Sweets and Treat
Fingon x modern human!reader
A/N: I have arrived with my beloved Fingon and another modern reader fic (*^▽^)/★*☆♪
Warnings: none, absolutely fluff and sweetness, modern human reader
Words: 3.7k
Synopsis: An attempt to bake your favourite treat, ends in burns, bandages and a sweet confession.
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The soft scent of crushed athelas and lavender hung in the warm air of the apothecary, mingling with the crisp breeze that filtered in through the open windows of Elrond’s homestead in Valinor, where ivy clung lazily to carved stone archways and light fell like gold through the treetops. There you stood elbow-deep in mortar and pestle duties, sleeves rolled to your forearms as you worked with slow deliberation to grind dried herbs into a fine powder after a long morning of bandaging over-eager hunting injuries and tending to minor wounds.
The healing house was quieter now since the earlier flurry of activity had dwindled to a few murmured conversations and the occasional bark of laughter from the ward beyond. Not too long ago, you had just begun to sort a small pile of freshly laundered bandages when you heard the sound of familiar footsteps, accompanied by the subtle rustle of robes and the telltale clink of vials in a tray.
“Is it safe to enter,” came a teasing voice from the threshold, “or will I be assaulted with flying gauze and foul language again?”
Looking up and arching a brow at Calwen, a fellow healer whose wry smile always hinted at mischief, and had taken to delight in troubling you at any available opportunity.
“Depends,” you replied, brushing a strand from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Are you bringing news of another poor soul who mistook a sword for a walking stick?”
“Worse,” she said with a grin that immediately set your internal alarm bells ringing. “We’ve got a new patient in the east wing. Rather urgent, or so he says. Requested you specifically.”
That alone prompted you to frown. “Is it that reckless idiot who tried to cauterise his own arm last week?”
Tilting her head while her lips twitched, she bore a ‘clueless’ expression. “Couldn’t say. Though I do recall a certain someone promising to throw the next fool who lit themselves on fire into the nearest fountain.”
“Glad you’re keeping track of my threats.”
“Always. They bring such flavour to the place.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”
There was no reply, only a suspiciously bright smile as she handed you a rolled up parchment of paper and turned sharply on her sandals before disappearing around the doorway with the flounce of someone who knew far more than she was willing to say. You didn’t know what else to possible say or do. Being around a class of people in a league entirely above you, left you exhausted as you tried to understand their love for being poetical, theoretical, hypothetical and metaphorical. You didn’t have time for such a brainrot moment.
Keeping the last of your two brain cells sane, were your jot and comfort in this foreign land.
Sighing, you set aside your tasks, you wiped your hands on a cloth, and snatched up the parchment as you moved out of the back room and into the airy corridor that connected the treatment wards. The moment you stepped through, the lingering scent of sweet herbs gave way to a subtle waft of chocolate and something else…something suspiciously like burnt flour. It made you wrinkle your nose.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath as you stalked toward the east wing, muttering to yourself as though you were gearing up for war. Maybe you were because dealing with people who lived like ‘you only live once’ didn’t exist since they were allowed to have second chances. “If this is that same overconfident fool who thought boiling salve didn’t need gloves, I swear I’m going to light him on fire. One more elf walks in with a burn injury and I’m submitting a formal request to ban anything fire from existing.”
Protesting like a lunatic to yourself as you marched through the hallway, your footfalls echoed faintly along the marbled floor. That glimmer of the halls glowing with that ever-present soft illumination that Valinor seemed to bestow on everything it touched, but you paid it little mind, too preoccupied with rehearsing a scolding worthy of the ages.
“I’m starting to regret opening my mouth and go “Hey, I know medicine!” the minute I dropped out the sky to save my ass. I should have let them throw me into the ocean or something.”
Rounding the corner with the intention of storming in, expecting the worst—probably someone trying to show off for one of the fair-haired maidens in the training courts again—and flung open the door, ready to unleash hell. But alas, it wasn’t some arrogant warrior sprawled dramatically on the healing cot.
It was him.
Fingon.
His dark hair was half-loose, braids falling lazily over his shoulders, the ends tied with a golden ribbons that looked slightly singed. From your angle, his cheeks appeared flushed, and fingers emerged in cool spring water which, from the look of it, had been mercifully given to him by someone with enough grace to buy him time but not much more. And then there were his robes, ever finely embroidered, were singed at the sleeve, and in his uninjured hand he held a covered dish carefully balanced on a folded towel.
For a long moment, you just stood there, the words you’d been crafting, caught somewhere between your brain and your throat.
Sheepishly he looked up, but hopeful, as though he wasn’t entirely certain whether you’d laugh at him or throw him out. “…Hello,” he said, with a slow dimpled smile that would do dangerous things to anyone’s composure. “I seem to have run afoul of the culinary arts.”
You blinked, dumbfounded. “You…cooked?”
Gently he lifted the dish. “I tried.”
There was a beat of silence passing before you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop with a quiet sigh of disbelief as you closed the door behind you. “Ah, uh, what, how, um—What did you do, throw yourself into the oven to see if it was warm enough?”
“Not at all,” he cheerily beamed, holding back a laugh, “just the tray. Though in hindsight, I do wonder if it had it out for me.”
Stepping forward, already reaching for the bandages and ointments, your eyes flicked toward the dish he held with curiosity now tinged with concern.
“Is that the dish? What did you whip up?”
There was a small puzzled expression crossing his face, resembling a puppy, before recognition. “A peace offering,” he replied shakily, as though all his confidence vanished at his pre-confession. “Brownies. I followed Glorfindel’s instructions. Mostly.”
There was a sudden pause as you looked him over, teetering on the edge of disbelief. “Glorfindel taught you to bake?”
Fingon nodded with utmost seriousness. “He claimed it was the quickest path to someone’s heart. Though he failed to mention how hazardous the process would be.”
And in spite of yourself, you laughed softly, like a bubbling spring because the image of the fierce and golden-haired Balrog-slayer teaching Fingon, High Prince of the Noldor, to bake brownies for the sake of wooing someone was so utterly absurd and endearing that you couldn’t help it.
Turning to set down your supplies, you shook your head. “Well, I suppose we should take a look at the damage. Your hand, I mean. I’ll see about the brownies after. Hopefully they’re still alive.”
“It isn’t burnt that terribly,” he whispered depreciated, feeling as though you might view his attempt as failure if you deem it needing ‘saving.’
As you began to gently unwrap the compress, your fingers working with the familiarity born of long hours spent in this house, you caught the way his gaze lingered on you with the an observational reverence of someone who saw more than what you showed to others.
It was the same look he always wore when he visited under the guise of wishing to see Elrond and learn more stories about Middle Earth through the ages.
Shaking your head at the notion, you drifted your focus to the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers—warmer than usual, reddened and delicate where it had come into contact with the offending tray. You handled his hand with practiced care, gently dabbing the cool salve along the burn in slow, even strokes, watching his knuckles twitch ever so slightly under the cooling touch. Callouses had decorated his broad hand from years of training, strong and sure in ways you had always noticed and tried not to dwell on.
The silence in the room shifted into something softer, the kind that always stretched between you and Fingon whenever he visited—full of things unsaid. It was filled with his quiet, steady gaze and the careful way he spoke around you, never too forward, always leaving space for you to step toward or away. His gesture always made you flustered and you hated how your heartbeat sped up at his nearness, how his mere presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. More intimate.
“You really burned yourself baking brownies?” you asked again, anything to resist awkwardness settling, though your voice had lost its earlier sharpness. “That’s a new low, even for you.”
There was a faint tilt of his head, and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. “It is a rather undignified wound, is it not? Shall I conjure a better tale? One involving a great hunting tale, perhaps?”
“I might believe it more,” you airily chuckled, smoothing a salve-covered thumb across the edge of the burn. “You’d look more at home hunting than in a kitchen.”
“Then it pleases me you’re tending to me now. You’re far gentler than Glorfindel was with his ‘lessons.’”
That led to a soft snort. “I’m surprised he didn’t teach you with a sword in one hand and a spatula in the other.”
“You are quite the seer. That is close to how he appeared,” Fingon beamed with all the solemnity of someone recounting a great personal trial. “It was chaos. I nearly lost an eyebrow.”
You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips, though you kept your head ducked slightly to focus on his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s commendable you’re still alive. And you made it all the way here without dropping the brownie, so really, you should be proud.”
“I am,” he whispered quieter, almost thoughtful. “Though I might be prouder if you agreed to share it with me later.”
That made you looked up slowly, your eyes meeting his, and there it was again—that look. As if he were studying something he didn’t quite understand but very much wanted to. As if the room contained only you, and nothing else in Valinor could possibly matter. You held his gaze for a moment too long before you cleared your throat and gently set his bandaged hand aside to retrieve fresh gauze.
“I’ll wrap this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “It’s not severe, but you’ll want to avoid using that hand for a few days.”
A silence fell over you two once again as he watched you work without flinching, unmoving, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer, almost hesitant.
“You know,” he murmured, “when I asked Glorfindel to teach me, it wasn’t only for the brownie.”
You paused, not looking up. “Really?”
“No,” he reassured, and now his voice carried a note of quiet conviction, the kind that unnerved you more than a storm ever could. “It was for the question I intended to ask you when I brought it.”
A pregnant stillness lingered in the air, forcing you to halt, fingers hovering above the bandage, your breath catching before you forced yourself to resume wrapping, slower now. “What kind of question?” you asked, though you felt like you knew, though you felt the answer humming under your skin already.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flexed his uninjured hand slightly in his lap, his expression unreadable.
“You’re not from here,” he spoke up at last. “You’re not of Arda. Not even of the race of Men that my people once knew. And yet…you are here. Amongst us. Amongst me. And I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought.”
You swallowed, fingers tightening just slightly as you secured the gauze and fastened it in place.
“That’s not an answer,” you said softly, unable to stop the tremor in your voice.
He leaned forward, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could smell the hint of chocolate still clinging to his robes, enough that his gaze became inescapable.
“I wanted to ask if I might court you,” he announced, simply. No fanfare, no embellishment—just quiet honesty. “Properly. Despite what separates us.”
You froze, fingers resting lightly against his wrist, your heart hammering as your mind tried and failed to conjure the right thing to say. There wasn’t a time when you had imagined this moment in foolish, lonely hours—always dismissing it as impossible, as something out of place and time. Because he was Fingon. High Prince of the Noldor. Reborn from the halls of Mandos, a song made flesh, heir to a house that shaped the fate of kingdoms.
And you were just…you. A human, displaced and strange, a creature of science and sarcasm, stitching wounds and fetching herbs in a world that still felt too luminous, too vast for your understanding.
Looking up at him slowly, words suffocating somewhere behind your teeth but refusing to come out. And he saw it—your hesitation, your disbelief. So he did what Fingon always did best.
He smiled.
“I know it is much to ask,” he said gently. “And I know our paths were never meant to cross. But they have. And I would not ignore that.”
You breathed out shakily, forcing yourself to step back and busy yourself with cleaning up the used bandages, because if you stood still any longer, you feared you might say something you weren’t ready to understand.
“Fingon,” you began, then faltered, eyes on your hands.
“I am not asking you to decide now,” he corrected quickly and earnestly. “Only that you think on it. That you know it is not a jest, nor some fleeting interest.”
Dared not to glance back at him, but you did and saw the sincerity etched in every line of his face, every soft curve of his lips, and something ached inside you, deep and old.
He didn’t press.
He only stood, slowly, cradling the brownies with his good hand and offering you the faintest of bows.
“I will return once the hand has healed,” he said, though something in his voice hinted he would return far sooner than that. “You may decide then whether to eat this with me…or scold me further.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving behind a strange warmth in his absence, and the faint scent of cocoa and burnt flour lingering in the air.
The healing house had grown quiet by the time the sun dipped low beyond the pearl-white trees and into the soft gold veil of twilight. Most of the other aides had long since gone home, leaving only a hush behind—the kind that settled thick over stone corridors and turned idle thoughts into wandering ghosts. You remained at your corner station, but your hands had grown still, unmoving for a while now, your mind elsewhere entirely.
You hadn’t been able to shake Fingon’s voice from your ears. The way he had said it—I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought. So simple, and yet spoken with the same conviction you imagined he might’ve once used before galloping into battle. No elf had ever spoken to you like that before, and certainly no prince. Not with intention. And definitely not after burning his hand trying to impress you with dessert.
A short, unwilling laugh escaped you at the memory.
He had really done that. The valiant, golden and hearty son of the House of Fingolfin had burned himself making brownies. For you.
When the door to the healer’s quarters creaked open, you were certain it was one of the senior healers come to check on late records. You didn’t glance up right away. But the moment you did, you found Fingon standing there again—cloaked now, though still informal, the hood pushed back to reveal the soft unbraided tumble of his dark hair, loose in a way that made him appear younger, more relaxed.
He held the same small covered dish in one hand. The other, the burnt one, was still wrapped in your handiwork. And you stared at him, stunned.
“You were meant to be resting,” you said dumbly.
“I did rest,” he replied, stepping inside. “Long enough to convince myself that if I waited until morning, the courage might drain right out of me. And then you’d be left with half a brownie and a full silence.”
You blinked. “Sooooo, you came back tonight?”
“I had hoped,” he said, a little more carefully now, “that you might be willing to share it with me. Now. If it’s not too bold.”
That should have been your cue to send him home. You should’ve told him you were tired, that it had been a long day, that patients were exhausting, that you needed to sleep and think and breathe—but you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you stared at the hearty dish in his hands, the scent of sweet chocolate wafting from it as he stepped closer.
“Are you sure it is edible?” you asked warily.
“That depends,” he chuckled with a slight smirk. “Will you eat it even if it’s not?”
Your expression twitched. “If I die, Elrond will kill you.”
“Then it’s fortunate you are the healer,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I assume you know how to revive yourself.”
You huffed, unable to help the small laugh that escaped as you shook your head and moved to the table near the corner hearth. Fingon followed, settling across from you as if it were the most natural thing in the world—as though he had done it a thousand times before and would again, for years still to come.
Producing two forks from the drawer, you slid one across the table toward him. He uncovered the dish with a flourish that would’ve been comical had it not smelled absolutely heavenly. You blinked at the warm, brown crust, bubbling edges, and faint caramelised glaze across the top.
“Well fuck me,” you muttered. “You actually pulled it off.”
“I am capable of more than I appear,” he proudly boasted with mock gravity, lifting a fork with the grace of someone raised to dine beside kings. “Though I dare say the presentation is Glorfindel’s doing. I only barely avoided burning it twice.”
Humming at his words, you took your own bite, and to your immense surprise, it wasn’t just edible—it was good. Warm and bright and syrupy with melted chocolate. You made a soft, delighted noise despite yourself. That response made Fingon’s eyes lit immediately. “That sound,” he said, too quickly, “—forgive me—it pleased me.”
Your fork paused halfway back to the bowl, and you looked at him across the modest firelight and shadows of the stone walls, feeling suddenly shy in a way that annoyed you.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you reminded him. “I still haven’t agreed to anything.”
“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I said I would wait.”
And he meant it. It showed in the steady way he looked at you, never pressing, never insisting, only offering his presence—his real presence—as if to say, Here I am. If you want me.
It had been a long time since anyone had made you feel like the choice was yours.
“I don’t know how it would work,” you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. “I’m not from this world. I say strange things, do stranger things. I don’t have kin here. No lineage. No...destiny. And human-elven relationships…” You trailed off, glancing away. “They never end well. You know that. You’re ancient, Fingon. I’m a blink.”
He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, spoon still resting untouched in his bowl.
“And yet, for all my age, I have never met another like you,” he whispered quietly. “Not in all my days of fire and war, nor in all the years I have wandered since. You carry strangeness like a torch. You shine in ways that make my kind curious, and sometimes confused, but never unmoved. You remind me of the world we nearly lost—the one we fought for.”
You blinked fast, your throat tightening at the rawness in his voice. Then he placed his fork down, looking suddenly uncertain, hesitant.
“I do not ask for forever,” he said. “Only…for a beginning.”
And it was then—only then—you understood. It wasn’t just affection he was offering, it wasn’t about courtship the way your world understood it. He wanted to build something with you. Whatever shape it could take. He wasn’t afraid of the human-elf barrier because to him, the time he had now meant more than the memory of what time had taken.
You didn’t speak for a moment, only reached for his hand again—the one you’d wrapped in bandages earlier—and rested your fingers lightly over his wrist.
The gentle touch of your hand upon his, he looked down at the contact, then back up at you with a quiet, surprised hope.
“I’m not promising anything eternal,” you reminded, a smile tugging weakly at your lips. “But…we can start with brownies.”
Just hearing your response, accustomed to your playfulness, his laugher echoed softly, yet disbelieving, eyes shining in the firelight.
“I would’ve burned both hands for that,” he proudly stated. “And I’m ready to try another sweet.”
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