What if yn already had a romantic partner from where they came from and it's a monogamous relationship? Like yn went to the past, another world, or another dimension and someone (character or not) hits on yn, "no, I'm already with someone."
Being A Modern Reader In Valinor and Finrod Falling For You
A/N: New and fresh content for the other golden puppy. It’s a shame that I barely give him solo content 😫. Enjoy!!
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➳❥ When you first met Finrod elbow-deep in herbs and bandages, fumbling with a jar lid that wouldn’t open no matter how hard you tried, he had wordlessly stepped in and popped it open like it was nothing. Giving you a curious smile as you muttered, “Thanks, Hercules.”
➳❥ And that was pretty much how you caught his attention. He didn’t ask what you meant, but you noticed the gleam in his eyes as he tucked the name away like a precious gem. It wasn’t long before he started calling himself Hercules when no one else was around. Only to smirk even more when you had finally explain further.
➳❥ You has ended up as Elrond’s assistant, ever since you randomly dropped into Valinor, for a while by then—though the term ‘assistant’ was generous. You had some knowledge of modern medicine, and while elves didn’t get sick the same way mortals did, wounds still happened, illnesses sometimes lingered, and your way of thinking brought a fresh angle to his work.
➳❥ “So we’re just going to slap crushed leaves on it and let the hibbie-jibbie magic to the rest?” you’d asked once, squinting at an ointment Elrond had made. He gave you a tired dad look and said, “Yes. Everything you said.” You’d snorted and muttered something about old-fashioned remedies, but the results were hard to argue with.
➳❥ Finrod had the tendency to overhear your sarcastic comments in passing, causing him to laugh. “You say the strangest things. Do you mock everything, or only things you care about?”
➳❥ You told him you mocked everything, including death, especially death, and that had gotten a spark of recognition in his gaze that startled you both. He’d fought in Beleriand, and there was a weariness buried deep in his spirit that still responded to depths of his humour.
➳❥ Eventually, he took that as an excuse to start visiting more often, claiming he needed herbs from Elrond or to ask Celebrian’s opinion on something trivial. Every time you’d glance at him, he’d be watching you like he was trying to puzzle out a language only you spoke.
➳❥ “Your eyes do not look at us as though we are legends,” he remarked one afternoon, leaning on the doorframe while you argued with Elrond over whether boiling instruments was more effective than bathing them in alcohol. “It is oddly refreshing.”
➳❥ He asked you once, “Why do you not use the proper forms of speech? You speak as though the words fight each other.” You raised an eyebrow and told him, “Because life’s too short to sound like a Shakespearean actor at every turn, mate.”
➳❥ When you started calling him mate, he would repeat it back to you with cautious confusion, leading to you spending the next ten minutes explaining that no, it didn’t mean you were flirting with him. Probably.
➳❥ After that, he made it a point to use modern slang in ways that made no sense at all. “I am simply vibing,” he said once, seated elegantly on the edge of the healing house roof. “Do not disturb my vibe.” Just hearing modern slang rolling of his tongue sounded to foreign. He was still too posh for it—but it was great laughter for your soul.
➳❥ It was even funnier when it came to using idioms. “Breaking a leg out there! Knock ‘em dead! Slay!”You had his brows reaching his forehead because “Why would you say such negative words when meant to encourage?”You needed to sit him down to explain that it was an idiom and not to be taken literally. So now you had him telling others the same phrases.
➳❥ You once made an offhand comment about being a ‘gremlin with a medical licence,’ and he asked if it was some form of a mortal healer’s rank. You refused to clarify. And so, he called you Gremlin of the Healing Hall with a suspiciously affectionate tilt to his voice. “Good day, Great Gremlin of the Healing Hall.”
➳❥ When it came to him being into you, you didn’t realise—mostly because he was an elf prince who’d died fighting a werewolf and you were someone who just happened to be spat out from the sky on a random day. The math didn’t math.
➳❥ But then there were the small things. Like how he brought you plants from other gardens ‘for study’ but then beamed when you placed them near your workbench. Or how he remembered that you hated the feeling of linen bandages and found you cotton ones. How he leaned in when you were talking, like he was memorising your tone.
➳❥ “You are…unrefined,” he said once, and you laughed. “Come again?” He shook his head. “No—I like it. You cut the shape of the world differently than we do. It is…sharper. Clearer.”
➳❥ You have caught him once attempting to write a list of your modern idioms in Quenya. You watched him struggle to translate “barking up the wrong tree” with such solemn intensity you didn’t have the heart to stop him.
➳❥ Elrond knew, of course. He raised an eyebrow every time Finrod showed up with another “urgent question” about Celebrian’s tea preferences. “He likes you,” Which only made you shrug. “Yeah, well, he’s got odd taste, and I feel sorry for what he’s got to put up with.”
➳❥ You and Finrod do, from time to time, end up in a heated discussions about ethics in medicine—something about whether you could replicate vaccines in Aman or if that was even necessary—and it ended with him looking at you like you’d hung the stars.
➳❥ “You are not like Bëor’s people,” he said quietly, after. “There was wonder in them, yes, but you carry knowledge. Woven like a weapon into your humour.”
➳❥ Once you fixed his dislocated shoulder after a sparring match and he had the audacity to flirt while grimacing. “Your bedside manner is very commanding,” he sweetly seduced, through gritted teeth. “I feel scolded into recovery.”
➳❥ You slapped his arm and told him, “You’re not dying, stop being dramatic.” His grin was bright enough to put the sun out.
➳❥ One evening, you were exhausted and cranky and snapped at him when he asked a completely innocent question about the use of antiseptic. You regretted it instantly, but he only gave you a slight nod, and later brought you a cup of some herbal tea you’d once offhandedly mentioned helped you sleep.
➳❥ “I do not mind the rough edges,” he said, when you muttered an apology. “They make the bright parts brighter.”
➳❥ You gave him a nickname once—called him ‘Goldilocks’ and he froze like you’d kissed him. The next time you said it, he smiled so slowly it made your heart hiccup.
➳❥ There was a moment, once, when you were both sitting side by side after treating a minor injury someone brought in—a child with scraped knees, nothing serious—and he looked over at you, quiet and thoughtful, and said, “I wish I had met you then. Before the world broke.”
➳❥ He showed you music from his past, old songs sung in languages older than time, and you continued to teach him more idioms and slang for him to translate. Even talking about your world’s inventions and discoveries.
➳❥ He once asked if there was a special or different way your people show affection for someone they liked, or how they confessed and showed their interest. Very smooth and subtle. You obviously caught on and even gave him advice which only made him shine brighter with a plan in mind.
➳❥ “I’d have just called you Sparkles and made fun of your hair,” you replied, not looking at him.
➳❥ You caught him watching you during a feast, romanticised, but like he was trying to understand how you existed in this world and fit nowhere and yet thrived regardless. Like you were a marvel in a very small, very messy package.
➳❥ “You are not of this place,” he told you once. “And yet I find myself wondering if perhaps this place is better for having you in it.”
➳❥ You told him he was being weirdly poetic and needed to tone it down before you started writing terrible sonnets. And of course, he turned it around to offer help.
➳❥ You never made it a big declaration, but there was one time he reached out and squeezed your hand under the table during a feast, and you didn’t flinch or joke or pull away. That, for both of you, said enough.
[ inspired by the cover song epiphany by the piano guys - i encourage you to listen to it while you read ! ]
this had been plaguing you for days now, you realized as you laid in the neatly made bed, your (e/c) eyes gazing out the window a few feet from where you lay. the trees swayed ever-so softly in the breeze, a few leaves being carried off by the soft wind. the calmness of the manor almost calmed your nerves
it felt weird, you had to admit that much. when you first woke up here, things seemed so exciting, as if you were finally living out your fangirl dreams. that’s what every anime fan dreams of, right? waking up in their favorite anime, falling in love with their favorite anime character... but truly being here had begun to lose it’s charm. sure, you had some excitement seeing as you’d seemed to appear a good bit before the beginning of the first season, though that didn’t cause your excitement to falter. it was only after season one had begun that you began to grow weary. you already knew what was going to happen, how it would happen and when it would happen. rewatching black butler multiple times had seemingly ruined the genuine experience for you.
a familiar sinking feeling began to settle in your stomach. you weren’t surprised; it was made clear a long time ago that this serenity had never been your cup of tea. you thrived being kept on your toes, and laying in your bed at the phantomhive manor wasn’t doing a damn thing for you. so with all of your strength, you hoisted yourself up and out of bed before getting dressed in a simple beige dress accompanied by some white heels. you busied yourself with pulling your hair into a low, messy bun as you exited your room. maybe walking around for a bit might help.
as you passed ciel’s study, your attention was caught by some chatter.
“no, sebastian, i am not going to have you as my dance instructor.” ciel’s voice pierced the silence.
“but, my lord, it’s far too short-notice to request one of your usual teachers. the ball is tomorrow night,” sebastian reasoned, his voice causing a small smile to fall onto your lips.
“there isn’t even any music,” ciel huffed. suddenly filled with energy, you knocked on the already open door.
“i can help with that,” you giggled.
“ah, (Y/N), good afternoon,” sebastian said, physically relaxing as his eyes caught yours.
“good afternoon, lady (Y/N). how exactly would you like to be of assistance?” ciel inquired, obviously hoping to get out of going to another ball.
you slyly pull your phone from one of your dress’s side pockets. “i can play instrumental music on my phone and sebastian can lead you through the dance.”
“why don’t you and sebastian demonstrate?” ciel asked, his face as stoic as ever, though there was a playful glint in his cerulean blue eye. you glanced at sebastian as he let out a soft chuckle before extending his gloved hand to you. opening your phone and pressing play on your music app, you then took his hand as the calming sound of one of your favorite instrumental songs filled the air.
sebastian pulled you close to him, his warm and inviting smell calming your aching nerves as he held you. you gently placed your hand on his shoulder while the other slipped into his smoothly, as if two puzzle pieces had finally fallen into place once more. having been so lost in your own memories of your home and everything that you’d felt as though you’d left behind, you’d almost forgotten just how right it felt to be in sebastian’s arms.
moving as fluidly as the ocean, and each step as soft as a falling feather, sebastian led the dance, your elegance almost matching his. the dance lasted for a few more minutes before the song faded out, leaving you both in a comfortable silence.
ciel cleared his throat in a polite manner, glancing away from the two of you.
“right then,” he said in his usual business tone. “thank you for demonstrating, sebastian, (Y/N).”
“of course,” you responded softly as you both stepped away from one another.
“there is no need to thank me, my lord.” sebastian smiled at you before returning his eyes to ciel.
the day had went by as quickly as most days do in the phantomhive manor - you helped the servants around as you could, enjoying chatting with bardroy as you helped him make dinner. though, sebastian didn’t seem to be all that happy with how close you had seemingly become with the chef, which is something he brought up after ciel had been put to bed.
“may i come in?” sebastian asked after knocking on your bedroom door.
“yeah, of course, come in,” you replied, sitting up on your bed.
“what’s up?” you asked as sebastian shut the door behind him. a slow moment of silence followed your question as he kept his back turned to you.
“do you like it here?” sebastian inquired, a small hint of fear evident in his voice.
“of course i do,” you replied softly as you stood up. “sebastian, what’s wrong?”
“you’ve seemed so distant recently. i assumed i may have done something - or not done something - that caused you to begin to become so shut off. i saw how animatedly you were conversing with bardroy and i became... afraid.”
“afraid of what?” you asked as you now stood beside the tall butler.
“afraid that you have begun to no longer care for me as i care for you...”
“sebastian...” you breathed out before gently taking his hand, causing him to look you in the eyes. “i love it here, more than anything. i’ve never felt so safe somewhere in my life. you make me feel so safe. i love you more than anything in this world or the next. i’m so sorry for being so distant, it’s just easy to feel guilty for leaving everyone behind...” another moment of silence followed before sebastian spoke up once more.
“if you... wish to return home, i will not be the one to stop you.”
“sebastian... i don’t want to ever leave here without you, okay? you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you teased the demon, causing a small smile to show on his lips.
“will you dance with me?” you blurted out. sebastian chuckled before taking your hand in his.
“nothing would make me happier.”
pulling out your phone, you once again played the same song you’d both danced to only hours before. this time, the dance was much more intimate than formal, however. sebastian loosely wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against his broad chest as you draped your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulder as you both danced elegantly across the floor of your bedroom.
as the moonlight spilled into the room in whispers, you couldn’t help but look up at sebastian, his maroon eyes fixated lovingly on your form. having been caught staring, the male could only smile before placing a soft kiss on your forehead. you sighed in content before resuming your position, your eyes closing as he held you. the song had long faded out before sebastian picked you up, carrying you to your bed and pulling you close to him once more under the inviting warmth of the covers.
a realization hit you as you began drifting off to sleep in the arms of your love, a realization that was much overdue. you may miss your friends back home, and even the life you’d grown so accustomed to... but nothing in that world could have ever felt as right as being wrapped in sebastian’s arms.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
okay hi ,, i promise i don’t write often ........ i’ve been feeling v down in the dumps emotionally and man oh man alive i needed to write something comforting ..... nyways the cover song epiphany by the piano guys makes me think of this kind of scenario SO MUCH gods i just wanna be held by sebby okay <//3
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.”
A/N: This had originally started off as a small fic and then it festered into more words before I could stop it. Oopsie
Warnings: fluff, modern human reader in middle earth, humour
Words: 2.3k
Synopsis: You tricked Ecthelion into following your make-up human remedy to cure your fever.
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You felt like you were in a sauna. The linens had been changed twice already, yet the heat still clung to you like a second skin. Sweat dampened your brow, matting your hair to your neck as you lay curled beneath the lighter sheets they’d switched to once they realised how furiously your body had begun to burn up. You didn’t remember getting back to your room—only that the last thing you saw in the kitchen was the blurred edge of a table, and then the sound of shouting before the world had tipped.
Now, the room was spinning faintly when you opened your eyes, and above you was the stone ceiling of the room appearing too bright even in twilight. Groaning at the flooding sensation of that light, you grimaced and licked you lips, only to realise that your mouth tasted stale. Your lips were cracked, and your joints were aching with a dull, simmering pressure. Breathing felt like a reluctant task you were performing for someone else. You swore an elephant was tap dancing on your chest.
And sitting beside your bed, still as a statue but with silvery-grey eyes as focused as a falcon’s, was Ecthelion.
He wasn’t shirtless and sweaty this time. Instead, he wore a layered silver-blue robes, softened around the shoulders and sleeves; thr sleeves slightly pushed up to his elbows in a way that was too casual for the head of the household. His long ebony hair was drawn back in a single plait, and his fingers were curled lightly around a cloth he had clearly been using to dab at your face. Quickly darting your eyes around, you noticed there was a bowl of water on the small table beside him, no longer steaming, with a few herbs you vaguely recognised as things Lord Galdor had once mentioned during a short medical alert for injuries in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” you groggily croaked.
“I am not moving until your fever breaks,” he announced as though he knew that you would sneak away the moment he turned his back or departed, leaving you under professional support—because you would and had before. “You’ve frightened everyone.”
“I’m fine,” you reassured casually, trying to turn in your spot. Unfortunately, the motion caused more harm than good as it made your stomach lurch. “Just overworked. Been on my feet for three days. Galdor wanted a feast.”
“Galdor,” he corrected, “wanted venison stew and grilled peaches. Not his cook fainting into the basin of boiled lentils and smoked beef.”
You would’ve laughed if it hadn’t felt like your chest had been stuffed with hot cotton. Worse, your limbs didn’t want to obey you. The ache decided to crawled down your spine, and better yet, blinking started to feel like it took effort. You weren’t used to being sick in this world—rarely caught anything, and when you did, it was usually solved with an hour’s rest and a few drinks of miruvor. This was something else entirely.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you gently reminded again, letting your head flop to the side where the pillow was cool. “You’ve probably got angry murder geese and a fancy diamond fountain to supervise.”
“My swans can survive without me…not sure about this new fountain you speak of, but I can whip something up,” he replied with the faintest arch of one dark brow and a twitch of his lips. “However, I was not going to let the most interesting person in Gondolin die of their mortal affliction like…fatigue.”
A smile pulled lazily at your mouth. “So I’m interesting now?”
“You’ve always been interesting. I simply tried to keep my thoughts to myself.” He wrung out the cloth in the water again, leaned forward, and brushed it across your forehead with careful pressure. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who could slice a boulder in half with his sword. “But you make that very difficult.”
“Mmm. Sorry,” you murmured sleepily. “I didn’t mean to collapse dramatically just so you’d come flirt with me.”
He froze momentarily, doing his best not to panic internally at the very true accusations. “This isn’t flirting. This is disaster control.”
“Same difference.”
Shifting your body under the sheets, leg twitching with some half-dreamt memory of the kitchen ovens, you were beginning to feel warm. Too hot. And yet your fingers were cold, your skin prickled uncomfortably beneath the gown someone must have helped you out of your uniform into. You hated feeling like this—so useless, pinned down by your own body while someone like Ecthelion, graceful and composed, hovered like some shining guardian waiting for you to slip away into death.
“Would you like water?” he asked, breaking you out of your thoughts. “Or more of the willowbark?”
Grimacing, y shook your head weakly. “Oh god! No more bark, please. Makes me feel like I’m high on cloud nine.”
Opening his mouth to question your unusual phrase, he shook his head and considered it the fever talking. “It is a sedative. It would make one feel drowsy.”
“Hey, I thought elves weren’t supposed to know much about human sickness.”
“I asked Glorfindel.”
“Glorfindel!—” If you had the ability to sit up, you would. Instead, you opted for staring at him concerned. “—You’re putting my life in his hands? His solution to everything is wine and a very sharp sword.”
“And yet he’s still more knowledgeable than I am by advising me to ensure you remained in bed.” He leaned back, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “Your species is incredibly inconvenient, you realise. You work yourself to the bone, you refuse to eat enough, you forget to sleep, and then you fall into bed with a fever like a wilting flower.”
“You sound like my mother,” you sighed.
“You had the healers in this house running in circles for the first hour. They had no idea what to do. I started thinking you had some incurable mortal affliction.”
“Just overworked,” you lightly reminded again, trying to move and regretting it immediately. “Tell Galdor to let me sleep more next time.”
“He has already been informed. Somewhat loudly.”
You turned your head toward him, blinking through the sweat. “You yelled at Lord Galdor?”
“I didn’t yell,” he corrected politely. “I lectured. Sternly.”
The image of it made you smile weakly against the pillow. Ecthelion, tall and formal, walking into Galdor’s kitchen with all his might just to scold a lord unintentionally for working his cook to the bone, and then staying—still here, hours later, watching you like a hawk as if you might disappear the second he turned his head. You probably you have.
“You don’t have to keep watching me,” you suggested. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You mortals have a very dramatic way of collapsing without warning.”
“Still mad about the stew?”
“I’m mad about the state of you.”
His thoughtfulness made you soften. “You care?”
He looked briefly startled, like the words had escaped him by accident. And yet, his expression shuttered immediately, as he politely looked away to hide his face. “I do.”
A pregnant pause hovered in the room before another drop of sweat slid down your temple, prompting you to let out a low groan and reached weakly for the sheets, trying to shove them off with your trembling fingers. “It’s too hot. Can’t—can’t sleep like this.”
“You’re burning,” he said. “You need to stay covered to sweat it out.”
“For the love of all things good, I don’t need to combust.”
He sighed, and then pushed his chair closer to the bed, rolling the sleeves of his robe even higher as he leaned over to adjust the pillow beneath your shoulders. Once he was finished, he dipped the cloth into the water again, and then wiped your neck, gently pressing at the overheated skin.
“Why are your hands so cold?” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded as you stared at his wrist, trying to hold back a violent shudder and clearly failing.
“Because I haven’t been sick,” he murmured humourless. “Nor do my people tend to run temperatures unless we’re active or in the sun.”
“Tch. You’re so rude to me, Thel. I’m not dying.”
“That is not what your skin is saying.”
“Fine, then. If you want to cure me, then kiss me.”
The cloth stilled against your throat.
“What?”
Blinking up at him with a straight face and cracked lips, you met his eyes. “It’s an old fashion remedy from back in my world for temperature regulation. A kiss.”
Ecthelion looked at you as if you’d just said that you were the Dark Lord incarnated. “What nonsense is that?”
“It’s a human thing,” you stated faintly. “Secret healing technique that I believe works best with elf-lords after deeper…research.”
“You’re delirious.”
“True,” you agreed, leaning in slightly closer to him. “But it’s real. Helps equalise body heat by absorbing the cooler temperature, magic and...saliva or something. It’s science.”
“You’re using your illness as an advantage and too seriously,” he protested, but there was a blush and tightness around his mouth that suggested he was trying not to smile.
“Take the fever away,” you whispered dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Save me from the boiling curse, oh my noble lord.”
“I should uh…fetch more cold water.”
“Don’t leave me! I’ll die before you come back.”
You were clearly out here questioning his sanity. He didn’t know whether to walk away and hope that it was the fever doing to talking, however, the opportunity might never return unless he worked up the courage. Giving a long-suffering sigh, then dipped the cloth again and pressed it back to your collarbone with something bordering a glare.
“You are insane.”
“I am dying, as you claim.”
“You’re not dying, you’re melodramatic.”
Pouting at his response, you eyes close again, letting the pressure of the cloth moved to your jaw, then your cheek, lingered there a moment longer than necessary. His fingers were much more careful compared to a moment ago. It was clear to state that his gaze had wandered as he contemplated.
Feeling the lingering against your cheek, you opened your eyes, to meet his gaze on you, but softer—less rigid like something in him had begun to fold. He didn’t realise it yet, but he was leaning in closer, his hair slipping from behind his ear to form a small blind.
“You really are overheated,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
“Mmm. Too bad no one’s kissing me,” you taunted. “Ever heard of the phrase ‘A kiss from a handsome lord, keeps illnesses away?’”
His gaze tenderly flicked up to yours, eyes softening around the edges and making you realise just how beautiful his eyes were when indecisive. You could see it now—he was actually considering it. His brow furrowed, mouth pressed into a flat line, but the decision was making itself somewhere behind his eyes. Your fever must have been sky-high to think that Ecthelion of the Fountain was actually entertaining the idea of—
And then his hand, the one that had been holding the cloth, shifted to your jaw. Those cool fingers, that held swords and fought for victories, cradled your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, the gesture slow, contemplative and urging you not to look away. Gingerly, he leaned in just a fraction, and the air between you stilled.
“This is ridiculous,” he murmured.
“Not denying it works.”
“Just to be clear,” he whispered with an unreadable expression, “if I kiss you, it’s to cure you.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Captain.”
He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at your comment and instead, leaned in.
His lips were cool, unexpectedly soft, and incredibly still at first—like he was giving you the chance to pull away. But when you didn’t, when your fingers reached weakly up and curled into the sleeve of his robe, he pressed closer. His lips were careful and undeniably tender—a far cry from the fevered mess of clashing mouths but something more…purposeful. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw as he deepened the kiss slightly—just enough to steal your breath. And as if it was a mind trick, the heat of your fever melted under him for one brief moment. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were steady.
You breathed. “I’m still hot.”
“That is not my fault.”
“Should try again. For science’s sake.”
“Do you not have a sense of decorum?”
“Says the person who listened to my foolishness and kissed me.”
He quickly cleared his throat, sitting back a little and appearing flustered. “Do not think I make a habit of kissing semi-conscious humans.”
“I’m not unconscious.”
“Barely counts.”
You smiled again, even as your vision blurred. “You’ve got good hands for a warrior.”
“I have excellent hands. I simply rarely use them for wet cloth and feverish cheeks.”
“You’re better than most doctors I’ve had.”
“I should hope so. I am many times their age and ten times as intelligent.”
Saying nothing, you let your head fall back to the pillow while your body continued to ache. The fever still hummed beneath your skin, but there was something oddly comforting about the sensation now. The agonising ache in your joints and muscles were reduced—something about your kiss was extra magically with whatever elf-enhancements he added.
Peering at him through your lashes, his eyes were still on you. Even when you were semi-conscious, apparently, you half-wondered what else he’d done for you. As your thoughts began to fade into another drowsy fog, you heard him shift beside the bed, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. Another cloth dipped into the bowl.
“I’m going to sit with you,” he said quietly, like a promise, “until you’re better.”
“Why don’t you give me another kiss instead?”
“Firstly, get better.”
“Sounds like you really like me,” you slurred.
He didn’t answer.
But the cloth was cool on your brow, and his hand never left yours.
Being A Modern Reader In Gondolin And Ending Up As Turgon’s Therapist
A/N: I felt like I was drunk when I wrote this yet hella proud at what I whipped up. Decided to give something humorous for our dear King. I rarely ever write for him. I hope you all enjoy this for Turgon!
Warning: crack, modern reader in Middle Earth, humour, a teeny bit of dark humour
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˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t mean to fall into Middle-earth, obviously. One minute you were lying in bed reading The Silmarillion and judging the characters’ decisions with crisps in your lap, the next minute you were standing in the middle of Gondolin’s great square in your hoodie and socks, blinking at a bunch of impossibly pretty elves aiming spears at your face.
˚₊‧꒰ა After the initial panic, miscommunication, and someone declaring you a ‘Maiar of questionable attire,’ you got bundled up and dragged before King Turgon like some kind of weird little cryptid. You weren’t even allowed to finish your sentence explaining that no, you weren’t a threat, just very confused and maybe a bit chilly.
˚₊‧꒰ა They didn’t know what to do with you. You were clearly mortal, clearly odd, and very obviously not from around here. And by the time you were brought to Turgon, you were muttering things like, “Am I in some Renaissance fair simulation?” you’d already convinced three guards that you were a travelling jester, a wandering scholar, and someone named ‘Dave.’
˚₊‧꒰ა But when Turgon tried to question you and you started rambling—a chaotic mix of sarcasm, panic, and unsolicited psychoanalysis of his family issues — he sat there like you’d slapped him. Then nodded slowly and said, “Thou speakest...strangely. But perchance...wisely?”
˚₊‧꒰ა You laughed. Right in his face. “Dude, I have no qualifications for this.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “I have known many with qualifications who have spoken far less sense,” he’d replied dryly.
˚₊‧꒰ა Thus began your absolutely absurd new role in Gondolin as the king’s unofficial therapist. You got a cushy room in the palace, daily food deliveries (even if you missed chocolate and cheesecake terribly), and a schedule that consisted mostly of Turgon showing up unannounced at weird hours with what he called ‘matters of import’ and what you called ‘your weekly emotional constipation’.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Are you certain this is wise?” he asked once, after you interrupted one of his lengthy metaphors about destiny and doom with “Bro, just say you’ve got trust issues and call it a day.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Absolutely not wise,” you said, “but it’s either me or that stone you’ve been brooding at for the past hour. I’m cheaper and marginally more entertaining.”
˚₊‧꒰ა You had zero training in psychology, but you did survive an apartment with a compulsive liar and three philosophy majors, so you considered yourself mentally prepared.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou art unlike any healer I have known,” he muttered once as you handed him a mug of herbal tea and told him to sit the hell down and stop monologuing like a Shakespearean ghost.
˚₊‧꒰ა You spoke with modern slang and didn’t bother adjusting it, which confused everyone, especially Turgon. You’d say things like “Bro, that’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one,” and he’d nod solemnly and ask if red banners were a sign of ill fortune in your realm.
˚₊‧꒰ა Your sense of humour didn’t help either. You told him straight-up that his entire family needed therapy, a good punch-up, and maybe some hugs (though you weren’t going to provide the last bit personally because you had boundaries).
˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you ever considered that maybe your obsession with secrecy and control is rooted in unprocessed grief and inherited trauma?” you asked him once while playing with a fidget spinner you’d had in your hoodie pocket the whole time.
˚₊‧꒰ა He blinked slowly. “What…is that device?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “An artefact of my homeland. Helps me not scream.”
˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely called you “Wise Counsellor” in public once. You choked on your tea and told him if he didn’t stop, you were going to have a full existential breakdown in front of Idril.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Then would that not be an honest expression of thine inner torment?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Man, I swear to God.”
˚₊‧꒰ა He would spend hours pacing while you lounged sideways in an oversized chair, biting into whatever Gondolindrim pastry you’d nicked, nodding thoughtfully and going, “Sounds like a classic control freak scenario to me. Have you tried...not bottling up every emotion until you explode and ruin everyone's lives?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “I am the King of Gondolin,” he once said with great dignity.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah,” you replied, “and kings can cry too. It’s character development.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Your slang confused him but delighted Idril, who started repeating your phrases with a weirdly accurate tone. You once heard her tell Maeglin “Pipe down, drama queen,” and felt equal parts proud and terrified.
˚₊‧꒰ა Of course, because of that, Maeglin did not like you. You called him “Captain Red Flag” once and he’s been glaring ever since.
˚₊‧꒰ა “You mock what you do not understand,” he sneered at you during one particularly tense council.
˚₊‧꒰ა “No, I mock what needs mocking, and mate, you’re about five bad decisions away from an evil monologue.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon did take a strange comfort in your irreverence. You didn’t grovel, didn’t put him on a pedestal, and instead talked to him like someone who just happened to be in charge of an entire city and probably needed to calm down before he gave himself an aneurysm.
˚₊‧꒰ა Sometimes he’d get really intense, talking about the Doom of the Noldor and his burden as king and the weight of fate and prophecy. You’d just squint and say, “Right, but when’s the last time you slept?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Sleep is a gift the weary may not always claim.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that or else I’d smack you with this pillow right to sleep…Your Majesty.”
˚₊‧꒰ა You once started writing down some of his problems on a piece of parchment just to map things out, and when he saw your modern shorthand and diagrams, he genuinely thought you were some kind of prophetic scribe.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Why are there tiny arrows drawn between ‘uncle trauma’ and ‘overcompensation’?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “It’s a flowchart, Turgon. Get with the programme.”
˚₊‧꒰ა He didn’t understand your dark humour at first. When you said things like, “Yeah, if I had to run this city I’d simply launch myself off the tower and call it a day,” he’d look vaguely alarmed. You had to explain you weren’t actually suicidal, you were just a bit ‘normal’ and fundamentally tired.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou hast a most perplexing way of making light of thy suffering,” he once remarked.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, it’s either that or scream forever. You’re lucky I’m funny.”
˚₊‧꒰ა The guards got used to you wandering around in odd clothes muttering to yourself and asking things like “What’s the elvish equivalent of a panic attack?” or “If I wanted to prank someone with glitter, where would I find glitter in Gondolin?”
˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t try to sound wise or mystical. You gave blunt, practical advice that was shockingly effective. When he stressed about Maeglin being weird and secretive, you just said, “Maybe stop being cryptic yourself and just ask him what’s eating him before he grows into a fully-fledged villain.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou thinkest he might turn to darkness?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “I mean, his name literally means ‘sharp glance’ or some edgy nonsense. He broods like it’s his job.”
˚₊‧꒰ა At one point you got into a row with Salgant who thought you were a disgrace to the court. You told him his shoes were ugly and his trumpet playing sounded like a dying goose. You were nearly exiled until Turgon calmly said, “If thou removest my counsellor, I shall be left alone with my thoughts. I do not wish that.”
˚₊‧꒰ა You found out about the whole “Doom of Mandos” situation and yelled at Turgon for about fifteen minutes. “Why is everything in this realm so bloody doom-laden? Haven’t you lot considered just…not dying tragically for once?”
˚₊‧꒰ა “It is not within our power to escape fate.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you tried therapy? Oh shit wait, that’s me. Guess I’m doing a shitty job.”
˚₊‧꒰ა You once gifted him popcorn—after you snuck into Galdor’s kitchen and showed the cook how to take kernels and turn it into tiny puffs of goodness—and told him “Here’s a treat and a weapon. Throw it at the heads of people who annoy you while munching on them.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Glorfindel was mildly obsessed with your vocabulary and kept trying to use modern phrases incorrectly. You once heard him call Ecthelion “a total babe magnet” and nearly choked on your tea.
˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon became oddly attached to your honesty. “You never bow to me,” he said.
˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, I’m allergic to kneeling. I look young but I got old people joints. Hear that crack? Good, I’m old in my youth.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “You are not from this world, so very peculiar, and yet you offer comfort as if you know mine.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, that’s called trauma bonding. Happens when you hang out with enough emotionally repressed people.”
˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely thought you had powers for a while because your advice, despite being phrased like Twitter memes, tended to be eerily on point. You told him it was just years of reading fanfiction and overthinking relationships that made you an expert in elf drama.
˚₊‧꒰ა One night he came to your room after a nightmare about the fall of Gondolin. You let him sit there quietly while you poured him a drink and said, “Listen, I don’t know how all this is gonna go down, but worrying yourself sick ain’t gonna stop it. Just means you’ll be fretting when it goes wrong.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Thy words are…bleak.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, but they’re not wrong.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Idril liked you a lot because you make her laugh, referring to her as “the only sane person in this whole glittering nonsense of a city,” and she’d smirk knowingly and say, “You’re not wrong.”
˚₊‧꒰ა You made Turgon take breaks. Actual breaks. You told him he had to have at least one day a week where he didn’t talk about doom, walls, or hidden kingdoms. You’d go on walks and point out birds and say things like “That one’s got main character energy.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Eventually, you stopped correcting people when they referred to you as the king’s seer or counsellor. You figured if the shoe fit (and the pay was good), you might as well run with it.
˚₊‧꒰ა You never forgot where you came from. Occasionally you’d sit alone and mutter things like, “If only Tumblr could see me now.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon once asked, “If thou wert to return to thy world…wouldst thou miss this?”
˚₊‧꒰ა You stared at him, deadpan, and replied, “I’d miss the drama. And the elves. But mostly the food. Sorry.”
˚₊‧꒰ა He actually laughed. A proper, unrestrained laugh. And you knew in that moment you’d accidentally become something of a friend to a man no one else could really talk to.
˚₊‧꒰ა You were still convinced you were going to get someone killed one day with your “advice,” and you told him so regularly. “One day you’re gonna do something I said and it’ll go so wrong, and then it’s on you, sunshine.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “Then I shall accept the blame. But I would still hear thy counsel.”
˚₊‧꒰ა “You’re all mad, but at least you’re funny about it.”
˚₊‧꒰ა Somehow, absurdly, you became a part of Gondolin. A strange, mortal voice in a city of legends, blunt and sarcastic and completely lacking in reverence—but exactly what Turgon needed. Even if he’d never admit it in public.
there should definitely be a yandere vikings x reader insert
I imagine yn being from the modern world and found themselves a couple of weeks before the start of the show. Yn was welcomed in a way and given a home (either her own or with someone like Ragnar and his family), but still has to earn her keep so she learns and adopts to survive and help others while remembering who she is. Yn likes to venture around kattegat in and out. Gyda liked to spend time with yn. Maybe Bjorn gained a crush on yn as a child , especially since she's kind, loyal, creative, and likes to be independent. He did not know his parents had the same feelings for her, it helps that she'll remain at there home caring for the children. They see yn as one of them, even if she doesn't have Viking blood in her veins. Yn would sometimes be found singing children lullabies from her world, for some reason it's a sight to behold. Yn mourned gyda's death because of their bond, it didn't help that she was a child. Yn tried to help Bjorn when the issue about his parents began. Yn stayed in Kattegat, not knowing about the new yandere who became Ragnar's new wife. Yn helped aslaug with her and Ragnar's sons. Yn had always encouraged floki's weirdness. Ever since arriving, yn aged 100 times slower. Yn had also gotten lots of yanderes, even from other lands, even children she helped take care of (Ragnarsons). The big question here is who will claim yn for good? Maybe it's polyamorous. Let it be known that she'd get absolutely no say on that matter.
A/N: The many first of my Fingon indulgence. Something that struck me during Valentine’s. I truly gotta work on pushing out more content for him. It’s criminal of me.
Warnings: tooth-aching fluff, kissing, modern human reader in Valinor
Words: 2.1k
Synopsis: You decided to challenge Fingon to make a cherry knot, an act you were sure he would struggle with, only to discover that he was a natural—like everything else he had attempted—and had no probably proving it as well.
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“So you mean to tell me, that in your world, you have people who build these…ships and fly them among the stars?” he hummed, deep in thought as he recalled your stories about spaceships and the nature of the stars from those who had ventured out there.
Nodding your head eagerly as you reached onto the blanket for your goblet of wine, you took a long drink, making eye contact with him, eye gleaming in delight at his enthusiasm. It was refreshing to end up in a place where such discoveries had yet not been made, and your knowledge on the topics could be shared to entice and spark the minds of those who wished to know more. You found it particularly charming when your sessions of lecturing elves about stories from your world caught the attention of the young and famed Prince of the Noldor. You could still remember the way he hovered in the doorway, making your already smaller figure appear diminutive before him.
He was rather fascinated with you than your stories, never before seeing a Second-born when elves were all that graced the Arda. The way he followed you around, looking like a perfect mixture of an excited puppy and a sentinel, as he asked you questions about yourself, wanting to know you rather than the knowledge you brought. That could come after he was positive he understood your mind and you.
Now, months later, here you were on a picnic with the Prince, one you considered a date which left him stunned at the term.
“Have you ever ventured among the stars before?” he inquired, also taking a sip from his much larger goblet, meeting your eyes with a twinkle of amusement.
You paused for a second before laughing with a shake of your head. “I have, but only in my dreams.”
“Then I suppose that counts, be it figuratively or literally, you were there,” he confirmed with a nod of his head.
You grinned at him, not before flopping onto the blanket and folding your arms behind your head. Fingon’s eyes had left your figure as he observed how carefree you appeared, taking in the differences that made you ‘human’ as you once called, compared to his Eldar nature. The way your eyelids and lips twitched despite at rest, the roundness of your cheeks, the freckles and moles, the crinkling of your nose, your sudden twitching, all which made you less an Eldar and simply you. The individual he had come to find joy and comfort in being around, loving your differences.
Feeling his gaze settling on you, you cracked one eye open to meet his sapphire orbs gazing at you with curiosity and amusement. Playfully grimacing, you sat up on your forearms and scrunched your nose with a sniffle. “What’s with that look?”
In response, he crinkled his nose like yours and gave a wiggle, mimicking how naturally the act came, even when it felt unnatural to his nature. “Learning you,” he quietly whispered, offering a smile.
You felt like you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you from how much you were resisting the urge to squeal. Instead, you rolled over and buried your face into the blanket, kicking your feet against the ground as you released a long, muffled groan. Beside you, there was a musical laughter that followed at the sight of your inability to handle his imitations. He looked more adorable than you expected, not believing how easily he adapted to such human acts.
“You’re impossible,” you muffled into the blanket before rolling over to sit down, facing him this time. “Doing human acts so naturally, against your elven nature. Does it not feel odd?”
“A bit,” he hummed after giving your question thought. His fingers then dipped into the small bowl filled with ripe and bursting cherries, before plopping one into his mouth. “Though, I enjoy performing them if it means I get to see you blushing.”
“You’re impossible,” you grumbled and glanced at him with a look of exasperation, making you question why you had even allowed him into your company as you reached for a cherry and copied his actions. Moaning at the sweetness flooding your senses, you had forgotten how every fruit in Valinor tasted ten times sweeter than the ones you had back home. Even the ones that were considerably sweet after being experimented on, could not compare.
“Hmm, these are so good. Better than the ones that exist back home.” You removed the seed from your mouth and plopped in another, humming at the burst of tooth-achingly sweet juices. “Remind me that time I sat with a bowl and spent the entire day attempting to make a cherry knot.”
He froze, cherry hanging mid-way in the air. “A cherry knot?” he puzzled with his head cocked to the side, his gossamer hair was loose with a few small braids, shifted with his motion. “What is that?”
“You’ve never heard of a cherry knot before?” you teased, plucking the stem off a cherry and twirling it between your fingers, you watched as he shook his head curiously. With tongue in cheek, you hummed contemplatively. “I wonder if I should tell you. Maybe I shouldn’t—I’d get to hold a human act above you since you enjoy outdoing me.”
That was all the incentive that Fingon required to push your buttons. A challenge.
Resting his cherry into the bowl, he leaned back and pushed his chin in the air. “So you admit it then. If I were to know of this ‘cherry knot’ act you speak of, I would surpass your skills.”
“I-I’m not fearful,” you protested with a stutter, making Fingon grin harder, taunting you.
“Then enlighten me about this knotting and then we can decide who reigns victoriously,” he prodded, drawing his lower lips between his teeth before letting it go to feign a pout.
The audacity of this elf to goad you into giving up your final straw of dignity. Then again, if you told him how a cherry knot was made, the chances of him obtaining it on his first try were slim. Not everyone was that level of natural. You could still hold your head high if he failed.
Huffing with a roll of your eyes, you cast him a smug expression and leaned, holding up the stem between your fingers. “See this stem, this is what you’re gonna use to make a cherry knot…but with your mouth.” Not once did the grin on his face falter as you explained the gist of the act, which edged your pride. Grinding your teeth, you continued. “The whole point is to use your tongue—no hands—to make a knot. It’s a skill to determine if one is naturally a good kisser.”
“How arbitrary. I expected a better purpose,” he muttered with a lazed grin, plucked a stem off a cherry and lifted it to his lips. “Of all the acts you’ve inveigled me to do, this takes the cake.”
And with that, he placed the stem into his mouth and got to work. You sat there, expecting him to struggle and grumbled about how ridiculous the task was proving to be—he had, after all, never heard of this little trick and it was out of the ordinary. Instead, he sat there, looking almost bored as he moved his tongue with an effortless precision that made your stomach clenched with an odd sense of anticipation and irritation.
A few seconds later, he pushed his tongue past his lips while the stem sat perfectly knotted on the tip. Tied. Absolutely. Perfectly.
You gawked at him, irritated at yourself more than anything else for even doubting his abilities. You knew deep down there was the possibility. “Are you serious?”
Fingon removed the stem from his tongue and held it up to the light, twisting the tiny knot between his fingers, inspecting his handiwork. “Honestly, I was expecting more of a challenge like the other tasks I attempted,” he smirked triumphantly. “Was not expecting the intended result?”
Your mouth opened and closed uselessly as you stared at him. “I—That was your first try! And something far more difficult than the others!”
“I disagree. I’d take this over attempting to hiccup any day,” he boasted. “I can do this all day.” And to prove his point, rubbing salt into your pride, he placed another stem into his mouth and produced a knot in under a few seconds. “See, I am a natural at mimicking your human acts.”
“How annoyingly enthusiastic,” you dryly cheered and lifted your palms in the air. “An act that takes people many tries to achieve—here you are, on your first attempt.”
“Then I should be considered a prodigy.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, pretty boy.”
He laughed, tossing his head back. “Why should I not? By your world’s standard, this makes me an exceptional kisser—two things I naturally excel at,” he boasted, revelling in his newfound discovery. “And considering that I have not kissed anyone yet, this is quite the achievement.”
“Wait, you’ve never kissed anyone?”
“No need for such distractions when I have better things to focus on.” Tilting his head slightly, he smirked and looked you up and down.
Feeling your heart stopping for a second at the intensity of his flirtatious gaze, you cowered, dropping your eyes to the bowl and toyed with the stem of a cherry. “Well, just because you could make a knot still doesn’t make you an actual great kisser. Theoretics and practise are two different things.”
“Is that so?” His voice was much closer than you anticipated. He had closed the gap between you two, his body adjacent to yours, in a single smooth motion that left you stuttering for the right words. The warmth of his body pressing against yours so closely, and his hand that came up to tilt your chin, tracing your jaw as his breath fanned your cheeks. You could see the way his eyes darkened, the bright sapphire blue shifting into a shade of midnight. “I suppose I must prove you wrong, again.”
You barely had time to process those words before his lips were on yours. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the kind of confidence that came naturally to someone who excelled at everything they attempted. His lips moved against yours with practised ease, moulding against yours as if it was meant to be from the very start. His hand, large and warm, gently cradled your face, anchoring you to him as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. The heat of his breath mixed with yours, and the taste of cherries lingered between you, sweet and intoxicating.
You had kissed before, but nothing had ever quite felt like this. Right.
His mouth slanted over yours, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach perform cartwheels, his tongue teasing along the seam of your lips before slipping inside with effortless skill. He kissed like he did everything—with determination to master it in one perfect attempt.
And damn, he was too good.
You barely realised that you were gripping the front of his tunic until he broke the kiss, pulling back slightly, just enough to brush his lips against yours as he spoke with smugness. “Well?”
“…Tch.”
“I take it you concede?”
“Whatever.”
Sensing him leaning in closer, he dipped his head to swiftly press a kiss to your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth. “Admit it. That was quite convincing. I have outdone you once more.”
Casting him a side eye, you scowled. “Fine, you win. You’re an amazing kisser. A natural in all that you do.”
He beamed, looking far too pleased and pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Victory is sweet, my dear. There is no shame in accepting defeat when the process was pleasant.”
You huffed, flopping back onto the blanket, staring at the sky as you tried to ignore the heat still lingering on your lips and his gaze. Beside you, he decided to stretch out, clearly enjoying your flustered state. After a moment, he plucked another cherry from the bowl, popping it into his mouth before glancing at you with unmistakable amusement. “Would you like another demonstration again?”
Narrowing your eyes at him and pinching your nose bridge, you turned to face him. “Boy, I will throw you into that river.”
He laughed, completely unfazed. “I would like to see you try.”
“Just shut up and eat your cherries.”
His grin only widened. Three victories in one day.
