nataliabdraws

[nataliabdraws]

totally serious artist makes totally serious art

[nataliabdraws]

right person, wrong time(line)

[nataliabdraws]

axella ink style sketch from last night!

[nataliabdraws]

But then again, time passes, like all things do…

…

[nataliabdraws]

axella shippers come get your food!! 📢📢

[wip]

[nataliabdraws]

cooked up fem!marchion ro

[nataliabdraws]

[nataliabdraws]

statement from mahmoud khalil shared by the center for constitutional rights

[nataliabdraws]

Oops

[wip]

[nataliabdraws]

Oops

[wip]

[nataliabdraws]

visionary

[oc joana]

[nataliabdraws]

visionary

[oc joana]

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (VIII)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: Olwyn and Maglor take a trip north.

warnings: N/A

word count: 5.1k

author's note: oof its been a minute. I'm juggling so many things right now, I'm happy to finally have this done. I hope you enjoyed and I look forward to reading your thoughts! - nat

read full thing on ao3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3+4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 |

Eydia and Felwin’s estate is one of the nicer Langstrand cottages, perched like a sun-bleached seashell amid the rolling highlands. Whitewashed stone glows softly under the midday sun, its heavy thatched roof sloping low as if bowing to the wind. Two stories—compact but proud—anchor the land gifted by Edyia’s father, a yeoman whose fishing vessels still haunt the village docks like skeletal sentinels. The new build looms large, though not unkindly, its garden twice the size since Felwin traded his family’s cramped cottage for soil and sky. Vegetable patches quilt the earth in emerald rows, fruit trees huddle along the walls, and the orchard, once gnarled and stunted, stretches its limbs greedily toward the horizon.

Olwyn hitches her mare outside the wooden fence, patting the beast’s sweat-damp flank before trudging up the gravel path. She knocks, the sound swallowed by the thick oak door painted a cheery, chipped red. Movement stirs inside—a clatter of crockery, the thump of boots—before the door swings open. Edyia beams, her apron dusted with flour, hair escaping its braid in wisps of oak brown. “Olwyn!” she exclaims, then cranes over her shoulder. “Dear, your sister is here!”

The cottage swallows Olwyn in warmth. Fresh bread perfumes the air, tangled with the sharpness of mint tea steeping on the hearthside table. A fire crackles, its light licking the copper pots hung above the mantel. The kitchen table, scarred and sturdy, hosts a vase of wildflowers���yarrow and clover, plucked haphazardly from the meadow. Olwyn slides the wicker basket from her arm, its contents spilling fat tomatoes, knobby carrots, and a bundle of rosemary still damp with morning dew.

“From the garden,” she says, though Edyia is already plunging her hands into the bounty, humming approval.

Felwin appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands smudged with soil. His grin is a mirror of Edyia’s—too wide, too warm, as if he’s still surprised to claim this life as his. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he says, nodding at the vegetables. “The carrots last time were sweeter than Edyia’s honey cakes.”

Edyia swats him with a dishcloth. “Liar. Nothing’s sweeter than my cakes.”

Olwyn smiles, but it falters as her gaze snags on the ledger open beside the hearth—pages dense with Felwin’s cramped handwriting, numbers marching like ants. Debts? The orchard’s expansion, the new roof, the fishing nets Edyia’s father gifted… none of it free, she suspects.

“Stay for lunch,” Edyia insists, already slicing bread. “The stew’s nearly done.”

Olwyn nods. Her stomach growls, a traitorous sound, muscles quivering like overstrung lute wires. The cottage—her cottage, with its moss-choked roof and smoke-stained hearth—feels leagues away now, though she’d ridden here in under an hour.

They slouch at the hearthside table, boots hooked on chair rungs, sunlight striping their faces through warped glass. The stew smells of thyme and nostalgia of her childhood, but it sits like lead in her gut. Edyia, ever a bull in a silk shop, lobs the question Olwyn’s been dodging since dawn.

“How’s that elf of yours?” she asks, stew dripping off her spoon. “Y’know—tall, broody, looks like he’s chewing on wasps?”

“Edyia, really.” Felwin’s frown could sour milk.

“Oh, shush. If he makes her smile, I say we embrace him. He hasn’t bedded you, has he?”

Olwyn chokes on her broth, cheeks blazing. (Some months ago, Ruebia’s wedding. Maglor’s hands tangled in her hair, embraced in her sheets and warm furs, both of them too wine-drunk and wrecked to do more than kiss—clumsy, desperate, his mouth a brand that lingered for days.)

She stabs her spoon into the stew, broth sloshing. “It’s not like that. He's leaving soon,”

“He’s leaving?" Felwin asks, too sharp.

“Sea-longing,” Olwyn mutters, the word ash on her tongue.

Edyia blinks. “Sea-longing?”

“An ache,” Olwyn says, staring at the steam curling off her bowl. “To sail West. To abandon this…mortal mess.”

“Can’t you stop him?”

Felwin gives Edyia a look.

Olwyn’s laugh is brittle. “Stop an elf older than the hills? Might as well chain the tide.”

Edyia’s mouth crimps shut, eyes slitting like a cat’s. Felwin leans forward, elbows gouging the table, and Olwyn tastes the question—sharp as nettles—before it leaves his lips.

“Have you considered following him?”

Heat scalds her from scalp to soles. The cottage seems to still, dust motes frozen mid-drift. (She imagines Maglor in the doorway, rain-soaked and ruinous, his eyes twin voids of ancient grief—gods, had she not bled enough for him already?)

Her answer rasps out, dry as a tomb. “No.”

She doesn’t realize she’s split her palm with her nails until blood beads crescent moons into her skin.

Edyia tilts her head, all faux innocence. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not fully—elf-kind,” Olwyn corrects. “The Valar wouldn’t permit it. Even if I begged.”

Felwin exhales through his nose. Edyia sets down her wineglass with a clink that cracks the silence.

“Well,” Edyia says, too bright, squeezing Olwyn’s wrist, “Langstrand will always want you. Broody elves optional.”

read the full chapter on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (VIII)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: Olwyn and Maglor take a trip north.

warnings: N/A

word count: 5.1k

author's note: oof its been a minute. I'm juggling so many things right now, I'm happy to finally have this done. I hope you enjoyed and I look forward to reading your thoughts! - nat

read full thing on ao3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3+4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 |

Eydia and Felwin’s estate is one of the nicer Langstrand cottages, perched like a sun-bleached seashell amid the rolling highlands. Whitewashed stone glows softly under the midday sun, its heavy thatched roof sloping low as if bowing to the wind. Two stories—compact but proud—anchor the land gifted by Edyia’s father, a yeoman whose fishing vessels still haunt the village docks like skeletal sentinels. The new build looms large, though not unkindly, its garden twice the size since Felwin traded his family’s cramped cottage for soil and sky. Vegetable patches quilt the earth in emerald rows, fruit trees huddle along the walls, and the orchard, once gnarled and stunted, stretches its limbs greedily toward the horizon.

Olwyn hitches her mare outside the wooden fence, patting the beast’s sweat-damp flank before trudging up the gravel path. She knocks, the sound swallowed by the thick oak door painted a cheery, chipped red. Movement stirs inside—a clatter of crockery, the thump of boots—before the door swings open. Edyia beams, her apron dusted with flour, hair escaping its braid in wisps of oak brown. “Olwyn!” she exclaims, then cranes over her shoulder. “Dear, your sister is here!”

The cottage swallows Olwyn in warmth. Fresh bread perfumes the air, tangled with the sharpness of mint tea steeping on the hearthside table. A fire crackles, its light licking the copper pots hung above the mantel. The kitchen table, scarred and sturdy, hosts a vase of wildflowers—yarrow and clover, plucked haphazardly from the meadow. Olwyn slides the wicker basket from her arm, its contents spilling fat tomatoes, knobby carrots, and a bundle of rosemary still damp with morning dew.

“From the garden,” she says, though Edyia is already plunging her hands into the bounty, humming approval.

Felwin appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands smudged with soil. His grin is a mirror of Edyia’s—too wide, too warm, as if he’s still surprised to claim this life as his. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he says, nodding at the vegetables. “The carrots last time were sweeter than Edyia’s honey cakes.”

Edyia swats him with a dishcloth. “Liar. Nothing’s sweeter than my cakes.”

Olwyn smiles, but it falters as her gaze snags on the ledger open beside the hearth—pages dense with Felwin’s cramped handwriting, numbers marching like ants. Debts? The orchard’s expansion, the new roof, the fishing nets Edyia’s father gifted… none of it free, she suspects.

“Stay for lunch,” Edyia insists, already slicing bread. “The stew’s nearly done.”

Olwyn nods. Her stomach growls, a traitorous sound, muscles quivering like overstrung lute wires. The cottage—her cottage, with its moss-choked roof and smoke-stained hearth—feels leagues away now, though she’d ridden here in under an hour.

They slouch at the hearthside table, boots hooked on chair rungs, sunlight striping their faces through warped glass. The stew smells of thyme and nostalgia of her childhood, but it sits like lead in her gut. Edyia, ever a bull in a silk shop, lobs the question Olwyn’s been dodging since dawn.

“How’s that elf of yours?” she asks, stew dripping off her spoon. “Y’know—tall, broody, looks like he’s chewing on wasps?”

“Edyia, really.” Felwin’s frown could sour milk.

“Oh, shush. If he makes her smile, I say we embrace him. He hasn’t bedded you, has he?”

Olwyn chokes on her broth, cheeks blazing. (Some months ago, Ruebia’s wedding. Maglor’s hands tangled in her hair, embraced in her sheets and warm furs, both of them too wine-drunk and wrecked to do more than kiss—clumsy, desperate, his mouth a brand that lingered for days.)

She stabs her spoon into the stew, broth sloshing. “It’s not like that. He's leaving soon,”

“He’s leaving?" Felwin asks, too sharp.

“Sea-longing,” Olwyn mutters, the word ash on her tongue.

Edyia blinks. “Sea-longing?”

“An ache,” Olwyn says, staring at the steam curling off her bowl. “To sail West. To abandon this…mortal mess.”

“Can’t you stop him?”

Felwin gives Edyia a look.

Olwyn’s laugh is brittle. “Stop an elf older than the hills? Might as well chain the tide.”

Edyia’s mouth crimps shut, eyes slitting like a cat’s. Felwin leans forward, elbows gouging the table, and Olwyn tastes the question—sharp as nettles—before it leaves his lips.

“Have you considered following him?”

Heat scalds her from scalp to soles. The cottage seems to still, dust motes frozen mid-drift. (She imagines Maglor in the doorway, rain-soaked and ruinous, his eyes twin voids of ancient grief—gods, had she not bled enough for him already?)

Her answer rasps out, dry as a tomb. “No.”

She doesn’t realize she’s split her palm with her nails until blood beads crescent moons into her skin.

Edyia tilts her head, all faux innocence. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not fully—elf-kind,” Olwyn corrects. “The Valar wouldn’t permit it. Even if I begged.”

Felwin exhales through his nose. Edyia sets down her wineglass with a clink that cracks the silence.

“Well,” Edyia says, too bright, squeezing Olwyn’s wrist, “Langstrand will always want you. Broody elves optional.”

read the full chapter on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

human burryaga design that got the gc barking

[nataliabdraws]

[nataliabdraws]

a kiss for luck