welcomingdisaster - Tumblr blog

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Popcorn and Toast playing some vs basketball! I'm really proud of Toast in particular for being able to hold her own - Popcorn can be very pushy with basketball so I wasn't sure how Toast would do given her initial struggle with it, but she rose to the challenge and got just as many hoops as Popcorn! Go Toast and Popcorn!

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starting to cook for russingonweek...

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'This is sharper than thy tongue, half-brother!'

Do not use without my permission, please

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reddit is having a glitch where it puts the wrong captions over photos and it’s the only thing i care about right now

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Russingon as a warmup sketch that got out of hand :) hope the boys are cute enough, this is probably still in Blessed Valinor where nothing bad ever crossed their way. And if, Maitimo would just pick his tiny cuz up to carry him away :3

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Sorry for being such a slow writer, it's because I [remembers that self-deprecating jokes are harmful to my mental health and make everyone else uncomfortable] was attacked by dark spirits and washed up on the shore of a mysterious island with no recollection of who I was

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Maedhros doodle

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Hi hi, may I ask for number 5 of the prompt list for Maedhros and Fingon please? 👀

hi hi hi! thank you for the prompt. slight gore tw for this one. 5: where it does not hurt.

Findekáno checks the ties of the makeshift tourniquet. It is slippery with blood, tiny fragments of bone clinging to the cloth as bits of broken china. Russandol trembles against his chest, insensate; his lips move, bubbles of bloodied spit forming between them, but he can muster no sound, no word. Even his scalp bleeds, crimson mingling with his red-brown hair where he must have pulled at the roots. There is nowhere Findekáno can touch that would not hurt. 

Except for one place. Findekáno fumbles with the dark chain, but it will not give, buried too deeply under the skin of his right hand. Some part of him thinks to take up again his knife and carve it out, to leave as little to the enemy as he might. 

But there is no reason, no time. He leans forward and presses his lips against the dead fingers in goodbye, and calls to Thorondor to depart. 

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freeze! ✧ ─=≡Σ((( つ•̀ω•́)つ you’re under arrest for being so lovely. copy this message to 10 other blogs (only if you want to) that you think are beautiful and deserve it. keep the game going and make others feel beautiful 💜

aww this is so sweet!! <3

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Found online.

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For the kiss prompt, if the fancy strikes.

Fingon/Maglor... on a scar. The scar is Fingon's

hi hi melesta!! have this quick little thing! <3

“I am writing a ballad,” Maglor says, tracing Fingon’s palm with his index finger, “since I have found no such works, or at least none particularly inspired. Of things left behind, I should say, in the ice and fire.” 

“I would not imagine five fingerbreadths of skin to have much of a poetic ring,” Fingon says, “as a phrase.” 

They sit together on the hastily-built pier, watching the huge dark catfish of Lake Mithrim pass beneath them. The lake is cold, far too cold to swim in, but Fingon has kicked off his boots, and dangles his feet into the water. Maglor shivers looking at it for too long. But the sun is warm, overhead, and he lets his mink cloak drop down to the wood below him, pooling by their hips. 

“Ah, but it may be that sort of ballad, bloody, visceral,” Maglor says, “a bear, you say?” 

“Ice-bear,” Fingon says, “as a regular bear, but worse. It caught a flap of my skin under its claw, yanked down, and tore. It hung off for some time and I think we tried to put it back on, but my whole hand swelled twice its size, and the skin turned black and smelled of rot. How is that, for poetry?” 

“It is pretty now,” Maglor says, tracing the shape of the scar, raised and pale against Fingon’s dark skin, “quite as a flower-petal, or a dew-drop. Certainly there is poetry in that.” 

Before he can think better of it he takes up Fingon’s hand, and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the edges of the scar. Breathes in deeply the scent of magnolia flowers, dabbed onto Fingon’s wrists. 

Fingon’s hand jerks, ticklish. There is laughter in his voice. “What now?” 

“I study my subject, as any scholar ought,” Maglor says, “I see here your skin tastes no different, healed over.” 

“Shameless,” Fingon says, “bold as fire, cousin.” But he does not draw away, not as Maglor closes his lips around his fingers and sucks. Not even after that. 

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dandelions are Not weeds they are literally yellow...

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elwing

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people born in 24 Are 2000 now