basking in the pure blue air

M. | she/her | 23 fair shall the end be angbang & first house of noldor

[ladysterndust]

So. My name is Mariia, I’m 23, and I’ve finally reached the point where I'm comfortable using my real name and real age online.

I’m Ukrainian (also fluently speaking Russian, German, and English).

Journalist (my first degree), currently studying political science.

Classical literature enthusiast & pretentious cinema enjoyer.

Here, I’ll be a Tolkien fan.

Back when Tumblr was at its peak, I was still in middle school, reading my very first fanfics — but I didn’t discover Tumblr in 2016. Apparently, 2026 is the right year to finally do so.

I’ve been writing fanfiction since my early teens. Unfortunately, I also had internet access back then.

Prior to February 24, 2022, I used to post on the Russian-speaking platform Ficbook. My most popular works were (unsurprisingly) Harry Potter (Drarry) fanfics, but I also had some locally successful Silmarillion fics. In particular, I wrote a series of stories about Melkor and Mairon.

My favourite characters (characters I will not shut up about): Fëanor and Fingolfin & Celegorm and Curufin as well as Melkor and Mairon in their trash-decadent aesthetic.

My long posts about Silmarillion (headcanons, AUs, musings, character analysis, etc.) are tagged under m. on fandom

Right now, I’m working on a long fic Unreal Unearth about Fëanáro and Nolofinwë (in English).

It’s a heavy, angsty slow burn with full immersion into:

Nolofinwë’s intentionally patriarchal, conservative, homophobic, and otherwise biased POV

political struggle

the moral downfall of the Noldor under the “watchful guidance” of the freshly released Melkor (who doesn’t even appear in the fic, God)

But in the end, it’s really about a tragic, desperate, doomed, obsessive love — one that keeps descending deeper into darkness. What else could it be about?

Posts about my writing are tagged as my fic

Last but not least: my pseudonym refers to David Bowie’s Lady Stardust, with the German word for “star” in it.

My avatar: Eve by Lucien Lévy-Dhurmer.

Header image: Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden by Jan Brueghel the Younger.

[ladysterndust]

Celegorm and Curufin are brutally honest with each other

When it comes to Lúthien, Curufin will not lie to his brother either.

CW: Curvo’s (unsurprisingly) nasty takes on Beren and Lúthien, and a hint of incest (blink and you’ll miss it).

“Do you think she could come to love me?” Celegorm asks it casually, almost in passing, with studied indifference.

At once, Curufin understands why his brother refuses to leave, why he continues sprawling across the coverlet of Curufin’s bed instead of allowing his younger brother to retire for the night.

Why, these past few days, he has been so strangely attentive, so subtly agitated.

Deep down, Curufin has known all along, of course. Celegorm’s desire to marry Lúthien was not born of political advantage alone.

“You? Her captor? The murderer of her kin?” Curufin arches a brow. He regards his brother with ruthless irony.

Honeyed words, sweet songs — those he reserved for their cousin Finrod and for the lords of Nargothrond. For anyone whose good opinion of him serves a purpose. Let them deceive themselves for as long as they remain useful. They may smash themselves to death against reality afterward, for all Curufin cares.

“Well,” Celegorm drawls, turning his face toward the light, “am I not fair, graceful, and quick-witted?”

He presents himself with mock elegance: the sharp line of his cheekbone, the boldly cut brows, the clear blue eyes, the dimples tugging at the corners of his smile, the vivid, finely shaped lips, the silver hair framing his face.

He is the fairest man now living.

“Quick-witted you are not,” Curufin pronounces. “As for your beauty and your grace — do you truly believe such virtues are anything Lúthien of Doriath has not seen a hundred times before?”

He leans over his brother until they are face to face. Yet even as his words remain severe, his gaze unwillingly caresses Celegorm’s chiseled features, that wild, haughty beauty. He cannot help it.

“The daughter of Thingol and Melian — that spoiled princess — has everything. She searched until she found the one thing she had been denied — denied because it was something unworthy of possessing. Now, all your beauty will not be enough to sway her.”

“Ah,” Celegorm says, smiling with effortless brilliance and satisfaction. “So you admit that I am beautiful?”

In the wavering candlelight, his eyes gleam, and his lips seem dark crimson. Curufin’s gaze catches upon their cruel curve and cannot quite free itself.

With an effort, he rolls his eyes. For a fleeting moment, his brother seems himself again — carefree and mischievous. But all too quickly, Celegorm turns away.

Curufin wants to believe he can wound his brother swiftly and honestly, all at once, and thereby spare him the slow, unending hurt Tyelko is so determined to inflict upon himself. He reaches toward Celegorm again, wishing to stroke his brother’s cheek in truth, with his own roughened fingers.

Instead, Curufin merely pats him on the shoulder.

You can find my other Tyelcurvo headcanons here and here.

[lichensword]

Túrin and Beleg

I wonder if Tolkien was inspired to write Beleg's death by a real event he experienced during WWI…

[thewritersatlas]

Then turning to the herald [Fëanor] cried: 'Say this to Manwë Súlimo, High King of Arda:

biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch.'

[braxix]

Maedhros: Tyelkormo.

Celegorm: Whatever I did, I didn't do it!

[phantomrose96]

wow this scene in my head is great. once i write all 50,000 words to get there then you'll understand too

[tolrone]

Nolofinwëan week

I noticed too late… Fingolfin with Feanor’s lighting plate…

[ladysterndust]

Me: okay, things are getting bad, I still have god knows how many scenes left in this chapter, I’m definitely not going to fit my own word limit, I need to write more concisely.

Also me: anyway, let’s take a moment to appreciate Fëanáro’s gorgeous hair for the fifth time today.

[mapswithoutwyoming]

legend tells of a mysterious being called “nuance” that allows multiple things to be true at the same time. some say you can still hear its voice whispering in the trees

[theotherpacman]

not all ships are For wanting them to be in a happy healthy relationship together. sometimes shipping two characters means you want them to be erotically obsessed with each other and become entwined in a mutually toxic love affair for a few months and then horrifically break each other's hearts and never speak again. sometimes you want them to be codependent best friends with enough repression to explode a submarine who only make out/have sex when they're at their worst. sometimes you want them to pine after each other for years, never say anything, and then die. sometimes you want them to kill each other. this, too, is shipping

[ladysterndust]

Melkor and Mairon attempt to communicate

It goes about as well as one might expect. Kissing goes considerably better.

Angbang terrible communication AU where Mairon is jealous because Melkor had been (and probably still is) attracted to others, while Melkor is convinced that, since Mairon had never been interested in anyone before, whatever this is between them probably doesn’t mean nearly as much to him. There are an awful lot of “probably”s involved.

That’s enough for understanding, but in case you’re interested: part 1, part 2.

When Mairon dares ask why Melkor has summoned him, the Lord’s mouth twists into a haughty curve. He inclines his head with measured slowness, and his braids — gleaming black serpents — slip from his shoulder. For a fleeting instant, the light of the Silmarils flares within his abysmally dark eyes.

“You dare question my commands?” Melkor asks, his voice cold, each word weighted with deliberate emphasis.

“I dare presume their purpose,” Mairon answers evenly. What is he saying? Is that truly what he meant to say?

Melkor robs him of the thought. An iron gauntlet closes around his throat and wrenches him upward and forward so abruptly that, for one brief moment, Mairon loses his footing and hangs helplessly in his Lord’s grasp.

The disorientation passes quickly. Those vast, strangely avian eyes are fixed wholly upon him now, and all of Melkor — clad in hard, biting steel — stands impossibly close.

His fury is better than his absence. Their quarrels are better than their separation.

Mairon closes his eyes and breathes in the wondrous, spicy scent lingering in Melkor’s hair. He leans into him as far as the iron grip allows. The Lord’s thin, cruel mouth parts, no doubt to tell Mairon what he may and may not presume to think.

Instead, Mairon captures that fury with his lips.

For one heartbeat, the gauntlet tightens upon his throat, only to loosen again. Melkor answers the kiss with imperious severity. He seizes the Maia by the hair, imprisoning him within the iron confines of his embrace.

Of course, Mairon had made himself presentable before appearing before his Lord, changing into simple but formal attire. Of course, Melkor had received him clad in full battle armour.

It is incendiary — infuriating, arousing. Mairon chases the long-awaited kiss, wrapping his arms around Melkor, and finds only freezing iron beneath his hands. Pressing himself against the Vala hurts.

He presses closer all the same. Every inch of his body grows unbearably sensitive.

He rocks his hips once, then again.

Melkor cannot feel his arousal through the armour, yet he surely guesses it from the movement alone. Mairon would rather feel the Vala’s shaft than cold steel, yet there is something deeply satisfying in the freedom of his own body, in the thought that Melkor — who has received his insignificant servant arrayed in all his terrible might — cannot quite return the same desperate friction, cannot get himself off.

As though suddenly aware of the disadvantage of his own position, the Lord of Arda breaks the kiss.

“My stern, ascetic Maia,” he drawls, his voice hoarse with mockery. “So utterly uninterested in the matters of the flesh. And look at you now.”

Melkor smiles — slyly, but not maliciously. Mairon frowns, blinking in bewilderment.

At once, instinct urges him to spit back: Then why summon such an inexperienced lover, when you have so many others?

But the thought falters before it reaches his tongue. Perhaps it is not Mairon’s inexperience that he is implying. Perhaps Melkor doubts whether or not Mairon himself needs... this.

Perhaps there are no others.

[kingcriccket]

it turns out [critically acclaimed book that has been popular and beloved for decades] is actually really good. have you guys heard about this. <- 'discovery' I will have several times a year for the rest of my life.

[thetiredprometheus]

Fëanor: Greetings, my beloved sons. And greetings to you, foul brood of my unloved brothers.

Finrod, currently playing songs with Maglor: Hello!

Fingon, lounging on the couch: hey

Aredhel, raiding the pantry: 'sup

[aamuusva]

painting old sketches

[fairycosmos]

you literally have to unironically listen to some shit like party rock anthem so you don’t kill yourself

[thewritersatlas]

idk who out here saying "fëanor did nothing wrong". incorrect. fëanor didn't do ENOUGH wrong. morgoth stopped him just as he was hitting his stride. let my babygirl commit some real war crimes.

[subliminamilly]

Fëanor looking at infant Maedhros: yea I’m going to need like 6 more of these