an Ao3 near you sometime in 2026 on [redacted redacted redacted]

"Good," Finrod breathes, arching up against him, eyes dark when Curufin meets them. "Do your worst then. I assure you, I will take just as much as you give." It is not a challenge Curufin can resist.

----

On this, Curufin does not push, not sure he wishes to hear what words pushing would draw forth. Instead he works Finrod up about this policy or that courtier, pokes fun at the edain until Finrod slams him against a wall in a rare fit of true anger. He spends fewer and fewer nights alone. Allows Finrod to take more and more liberties with his body in bed, takes more and more in return. But he does not push at the emotion Finrod tries to hide from him.

-----

Leaves a string of bruises down Finrod's body, on his neck, his collarbone, above his heart, above his lungs, the curve of his ribcage, the soft skin of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbone, the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. Pulls back to survey his work after and smirks at how flushed Finrod is, his breathing unsteady, fingers tangled in the bedsheets and clenched tight. He’s watching Curufin through half-lidded eyes that have gone perilously dark and are blown out with want. 

-----

"Do you trust me?" he asks later, as they lay curled together, forehead to forehead, heart to heart. Finrod smiles, stroking his thumb over Curufin's cheek. "Not even a little bit." "Smart of you," he says, smiling a bit as well. "It's nice to see you do have a brain in that pretty head of yours."

Low pressure tagging: @queerofthedagger, @antlered-vixen, @fey-and-feral, @melestasflight, @starshadeemilyart, @annarobots

Your word is HUNT

[justdrowthings]

2025 fics that consumed a part of my brain

Prayers to Broken Stone by @balrogballs

Are you a functional person? Because you won't be after you read this masterpiece of an AU set in post colonial India.

I don't even know how to describe this, the closest I've found is Black Sails and the Silmarillion fucking in a park after dark birthed this 9 months later.

Also if you are going through life as "a queer" with a henna dyed deathhawk and a base line setting of "fight the world" that has seen you banned from at least one country due to activism shenanigans you might feel seen in a very uncomfortable way.

Chains of Light and Shadow by @iconicament3

If you want to scratch that Mairon/Artanis itch you can't pass this one with it's Mairon/Artanis/Morgoth vibes.

It words good in a way that feels like the fic itself is smoking the Silm and you're catching second hand Silm.

Blood in the Mouth by @dalliansss and @skaelds

Look, it's evil sexy vampire Finrod and Mairon and they are feral for each other. This spawned a whole ship disaster in my brain and I probably need help.

The years start coming and they don't stop coming by @i-am-a-lonely-visitor

This collection of "Elrond's gender is Elrond" leading up to his marriage with Celebhir, transmasc Celebrian and I could not put this series down. It also kicks off with one of the most delightful Elrond/Gil-Galad pairings and since I'm an addict for a good Gil-Galad this won me over quickly.

So much shit gets explored in interesting and tasty ways.

And for something NOT Tolkien

The Descent by @gingeragenda and @admirably-abhorrent

Come for the kink, stay for the plot these arseholes tricked me into being obsessed with. Not sure what's been more fun, the fic are threatening harm to them for THEY KNOW WHAT THEY DID.

It's Duffy/River in a consensual but "do it for the op" way with some serious "watch the tags" shit on the side.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post ix

A fresh post for the "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" bullet point AU! Masterpost with links to all previous parts here.

Part 43! The work that remains.

They stand clasped in their relieved embrace for a long moment.

The birds are singing, again.

Then Maglor distangles himself from Lúthien, and goes to kneel beside his brother.

Maedhros looks worse, out here in the sunshine, than he did in the cave. His legs – but Maglor cannot look at his legs, so he focuses on the rest of him instead, the countless cuts and bruises on his fair skin, the left wrist pinched and crushed against its shackle, three of his fingers snapped cleanly in half.

"What cruelty," Lúthien murmurs. "We must deal with his legs before we can move him. He ought not be moved, in truth, but—"

"No," says Maglor, who has spent many long hours watching the minute movements of Maedhros' face in semi-consciousness, "water first, he needs water."

But Maedhros shudders at the word, musters a little moan of protest.

Lúthien looks helplessly at Aeluin. For all that it is free now of him who polluted it, its surface is still black and fetid. Even flies do not dare come close to it.

There is still a great deal of work to be done.

"One of the springs, then," she decides, and dashes off to the nearest one. No trace now of the lethargy that plagued her on their journey; Maglor has never seen her more radiant.

Meanwhile Maedhros twitches silently on the grass, lines of pain etched deeper into his face than the carvings on a stone statue. Sometimes he opens his eyes and looks up at Maglor, unseeing, and Maglor averts his gaze as quickly as he can each time.

"Here," says Lúthien, so light on her feet that Maglor did not hear her approach, "I sang it clean as best as I could."

The little hollowed-out wooden cup she presents to him is full of clear water, no scent of rot emanating from it.

Still Maedhros chokes and gasps, when Maglor raises it to his lips. Still his mouth forms soundless pleas, and he turns his head as best as he can to the side, nearly spilling the precious liquid.

"It's only water, Nelyo," Maglor says unhappily – or tries to say, for Maedhros' mind is open and defenceless to him for the first time in long weeks, and his own throat seems to burn with the memory of the foul and poisoned liquid Sauron forced upon his brother.

Can he bear, even now, to do likewise? Is there strength in him to hold Maedhros' head still, and compel him to drink, and deny him once again any glimpse at self-will?

Surely no Power smiles now upon him who is forsworn before Eru himself. But there is grace in the world yet, for before he can summon the words to plead Maedhros shudders and drinks the water, swallowing quickly as though trying not to taste it, and then slumps back against the grass.

"Thank you," Maglor breathes, and then he brings his hand to cover his brother's eyes. "Sleep now, Nelyo."

He is too sick at heart to put any more than the barest hint of compulsion into his voice, but that is all it takes. Maedhros' body relaxes at last.

"You are good at this," Lúthien observes.

Maglor shrugs. "Practice. Tell me, what can we do?"

He forces himself to look now at his brother's ruined legs, the black streaks of infection running up his thighs, the jagged splinters of bone poking through his skin, the near-perpendicular angle at which his right knee is bent.

"We will have to clean them," Lúthien says unhappily, "and then splint them as best as we can. O for my mother's herb-garden! There are so few growing things here. Yet we must do what we can, or he will not survive the journey."

She wanders off then, and Maglor, trusting to her greater expertise, is left sitting cross-legged on the grass with Maedhros' head in his lap.

This should be easy. This is what he knows best, after all.

After a time Maedhros starts to twitch again, little broken sounds of pain spilling forth from his lips; and Maglor lays his hand on his brother's brow and sings the old lullaby, the one he made for Maedhros so long ago by the shores of Mithrim.

It rings hollow somehow, echoing off Aeluin's blackened waters. Once Maedhros is settled again Maglor switches his song to the words of Rían's lament instead.

He liked Lúthien's version of the song, alight with hope and promise; but his voice now slips more easily into the melancholy strains of the original, and the terrible sadness of memory.

Lúthien smiles, even so, when she comes back with a few stems of fragrant athelas in her hands, and another little cup of water. "This is the best I could do," she says; "but I think it may suffice."

And she sets to work crushing the leaves into a poultice, chewing them herself to soften them faster, humming a growing-song at them to stretch their thin supply a little further; and when it is done there is just enough to cover even Maedhros' long legs in herb-paste.

Maglor dresses the poor wounds, and does not flinch to feel the congealed blood beneath his fingers. Maedhros in his stupor does not stir, either.

Some little gleam of foresight possessed Maglor to pack a roll of bandages when he left Barad Eithel, and with that he binds Maedhros' legs as tightly as Lúthien directs, and then cuts the two healthiest young willow-branches he can find (for too many are rotten through to the middle, past what any song can do to save them) to serve as splints.

"Crude," says Lúthien, worrying at her lip, "but I believe – I hope it will last us the return journey, at least."

"And then what?" Maglor asks. "Will he lose the legs, do you think?"

Lúthien hesitates.

"You thought I might," Maglor points out, "and I was less gravely injured than he."

"Carcharoth's venom was in your wound," says Lúthien, "and Gorthaur had no such poison for your brother. But more than that... well, you chose to heal. And he will have to do likewise."

Maglor is silent.

Lúthien looks at him, searchingly. "Dorthonion is not what it was," she says quietly. "I think perhaps its cleansing will take many years to be done in full. But we have made a start, the two of us, for all the work that yet remains. Do you understand me?" And when Maglor nods, she says, "Then let's go."

Meanwhile (some months later) in the Halls of Mandos:

They are masterfully made, the tapestries of Míriel, with their shifting colours and details so fine they might as well have been painted.

But the current school of thought among the Maiar of Mandos holds that the Noldor among the dead ought not to be over-troubled with visions of colour and light, that the reminder of what can never again be theirs will serve only to make them unruly.

Most of the tapestries they are presented it are worked in muted, neutral colours, all grey-glimmering shadow and deep brown earth.

So it is blinding, this latest work, the Silmaril-light at its centre woven from threads of silver and gold so bright they seem almost to glow of their own accord, the faces of the three central figures around it cast into terrible, too-truthful relief: the servant of Morgoth with his artificially fine features distorted in agony, Maedhros crumpled insensate at his feet, and Maglor white with determination, a sliver of darkness separating his fingers from the jewel.

Reaching, or releasing? It would be hard to tell, were it not for the border of the tapestry and the rest of the tale it weaves, of the reclamation of Dorthonion and the flight of Sauron with the Silmaril.

Amrod laughed, and laughed, and laughed, when first he saw it.

The Oath still burns within him – without him, for he is no fitting vessel for it now. By rights he ought to be angry. By rights he ought to curse his brother, for the Doom he has tightened around them.

So Celegorm declares, when he sees Amrod's glee: "You are a fool, to rejoice for him who has damned you for ever! Think you now that you will ever see daylight again?"

"I damned myself, Tyelko," says Amrod, between fits of laughter. "There is no undoing for me; the Everlasting Darkness is my lot." He gestures, in an abstract unbodied sort of way, at the gleaming tapestry. "But our brothers may yet have hope! They may yet grow free of it. Ambarussa might."

"You call this freedom?" Celegorm demands, his eyes roving in disgust over the scene. "He has thrown away what little advantage we had. That was the Silmaril I died for—"

"I thought you died for Huan," says Amrod, and Celegorm has no answer.

"You said my shackles remained," Amrod presses, "and would do whatever I made of them. You said the Oath compelled you to your evil, that you drove our cousin from his throne because he thought to lay his hand upon a Silmaril. You said we had no choice at all, Tyelko."

"And did we?" Celegorm demands. "You tried to choose differently, did you not? You tried to leave. And what came of it? The Doom had already ensared you, as it does us all."

Amrod gestures at the tapestry again. "And yet."

"Do not use our brother's deed as an excuse to moralise at me!" Celegorm snaps. "I guarantee you his reasons were not so selfless as you make them out; and his own shackles are far from broken."

"I did not say they were," Amrod says mildly; "to be sure, there is still a great deal of work to be done. But I begin to hope that he might do it, that there is a chance yet for the living." He shrugs.

"Well, you do not number among them," Celegorm says, cold, "so all your hope is to little purpose."

He disappears with the spirit-equivalent of a shoulder check.

Amrod thinks he would rather like to speak to Finrod again. But he lingers a moment at the tapestry first, marvelling at the skill it must have taken.

How strange to think his grandmother, whose very name was once a byword for death, now lives and breathes in Vairë's halls, and it is he who looks upon her work unbodied.

Míriel, too, once swore that she would never leave Mandos.

How fine her work, now! Not just the Silmaril-light, a memory of a memory of the Trees that are lost, but the grimy texture of the cave-walls, the glints of copper in Maedhros' hair, the skin of Sauron's hand just beginning to char at the touch of the jewel.

Maglor's face, oddly, is more hastily done. Or else Amrod has forgotten what his brother looked like, in the long years; but he thinks Míriel here worked too much from memory, put too many of Fëanor's features into the face of his second son.

Or does he only think that because—

But the face he might have glimpsed is lost in the ceaseless churn of spirits clustered around the tapestry before he can quite name the thought.

Back in Dorthonion:

Their progress is much slower on the return journey.

Lúthien leads the way, singing softly: the forest is healing already, rare patches of sunlight leaking through the canopy at intervals to guide their way, but there are still seeds to be planted that will not bloom for many years to come.

She works with her hands, too, tugging at the black weeds that sprouted up to choke good trees, and scraping patches of rot and fungus from their trunks.

Maglor follows behind, carrying Maedhros' unconscious body. It is an easier task than it would have been had Maedhros not just spent weeks in starvation: still his limbs are inconveniently long, and Maglor must take care not to knock his broken legs against the obstacles they pass.

"You are quiet," Lúthien observes, when they pause for a break. She has been examining Maedhros at regular intervals, and now feels confident in saying, "I think he will recover, you know."

"In body," Maglor says, and then sighs. "No, it is not – I am glad, you know, and grateful beyond measure."

"I do not see to whom gratitude is owed," Lúthien says. "It was you who won the day."

"Some victory!" Maglor says, with a little laugh; but then he falls silent, and busies himself with better adjusting Maedhros against the soft soil.

But Lúthien is tired of things that fester in the darkness.

"Do you regret it?" she asks directly.

"How can I regret it?" Maglor says. "And yet—" He draws a breath. "He will never forgive me, you know."

"What, for saving him?" But Lúthien knows it is not so simple. "I think you did a great thing here, Maglor, and one that should give you courage – Maedhros, too, when he learns of it. Did not you claim once that the Oath turned you into the worst version of yourself, made it so that its voice was the only one you could follow? But you beat it – you won!"

"At what cost?" Maglor asks. "It is not – I would take the Everlasting Darkness upon myself for his sake, I have long known that. But he will be so very angry. He forgave me Thangorodrim, but this—"

"But the debt is paid," Lúthien breathes. "Do you see that? No more owing, Maglor. The debt is paid."

"I do not know if it will ever be paid," says Maglor.

"That," says Lúthien, "sounds to me like another sort of shackle."

Maglor bristles. "They are not the same."

Lúthien does not press. "I suppose not," she murmurs. "Still – I think you know now that you can choose to be free of it, that you are not bound for ever."

That was all Maglor wanted. And yet—

But he cannot regret it.

And besides, he has never seen Lúthien so irrepressibly glad before, for all she tries to temper her joy for his sake. Still her smile bubbles up as they pass through the forest, with every healthy tree she touches and every wildflower she sees blooming of its own accord and every bird that trills the melody of Rían's song above their heads.

What a gift she will be bringing back to Beren – how joyful her own return shall be! Maglor is not so petty as to envy her.

"Will you make a new home here, do you think?" he asks.

"I hope so," Lúthien says. "I want – I want Lalaith to know this land. I want my son to love it the way I love it, the way his father did."

"You have done a great thing, too, you know," Maglor tells her.

Lúthien smiles. "Perhaps it was selfish! But I love this land, and its people." She draws a breath. "I think – I think Finrod would be proud, too."

“I think he would,” Maglor says quietly, and Lúthien presses his hand.

They carry on, pace by pace. Pause to change Maedhros' dressings and trickle water past his unresisting lips. To let Lúthien rest, too; for all her vibrant joy the child growing in her still claims some of her energy, though she is less drained now than she was.

Maglor settles into a pattern, grows used to the best way to angle himself to make sure he does not knock Maedhros' legs against low-hanging branches, finds a place on his shoulder to rest Maedhros' head as he walks.

How familiar, the weight of him. How heavy, too.

But a new unease begins to creep up on him as they grow closer to Dorthonion's northern border. He cannot place it – it is only a resonating wrongness, a nauseating sense of some terrible thing about to happen.

Lúthien notices it too, or rather notices the way his ears begin to flatten against the side of his head, and the hunted, haunted look in his eyes. "What?" she asks. "Gorthaur—?"

"No – no," says Maglor. "Not – Lúthien, leave us, run—"

But there is nothing even coming, as far as Lúthien's senses can tell.

She is not so foolish as to tell Maglor he is mistaken. Better, she decides, to quicken their pace, and reach the lands Fingon's people guard the sooner.

"Don't be silly," she says, reaching for his wrist. "Come – we're nearly there."

But Maglor cannot settle as they walk, keeps looking southward over his shoulder as though stalked by some invisible shadow.

At last he stops dead.

"What is it?" Lúthien asks, when she realises he is some way behind her. "We're so close—"

Maglor is not listening. He kneels to settle Maedhros on the ground, and then says, loudly, "I know you're there. Step out of the shadows, if you are still capable of it."

A phantom slips from between the tree-trunks, a face from (literally, in Lúthien's case) another life: thin, bedraggled, but with the same animating gleam in his dark eyes as ever.

Yeah it's fucking Curufin.

(to be continued)

[thelordofgifs]

Part 44! Some catching up.

Celebrimbor and Finduilas have journeyed mostly in silence.

As they come at last to the Guarded Plain, seated together on Finduilas' little horse, Celebrimbor says, "Well, I hope you are happy."

"You need not rub it in, cousin," Finduilas says stiffly. "I know already that I failed."

Celebrimbor, ever swift to pity, feels guilty at once. He puts a tentative hand on her wrist. "I have no wish to mock you, Finduilas. It was I who put your life in true danger, after all."

"Well, you saved it too, then," says Finduilas, and manages to turn a wan and watery smile upon him.

At this stage they are set upon by the Nargothrondim guarding these lands, and even once Finduilas casts her hood back to reveal the pale gleam of the sunlight upon her golden hair, they are taken, hands bound and blindfolded, to be brought before the King.

In the time they were away, Orodreth has been thinking fearfully of Thingol of Doriath, and how ill went his attempts to keep his own daughter in a cage.

His welcome, then, is more measured than Celebrimbor could ever have hoped for. "Your errand," he says, "was foolish, do not mistake me. Diplomacy is more than a sweet smile, my daughter. But I am glad that your cousin has brought you home safe."

Finduilas bites down on the frustration that surges within her. She is in no position to pertly toss her head, and tell her father she brought herself home, thank you very much.

Once Celebrimbor has been dismissed, Orodreth fixes her with a sharper glance, and says slowly, "I spent some time in your uncle's chambers while you were missing, as much as it made me sorrow. I hoped to find some little clue as to your whereabouts."

"I would have left some note or message," Finduilas says rapidly, "had I not feared that you would send riders after me to bring me home—"

"As well I would have!" says her father, more sternly than is his wont. "Take not my leniency with you to mean you are forgiven." And once she has bowed her head, he continues, "But I did find something grave in Finrod's chambers all the same — or rather, I did not find what I should have. The Nauglamír is missing, Finduilas."

"What?" Finduilas says dumbly.

Did lying always come so naturally to her as it now seems to?

"Then you have no knowledge of this?" Orodreth says. "I was hoping – I hoped you had merely taken it to adorn yourself—"

"I know better than that, Father," Finduilas says, and there is no need to fake the irritation in her voice. "Why, the Nauglamír is our greatest relic of Finrod, of the very kingship of Nargothrond!"

"You need not remind me," her father says heavily. "Every day the tally of my failures grows beyond count. But you know, I am sure, daughter, who coveted the necklace for his own."

Finduilas swallows. "Celegorm is dead."

"But his brother, curse his name, yet lingers in Middle-earth," says Orodreth. "Curufin understood what a work of mastery the necklace was; and he knew, too, what its bearer might claim – or bargain for."

"But he could not have taken it," says Finduilas, "he has not entered these halls since we cast him out, and it was there when last I checked."

"He could not have," says Orodreth; "but we yet harbour many of his people." He meets her eyes. "Finduilas, tell me now: has Celebrimbor your cousin had any contact with his father, in the years since Finrod died?"

Finduilas may have Fucked Up. to be honest.

"No," she says, keeping a wall around her mind, "no, he has not, Father, I am certain."

“And if he had,” Orodreth presses, “for Curufin must know his son is his last avenue open for a return to grace – if he does reach out, will Celebrimbor truly turn his face from him?”

This one is easier, at least. “He will,” Finduilas says, decisively. “You cannot imagine the curses he has laid at his father’s feet! He will not even name him as his kin, Father.”

Orodreth nods, but there is a faint troubled line between his eyes. “Very well,” he says; “but I am worried, Finduilas.”

Finduilas can think of nothing to say but another mumbled apology before she slips out.

Meanwhile in Barad Eithel:

Strange how a shooting star can mean both hope and its ending for all time, salvation from the north and damnation from the south.

It is not over yet, Fingon tells himself daily. He does not know yet what happened in Dorthonion.

But all his court laid eyes upon the blaze of light from the Silmaril arcing northwards from Dorthonion towards Angband itself, and all have come to the same conclusion: Maglor defeated, the Silmaril reclaimed, Fingon’s own heart cold and buried in an unmarked grave.

It has been more than two years since he watched the jewel clasped between Lúthien's fingers mark a shining trail out of Angband upon Thorondor's back; and in all the time since he has clung to his faith in Eagles.

But he grows listless now, weary of lying to himself. How can he believe that he will see Maedhros again, if Maglor's quest went so ill that the Silmaril was taken? How can he cling to the hope that the war will be won, if the light is lost for ever?

No one has yet had the courage to offer him their condolences. They watch him quietly, warily, as though they recognise him no longer.

Do you really think, Turgon demanded when last they saw each other, that he would put his love for you above his accursed Oath?

Fingon was too angry, then, to listen to his brother’s words. But alone in the dead of the night they come creeping back to him.

He would have died for Maedhros. Has killed for him, even.

How galling, now, to have all those sacrifices thrown back in his face as though they were worthless, as though Maedhros' life were worthless, and all Fingon's efforts to preserve it naught but the games of a child building sandcastles upon the beach before the tide comes in, and willing those fragile constructions to endure for ever.

How swiftly Himring crumbled, once it was set ablaze.

What is left for Fingon, now? A crown he did not want, and people who will not love him, and a war he cannot win.

Still it is not within him to succumb.

When Maeglin comes to him – Maeglin, who alone of his advisors is yet willing to look him in the eye – and says, "Uncle, I have discovered a foul little orc-nest in the mountains to the north, and I cannot think how best to flush them out. Will you ride out with me, and assess the situation?", Fingon hesitates only for a moment.

He knows all too well what the boy wants. But a glorified scouting-trip can surely pose no real harm; and there is no-one to restrain him now from heroics.

"All right," he says.

Back in Dorthonion:

"Hello, Káno," says Curufin. He smiles, which does not make him look any less deranged. "Fancy running into you here."

Before she can help herself, Lúthien makes a small sound of fear.

How can that voice still chill her so?

Curufin looks at her, and curls his lip. "What is that Dark-elf slut doing with you?"

Maglor draws his sword. "You might think twice before you speak of her so, Curufin," he says, in chilly Sindarin. "She has faced down Morgoth and Sauron both since last you laid eyes upon her. Rest assured she does not need my help to do it – but all the same I will kill you if you touch her."

Curufin raises his hands dramatically. The right, Maglor notes, is still blistered and burned. "Easy, Káno. She will meet her fate with or without my aid, and I care not." He nods at Maedhros prone on the ground. "What happened to him?"

"Do not pretend to care now," says Maglor, with a bitter laugh, "after all you have done – he would never have gone were it not for you—"

Curufin's eyes narrow. Slowly, he says, "He spoke with me mind-to-mind, and bid me come north as fast as I could."

That catches Maglor's attention. "He did? When?"

"Not two six-days ago."

That would have been just before Sauron's messenger arrived at Barad Eithel. Maglor had long since given up trying to reach Maedhros by then, had assumed that his brother's mind was closed off to everyone.

"What did he tell you?" he says, making no effort to hide the coldness in his voice.

But Curufin curls his lip. "You might ask him yourself," he says, "since you are so high in his confidence."

That stings.

"I would," Maglor cries, his voice a sharp ringing thing that makes the air grow stiller and Curufin clap a hand over his ears, "were he in any state to speak with me – but you might imagine that his weeks in Sauron's care were not so very luxurious—"

"Sauron?" Curufin repeats, blanching. "I thought perhaps – but I did not realise – how could he be so careless as to be taken again?"

"He was not taken," Maglor says, suddenly weary. "He went of his own accord, and now we are bringing him back to Barad Eithel."

"I don't understand," says Curufin.

"There is much you don't understand, Curufin," says Maglor, "and I of all people have little humour to explain them to you. Fare well; we are leaving."

"So wroth with me, Káno, even now?" Curufin asks softly. "Himring's ashes are long scattered."

"It is not Himring—" Maglor begins, and then catches himself. How can he say, He left me, you made him leave me, you did this to him? Instead he draws upon an older well of fury. "I could have died for all you knew, after you abandoned me in the caves."

"I knew you wouldn't, Káno," Curufin says, his eyes surprisingly sad. "I knew you'd call for help. I knew he’d come for you."

An easier time, with Maedhros' mind against his, promising, I need you, I need you.

“I have not the time for this,” Maglor says, kneeling to gather Maedhros back into his arms. "Why come back now, anyway? No one has heard anything of you for the better part of two years. Have you spent all that time flitting beneath the shadows, barred from the gates of all the kingdoms of the Eldar?"

"I told you," says Curufin, maddeningly calm still. "Nelyo sent for me." He tilts his head and gives Maglor an assessing look. "He told me Sauron held a Silmaril – or that he soon would, at any rate. He said I must intercept Angband's messenger before it arrived. At the time I knew not how he could have learned of this; but it seems he did not reveal all to me."

Maglor laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

"Maglor," breathes Lúthien, hovering uncertainly behind him.

Between gasps for breath, Maglor chokes out, "So this was his plan! Well, a very fine strategy it was, except for the hundred things wrong with it. There is no Silmaril, Curufin. Sauron did not have one. No doubt he was bluffing all along, if he told Nelyo he would send for it. He hoped to use Nelyo as bait for Findekáno, that is all."

"Except it didn't work," Curufin says shrewdly, "because the two of you came instead. And defeated him, by the looks of it. Does he dwell yet in Dorthonion? Is there any chance he had stashed the jewel away, out of your sight?"

"No and no," Maglor says, not meeting his brother's eyes. This line of questioning is growing uncomfortable. "Lúthien cast him out. Can you not see how the land has been cleansed? Or do you bring such shadow with you that even that is veiled from your eyes?"

"Káno," says Curufin, "I am trying—" But the jibe does not distract him for long. "So Nelyo was fooled entirely? What a waste!"

"You may say so," Maglor says bitterly. He sees as though through Curufin's eyes the ruin that has been made of his brother's body, the bruised and hollowed cheeks, the jut of his bones even through the cloak wrapped around him, the stiffly splinted legs.

What a waste, of all that Maedhros might have been.

"You will see now why I am in some hurry to have him back at Barad Eithel," he says.

Curufin's gaze has moved away from him, resting with a sneering directness upon Lúthien instead. She stares back, straight-backed and grey-faced.

"I suppose you will continue on your way, then," Maglor says, drawing Curufin's attention back to himself, "still plotting some way to penetrate the Girdle, or else the stone walls of Angband itself?"

Curufin looks scornfully at him. "There is no power that will penetrate the Girdle," he says, "save that which you hoard to yourself at Barad Eithel. I suppose Good King Fingon will not countenance any attempt to breach Thingol's borders? Or perhaps he was only waiting until you had departed – trusting him to keep our Silmaril safe for you, I suppose—"

These are getting to be very dangerous waters for Maglor.

"Your understanding of politics continues to astound," he says icily; "was it this vaunted genius at work when you overthrew Finrod, and marched out against Thingol yourself? You need not concern yourself with the fate of that Silmaril, Curufin. Be only assured that it is beyond your grasp."

"The fate of that Silmaril?" Curufin repeats, too quickly. His eyes narrow. "But even you would not have been fool enough to leave it behind at Barad Eithel – unless Nelyo took it when he fled—"

"He did not much like," says Maglor, through numb lips, "to touch it."

"So he left it behind," says Curufin, ignoring Lúthien's curious eyes upon his burned hand. "And you must have brought it with you on your heroic rescue mission. Where is it?"

Maglor forces a laugh. "What, planning another assault on Doriath so soon?"

"It does not escape my attention," Curufin says, "that you have made no use of that Silmaril, or of Thingol's daughter's presence, to force him to give the other up to you."

"Oh, Curvo," says Maglor, moved almost to pity, "there is so very little you understand. I hope some measure of insight comes to you, in time. But I cannot delay any longer now. Nelyo needs healers." And he makes, once again, to gather Maedhros' limp body into his arms.

"But you have not answered my question, Káno," says Curufin, enunciating every word carefully. "Where is the Silmaril?"

"In my pack, of course," Maglor says, adopting an exasperated manner. "No, you cannot see it. What do you want with it, anyway? I have very little faith that it will suffer your touch!"

But as his attention is on Maedhros Curufin lunges suddenly for where his pack is lying on the ground—

On instinct, Lúthien darts forward to block him—

Curufin draws a knife on her. "Get out of my way, bitch," he snarls, eyes wild. "Have you not taken enough from me?"

Maglor leaps to his feet, but before he can do anything Lúthien says, with every appearance of serenity although her cheeks are pale, "Curufin, you are not worthy of your noble weapon," and the knife-hilt briefly glows red-hot in Curufin's left hand before he drops it with a gasp.

Lúthien picks it up. "I shall have to start a collection," she says. "Angrist served us well, of course, but this too is of a very fine make, and shall be of use to me."

She is playing for time, trying to keep Curufin distracted until they can make their getaway—

"You," hisses Curufin, "you have stolen it, have you not? By all the Powers, you will pay for this—"

"She did not take it, Curufin," says Maglor. "I gave it up. Sauron has it."

For a moment Curufin is silent, the length of a great intake of breath, a silence that puts Maglor in mind of the brief moments of calm before flames issued forth from Glaurung's mouth once more.

"What do you mean," Curufin says then, slowly, "you gave it up?"

"It was the only way to free him," Maglor says, hating the plaintive note in his own voice. "The shackle – it was all I had of myself to give—"

But Curufin did not hear Fingon's sorrowful warning; nor does he have much appreciation for the narrative neatness that consoles Maglor now. His face contorts. "Yourself?" he repeats. "Yourself? The jewel that our father died for, the jewel into whose making he poured his very soul, the jewel you swore to reclaim at any cost – you dare to name it part of yourself?"

"What would you have had me do?" Maglor asks, white-faced. "It was the jewel or Nelyo. Once before was that choice put before me; I will not regret it a second time."

"Oathbreaker!" Curufin chokes out, and he launches himself suddenly at Maglor, pinning him to the ground, his hands closing around his throat. "Every breath you take spits on our father's name – you faithless coward—"

Lúthien cries out and tries to pull Curufin away, and then when she remembers to stab at him with the confiscated knife; but the blade will not come near its master's arm, but veers and dodges, nearly slicing into Lúthien's own fingers.

Curufin laughs at her, baring his teeth. "See, I too can learn my lessons! You will not use my own weapon against me again."

Beneath him Maglor struggles and kicks, but for all his wiy, underfed appearance there is still strength in Curufin, and Maglor never fully recovered his own after his long convalescence—

Lúthien, sobbing, rams her shoulder into Curufin, tries to break free his long fingers' death-grip around Maglor's throat, but they will not be loosened—

"Are you going to kill me, Curvo?" Maglor pants, with almost the very last of his breath. His eyes are very bright. "Took you long enough to finish the job! But it will not bring you what you seek."

Of course it's at this inopportune moment that Maedhros wakes up.

(to be continued)

[thelordofgifs]

Part 45: various consequences.

“Curvo,” comes a thin, dry voice from behind them, “stop.”

Curufin releases his hold on Maglor’s throat more on instinct than anything else.

Maedhros has propped himself up on his right elbow. His eyes pass over the scene before him with blank incomprehension.

The great patches of black over Maglor’s vision are beginning to recede. Drawing in great lungfuls of air, he struggles out of Curufin’s now-slack grasp and crawls on his hands and knees over to Maedhros.

He cannot speak yet, but he mouths Maedhros’ name and hovers over him, hesitant to touch him.

But Maedhros reaches with his crushed left hand to touch the livid red marks on Maglor’s neck, his eyes wide.

The brush of his broken fingers against Maglor's skin is enough to make him shudder and almost swoon, collapsing back onto the ground before Maglor can catch him.

"You would not look at him so tenderly," says Curufin, recovered from his shock, "if you knew what he had done!"

Maglor rises to his feet, still a little unsteady until Lúthien catches his elbow.

He realises now that the danger is still more pressing than it was with Curufin's hands around his throat – but, silenced, how can he make him stop—?

Curufin meets Maedhros' eyes directly. "I will tell you, since he has not the courage," he says. "He yielded up the Silmaril to Sauron, passed it right into his very hands – the Silmaril you trusted him with, Nelyo – the Silmaril we swore to regain as our father lay dying—"

"You always were a nasty little snitch, Curvo," Maglor rasps, his throat aching with every word. "But all your cursing and raging will avail you nothing now. The Silmaril is gone: and had I the choice still before me I would give it again."

"It was not yours to give!" snarls Curufin, his eyes aflame. "Nelyo, tell him—"

"Nelyo," says Maglor, putting every scrap of power he has into his abused voice, "go to sleep."

Maedhros, whose eyes were roving between the pair of them in mute, bewildered dismay, does not need much persuasion. Almost before Maglor has finished speaking he has slipped back into unconsciousness.

"There," says Maglor, opening his hands, "he will not stay you again; slay me, if you will. You could have done so in the cave, and taken the Silmaril from me then, and none of this would have come to pass." He pauses, and then adds, "Of course, you could not touch it."

Curufin curls his lip. "And yet it was you the jewel should have shunned, you who bartered it away like a common coin! Did Sauron laugh to see it, to know how neatly you had played into his trap? You say Fingon was the prize he wanted – and yet he has brought his master a bounty far the greater!"

"He did not laugh," Maglor says; "the pain of the burning made him scream. I doubt it is an easy thing, to know you are forsaken."

"Less easy, still, to know the Everlasting Darkness awaits you!" hisses Curufin. "I hope you consider it a price well worth paying."

"I do, actually," says Maglor. "Is that so very incomprehensible to you, Curufin? Has our Oath contorted you so very far beyond recognition? I am tired of it. I will not let it shackle me so again."

"It is not your choice," says Curufin; "a shackle you may name it, if there is nothing of honour in you, if our father's memory moves you not at all, but you are bound by what you swore. What you chose to swear, I need not remind you! You are not free to ignore those words now."

"Well, I just did," says Maglor. "What are you going to do about it? Lay hands upon me again, if you will; indeed that selfsame Oath compels you to do so." And when Curufin makes no motion towards him, he adds, "No? So perhaps its hold on you is not so firm, either."

"He would not have wished it," says Curufin, grief contorting his face almost beyond recognition. "I at least still care enough to think of it. Little though you deserve it, faithless son though you are, he loved you."

Maglor laughs harshly, and then regrets it, his throat throbbing. "Did he! Well, that is news to me. We were only weapons to him, Curufin, useful tools in his endless war. Look what that made of us – look what he did to us!" He gestures at Maedhros' prone body at his feet.

Curufin looks at Maedhros, carefully and closely now, as though counting off each of the abuses catalogued on his skin. Then he meets Maglor's eyes again, and says, "You will blame anyone and everyone except for whom you must."

"Tell me it was not our father's fault," Maglor insists, anger flaring under his skin again, and something closer to terror, "tell me he did not drive Nelyo straight into Morgoth's ambush and all that has befallen him since; tell me that the accursed Oath did not bring him here to be Sauron's plaything a second time."

Curufin's gaze on him is cool, pitying somehow. "If you will not see it," he says, "I cannot make you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Maglor says icily.

"It matters not," says Curufin; "or would not, had your blindness not lost us the last of the Silmarils. How now are we ever to fulfil the Oath? Did you stop for even a moment to think of it, puffed up as you were with your heroism and your sacrifice?" He looks over at Lúthien again and his lip curls. "You forget, I think, Káno, what your place in the story ought to be."

"Perhaps," Maglor murmurs. "Or perhaps I have decided to craft myself a better one."

"Then I have nothing more to say to you," Curufin says bitterly, "since you have chosen treachery. But you will pay for this, Káno. Do not forget that the Everlasting Darkness awaits you yet."

Lúthien, who has been silent all this time, watching Curufin warily, now shifts her attention to Maglor, her gaze suddenly very keen and bright.

Maglor does not know what to make of it. But he says only, "The other fate was worse."

"He will not thank you," Curufin warns. "You realise that, do you not?"

Fingon had a similar warning for Maglor before he set out. Now, as then, all Maglor can say in response is, "I know."

"Then you have thrown it all away for nothing," says Curufin.

Maglor shrugs. "I thought you had nothing more to say to me, Curvo."

"I do not," Curufin says stiffly.

"Right," Maglor says. "We'll be going, then."

"You cannot—" Curufin blusters. "I mean – so you will do nothing to fix this?"

"What will you have me do?" Maglor demands. "Launch myself alone against Doriath, as you tried to such great success, or else march on Angband, chase down Sauron himself and wrestle him for the Silmaril? You are welcome to make some such fool's errand, if you please; but my path leads me to Barad Eithel and shelter."

"Perhaps," Curufin murmurs. "Or perhaps..." He looks at Maglor again and his eyes flash. "A reckoning will come for you some day, Káno, however you may try to put it off. Do not forget that the Valar have no intercession to make for you."

"Maybe, Curufin," says Lúthien, "it is you who are mistaken in that."

But Curufin bares his teeth at her, wolf-like, and then turns his back on them both and disappears back into the trees.

Lúthien takes Maglor's hand. "Come," she says softly. "We still have a way to go."

Back in Barad Eithel:

"They are surely not any real trouble," says Maeglin. "So small a force as they are – almost certainly I can deal with them myself, only—"

How transparent his tricks, really. "No," Fingon says, "you said I ought to look at them, and so I will. I will not hear it said that I derelict my duties."

"I'm sure no one really means that, uncle," says Maeglin.

"All the same I have heard it," Fingon says shortly. "I suggest we set out this very eve, if you are ready. We do not want your little nest creeping southwards to Barad Eithel, after all." There! That will make him scurry.

"This eve? Very well," says Maeglin. If he is disconcerted he does a good job of hiding it. "I do not know that there is much risk they will move, but we ought to be cautious, I suppose."

"And you will bring the same party you rode out with, of course," says Fingon. "Since they know the way."

"Of course," Maeglin says mildly. "If you will excuse me, uncle. I have some preparations to attend to."

Left alone, Fingon tries to summon up some spark of fear, or nervousness, or anything at all, really.

It's a trap, Maedhros would say, are you mad, Finno? Why are you being baited so easily?

Well.

Fingon cannot even draw upon the energy to be sarcastic.

Is it not his turn to be reckless, now? Has he not waited patiently, and done his duty, and bided his time – and all for nothing?

Enough, now. Why ought he not to weigh his own life as cheaply as Maedhros weighed his? Why must he alone be cautious?

He has tolerated Maeglin's subtleties and insinuations for too long. Let the boy make his attempt at insurrection, and if he fails he will subside, and learn his lesson; if he succeeds—

It will not be Fingon's job to care, should he succeed.

He leaves the thin silver circlet his father bequeathed to him sitting neatly on his desk. There is nothing else to leave behind.

He is already mounted and ready to go when Maeglin meets him in the courtyard that evening.

Meanwhile, in Angband:

"I have won a great prize for you, master."

"It had better be grand indeed for you to show yourself here after your failures. We would have taken Barad Eithel had you not turned and fled from the sight of Fëanor's son."

"It was that selfsame son of Fëanor who will prove the undoing of the Noldor. He came to me in secret, and in exchange for his freedom his brother yielded up to me the Silmaril they had hoarded in Barad Eithel."

"I see. And where are the gems now – or do you fancy yourself the Lord of Arda, and seek to claim them for your own?"

"Never, master! I have it here – I would not set it down for an instant until I had won an audience with you."

"Those fair and skilful fingers of yours! Well, you too have tasted some measure of Varda's so-called justice now. And the other?"

"The... other, lord?"

"You sent to me requesting that I send forth the last Silmaril remaining to me, in secret and at great speed, and you would use it to cleave Melian's Girdle and bring me her obstreperous husband's head at long last. Has your memory grown faulty, lieutenant?"

"..."

"Let me ask more plainly: where is the other Silmaril?"

"Lord, I... I didn't think you would actually do it—"

"... Do you mean to tell me that the jewel I sent to you on your explicit request, trusting that with it you would win me Doriath, is not with you?"

"I could not use it anyhow – Maedhros was lying to me—"

"Even better! You were outwitted once again by the son of Fëanor. Is it thrice now or four times that he has evaded you?"

"It was a stroke of chance only that he escaped. Had I held him for longer, I would have had the High King of the Noldor brought to you in chains."

"And all you have instead is one of the Silmarils Melian's brat stole from me. No prisoner, no Doriath, and you have lost the other Silmaril. Leave my stronghold at once, lieutenant; you have done nothing in past months to redeem your failures. And find that Silmaril."

(to be continued)

[oscar-mild]

I never thought I would have to watch like 5-6 seperate movies with completely detached plots in order to understand one AU

[bittersweetresilience]

also made a presentation for my friends recently

[oneoflokischildren]

the child is too lonely, let's give him a famous twin brother and an older spy brother and detective grandparents and a fucking convict who he can have a QPR with and he's still a teacher and yes, somehow Rocky, Adrian and Eva are there too..

- the PHM fandom about Ryland Grace

[enthyrea]

a gaggle of goslings because my brain refuses to believe these are all played by the same guy

[scuzznishimuraenthusiast]

need to read magnus archives fanon style project hail mary stratt's vat workplace fanfic so bad

[katumi-art]

First Previous

Love a good schrodinger's cat!

Hopefully it makes sense, everything Simon did and accomplished happened, and at the same time this version of Simon exists and because the god(?) never actually looked at this universe and just moved him his mutations and all that blood couldn’t come with

I’m bad at science

[witherwrite]

Major Tom to Ground Control: Chapter 8

7.0 - Cannister, Catch, Centrifuge

Summary:

Grace goes for a spacewalk. Lokken gets a shoutout. Lamai voices her concerns.

The room explodes into a cacophony of swears in various languages. “No fucking way,” booms the loudest from further down the table.

Eva closes her eyes. Opens them. The image on the screen is still there. Her next breath in is shaky, and it leaves as an old half-murmured Dutch prayer she didn't realize she remembered the words to. 

There is an honest-to-God alien spaceship on the screen.

link to first chapter: here

link to previous chapter: here

enjoy! come throw ur thoughts into my inbox (rattles it around like a can with change)