I Need Authors To Write A Oneshot Of Their Characters So I Know What I'm Getting Into Before I Commit

I've got it, I've figured out how to tie in every Gil-galad parentage into one, even the "descendent of Feanor" one.

There's some random hunting trip during the Long Peace where Fingon, Orodreth, Finrod and Maedhros all just happen to be together, find some cute random orphaned ellon, and decided to jointly adopt him and just share custody. How's that for "Scion of Kings"?

You know those edits that are like "(fandom) + Greek words for love" usually being Eros, Ludus, Storge, Mania, Pragma, Philia and Agape?

Why oh why has no one done an edit that is like "Sons of Feanor + completely fucked up ideas about love"? I feel like this could be done

Okay, you guys were excited about this so here's how I would have written the Water Tribe characters as an Inupiaq

Note: this is entirely for fun and is based on my cultural experiences as well as my personal taste in media. There's no way I actually expect Nickelodean would let any of the darker content fly, nor am I trying to play script doctor or say any of this should have been canon. I have my own writings for that. I'm also not bothering to assign them Inupiaq names for the sake of simplicity and ease of communication.

Sokka

Sokka would be named after Bato's father who was killed in one of the Fire Nation raids. He would have dismissed the idea he was Bato's reincarnated dad whenever it was used to embarass him (usually courtesy of Katara calling him a grumpy old man) but go along with it when it was a positive thing like Bato calling him "little dad" or people saying he was brave like the one he was named after. He would probably use more Inupiat language than Katara, because he was less interested in works of fiction and poetry that were available from the rest of the world. He reads weather conditions, the process of learning that from his father was his first introduction to science, and respects the animals he hunts.

Katara

Named after her mother's uncle, who showed signs of waterbending skill but kept it hidden so he wouldn't be taken away. A bunch of her and Sokka's little cousins call her Grandpa and she later jokes to Aang they should have called him that because he's the one who's technically over 100 years old. More likely to explain cultural things than Sokka, who prefers to let them observe and figure it out, but knows more of the traditional stories. Even Sokka will admit she's a better storyteller than him. Eventually everyone who travels with them asks her for a story and she gives her best every time

Kanna

Still dumped Pakku for his suffocating ideas of a woman's place but also over some family drama he wouldn't let go of. Her grandchildren make a point that she has sworn to never drum, dance, or sing, and won't even be in the same room as it until the War ends

Bato, Kya, and Hakoda

Bato and Hakoda have labrets now. Hakoda is not just a prankster, but also a skilled dancer. Bato and Kya were both known for the beautul masks they made

Yue

I've already said she's the closest to perfect rep the series has, so all I'd add was scenes of her alone with Sokka's carving. She'd try to find ways to explain to him, holding the carving and talking to it as if it was him, that it wouldn't work out between them, as much as she'd want it too. Stuff like "You've had great adventures and that's exciting, but I don't want that for myself" and "You don't understand, I have a life here and I can't go galavanting off and leave it all behind" and ultimately deciding it would just hurt him more.

Arnook

We'd get to see more of his governing, specifically in the form of figuring out what to do with Fire Nation soldiers taken prisoner. When the Fire Nation says that a few foot soldiers aren't worth calling off the seige, Arnook gives them the choice to live among them and try to assimilate, or take their chances on the tundra. Terrified and abandoned in a strange, dangerous land, two of them agree to stay. The other one decides to take the banishment because he will not live under another nation's rule. Later, when Aang says they can't just leave Zuko behind, we see ravens picking at shreds of a Fire Nation soldier's uniform. This underlines the nature of Arnook's decision to give the soldiers options and shows that he hates senselessly throwing away people's lives.

Pakku

Still unwilling to teach Katara and firmly held to the belief that women shouldn't fight, but specifically as a result of his sister dying after defending against an animal that would have killed her and an unconscious friend. Some bitter part of him thinks the (male) friend should have died instead, even though said friend was Kanna's favorite cousin. Less smug and convinced he's always in the right, more sad and prone to anger, still as unpleasant to be around.

Hahn

His mother was a shaman, or something close to it, with a special connection to the spirit world, who asked the moon to breathe life into Yue. The youngest of three brothers, Hahn was the only one not to go missing on a hunt. Rather than believe they're dead like everyone else, he insists that he will find them someday. He's happened upon various animal spirits before and can painlessly finish off large game with his bare hands. Knowing the spirits are on his side as well as the attention his skills as a hunter have gotten him have made him arrogant. He has the dream of Yue sacrificing herself instead of Arnook, but he mistakes it for Yue sacrificing herself for Sokka, starting the animosity between them.

Hama

Taken from the Southern Water Tribe but after being kept prisoner, a man of minor Fire Nation nobility decides to keep her as a maid, mistreating her and eventually forcing her to marry him. They have a son, who ends up being the first person Hama bloodbends into the underground cave. She accuses the woman on a nearby property of bewitching her son and making him disappear, and the next full moon she bloodbends the unwanted husband into that cave. The people are convinced and the woman is driven away. More people disappear, regardless of class but nevertheless people around her. She plays up the grieving just enough that no one could ever suspect it's her. She's assumed to be cursed and lonely, and so when she leaves this house where her family was taken from her, people understand. When she weeps that the curse must have followed her after the first full moon she lived in that town, the people show her pity. A few suspect her, but they are shut down as being cold and heartless.

Fëanor: I put the “war” in “Tengwar”

Curufin: I put the “goth” in “Nargothrond”

Elros: I put the “men” in “Numenor”

Galadriel: I put a frog in Fingolfin’s boot once. They don’t even know it was me

I’ll just let the piece speak for itself.

Mood.

Every so often I think that I really need to get back to writing because I really enjoyed writing and, very excitingly, other people seemed to enjoy my writing too

an unstoppable force (hobbit curiosity) meets and immovable object (Gandalf not explaining)

You never know how long your words will stay in someone's mind even long after you've forgotten you spoke them.

— Unknown

Fuck it, posting the glass eye fic I’ve been sitting on for a few months

•••

Katara didn’t trust Zuko as far as she could throw him, and based on past experiences, she couldn’t throw him very far without waterbending. Not that she’d hesitate to waterbend at him if he tried anything- and at this point, she was just waiting for him to slip up.

Which was why she was immediately ready to water whip him off the side of the temple when she heard Sokka’s terrified shriek. Okay, so maybe she didn’t exactly have proof he’d done anything, or even that he was anywhere near Sokka, but she ran towards the noise, water pouch at the ready, planning the best way to toss him out a window anyway-

And it was Zuko! She let herself have the vindication for a moment. Just a moment. Then asked “Sokka, what did you do?”

Look, she hated Zuko’s guts, but he didn’t look like he was actively hurting anyone right now, staring at Sokka in shock and clutching his face (the scarred side, she noted).

For good measure, she repeated the question at Zuko, because Sokka had screamed and he didn’t usually do that for no reason.

“I was just getting dressed!” Zuko protested, halfway between confused and afraid. “And he just came in and started screaming!”

Sokka made a strangled noise and gestured emphatically at Zuko, which cleared up absolutely nothing. “He- he- his- I-“

“Sokka!” She snapped. “What happened?”

Zuko lowered his hand a little and Sokka let out another half yelp. The firebender glared, then winced a little, still not uncovering his face.

“Wait, Sokka, did you hit him?”

Katara was a responsible person, who disapproved of hitting people on principle. She was not frowning at Sokka because she was jealous.

“No!” Sokka managed to get out. “Zuko- he- his eye fell out!”

Oh.

“Sokka...” she sighed. “Are you high again?”

“Wait-“ Zuko cut in, looking a little less confused (Katara would be angry with him for interrupting later, when she was less desperately perplexed). “You were freaking out because I took my eye out?”

“You... you what?” Katara was now matching Sokka’s confused horror. “You took your what out?”

Zuko lowered his hands, and yep, one eye. One eye and one not-eye, because Zuko only had one eye, and an empty eye socket, because what in Tui’s name was-

“What the fuck-“ She wasn’t sure if that was her or Sokka.

One - one - creepy gold eye blinked at them. “It’s a glass eye,” Zuko said slowly. “I kinda have to take it out sometimes.”

That explained everything and nothing at all. “It’s a what?” Sokka demanded.

“Glass eye,” Zuko said, then waved something small and eye-shaped in their general direction. He looked slightly more annoyed than usual, and then it struck Katara that someone screaming when they saw your face probably didn’t do wonders for self-esteem. “An eye. Made of glass.”

Sokka looked outright terrified. “But... how did your eye turn into glass? That happens? Do I have to worry about that?”

Katara did not slam her head into the wall, showing incredible self restraint. “Sokka, you idiot!” she groaned.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, eyes wide. “Katara, why didn’t you tell me this could happen?!”

As a healer, she had a duty to tell him he was being an absolute idiot and that it was clearly a prosthetic.

As a little sister, she had a duty to fuck with him, and that was a far more sacred duty.

“I’m sorry, Sokka,” she managed to sigh. “I didn’t want you to worry, with all the stuff you do that- no, don’t worry. It’s not so bad.”

“What?” His voice was strangled in fear. “Katara, what? Katara what am I doing?! How do I stop it?! Katara?!”

She’d almost forgotten about Zuko until he very sadly said “why do you think Aang doesn’t eat meat? The Avatar needs two eyes, and if one falls out, it could cause problems.”

She did not like Zuko at all, but right then, she loved him.

Ten minutes later, Sokka had sworn off meat, and then the other contributing factors to eyes spontaneously turning into glass and falling out: sarcasm, boomerangs and being an annoying big brother.

“He knows we’re joking, right?” Zuko asked cautiously after Sokka sprinted out to apologise to the spirits for making fun of waterbending.

“Eh, he’ll figure it out.”

———

“So,” Toph said as they settled down for dinner - with Sokka being late for a meal for the first time in his life, “why is Snoozles throwing seal jerky into the canyon?”

“I have a glass eye,” Zuko explained.

The earthbender nodded sagely. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Aang was slowly looking between the three of them like it would make any of this any more sensical. “Uh... what?”

“Long story,” Katara sighed.

Her brother strode up to the campfire with his usual level of theatre, then remembered that being dramatic was also a risk factor and very calmly and slowly sat down. “I think I’m safe.”

“What about your hair?” Zuko asked, completely blank faced.

“... please tell me this isn’t why you had the bald ponytail.”

“You think I did that willingly? No, I needed at least one eye working.”

Sokka sprinted into the temple.

“You’re not actually going to let him shave his hair, are you?” Zuko asked, looking mildly concerned.

Okay, this was perfect and Katara would remember it lovingly for the rest of her life, but even her natural little sister sadism wouldn’t stretch that far. “Toph, please bring him back here.”

———

“Toph, let me out of the rock! I need my eyes!”

———

“Wait... what?”

———

“What do you mean it’s not a medical condition?!”

———

“What do you mean it’s a prosthetic!?!”

———

“YOU LET ME THROW THE SEAL JERKY AWAY!”

———

“Okay,” Sokka said calmly, two hours and a lot of yelling later. “That was a very cruel prank and I’m never forgiving any of you.”

“Shut up, Snoozles,” Toph scoffed.“There are more important things than your dignity. For example,” she turned to Zuko with a huge grin, “can I touch it?”

“It’s been in his head!” Sokka screeched. Apparently the dramatics were back on. “It has head goo on it!”

Katara frowned. “Sokka, how do you think bodies work?”

“Please?” Toph begged, giving very impressive polar-puppy-dog eyes for someone who couldn’t see. “No one ever lets me touch their real eyes.”

“Because you’re a menace,” Katara scoffed.

“Please, Sparky?”

“Ugh, fine,” Zuko sighed. “Give me a second.”

It occurred to everyone a moment too late that, oh yeah, if anyone was going to spontaneously invent glassbending, it would be Toph.

Hello! You have just been visited by the Crackship Fairy, as of now you will be given a crackship and you have to do good by them. Your crackship: Voronwë/Maglor

(This is much more of a gen take on their relationship than it is a shippy one, but my headcanon is that Voronwë is aro, so that’s just how it’s gonna be!)

~

It wasn’t often that Maglor came across another elf on these shores. They were rocky, dreary, generally abandoned; he liked to be alone, and this stretch of coastline was good for that. The few weary Secondborn who eked out a living here were suspicious enough to steer clear of him, and in return he did the same for them.

In ages past this land had been the border of Ossiriand, pressed up against the Blue Mountains. The mountains were still there, taller and grander than ever, but the seven rivers were sunk under the sea and the singing Laiquendi had long since fled for greener lands.

Mithlond was not too terribly far from these his favorite haunting grounds, but no matter how genial and polite Círdan was Maglor knew he was not welcome there: the Falathrim had not forgotten the ruin of Sirion. No, this was a place where he could wander alone, his mind free to catch forgotten melodies on the wind and his spirit unbound by any constraints of law or temptations of love.

And yet: here stood a simple dwelling, still clearly Noldorin in make, looking near as old as Maglor felt. He had wandered this beach a hundred times or more, and never before had he run across this little elfhome that appeared to have been here since Beleriand’s death throes had finally ceased and the lands he had bled and fought and suffered for settled under the vast ocean.

Entranced, Maglor approached the house, noting its angular shapes, the Tengwar over the door, shimmering with some faint enchantment. He shivered as his fëa brushed against it: he was not repulsed, per se, and yet he was permitted to pass through the barrier.

“Who goes there?” demanded a voice too soft for its tone.

Maglor turned around, tensing instinctively and letting his hand wrap around the hilt of his dagger. The speaker was an elf, as he had thought, though they conversed in Westron, and though his eyes did not shine with Treelight he had the stature and bearing of one of Maglor’s kin. Still, there was something a little off about him—the shell patterns on his clothing, perhaps, the shimmering blue of his blade, or the curve of his nose, which reminded Maglor strongly of a person he could not quite place. Perhaps he was of the Sindar as well as the Noldor.

“Peace,” he said slowly in Sindarin. “I mean you no harm. I was simply curious of your dwelling. I will leave you to your solitude.”

The ellon relaxed, though he did not sheath his sword. “Thank you,” he said in that soft voice. “But you have not answered my question. Who are you?” He glanced to Maglor’s cloak, tattered and torn and yet unmistakably blood-crimson. It was not the same one he had worn when he cast the Silmaril into the sea—that had long since unraveled into nothing but a painful memory—but thought Maglor no longer wore his father’s star openly, he would not abandon his Fëanárion pride, nor could he wash his hands of the blood upon them.

He could give the ellon a false name; he had done so to others in the past. But Maglor was so tired, of hiding, of running, of lying, and he did not have the heart to do so. He adjusted his grip on his dagger, knowing that if this ellon was part Sindar, there was every chance he would be met with long-sleeping anger reawoken.

And yet, still, he spoke his name.

“I am Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion,” he said, “though you may know me better as Maglor the singer; and you may wish my name had never had cause to be uttered here in the east. Certainly I wish that at times.”

“Oh.” For a moment the ellon’s resolve wavered, and then he grimaced, sighing, and sheathed his blade. “Well,” he began, switching to musical Quenya that made Maglor’s heart swell with a fondness long-forgotten, “by all I rights I ought to hate you, Fëanárion, and yet it is not often that I hear my father’s tongue spoken, especially not by a voice so lovely as yours.”

“Who was your father?” Makalaurë asked, dread coiling in his stomach. If this was another long-lost relative—

“Aranwë of Ondolindë,” said the nér, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “I am Voronwë the mariner, once-friend of Tuor Ulmondil and Eärendil Morningstar.”

Voronwë—yes, he had heard that name before. A nér of Gondolin, a mariner, a friend to Eärendil and Tuor...and kinsman to Círdan, if he remembered correctly. Makalaurë shuddered, bowing his head.

“You were at Sirion,” he murmured. It was not a question.

“Not precisely,” Voronwë said. “Elwing, wife of my dear friend’s son, and her children—they were there. But I dwelt alone in a home not unlike this one, some miles away from the city, as I ever have since Tuor and Itarillë departed for the West.”

Makalaurë’s heart skipped a beat. “I—regret what was done,” he began, but Voronwë waved a hand.

“Come in,” he invited, walking past the protective enchantment around the perimeter of his little home and beckoning Makalaurë in. “That was an age long ago, and we have both suffered enough for our choices. I would speak with you, over supper, of those you called your sons—unlike Eärendil, I did not have the pleasure of seeing them grow to adulthood, and I would hear from you what they are like.”

Makalaurë took a deep breath, then nodded. Voronwë’s offer of conversation, of a meal, of companionship was more than he deserved—but he spoke truly, that he was not the same nér who pillaged Sirion and kidnapped little children. And Makalaurë could never turn down an opportunity to sing the praises of his sons, no matter how little right he had to call them that.

So he walked inside, let Voronwë lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and let go of some small portion of his sorrow.