Let it be infinite while it lasts
The original™ OTP, Virgo Shaka & Aries Mu
Think of someone happy. That's me!
What a wonderful gift! Shaka and Mu by LyraGoth! I am absolutely ecstatic and so incredibly honored. Thank you, Precious.
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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if i look back, i am lost

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@rosenrotstuff
Let it be infinite while it lasts
The original™ OTP, Virgo Shaka & Aries Mu
Think of someone happy. That's me!
What a wonderful gift! Shaka and Mu by LyraGoth! I am absolutely ecstatic and so incredibly honored. Thank you, Precious.
The heavy doors of Tyelpërinquar’s pink-and-pastel chambers clicked shut, sealing away the soft, domestic world of fatherhood.
Curufin moved carefully, almost soundlessly, tiptoing out of the bedroom.
In the early hours, Tyelpërinquar had wanted no maid, no nurse—only his father.
The little prince had dismissed every attendant in tears and indignation, refusing all comfort until word was carried through the great halls, and Curufin was summoned from whatever affairs had kept him away. Only then did his crying subside, softening at last when Curufin returned to him.
The nursery still clung to him—ginger cookies, faint lullabies, the sticky grasp of small hands that had refused to let go of his sleeve until sleep finally won. Tyelpërinquar had only just surrendered to exhaustion, breath evening into that fragile rhythm that made the entire chamber feel breakable.
Only when Curufin was certain that his child had drifted into dreams did he exhale and sink into the waiting bath.
He shed the practical softness of his robes, now marked with the sweet, unguarded chaos of parenting: crumbs pressed into his hair, a smear of paint along his cuff, the little toy his son had insisted on fastening to him as though it were a binding oath.
Each piece was removed with care and precision, not in haste, because every trace of Tyelpë was cherished.
The change in him was never abrupt.
The tenderness did not vanish so much as recede. It withdrew.
He folded it carefully away where it would not be seen, and locked it behind his piercing eyes. What remained was something refined, poised, self-possessed—sensual in its restraint.
And the air shifted with him.
The whimsical warmth gave way to the slow burn of costly incense, the low amber pulse of the dark candelabra's fire, casting gold across carved stone. Shadows gathered more willingly here.
Then he adorned himself.
Jewels first—cold, precise points of brilliance laid against his fair skin.
And over it, crimson silk.
It did little to conceal him, as he wished.
The fabric slid into place with the ease of something made for his body, clinging like a second skin.
In the firelight, the hue deepened, almost black at the folds, blood-red where it caught the glow—less clothing than intention made visible.
And Curufinwë, second of his name—careful father in a pastel childroom by morning—made his way toward his lovers’ chambers now. Whose bed awaited him tonight was a mystery known only to him.
He carried himself as he always did, in the language of courts and shadows, sophisticated and quietly lethal in his beauty.
I feel like I didn't do justice in my comment on AO3, so I gotta comment here as well *essay ahead* I know good-dad Curufin isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I personally adore how you write their relationship so lovingly during Telpë's childhood, just so we can watch it going downhill as Telpë grows up. - And here he is loving as a father, he comes immediately when summoned and stays until Telpë is fully asleep. - His emotional control is extraordinary. He chooses what parts of himself are visible. - His appearance is not vanity alone, he weaponizes aesthetics and his beauty and uses it consciously. - Nothing about him is crude or openly violent. His danger is refined, seducing through composure and elegance. Even the way he walks feels calculated. Like a court poisoner rather than brute strength. - He lives in divided worlds, between the domestic softness and the sensual darkness. The unsettling part (for me) is how effortlessly he transitions between them. But that's Curufin, after all. - He is self-possessed, even his beauty is controlled rather than emotional. Everything is refined. He feels aristocratic, not simply "rich prince", but someone trained from birth to master it (perhaps Fëanor saw to it himself). - I sense there’s a loneliness in him, even amid lovers and luxury, the setting feels (a bit) isolated, dark and melancholic. I guess the final line, saying "whose bed awaited him was a mystery known only to him", feels like he does all that without any attachment, so Telpë (and perhaps Tyelko and his immediate family) is the only relationship that feels emotionally genuine, because everywhere else, he is performing roles, whether as prince, seducer, etc Lastly, I love when/how you characterize Tyelperinquar as an elfling: - He is emotionally strong-willed already, as he is in canon works. I love how you give him personality. He is dramatic, stubborn, princely, and demanding. It's all there, the beginnings of the forceful will associated with Fëanorian bloodlines, translated into childhood form. - He experiences Curufin very differently from everyone else. To the court, Curufin is sophisticated, lethal. But to Tyelpërinquar, he is simply atar... warmth, lullabies, cookies, etc. Telpë has access to a version of Curufin no one else sees. - He humanizes (elfanizes? lol) Curufin. Without him, the whole fic would simply be sensual and aristocratic. Because of him, Curufin becomes layered, and we see he is capable of affection (even if it's for his own blood), and I adore it in your Curufin. - There is also a subtle fragility around Telpë imo. "The entire chamber feels breakable” gives the impression that he is precious in a dangerous world. The atmosphere around him is delicate, temporary, protected. I love how that fragility heightens the later transformation when Curufin leaves the nursery and re-enters the darker, political, sensual world beyond it. Never stop writing them.
We already had a Curufin appreciation post, but what about a Celegorm appreciation post?
A compilation of Celegorms for appreciation 🏹➵💘
Your favorite Curufin fanarts
All of them by @lyragoth
Himlads
The kitchens of Tirion had never quite seen anything like it.
Queen Indis stood at the long stone table, sleeves drawn back, golden hair loosely braided so it would not fall into her work. Around her lay bowls of rice—soft, pearled, still warm with steam—and small dishes of fillings she had prepared herself: delicately seasoned fish, slivers of pickled plum, greens dressed with a brightness unfamiliar in Tirion. The scents were gentle and delicious.
Fingolfin sat nearby, watching with the solemn impatience of a child who knew something special was being made for him.
“Is it ready?” he asked for the third time, leaning forward again, fingers creeping toward the nearest bowl.
Indis nudged his hand away lightly without looking up. “Almost. Good things take shaping.”
“How much shaping?”
“As much as I say.”
He huffed, but stayed—watching closely, chin nearly on the table now.
With careful fingers, she pressed the rice together—not merely into balls, but into forms. Each one she molded with quiet concentration: a small horse and a crooked crown. Then, from a finely tinted layer of rice, she added soft blushes of pink across the tops, like petals just opening. They were not perfect, not symmetrical—but they were warm from her hands, made with love.
“Those are flowers,” Fingolfin said, brightening.
“Cherry flowers,” Indis answered, placing one into his hands. “A memory from Valimar.”
“They are pink,” he said, turning it over, and immediately took a bite, too big, rice sticking faintly to his cheek.
His lips broke into a delighted smile. “It is good!”
He swallowed quickly, already leaning forward again. “Can we make an eagle? A gigantic eagle like Thorondor! This one is too small.”
Indis laughed softly. “Finish that one first.”
Across the hall, unseen, another pair of eyes had been watching.
Fëanor had only passed by the kitchens on his way elsewhere—but the quiet laughter, the unfamiliar scent, and finally, the sight of Indis bending close to her son… it held him there.
He saw the way Fingolfin leaned into her presence without thought. The ease of it. The half-spoken demands, the certainty of being answered.
He saw the food shaped not for court or ceremony, but for love.
And something in him—sharp, sudden, unwelcome—tightened.
Later that day, the palace cooks received an unusual request.
“Cherry-blossom rice balls, my lord?” one repeated, puzzled.
“Yes,” said Fëanor, voice clipped, precise. “And also a horse and a great eagle, and a crown.”
The cooks exchanged glances. They had seen, though from a distance, Indis making something similar to the prince's request. Still, they were masters of their craft. Rice was rice. Form was form.
“We will make them, my lord.”
They did.
The rice was of the finest quality. The fillings were carefully prepared. Each piece was shaped with meticulous attention, the pink accents placed with delicate artistry. Perfect, not asymmetric and ugly like Indis’s—each blossom and color exact.
They arranged them on a polished tray and brought them to him.
Fëanor dismissed them with a nod.
For a moment, he only looked.
They were flawless.
He picked one up.
The rice held together perfectly. The balance of flavors was precise—measured, refined, impeccable.
He took another bite.
And stopped.
It tasted exactly as it should. The texture was ideal. The seasoning was correct.
But it was empty.
Fëanor frowned, sharper now, and set it down. He reached for another, as if repetition might reveal what he had missed. The result was the same.
His hand tightened slightly around the third.
In his mind, unbidden, came the image he had not meant to keep: Indis and Fingolfin shaping each piece together. Fingolfin watching, knowing—without question—that this was for him.
Fëanor looked again at the untouched tray.
No one had made these for him.
They had made them because he had ordered.
There was a distinction.
He stood abruptly, pushing the tray aside. One of the rice trees tipped, collapsing slightly where it struck the table. The shape broke easily, revealing nothing at its center but what had been carefully placed there.
Drawing Crow Melkor might be my new favorite thing tehe (Hand is supposed to be Mairon)
Inspired by⬇️
(Btw, are my artworks too dark? When I draw them on my tablet the colors always appear to be lighter somehow)
Shapeshifter
Celebrimbor's skin Seine Angst ist meine Angst Seine Wut ist meine Wut Seine Liebe ist meine Liebe Sein Blut ist mein Blut
Another child had gone missing.
“Third this month,” muttered the younger sailor. “Didn’t even leave her shoes behind.”
The eldest took a swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with a scarred hand. “Probably wandered off. Kids do that.”
“No,” said the third, leaning in. His eyes were sharp despite the drink. “You’ve heard the stories. It’s the Witch of the Woods.”
The other two flinched.
“Lives just past the black trees,” he went on, voice low. “The children say it sings at night. Like flutes and bells. They say it walks, but wrong. They say it moves strange. Knees bend backward. Spine doesn’t twist right. Like a puppet with no strings.”
He tapped his lower eyelid.
“Doesn’t blink. Just stares. Golden eyes like a doll’s... glossy, wide. Follows you not with its head, not its face — just the irises. Like this.”
He demonstrated: unblinking eyes rolling unnaturally in their sockets.
The younger sailor clenched a talisman under his shirt and whispered a prayer to the Valar, barely audible.
The old one snorted. “And what, this witch is stealing children out of their beds to eat them?”
“They say it is a he,” the third whispered. “But not really. Just wears the shape of a man. Long black cloak. No shadow. Smells like incense and cold metal.”
He leaned closer.
“Some say it’s him. The Sorcerer. The one the king brought from the East. Only he isn’t a man at all. He isn't anything. Just a mask that talks.”
The eldest scoffed. “You think the king’s pet snake has time to haunt forests and hex brats?”
They say he cut out his own heart and stitched it to the heart of a prince. The prince with silver in his hands. He killed him, they say. Killed him and tried to bring him back. But love soured in death, and what rose wasn’t love at all. No one remembers their names. That’s how old the story is. But children still whisper it behind closed shutters: He walks with two hearts, but neither are his.
A realistic take on Drifloon and Drifblim I leaned into the idea of Drifloon as a rubber balloon with tape, and Drifblim as a stitched-together balloon, just cute ghosts. I had a lot of fun with all these buttons, seams, stuffing, dangling tags, frayed ribbon limbs, and everything my imagination could reach. Back to my pastel palette, because I can't draw saturated colors (I swear I tried). Part of my realistic Pokémon project. More here: Kanto Starters
Eu quero os dois pra mim!
Ta gostando da mensagem? Não. Por que? Porque nem de vaquejada eu gosto Tem uma sengunda mensagem, vê se voce gosta Tá. OOOOOO BOIADA TEIMÓS OOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOOOO BOIADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEoooooooo BOOOOOOOOIAAHDAAAAAAaaaaaAAAAAAAAAA OOOOBOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEE Paga ai a mensagem, 26 reaish, 5 pela locução.
LyraGoth rendition of The Original™ Starters
Here we have: A dinosaur with a lettuce in his back, a salamander with a flaming tail, and a blue turtle.
ODEIO ODEIO ODEIO ODEIO ODEIO ODEIO DETESTO
Eu também ODEIO :heart:
@lyragoth
I know Fingon isn’t everyone’s blorbo, some of you don't know him, and not all of you eat lembas, but please accept it anyway, because he is offering you a plate of fresh, toasted lembas bread that he baked himself.
Ice cream served on a kale leaf! Fingon and Maedhros are total ice cream addicts!
I created this illustration as a gift for my beloved @lyragoth, with whom I share all my headcanons, my days, my joys and my sorrows. Lyra your art inspires me and enchants me more every single day.
I love you so much baby.
maedhros' morning
inspired by @russingon 's tweet about his cat !
curufin