spudnikbard

[spudnikbard]

First post, figured I'd post my fanart here

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When You Disappeared After A Fight And They Thought You Left Them

Headcanon: Celebrimbor, Finarfin, Finrod, Glorfindel, Elrond, Gil-Galad

A/N: I realised it’s been far too long since I last wrote for Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad. Don’t worry, no crazy angst, just humour, and hurt/comfort.

Synopsis: After a heated argument, you decided to take a walk to clear your head, only to end up getting caught in a storm, resulting in your absence for a week. They, on the other hand, thought the worse until your return.

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Celebrimbor

You stepped through the doorway soaked to the bone, your cloak heavy with rain, and boots caked with half-dried mud from the trail. Your fingers were numb by the time you pushed open the forge door, the hinges groaning in a way that made you wince. There was a moment you expected anger, or worse, indifference. But what you got instead was the echo of something heavy crashing to the floor, followed by the very loud, very uneven clatter of tools spilling everywhere.

There he was, Celebrimbor shot around the corner like he’d been fired from a war bow. His hair was a mess, half-tied back with soot streaking his cheek, and the look on his face—pure disbelief.

“You—” He stopped dead in his tracks, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Then unhinged as though a dozen words had just jammed up behind his teeth, he took a shaky step forward. “You’re alive?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He strode to you without hesitation and grabbing your face in both calloused hands, eyes darting over your soaked features like he couldn’t believe you were real. “I thought you left. You didn’t send word. You didn’t—by the Valar, I thought you were dead or that you—” He sucked in a ragged breath and pulled back, fists clenched. “I thought you left me. Because of what I said.”

Brushing wet strands of hair out of your face, you rolled your eyes. “Because you acted like a stubborn ass and I didn’t feel like getting struck by lightning trying to hike back here during a bloody storm?”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “Storm?”

You gestured at yourself, dripping onto the floor. “Yes. Storm. The week-long monsoon from hell? Trees falling, floods, livestock floating by? What, did you think I was tanning in Ereigon?”

He didn’t say anything while his brows furrowed deeper and hand slowly rose to rub over his face like he was trying to scrub away his shame. “I thought—” He looked away. “I deserved it. I said too much. I was cruel. I...I never should have said those things.”

You dropped your cloak with a thud. “No, you shouldn’t have. You were an ass. You said I never understood your work. That I was only here because I liked the forge’s heat and the free jewellery.”

“I know,” he cut in, wincing. “I know. It was vile. I was angry and—”

“No. You were scared,” you said, stepping into his space, glaring up at him. “Because I told you you’re not a god, and your projects don’t get to eat you alive. And instead of listening, you threw that in my face.”

He sagged visibly. “I haven’t slept in a week. I couldn’t. The bed didn’t feel right without you in it. The forge didn’t sound the same. I couldn’t tell if I was hallucinating you or remembering you wrong. And I’d come home every night hoping you’d be here, and every night the door stayed shut.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So...you missed me?”

His expression was dry enough to bake bread. “I was halfway to building a replica of you from spare chainmail links and cursing your name the entire time. So, yes. I missed you.”

You crossed your arms with a slow smirk forming. “And?”

“And I’m sorry,” he said quickly, eyes holding yours. “I’ll never say anything like that again. Even when I’m angry, especially when I’m angry. Because losing you—thinking I’d lost you—it wasn’t just unbearable. It made me realise I care about us more than I care about anything I’ve ever made.”

You held his gaze letting him squirm a moment longer out of a quest for satisfaction, then stepped forward and shoved your cold, wet face against his chest. “Good. Because if I’d made it home and you were off brooding in a cave somewhere, I’d have gone back into that storm and hoped for a lightning bolt.”

Releasing let out a short, breathy laugh, his arms wound tightly around your waist. “Remind me to temper my mouth next time.”

“I’ll temper your ass next time.”

“Already sculpting the armour for that, love.”

Finarfin

You opened the heavy front door, expecting silence. Maybe even the stern face of a king trying to pretend he hadn’t cried into a dozen embroidered handkerchiefs. But what you weren’t expecting was to be immediately tackled by golden robes and a blur of hair smelling like lilac oil and nervous sweat.

He squeezed you so tight your spine protested audibly. “Yavanna’s tits, you’re alive!” he gasped against your shoulder, and you had a split second to marvel at him swearing before your feet left the ground.

“Put me down!” you protested while poking his shoulder. “I’ve just walked six leagues through wet forest—I probably smell like moss!”

Suddenly releasing you, his hands moved to cup your face, eyes frantic. “You disappeared. No word. Not even a note. I scoured the coastline. Sent birds. Rode out with the guards. I interrogated a goose herder because he thought he saw someone matching your description two days ago.”

“A goose herder?” you asked, deadpan.

“Bribed him with a wheel of cheese and four loaves of honeyed bread.”

You blinked. “You bribed a man to tell you where I went using baked goods?”

“It’s what I had on hand!” he snapped, then let out a breath and took a half step back. “Where were you?”

You peeled off your dripping cloak and stepped out your soggy boots. “Nearby village. Storm rolled in hard. Bridge collapsed. I was stuck for days before someone even managed to repair the road out.”

He stared, clearly dumbfounded. “You didn’t leave?”

You levelled him a look. “Of course not. Just because you said I had the diplomacy of a drunken orc doesn’t mean I’d up and vanish. I was angry, not deranged.”

His face went sheet white. “I—oh.” He dropped into the nearest chair like his knees had turned to pudding. “You were just stuck. Not gone.”

“I would never just leave you like that,” your muttered in an obvious tone while crossing the room to plop yourself into his lap, and flick his nose. “Although, if you ever talk to me like that again during an argument, I will exile myself. To Angband.”

“I was furious, and stupid, and possibly drunk on elderberry wine. But the moment you were gone, I felt like a hollow man playing king to a room full of ghosts,” he grunted, voice muffled as he buried his face into your neck and arms around your waist, squeezing you tightly.

“You didn’t change the bedsheets.”

He looked up. “Of course not.”

You softened, fingers slipping through his hair. “Next time, trust me to come back. Storms pass. Tempers cool. But you are my home.”

His mouth curled into a small, sheepish smile. “Even when I say utterly regrettable things about your tact?”

“Especially then. Because someone’s got to keep your golden head from floating too far off your shoulders.”

“I shall make it up to you.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “Name your price.”

“Hot bath and food. And I’m choosing the bedtime story tonight.”

He grinned. “Even if it’s the one where I accidentally insulted a goose herder and got smacked with a bread roll?”

“Especially that one.”

“And if I cried into my council robes?”

“Oh, I assume you did.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not even if Eru himself demanded it.”

Finrod

The halls were obscenely quiet when you entered. The kind of silence that only existed when someone refused to acknowledge anything around them because they were still stewing. The sheer thought prompted another eye roll—your nth number for the week.

Your cloak dripped steadily onto the mosaic floor of the palace, and you kicked off your boots just inside the entrance. You hadn’t the opportunity to make it three steps before Finrod’s voice echoed coldly from the corridor behind you.

“So you do remember where you live.”

Slowly, you turned to be treated by the sight of him standing with arms crossed, jaw clenched tight, and his golden hair slightly dishevelled like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. Nice to see how crazy you were capable of driving him.

You raised a brow, returning the same air of authority. “Nice to see you too.”

Striding forward with an expression so thunderous, he stopped a foot away. “You were gone. A week. No word. No message from the servants. Not even a whisper from the wind.”

“I was trapped in one of the nearby humam settlements. The roads flooded, so one could leave, and the villagers were too busy tying down roofs from becoming birds in the raging wind.”

“I assumed you’d left because of our argument,” he pointed out tightly. “That you’d walked out because I pushed you too far.”

“You told me I didn’t understand what it meant to rule. That I was selfish for questioning your council.”

“I said that in anger!” His voice cracked through the room. “And I regretted it the moment you walked away! I thought, give them time. A day. Maybe two. But then three passed. Then four. The storm hit, and every rider I sent returned empty-handed—”

“You sent riders?” you questioned in softness.

“Dozens.” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “And when they found nothing, I thought maybe…maybe you left because I made you feel like you didn’t belong.”

He looked at you with all the sharpness fading into raw hurt. “Do you have any idea what it’s like walking these halls thinking you’ve destroyed the best thing in your life with a few words? I held court with a mask for six days and couldn’t remember what you looked like when you smiled.”

Your mouth twitched. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Entirely.” His tone didn’t even attempt denial. “I was halfway through composing a lament by the fifth night.”

“My goodness.”

“Yes. There were rhymes.”

You made a noise of mock horror. “Please tell me you didn’t sing.”

“I’m not saying I did.” He looked sideways. “But if I did, it was very moving.”

You couldn’t resist snorting. “You idiot.”

His shoulders sagged. “Your idiot,” he corrected, then softened his tone with an ounce of hesitation, “if you’ll still have me.”

Closing the gap, you reached up to cup his face, and his hands flew to your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “I would’ve sent word if I could,” you murmured. “But the weather was horrible. And…I was angry. But I didn’t leave you.”

Slowly he exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. “Good. Because I love you. And if you had left, I’d have to write a second lament.”

“You absolute menace.”

“Still your menace.”

Glorfindel

Glorfindel appeared in the hallway like the same storm you just faced—wild hair unbraided, tunic only half-buttoned, his expression caught between fury, disbelief, and the unmistakable shine of near-tears. The moment your foot crossed the threshold, you barely had time to shut the door before the sound of his boots thundered across the floor, approaching.

“You,” he growled, pointing an accusatory finger like he wasn’t entirely convinced you weren’t some hallucination conjured by a grief-addled mind. “You vanished for a week!”

You dropped your soaked cloak with a soggy thud and blinked at him, soaked from head to toe. “There was a storm. The roads were flooded—”

“I know there was a storm!” he snapped. “I sent out three search parties! I threatened to punch Círdan when he suggested you might’ve just needed ‘space’!”

“You threatened Círdan?” you cried in utter disbelief.

He threw up his arms. “He was being philosophical at me when I hadn’t slept since the third day! I thought you were dead, or kidnapped! Or—” his voice cracked, and the rage drained out of him, leaving him standing there looking wrecked and years older.

“…Or gone,” he whispered quietly. “And I couldn’t even remember what the last thing I said to you was. Only that you were angry. And then you were gone.”

Your brows furrowed as you stepped forward, boots squelching on the wood. “You told me I was being ‘dramatic,’ Fin.”

“I meant adorably dramatic,” he muttered instantly, stepping toward you with equal urgency. “You were huffing. Your nose scrunches when you’re angry, it’s precious—and you know I’m terrible with words when I’m angry—”

You narrowed your eyes. “You called me a spoiled elfling and stormed out.”

“…Okay,” he admitted, wincing. “Not my finest moment. But I stormed out intending to return and apologise! I bought apple pastries on the way back! And when I returned you were just…gone. No note. No sign. And then the storm hit, and I kept thinking, what if the last thing you ever heard from me was—was that?”

He looked almost offended when you didn’t immediately throw yourself into his arms to console him. Instead, you wrung out your cloak and calmly replied, “You’re the one who stormed off like you were starring in a stage play.”

There a strangled noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I was dramatic. Fine. But—you were the one who walked into the rain and disappeared like some moody soliloquy. You didn’t think maybe sending a bird? A single raven?”

“I tried,” you replied sarcastically. “The damn birds couldn’t fly in the storm. One nearly got knocked out of the sky by a tree branch the size of your ego.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Then gave a grudging nod before the silence stretched. His hands clenched and unclenched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then, with a grumble, he reached forward and tugged you into his arms.

You were still soggy, but he didn’t care.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” he murmured, burying his face in your shoulder. “You’re lucky I didn’t start writing poems in mourning and have every elf in Imladris listen to me.”

You snorted. “You’d write poems?”

“Dramatic and weeping.”

“You really are ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“…Unfortunately.”

He kissed your neck, desperate and rough. “Don’t vanish on me again. Or I will punch Círdan.”

Elrond

The moment Elrond saw you walking through the front gates of Imladris, muddy, rain-streaked, and glaring at the sky like it had insulted your lineage, he dropped the teacup he’d been holding. Not caring that it shattered beyond repair—as did his composure.

“Where in the Void have you been?”

You flinched, clearly you had been imagining this exact moment for seven storm-soaked days and still weren’t ready for it. “Well, hello to you, too,” you croaked, pushing back your hood. “You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had—”

“You disappeared,” he cut in, striding toward you with wide, sharp eyes. “Without a note. Without a message. Even without your cloak, for Eru’s sake! And after that—”

“—ridiculous argument,” you finished. “Yes. I remember. Mostly the part where you accused me of never taking anything seriously and that being with you was a responsibility, not a game.”

He stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you snapped. “And I was furious. So I took a walk for some air. Then for half an hour before the heavens cracked open, a tree fell on the road, and a lovely travelling merchant shoved me into a barn before I was flattened by lightning.”

“You could have sent a bird—”

“Oh, yes! Of course. Send a bird in the middle of a raging storm!” you exclaimed, flailing your hands in the air. “Why didn’t I think about that?”

He rubbed his face with both hands and made a sound that could only be described as part groan, part sob. “I thought you were gone. Not ‘temporarily cross and got caught in a freak storm’ gone—actually gone. I haven’t slept. I’ve started yelling at the staff. I called Glorfindel ‘ammë’ yesterday.”

You paused and raised an eyebrow. “Did he cry?”

“He curtsied.”

Well, that was the cue that broke you. You doubled over with laughter while Elrond stood there, baffled and tired and vaguely damp from standing outside in his night robe all week like some cursed spirit.

“Look,” you said, voice shaking as you sobered up, “I didn’t plan to vanish. But you hurt me. You said something harsh, I said something worse, and then I got stranded with a farmer who thought my name was ‘Moss.’”

“Moss?”

“I was too tired to correct him.”

Cautiously, he stepped closer with his eyes dropping to your feet. “I am sorry. I was harsh, and worried, and frightened.”

“I know,” you muttered. “I figured that out somewhere between the second lightning strike and the moment a goat tried to eat my sleeve.”

“Come inside,” he said softly while reaching out to clasp your fingers and guide you indoor. “You’re soaked, blue and clearly on the brink of falling ill. Your boots are—are those not your boots?”

“They belonged to a man named Oloron who lost his in the river. We swapped. Don’t ask.”

Stepping closer, he lifted his hand to cradle your face, his warm thumb rubbing your cold skin. “I missed you. The house missed you. The trees were quiet.”

“That’s creepy.”

“It’s true.”

Instinctively leaned into him without warning, and he caught you without hesitation, arms dropping to warm around you like he thought you might vanish again if he didn’t anchor you down.

“Say it again,” you murmured into his chest.

“I missed you.”

“Good. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.”

Gil-galad

The halls of Lindon were colder than usual. Not from the biting winds or damp stone, but from your absence, resulting in the great High King from not slept in a week—he barely ate, save for the few times Elrond had coaxed him into chewing through half a honeyed fig like some pitiful, lovesick warlord. All because you two had argued. Loudly.

It first started off a something petty—maybe it was about the council and his constant dodging of your concerns, or maybe the usual ‘you don’t understand the pressure I carry’ rubbish—before escalating. Whatever it was, he’d been dismissive, you’d been furious, and by the time the shouting had stopped, so had your presence in the house.

You hadn’t left a message with the maids. No word. Not even a note. Nothing but a door left ajar and silence heavier than the storm clouds that rolled in that night.

For two days, he searched, storm or not. Rode halfway to Forlond and back with soaked boots and a bruised ego. It didn’t matter that the rain pelted like knives or that his guards warned him of landslides. You were gone. You could have been dead for all he knew, and the last words he’d thrown at you had been, “If you can’t handle this life, perhaps you shouldn’t be part of it.”

Beautiful. Regal. Worthy of carving onto his tombstone, right next to Beloved Idiot.

So when the front door creaked open on the eighth morning, dripping with mud and exhaustion, and you stumbled in with your cloak barely clinging to your shoulders, Gil-galad froze mid-pace on the staircase.

“...You have three seconds to explain before I start wailing like a widow.”

You blinked at him, water streaming off your nose. “I got stuck in a bloody storm,” you grumbled. “The bridge collapsed, the path to Lindon was flooded, and the only inn in the village had one bed, and a family of six already in it. So, I’ve been drying socks by the hearth of an old woman named Sarah who thought I was some war orphan.”

“You didn’t think to send someone?”

“In the raging storm?”

“Birds fly in storms!”

“Yes, foolish Birds who have a death wish.”

He stomped down the stairs. “Do you have any idea what I thought happened? I buried you in my head five times! I thought you were dead, or worse—gone. Just…left.”

“Well that’s romantic.” You threw your arms in the air, which would’ve been more dramatic had you not slapped a soaked glove into your own face. “Why would I just leave?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he barked, sarcasm thick. “Maybe because your husband said something truly wretched and didn’t even apologise before you vanished into a torrential abyss?”

Your glare could’ve melted mithril at this point. “I was going to come home after a day, but then mudslides happened and cows started floating down the river like logs, and some bloody elf thought that was the perfect time to lecture me about duty and whether I’m ‘suited’ for this life!”

He winced. “...Yes. That would be me.”

“No shit.”

You both stared at each other, soaking wet and shaking for very different reasons. But then he stepped forward and flung his arms around you, his warrior-made body weighted upon yours and solid against your weary bones.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured into your hair. “And probably hungry. I left stew on the fire. It’s awful. I overdid the garlic. But it’s warm.”

You stifled a laugh at the absurdity of him assuming you would leave him, unsure whether to cry or punch him. “You thought I left.”

“I did. And if you ever actually leave without a message again, I’ll throw myself into the sea.”

You snorted while attempting to gently pry him off so his attire wouldn’t be drenched and smelling, however, he resisted your efforts. “You’d float. You’re too full of hot air.”

“Not the sweet reunion I was hoping for,” he muttered, burying his face into your neck. “But I’ll take it. Just don’t go running off without me.”

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[spudnikbard]

"Glorfindel the Reckless"

A/N: Requested by @stormchaser819 ! I hope you enjoy <3 I love Glorfindel so much, I hope I did him justice. Please let me know what you think! If anyone wants to be on my elf tag-list let me know, and mention which character you'd like to be tagged for if you want to be tagged for anyone in particular

Contents: Glorfindel x Elf!Reader, GN reader, fluff. Elvish translations at the bottom

Words: 1448 I Ko-Fi

Sunsets in Gondolin have always been a sight worthy of gazing upon. They never lost their beauty nor their charm and served well in comforting the hearts of many after all the dark news that reached them, be it by word or by letter. It almost caught you unawares now as the same sunset painted the marbled floor in glittering spots of gold and orange around you. 'Has it been so long already?'

Glorfindel sat quietly for once, observing you through tender eyes as you wrapped his injured arm in new dressings, the last of his wounds. Although he had no lack of love in Gondolin, nor the lack of people worried for him, his heart squeezed at the sight of your face when it wrinkled with worry, the tight frown on your lips and the way your teeth marked your lips. His intentions were to shield you, comfort you, but he knew he wouldn’t be doing any of it by sending you away or offering you empty words in hopes to sweep the topic of wounds away. 

“You’re healing quickly..” your words snapped him out of his internal musings, and he blinked once, twice as if your face was only now coming into his vision, cleared away of fog and distance. His lips pull upward at the corners slightly, searching your eyes for something.

“And that is much relief, but also to be expected when I have you tending to all that wishes to ail me” His words were a warm timbre, as gentle as the hearth fire in dusky winter nights. “I have much to thank you for,” he added as he watched you tuck away the excess wrapping, securing it tightly before patting the palm of your hand around the side of his forearm, the motion gentle. 

“The healers have done their due as well, I am not a great healer, but I know how to dress a wound” you told him as you looked up at him after finishing your task, exhaling softly through your nose. Elven blood was enduring, persevering, yet not even that was able to make you feel any less tired, or look the part. For too long did Glorfindel linger outside of your eyes and out of your reach, fighting battles and doing deeds worthy of the praise he got, and more. For too long he left you without a word. All of which you understood, yet it did little to comfort you of his safety. Had you any skill with a sword as he did, perhaps you would have taken a place by his side in the battles. But your weapon was a quill, rather than a blade.

“The healers have gotten their due praise and my gratitude, but you ought not to discredit yourself simply because you do not bear the title of theirs” Glorfindel said, his tone laced with subtle interwoven notes of concern. His head absentmindedly titled to one side, hoping to catch your suddenly fallen gaze. 

Your eyes flickered to his own for a heartbeat before you busied yourself with sorting away the excess wound dressing, ointments and herbs and tools and all else you brought in your healer’s bag. For a healing wound of his, this was much unnecessary. “I am not discrediting myself” you replied, your voice dropping lower despite your efforts to keep sturdy. Secrets were a distant thing between you and Glorfindel, almost as if there was an external force stripping you both bare, feeling so natural yet, at times like these, embarrassing. 

“I only worry you’ll allow the reputation everyone pins on you to get the better of your wits one day”  It was a harmless bite, a proof of your worry you knew not how to express in any other way.

Glorfindel huffed out a laugh, breathing in a good mouthful as his lips quirked upwards as if greatly amused by your words. He sighed as he shook his head slowly, his gaze leaving you for a moment as he took in the sight of the great bedchamber around him. The gold lances of the sun shone through still, slowly transitioning from gold to pale purples and pinks. “Surely, you do not worry yourself to exhaustion because of this?” he looked back to you, “Must I remind you that I am not as reckless as you may think?” he offers gently.

Your eyes met his gaze, noticing the hint of mischief but also.. worry. He may not show it, but you could see it, feel it when his fingers brushed your hand in a silent quest of comfort for both of your hearts. 

“No.. I.. I am fully aware of your skill, Glorfindel” you made yourself chuckle, lips pulling upward in a smile to ease yourself into the sentence. “I just.. hate to see you hurt, surely you understand that I am not exactly myself when I see you like this?” you take his good hand in yours and give a squeeze which he gladly returned. “It pains me to see you off wherever you go to battle, any battle, and to be sure sometimes my heart makes a beast out of a fly, but I.. I just worry for you, melda”

“I know… as do I for you..” he smiles at you again, and his hand slips the clasp of yours to find its way up. His fingers touched the line of your jaw tenderly at first, feather light, before his palm slipped onto your cheek to hold it. Seeing you lean into it made Glorfindel sit up and draw closer to you. His lips found yours in a lingering kiss. He was warm, warm as always, warm as fire and he held yours like nothing else mattered in the world but this very moment. 

After he had pulled back he made slow, sweet motions that brushed the tip of his nose against yours and then pressed your foreheads together.  “Elin nin.. you can have my word that I would never cast aside all the wisdom I have just so another song may be sung about me, not when I know you’d eat yourself from within if I were to do something so stupid” His tone had dropped to a whisper, shared strictly within this small bubble the two of you created. 

“Recklessness does not suit me, as you always love to remind me, and I do not care to try it out again any time soon” he chuckled, sparking a small chain reaction that ended with you chuckling along with him. Your hand found its way over his, holding him glued to you. 

“You said I look like a fool when I am too hasty” he continued, fueling the moment for what it was, so it may melt away the tension.

“Foolish behaviour is not fit for a lord of the house of the Golden Flower” you told him, shuffling closer to him. 

Glorfindel nodded, “Precisely. And I’d be an even bigger fool not to listen to you, Meleth nîn. There’d be many songs sung about Glorfindel the Fool by now.. Hah, I can almost imagine the verses. ‘Glorfindel charged with a mighty shout, but tripped on a rock and his long cape right out’!” 

It was hard to resist laughter, and it all bubbled up to your mouth and shook your shoulders as Glorfindel came up with verses on the spot. 

“ ‘His sword slipped from his hand, stuck in a tree so high, he wondered whether he might just wish it goodbye’ “ 

He did not stop until you slapped him on the shoulder, cheeks dusted with pink from laughter. “Oh, stop! You got your point across, no need to make me suffer any more with these verses of yours” you complained as you doubled over, the top of your head pressing into his shoulder as to hide away the mirth in your face.

“Ecthellion knows how to write and sing better than I, but I am not so bad myself at weaving a rhyme or two” he replied, letting you lean into him while one arm went around you, his good arm pressing you further into him. His chest was shaking with humble chuckles. “Melin ceni hin lîn síla i ‘eladhach! Don’t hide from me” He told you after swallowing a breath and you took courage to face the golden haired lord with all your flushed-face might. 

“There you are” he added and cupped the back of your nape with his hand. “Has my recklessness frightened you?”

“No, but it might annoy me if you mention it any more” you straightened up and kissed his cheek, reveling in the way he glowed when he smiled. 

melda - beloved

Elin nin - my star

Meleth nîn - my love

Melin ceni hin lîn síla i ‘eladhach -I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[spudnikbard]

[spudnikbard]

Years difference, both good

[spudnikbard]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite “See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[spudnikbard]

DONT laugh. Sorry this is the first(?) drawing I post this year

[spudnikbard]

[spudnikbard]

Yes, No, Under the Mistletoe

Maeglin x reader

Request: It's timmeeeee! Yayyyyy!!! Okay okay, so... I'm thinking a fic where maeglin has a crush on y/n but is unaware on how to approach it... For obvious reasons. So he goes to his best friend Salgant for advise. Salgant then suggests tthat because humans have brought along their festive traditions, that maybe maeglin try at upcoming feast the mistletoe trick and of course our boy maeglin is low key petrified of the idea. I just really wanna see some maeglin and Salgant works because there's almost none so write it however you prefer, I'm very curious about your take. Have an incredible festive season luv! You deserve it❤️🤍 - anon

A/N: I was not expecting such a simple fic to become this many words, but that’s what happens when you have the power of imagination and free will to create.

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: none, fluff, kissing

Synopsis: Torn between willingly approaching you and cowering being a wall, Maeglin resorts to requesting dire help from his dear friend, Salgant, all for the sake of not making a fool of himself around you.

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“I…require your advice.”

“You’re telling me,” Salgant said, leaning back in his chair and regarding Maeglin with an expression of poorly concealed delight, “that you, the great craftsman and lord of Gondolin, have been utterly undone by a mortal?”

Maeglin’s sharp glare could have cut stone. “I came to you for advice, not mockery.”

Salgant held up his hands in mock surrender, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light. “Peace, my friend, peace. I mean no harm. But you must admit, it’s a rather amusing predicament.”

Maeglin crossed his arms and leaned back against the chair, his dark eyes narrowing. “If you find it so amusing, perhaps I should seek counsel elsewhere.”

“Now, now,” Salgant said, sitting up and waving a hand to placate him. “No need for that. I’ll help you, of course. But first, tell me—why haven’t you simply spoken to them?”

The young Lord’s expression darkened further. “Because I do not know how. I am not…adept at such things. And I do not wish to make a fool of myself.”

Salgant’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as he set his harp aside. “Do you now? And here I thought you were beyond the reach of such concerns. Pray, tell me more.”

Maeglin hesitated, his pride warring with the desperate need for guidance. Finally, he relented. “It concerns the mortal…the one called Y/N.”

“Ah,” Salgant said, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “The human who has caught your eye.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Go on.”

Maeglin scowled, unused to feeling so exposed. “I do not know how to approach them. They’re…different. Humans are different. I cannot gauge how they might respond or even whether they would entertain the notion of…of courtship.”

Salgant leaned back, regarding Maeglin with a thoughtful expression. “You, my dear Maeglin, are in luck. It so happens that I have been observing our mortal guests with great interest. Their ways are peculiar, yes, but not incomprehensible.”

Maeglin arched an eyebrow. “And what do you suggest?”

A mischievous glint appeared in Salgant’s eyes. “The Midwinter Feast. Humans are fond of traditions, are they not? One such tradition involves mistletoe. Do you know of it?”

Maeglin shook his head, his dark brows furrowing. “What has mistletoe to do with this?”

“Everything!” Salgant declared, rising to his feet with a theatrical flourish. “It is a human custom that when two people find themselves beneath a sprig of mistletoe, they must share a kiss. It is playful, innocent, and altogether charming. The perfect opportunity to express your interest without the risk of outright rejection.”

Maeglin paused as he swivelled his head to watch from the balcony, his onyx eyes tracing your figure as you moved amidst the crowd below. You were laughing at something one of your companions had said, the sound soft and melodic even to his keen ears. The sunlight caught strands of your hair, making it seem as though it had been spun from molten gold. A curious warmth stirred in his chest, one he had come to associate with you.

Maeglin then returned his focus to his dear friend, drowning out the noise of the city in the background, his discomfort evident. “You want me to ambush them under a plant?”

Salgant laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not an ambush, Maeglin. A moment. A chance to make your feelings known in a way that is both subtle and daring. Imagine it—her surprise, her blush. You must trust me in this. Have I ever led you astray?”

“It is foolish,” Maeglin said, his tone flat.

“It is effective,” Salgant countered. “And besides, what have you to lose? Your pride? You’ve risked far more for far less. If they respond positively, then you’ll know they share your feelings. And if they do not…well, you can always blame it on the tradition. A harmless misunderstanding.”

Maeglin hesitated, torn between his apprehension and the flicker of hope Salgant’s words inspired. “I do not know…”

“Do it for them, then,” Salgant said gently, his tone unusually sincere. “They deserve to know how you feel. And you deserve to tell them.”

“Very well,” he said, at last, his voice quiet but firm. “I will consider it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Salgant said, clapping his hands together. “Now, let’s discuss strategy. Timing is everything, of course, and you’ll need to ensure that the mistletoe is placed in a location where—”

Maeglin groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Salgant launched into a detailed plan. He wasn’t sure whether he would survive the feast, but one thing was certain: he was in far deeper than he had ever intended.

**

The Hall of Feasts was ablaze with light and colour that evening, its high ceilings adorned with garlands of evergreen and glittering lanterns. Tables laden with food and drink stretched across the room, and the air was filled with the mingling scents of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and spiced wine. Laughter and music echoed through the hall as elves and men celebrated together, their differences momentarily forgotten in the warmth of camaraderie.

It had started innocently enough. You, a human of the Edain, had arrived in Gondolin with a small group of your kin, seeking refuge from the dangers beyond its secret borders. Your presence had been a curiosity at first, something novel in the otherwise elven city. But where others had gradually accepted you with polite distance, Maeglin found himself inexplicably drawn to you.

You were unlike anyone he had known—your perspective refreshingly frank, your laughter unguarded, and your warmth like the spring sun on winter snow. And yet, for all his knowledge of smithing, mining, and strategy, Maeglin found himself utterly at a loss when it came to you. His feelings unsettled him. He didn’t know how to express them—whether he even should.

Maeglin stood near the edge of the room, his dark attire lending him an air of brooding elegance. His sharp gaze scanned the crowd, seeking you amidst the throng. He had taken Salgant’s advice—though not without misgivings—and now all he needed to carry out was the most excruciating part of the task, guiding you towards the mistletoe.

When he spotted you near the hearth, engaged in lively conversation with a group of elves and men, his heart raced. You looked radiant. You wore a dress of deep green, the colour of evergreen leaves, and your hair was adorned with small silver ornaments that caught the light as you moved. To Maeglin, you looked more radiant than the stars themselves. For a moment, he hesitated, his confidence faltering in the face of his own insecurities. What if you laughed? What if you rejected him?

“You’re staring again,” Salgant muttered, appearing at his side with a goblet of wine in hand. “At least try to be subtle.”

“I am not staring,” Maeglin replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Salgant rolled his eyes. “You’ve been standing there like a statue for the past quarter of an hour. If you don’t move soon, people will start to think you’ve been turned to stone.”

Maeglin ignored the remark, his attention still fixed on you. Salgant sighed dramatically. “Fine. Have it your way. But remember, the mistletoe is in place. All you need to do is get them there.”

“And how, exactly, am I to do that?” Maeglin asked, his tone sharp. “I cannot simply drag them across the hall.”

“Of course not,” Salgant said, looking scandalised by the very idea. “You must be subtle. Start a conversation, and draw them in. The rest will follow naturally.”

“Nothing about this feels natural,” Maeglin muttered, but Salgant only grinned.

“Then you’d best hope they find your awkwardness endearing.” With that, he clapped Maeglin on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him alone once more.

But then you turned, your gaze catching him from across the room. A smile bloomed on your lips, and you raised a hand in greeting. Maeglin felt his resolve strengthen, the sight of your smile banishing his doubts. He moved towards you, weaving through the crowd with the practised ease of a warrior.

“Lord Maeglin!” you warmly greeted as he approached. “I’m glad you came. I was beginning to think you might avoid the feast altogether.”

“I considered it,” he admitted lowly. “But it seems I was drawn here nonetheless.”

You tilted your head, studying him with a curious expression. “Drawn? To the feast, or to the company?”

“The company,” he said before he could stop himself, his honesty surprising even him.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a blooming smile graced your face. “Well,” you said softly, “I’m glad for it.”

“You look…very lovely.”

You smiled, and his heart skipped a beat. “Thank you. And you are as striking as ever.”

He felt a faint flush rise to his cheeks but quickly pushed it aside. “I hope you are enjoying the feast.”

“I am,” you said, nodding. “It is quite different from the celebrations of my people, but no less beautiful. And you?”

He hesitated, then said, “I find such gatherings…overwhelming. But they have their merits.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “Overwhelming? I never would have guessed. You seem so composed.”

Maeglin glanced away, the faintest flicker of unease crossing his sharp features. “Composure is easily mistaken for ease. In truth, I prefer quieter settings.”

“I can understand that,” you replied, your voice softening. “Large gatherings can be exhausting. But I am glad you’re here. It wouldn’t feel complete without you.”

His gaze snapped back to you, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss for words. You, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease, as if the compliment had been the most natural thing in the world.

A moment of silence passed between you before you broke it with a gentle laugh. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You did not,” he said quickly, though the faint warmth in his cheeks betrayed him. Desperate to regain control of the conversation, he gestured towards the hall. “Would you care to…walk with me? Away from the crowd.”

Your smile widened, and you nodded. “I’d like that.”

He led you away from the throng, weaving through clusters of laughing guests and past the tables laden with food and drink. You followed him without hesitation, your presence a quiet reassurance. As you walked, Maeglin’s thoughts raced. This was his chance. Salgant’s ridiculous plan rested on him manoeuvring you beneath the mistletoe now discreetly hanging in one of the quieter alcoves.

The corridor you entered was far less crowded, its walls lined with draperies depicting the history of Gondolin. The torches burned lower here, their light casting soft shadows. The laughter and music from the feast hall grew muted, leaving only the sound of your footsteps.

“This part of the city is so peaceful,” you said, your voice breaking the quiet. “It feels like stepping into another world.”

“It is often overlooked,” Maeglin replied. “Most prefer the grandeur of the main halls. But I find solace here.”

“You have a way of finding beauty in stillness,” you observed, glancing at him. “That’s rare.”

He hesitated, unsure how to respond. Your words were kind, but they touched something deeper, a part of him that longed to share more of himself with you yet feared rejection. Finally, he said, “Stillness allows one to think clearly. To appreciate what might otherwise be missed.”

You nodded, your expression thoughtful. “I think I understand. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet moments that we see most clearly.”

You walked in silence for a while longer, the air between you filled with a comfortable sense of understanding. As you approached the alcove, Maeglin felt his pulse quicken. The sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling, a delicate cluster of green and white against the stone. It was subtle but unmistakable.

He slowed his steps, glancing at you to gauge your reaction. You followed his gaze, your eyes landing on the mistletoe. A flicker of recognition passed over your face, and you turned back to him with a soft smile.

“Mistletoe,” you said, your tone light and teasing. “A curious tradition, don’t you think?”

“It is,” Maeglin agreed, his voice quieter than he intended. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the seconds stretching into an eternity. He knew this was the moment to act, to take the leap Salgant had urged upon him. But his courage faltered, and he could only stare at you, his heart pounding.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Maeglin?”

“Yes?” he managed barely above a whisper.

“Do you believe in traditions?” you asked, your tone carrying a playful edge, though your gaze was steady.

His breath caught. “I…suppose they have their place.”

“Then perhaps we should honour this one,” you said, stepping closer. Your voice was gentle but sure, and the warmth in your eyes set his heart alight.

Before he could lose his nerve, you tiptoed and met his lips. Their slight roughness—due to him biting them all night—brushed yours in a kiss that was uncertain, almost reverent. The world seemed to still be around him, the weight of his fears and uncertainties falling away in the light of your closeness. The faint falling of the snow outside, the wind coming to a gentle halt, the sound of the chattering from the main hall disappearing—all stopped for you two. Your lips were soft and warm, and as you kissed him back, his heart ascended.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes met his, a faint blush colouring your cheeks. “See? That wasn’t so difficult.”

Maeglin stared at you, his usual composure utterly undone. “I…I was afraid,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Afraid you would not…welcome it.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “You have no reason to fear, Maeglin. Not with me.”

He paused momentarily as the next words on his mind came forth to the tip of his tongue. Taking a deep breath and gathering every ounce of courage, he attempted. “Then, you would not mind me asking if you would be interested in allowing me to court you?”

“I do not like your uncertainty. Are you sure you wish to court me?” you returned with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, encouraging him to be more confident with his question.

“I…I do! It’s just…” His voice trailed off, as did his eyes, falling to the floor. But when he felt your hand reaching out to tenderly squeeze his, his eyes snapped back to yours and he exhaled. Squaring his shoulders and standing prouder, he met your gaze head on, his hand reaching out to clasp the same hand that held his, confidently. “Y/N, I would like to court, and hope that you will accept my proposal.”

Your lips broke into a smile that reached your eyes as you nodded your head, pleased at the surge of confidence he emitted. It was impossible for you to reject his offer, not when he overcame a boundary all for you. Returning a gentle squeeze to his hand, enjoying the size-difference as his hand enveloped yours, you hummed. “I would that a lot, my lord. I accept your proposal.”

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Quise hacer algo distinto en acuarelas y para ello escogí a Ben Drowned, auuunque bueno, no resultó igual a como esperaba. Mejoré los detalles con lápices de colores.

Le puse algo de filtros para que los colores se vean más geniales. Mientras estaba delineando le cayó una gota de tinta, agg

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Some of my arts

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"Like-like"

PAIRING : George Weasley/Male!Reader, crushing

FANDOM : Harry Potter, one-shot

CONTAINS : Drunk love confessions, fluff, like- one swear word, mentions of alcohol (THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD‼️)

Gryffindor parties are often described to be rather wild, and although it contributes to the stereotype that all Gryffindors are loud and obnoxious, it's not entirely false that the parties they throw can be over-the-top lively. However, nobody ever mentions the calmer aftermath, when the energy has died down and everyone is either wasted, exhausted, or have passed out. You expected George to get drunk— knowing that he and his twin are the life of the party —and you expected you would be the one looking after him, as you always do. Maybe you care for him just a little too much, because if you didn't, you wouldn't be painstakingly dragging the boy up the stairs toward the dormitories.

"Godric's sake, George—" You mutter under your breath as you attempt to haul him up. He's heavy, and certainly stubborn about staying sat on the cold, wooden floor. He groans in protest, whining with slurred words. It always seems like he becomes more irritatingly immature in moments like these. You sigh in defeat, leaning against the wall beside George in an exasperated manner then sliding down to sit next to him.

"Fine then, we're sleeping in the hallway." You mutter, clearly annoyed yet you can't really bring yourself to truly be mad at George. Your gaze wanders, and eventually it lands on the boy beside you. He's rambling on about something without a care in the world, his words don't make any sense. You find yourself chuckling at his ridiculously messy hair, and the way he tries to form coherent sentences and act as if he's sober. It's amusing.

"Then I looked.. I saw you, it was—" George pauses, as if looking for the right thing to say through his inebriated mind, "—It was like, woahh, y'know?" He gestures with his hands to convey an effect of awe, almost hitting you in the process. He turns to you with this stupid grin on his face, he's all giggly and dazed, and it makes you wonder if it's because he's looking at you.

You raise an eyebrow at his words. Humoring him would mean having to deal with drunken ramblings, you don't know if you have the social energy for that. Still, it would make your night less boring. "What d'you mean by woah?" You ask, curiosity hanging in the air. You watch as your friend's expression changes, looking as though he's processing what you'd just said. Or maybe it's a look of incredulity, like he can't quite believe you'd ask that, 'cause to him, the answer is obvious.

"Because," He pauses, leaning against you. For a moment, he just stares at you, until he realizes that you're expecting a reason. George clears his throat, "You're pretty— prettiest boy I ever, uh, seen." He states matter-of-factly, feigning a serious expression. Despite his efforts, a cheeky grin makes it's way to his lips as he snickers, "Aside from me, o' course!"

The compliment catches you off-guard— even though you know that he's under the influence of alcohol and sheer honesty is pretty common for people who are intoxicated, but you're still surprised. And although you laugh along with a scoff as you playfully push the other way, a thought lingers in your head. He thinks you're pretty. "Oh, fuck off." You mutter, rolling your eyes.

"What? Y'dont believe me?"

"Not one bit!"

"C'mon," He laughs softly, "I mean it!" George insists. He lets his head fall on your shoulder as he's slouched on the floor with his eyes closed. "I like your face."

You hum, "I like your face too, I guess."

It falls silent, a comfortable quiet that George immediately interrupts because he just can't seem to stop talking for more than 10 seconds, "The rest of you is pretty cool too."

"Really now?" You reply absentmindedly, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. Even with your attempt to act nonchalant, the warmth of your face gives away how affected you truly are by his comments.

"Yeah, I likee—" He trails off, the sound of his fingers tapping against the wooden floor rings in your ears. "Eh, you." George declares finally, nodding to himself like he's making sure what he said was right.

If you were surprised by his compliment earlier, this one has rendered you speechless. Partly out of shock, but also because you're far too busy running through rampant thoughts and going through every possibility or reason for him to say that to even think of a response. You don't want to get ahead of yourself and assume that it's a confession. Meanwhile, he doesn't seem to notice how tense your shoulders had become, "Like a lot," George continues thoughtfully. "More than anyone, actually. Uhm, 's that weird? I hope not."

You don't respond, because what are you supposed to do when your friend says something that you know he won't even remember in the morning?

George murmurs under his breath, "Think I—" He cuts himself off, abruptly sitting up straight. His eyebrows are furrowed yet his eyes hold that dazed stare, which makes you contemplate if it's George or the alcohol talking. "No no, I know that I..." He stammers, his expression one of concentration as he tries to find the right words to convey how he feels, or atleast that's what it looks like to you. "Like-like you."

It takes you a moment to react. He sounds so sincere and genuine, and you can't help but bark out a laugh because you'd never thought you would hear George ever say the words 'Like-like', especially not during a drunk confession. It doesn't take long for the other to join in on your laughter, although he doesn't really seem to understand what you find so funny and that just seems to make the situation all the more comedic.

"Alright, come on." You stand up from the floor, patting down any dust on your pants before you reach a hand out to George. "Let's get you to your dorm." You smiles as he takes your hand into his, and only now do you notice how calloused and warm his palm is. It's like all the worries you had moments prior have now been stored in the far back of your mind, you'll worry about it again in the morning. You haul the boy up, and this time he lets you pull him to his feet. He stumbles forward, legs still wobbly as you quickly catch him.

"For the record, I like-like you too," You finally admit whilst guiding George to his dorm-room.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

FINALLY, this took me way too long than it should have. Not my best work tbh, there are some parts that I like and some parts that I wish I had done better. I don't know if I did good on the dialogue, this is my first time writing a drunk character so I hope I did atleast half-decent. I'm still pretty proud of this, though. As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated!!

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Headcanon Compilation (icarus-fell-in-spring)

Since most of you were worried about the scattering of icarus-fell-in-spring’s Tolkien headcanons after the closing down of the blog, I took the liberty of creating a compilation of the reblogged headcanons, so everything can be easily accessed in one place. Many thanks to @aicatille, @silverhandsworld, @vibratingbones, and other blogs for providing access to the headcanons you all have reblogged over time so I could create this for everyone’s usage.

Masterlist ➽ Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4

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