#murder elf and golden poster boy

[dalliansss]

A grin spreads on Finrod’s lips. “I am thinking about it, then I remember your haru Mahtan, and his great red beard.”

“Oh?” Maedhros’s eyebrows shoot up curiously.

Finrod’s grin grows. “He sprouted his beard young, didn’t he? And you are nearing your third millennium of life, in the reckoning of the Sun and Moon.”

Maedhros begins to understand the joke. The beginnings of a frown scrunches his brow.

A peal of delighted laughter escapes Finrod. “You too will sprout a great red beard like Mahtan, I expect. Ai, how ugly! I will have to shave you myself!”

An outraged little mumble from Maedhros. He gently elbows Finrod. “Ai, stop! How dare you. Or have you forgotten that Ingwë’s father who got left behind in Cuiviénen also had a great golden beard? Haru Finwë told us stories. A great golden bush, he said. So, you aren’t safe! Silence, you!”

Finrod keeps laughing. It is the laughter he reserves for family and other intimate friends: ugly and snorting, like a pig. So unlike him at all. Or at least the facade he shows to the world. 

[lord greatbeard / Part 22 of Glissando / AO3]

[thegildedlady]

Was it a wise choice to slip away under cover of darkness, row to shore in a rickety old dingy, and risk being seen by Alliance do-gooders just to get a fresh drink from a real pub? No, of course not. But that never stopped Kordya before. The Merry Mogu had been at sea for so long, its Captain could barely stand the watery swill left over at the bottom of their ale kegs. She was unable to feel anything but excitement and thirst as she rowed over choppy waters off the coast of northern Kalimdor towards her destination. Whatever healthy dose of fear which kept humans from acting foolish was no where to be found within her, taken away by Sorae Storm's 'travel pass'. Kordya dragged her dingy onto gray, sandy shores and kept her eyes locked on the warm glow of candlelight in the distance. There was a Kaldorei inn just up the hill, and she eagerly started off towards it, unabashed and unafraid.

The open-air inn was nestled into the mountainside at the end of the world, its patrons few and far between. As she strolled confidently through the front door, a call board across the room with a very familiar face above the word "WANTED" caught her attention. She casually approached the board and inspected this latest depiction of her likeness. They always made her look like a deranged clown (which some would argue wasn't too far off). Kordya ripped the flyer down and crammed it into her coat pocket without much fuss. The two or three late-nighters hanging around didn't seem to notice. With a forced clearing of the throat and a smile, she plopped down on a barstool and folded her hands neatly before her. "Pardon me, buddy," she crooned at the back of the bartender's head, "but I'm mighty thirsty. I'll take the house brew, please!"

A lithe, purple elf with a thick mane of green braids slowly turned to face the smuggler. Kordya kept her gap-toothed grin on display until the bartender spoke, their voice burly and warm. "Coming up," he muttered. His hands were preoccupied with a dirty glass and even dirtier rag to polish it with, and he didn't break focus to get a good look at the new customer.

Kordya bubbled in her seat as she waited. Her crew would be fast asleep, none the wiser to the little late-night excursion she was taking. Sometimes it was easier to go alone than get the whole gang ready for a trip, and it made her a wee bit nostalgic for her solo days. Still, there were obvious benefits to having a crew to captain. The jobs they had been able to take on together were far bigger than anything she had yet attempted by herself. This next one would take the cake, if the winds would cooperate and get them to the ghost of the World Tree before Winter's Veil. She tapped her fingertips on the bar as she eagerly awaited her drink, and finally the bartender got to pouring. He sat the frothy, violet-tinted liquid in a dark wooden stein in front of Kordya with enough vigor to send a few drops sloshing over the edge.

"Enjoy," he forced out, not sounding very convincing. Before he turned back to his cleaning, the bartender's golden eyes got caught studying Kordya's face and the realization slowly began to dawn. The elf squinted at her and leaned closer to confirm his suspicions.

"Wait a moment..." he began, "You're that clown woman from the wanted poster."

"No I'm not," she replied.

"Yes, you are," he insisted. "You're a thief and a murderer. They say you killed a boy in a highway robbery."

"Well, they do say a lot of things, don't they?" She sipped the frothy beverage without a care in the world. Her casualness seemed to only irritate the bartender further.

"Get out of my inn, before I call the Sentinels, " he threatened. Kordya looked genuinely offended at the idea, and looked around to see what the rest of the bar's consensus was. The other three patrons stared at her with cold otherness. She was on her own here.

"Alright, alright," she started with her hands raised defensively, "I'm going, okay? Sheesh." Gathering her coat around her, Kordya huffed her way towards the exit. Before she could, the bartender grabbed her by the wrist with his large purple hand.

"Hey! You still gotta pay for that drink!"

Kordya met him with her flintlock pointed at his chest. "Oh, I do? I'm a thief, remember? Keep grabbing me and we'll find out if the rest is true." She cocked the pistol to prove she wasn't kidding.

The bartender stumbled back and away from the loaded gun. At the sight of the weapon the other patrons of the bar started to stand and draw their own, but Kordya was already halfway down the hill and onto her dingy before they could make reply. She grinned and felt the night wind and salty sea air sting her cheeks as she ran towards the sea. Had the single beer been worth it? Not really, but the thrill of almost getting caught was enough to make her laugh out loud and possibly try it again. She rowed all the way home, happily singing shanties as she went.

[dalliansss]

And so Maedhros and Finrod continued to push east, taking their time, as both of them were skilled travelers and loved to explore the world around them, which had been their wont in the days of their golden youth back in the Blessed Realm. Bound not by society and responsibilities except to each other, they passed season after season crossing Eriador, until at last they came upon the Hithaeglir.

Commissioned artwork from @naarisz

Spectacular inking and coloring, commission them if and when you can!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰

[dalliansss]

He is aware Maedhros is watching him critically. It has always been a sore point in their long-standing relationship – their differing religious views. They have given each other what accommodations there can be had, but since receiving instruction from Ulmo, Finrod has known that this might be an area of friction between himself and Maedhros. 

“You do not have to obey everything the Valar say, Ingoldo,” says Maedhros. He keeps his tone diplomatic. Courteous. 

“Yes, but how long do you think this Peace will hold, melda?” Finrod turns to him, as he hands him his bowl. “You cannot surely believe Morgoth will lie in quiet forever, even if our lives be long.”

Maedhros takes the bowl from his fingers. He sets it aside, then his strong hands close in around Finrod’s waist. He pulls Finrod onto his lap. Hugs him there. 

“Send Angrod instead,” Maedhros reasons. “You and Aegnor can hold Ladros and Dorthonion. Mm? It can be like Orodreth when you sent him to Minas Tirith.”

“Nelyo, it has to be me,” Finrod says. “I will not venture too far. Thingol has told me at least about some caverns by the Narog, and I will have to look at it, see if it suits the purpose–.”

“Narog!” Maedhros exclaims. His hold around Finrod’s waist tightens. “What the– not too far, you said? The Narog is halfway across Beleriand, Ingoldo!”

“Well,” Finrod says, opting to keep his tone light, aiming for the diffusion of Maedhros’s building temper. For like his brothers, Maedhros has the infamous Feanorian temper too – it is just not as quick to explode, and it can be stalled, using the right one, the right timing for a soft touch, here and there. “It will be good for us both – Caranthir already accuses us of taking too many of our trips and doing nothing but fucking, so…?”

[before you leave /AO3]

For @elentarial

[dalliansss]

❛ i don’t know how you’ve bewitched me, but it needs to stop. ❜

With Maedhros/Finrod?

darker vibes

Silver-gray eyes follow every movement Finrod Felagund takes. Currently the King of Nargothrond is standing some five steps away from the one who scrutinizes him -- Finrod is busy inspecting the food laid out by the servants a few minutes ago. With a bejeweled hand he removes dish covers, letting out steam and the aromatic scents that tickle the senses. He makes appreciative noises as he peers at each dish for about five seconds, before he returns the dish cover over the food item.

Maedhros Fëanorion has mixed feelings with purely elven or mannish food these days -- an aftermath of his long captivity in Angband. He appreciates elven dishes just the same, of course, the textures and flavors and aromas, but there are days when he just wants raw meat, the bloodier the better. His appetite has tripled since his 'rescue' from Angband, yet his body remains the same. The healers have said his captivity affected his metabolism.

Finrod turns in a swirl of his Telerin skirt (white and red, today, with a belt of pearls), his golden hair dancing. Maedhros's pupils widen, and the simple sight to him is a vision. Hooks to his soul, and every gesture tugs at him. Even if the gesture is decidedly simple in itself, like Finrod tilting his head, or Finrod toying with his dangling earrings, or Finrod turning to him with a smile.

"I don't know how you bewitched me," Maedhros says, awe and adoration in his voice. "But it needs to stop."

A softer laugh is the King of Nargothrond's answer. He turns from the table completely now, walking toward him. He is barefoot in his own chambers -- but then, he runs around barefoot most of the time. Maedhros stays where he is, feels his throat go dry just a notch. Finrod is standing right before him.

In a rustle of cloth, Finrod sits himself onto his lap. Maedhros has his hands immediately by his sides. He smells very good. Vanilla and musk, or some sort. Fuck if Maedhros knows. He doesn't. Once Finrod sits on him like this or goes closer than an arm's length away, Maedhros finds eighty percent of his brain function goes out of his ears, in all directions.

(When did this happen?)

"You, my lord, have been bewitched long ago, back in Valinor. I'm afraid there is no hope for you. All my pretty fingers are curled around your fëa, and there is no escape," Finrod tells him, chuckling as he goes.

"Yes, this is the truth," Maedhros answers, half-dazed. He looks into those very blue eyes -- the very sky of high summer, forever preserved in Finrod's eyes. And his hair is the zenith of lost Laurelin's golden-most hour. His hair is the stuff of legend, truly. The name Findaráto was aptly given.

(Beside him, Maedhros feels like an orc.)

"Now, now," says Finrod, leaning in, pressing his perfect lips to Maedhros's torn earlobe. "You have not been in Nargothrond a while. Getting you out of Himring to visit me is a feat for the Valar! Ai, I hope you know that I will make sure I collect my due, as long as you are here with me, melda...~"

Maedhros feels a shudder ripple down his spine.

[dalliansss]

For Secret Dating Things:

Accidental clothing share ~ Finrod/Maedhros

Secret Dating Things

Findaráto normally did not think much whenever he would dress for council. He would open that part of his closet which housed his Noldorin clothing, and he would pull out of it the first tunic he would lay his hands on, and from there build the rest of the look for the day. He does the same thing that morning -- open the closet, snatch something (something of chocolate brown hue), survey it, and then accessorize to match.

His golden hair he styles with two braids streaming up from the side of his face, then he pulls his locks into a ponytail. Accessories as follows: silver and garnets, with matching drop earrings to match -- three on each earlobe. Rings, two on each alternating finger.

Perfect.

He walks to the palace; loathe to bring horse or carriage -- and anyway walks are fun, and lets him greet many people and run into his friends, which he absolutely delights in. What is originally a ten-minute walk from his house to his grandfather's palace turns into an hour-long affair. Oops.

Findaráto picked up a basket of fruits to share with those present in the council. He likes to nibble now and then, and he finds himself easily hungry especially if they're looking at an intense day. His Atar used to forbid him to eat, nagging at him that it looks bad, as if he was not being fed at home. But Finwë never minded, and so Findaráto stopped paying heed to Arafinwë's protests.

Finno is already there, seated and sorting papers. They exchange greetings just as Findaráto puts his basket of fruits at the middle of the long table. He picks out a perfectly ripened dragon fruit and sets it on the empty plate by their grandfather's place at the head of the table.

"You two are early," comes a familiar voice.

He turns around only slowly. Surprise on his lovely features -- he and Nelyo are wearing the exact same tunic: same cloth, same cut, same pattern -- only different accessories. They look startled. Finno's eyes dart from one to another, before he bursts out laughing. Nelyo laughs as well, and Findaráto laughs too.

"Did you two plan this via ósanwe?" Finno snickers as he helps himself to a pear from Findaráto's basket.

"Ah, no, no," Nelyo continues sniggering. "I should change, I should--." He gestures vaguely toward the door.

Findaráto shakes his head. "Oh no. No, no. Let's make grandfather laugh today, shall we?"

But between their minds, another conversation takes place. Mmmm, you look beautiful, Nelyo croons at him. You too. I'd delight peeling off that tunic from you later, Findaráto purrs back.

Finno, ever perceptive, darts a glance between the two of them again, but says nothing. Oh he knows, though. He knows.

@antares0606

[dalliansss]

I’m going to be mean…

"I don't know if I can forgive."

Finrod/Maedhros

50 Angsty Prompts || @elentarial

Snow fell around Himring, dusting the world in white. Many white flakes settled upon Maedhros's fiery red hair, and upon the dark fur he wore over his oiled cape. Funereal colors, Finrod often told him -- for that day he wore black furs, and deep indigo clothes beneath the chain mail that was always required to be worn here in the north, where the threat of combat was ever present, and all elves must be ready to spring into action on a short moment's notice. His ears are cold too, particularly the tips, but after his time in Angband, the cold very rarely touches him these days.

Before him, Ingoldo is a contrast in silver, white and gold. Snow dusted his golden curls as well. They stood beside each other, neither elf making a move to close the short distance between them. In another time, in another place, so easy was it to reach across that seemingly infinite gap, and just pull the other into an embrace.

(But they had not been those elves who thought nothing could go between them.)

"What was his name?" Maedhros asked, nothing but slight curiosity in his tone. "Balan," Finrod replied, his eyes riveted to the white world of Lothlann. "I hear you granted him an epesse." "Yes. Twas Beor, for his loyalty." "How old was he, this Balan, when he died?" "Ninety-three."

Quite a while for the Secondborn; mere minutes to an elf, especially an elf who grew up and got old under the radiance of Valinor.

"He kept you happy, I hope," Maedhros continued. "As happy as can be. There were many fights." "You were always fiery in your own way, and those who think you are naught but kindness do not know what they are dealing with." "But I am not here to talk about Balan, Beor," Finrod said, turning to face him. His cheeks were flushed rose by the cold. He had sprouted a few freckles too, across his nose. Maedhros let his silver-gray eyes wander on those beautiful features.

"Then talk," said Maedhros.

"I wanted to talk about us," said Finrod, urgency creeping in his tone. Pleading, in his eyes. He reached-- but instinctively Maedhros took a step back, and this gesture, small and insignificant, could be likened to the Lord of Himring threatening to strike a blow.

"You want to talk about us, because Balan is dead?" Maedhros pointed out succinctly, a lopsided but cold smirk quirking his scarred lips, making his face a ghastly mask.

"I was not the one who began pushing away," Finrod said, his voice rising. "You pushed me away -- and would not even do me the respect of an explanation. I would have accepted it if you had found yourself preferring a Sinda, I would have tolerated it, I would tolerate many things, melda! You do not get to shift the blame on me! You do not!"

"Then you would lie with someone who has been violated by the Enemy?" Maedhros now spat, shifting his words into Quenya.

Ah. Yes. Finrod looked stricken, then horrified. As if Maedhros finally enacted the blow he would not, and struck him anyway. He wavered, a little, where he stood. He flung out a gloved hand to clutch at the snow-dusted part of the rampart. Maedhros made no move to reach out to him.

Finrod let out a shuddering exhale. "And so there it is," he says this also in Quenya. "Out in the open at last." He shut his eyes tightly, and his tears froze as soon as they crept out from beneath his eyelashes. Dusting his lashes with snow.

"I would not have shunned you because of it, melda," said Finrod. "I don't know if I can forgive you thinking that low of me. How dare you. I would have--"

White-hot dagger pain in the chest, and Maedhros relished the hurt. A beast Angband made out of him. Half-elf, half-monster. One who relished pain, even if it was his own hurt. This hurt that lances through him unseen, from the maw beneath his rib cage, all the way to his fingertips.

"I would have endured with you, whatever filth it was you thought," Finrod whispered. "I would have cast myself into the deepest pit of Utumno with you, if it was what it took. I still would. Even now. I hate you, but I would. I would."

A breath. Two. An exhale.

In a rush of silver, white and gold, Finrod wraps his arms around his neck.

"You will not get rid of me," he whispers. "You will not. Ever."

But all I want is for you to live, and sail back West, Maedhros thought, and he remained immovable as the fortress upon Himring, enduring against the dark.

[dalliansss]

Oohhh "I thought we agreed we wouldn't cross that line" with maedhros/finrod?

"I ACCIDENTALLY TOLD YOU I LOVED YOU AND NOW WE'RE FINALLY TALKING ABOUT IT" PROMPTS

Context: Right after the events in this STORY.

Nelyo moves around the room, conscious. He is aware Ingoldo's gaze is nailed on his person, and as he picks up his discarded pair of breeches, he cannot quite decide if the scrutiny is welcome, or not.

Somehow, for all of his age over the younger, golden-radiant elf, he is now feeling shy and nervous. He has not fumbled so for a long time; he has not been in his thirties for a long while.

He pulls his breeches up long, long legs, and he turns to Ingoldo, who's sitting in bed still, looking at him expectantly.

What have we done is a petulant question. He knows -- and he knows that Ingoldo knows what they have done; after all, it was Ingoldo who initiated this -- who came into his rooms in the dead of the night, wrapped only in a blanket. The little minx knew, somehow, that Nelyo would not be able -- that it would be impossible to resist him.

(And Nelyo remembers, again, that long realization he has had years ago, one summer in Formenos. His heart settled first, followed by his mind, and he nursed this flame, knowing nothing would come of it -- forgetting that the realization is a two-way road for the Eldar, and it would come upon Ingoldo too, sooner or later.)

He buttons his breeches. "Come here, Ingoldo."

Letting go of the blanket, Ingoldo complies, and he crawls toward the edge of the bed. Nelyo feels another impossible frisson of desire he almost trembles.

His right hand's fingers thread through Ingoldo's tousled golden hair, and he cups a perfect cheek, brushes his thumb on kiss-bruised lips.

So radiant. So golden. His.

"You know what the other side of this line entails," he states, his voice soft, never accusatory.

"I know," is Ingoldo's reply, and blue eyes snare Nelyo's own silver-gray ones in an impossible trap.

And a trap he is, isn't he, Ingoldo? A sweet, golden cage nothing shall escape. Nelyo knows this in his bones. He will kiss the ground this one trods on, if he asked.

"I will go first," he continues. "So it will not look suspicious. Nobody will come to your room?"

"None."

"Good."

"I'll see you?" Ingoldo asks, catching him by the wrist.

"Of course you will."

Mischief in those blue eyes. Lips part, and a quick, pink tongue flicks against the pad of Nelyo's thumb.

(Oh, how heat lances through him. Burning, melting, all-consuming heat.)

@curumeaningwitch

[dalliansss]

Love Paradise Prompts:

Commenting about the overpowering smell of sunscreen/mosquito repellant that the other constantly uses - Finrod/Maedhros

love paradise - summer vacation scenarios for your otp

Maedhros was minding the cookfire. Earlier that afternoon he'd successfully hunted deer, and they were going to have quite the delectable supper, because deer was a specialty of his, and Ingoldo not so much well-versed in cooking this game meat. Already he has some of the meat simmering in a herby soup, nothing too hearty, and he adds some more fragrant greens in there, and the aroma is simply to die for.

At least, until Ingoldo sits beside him holding what looked like a small pot of ointment. His beloved cousin removed the cork stoppering the pot, and out came the stench of citronella, so strong that even the fragrant scent of his cooking weakened.

Maedhros felt his eyebrows rise. "What is that? Why does it smell like that?"

Ingoldo, though, is already smearing some of the white concoction down the bare skin of his arms. "What do you mean what is it? Mosquito repellent, of course."

"Why does it smell like that?" "What do you mean? I love the scent of citronella." "You smell like the lavatory at grandfather's palace with too much scented oils." "Ai! How dare! Rude! I-- what the-- what do you mean I smell like the-- Manwë's flattened nose!"

He gives Ingoldo a small, playful shove. "Get away from me. That repellent smells so strong you'd be smelling like those oils for days!"

Finrod glares at him, pouts mightily, and hugs his right arm like a petulant elfling. "If I smell bad, then you're smelling bad with me, ai!"

Another playful shove. "Get off, Ingoldo. I won't be cuddling you when you smell like one of Yavanna's Ents. Make your own bedroll or else rinse that off, and you'll be using my mosquito repellent instead. It's unscented and does the trick. Eesh."

A grumble. Ingoldo lets his arm go, and, still grousing, goes to the nearby river to attempt to rinse off the ointment from his arms.

@antares0606

[dalliansss]

My commission from the very talented @rinthecap 🥰🥰🥰

“My Sassy Elf” 😂😂😂

[dalliansss]

My comics commission from @cochart 🥰🥰🥰

Context: of peace and tits

[dalliansss]

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. Seriously, you're like an angel."

Finrod to Maedhros. I’d prefer post-Thangorodrim but dealer’s choice. 😁

Intoxicated Starters

Maedhros watches as Ingoldo moves around the tent with purpose, assembling the supplies necessary to wash and dress his stump. He sits there upon the bed, amidst pillows and furs, and time seems to slow down as he watches the other elf move about, that radiant gold hair swinging with every step, a note of song ever ready to fall from pink lips. In Aman, in the long, long years of their love affair ere the Trees were cut down by Morgoth, Ingoldo had already been beautiful, but after thirty years of captivity in the darkness of the stone cell specially hewn for him in one of the peaks of Thangorodrim, Ingoldo's golden radiance was painful to look at.

There are no outward scars, certainly. Ingoldo bore injuries that were hidden, brought about by the crossing of the Ice: deeper scars upon the mind and upon the fëa, and Maedhros knows a part of his lover had died in the Helcaraxë, buried there under the ever-fracturing, ever-cracking glaciers, never to be saved, never to be seen again.

Both of them sustained death, in their own ways. It was only appropriate, he thinks, that Ingoldo hides them better.

He draws near. Maedhros keeps his silver eyes riveted on a gaunt, worn face, still to recover from the years of scarcity in the cold, where the Noldor ate their food supplies until even all the crumbs were gone, and then turned to eat their dead next.

If only Fëanor had listened to him. If only he sent the ships back; for Ingoldo, for Findekáno, for--

"Here, melda, let me?" Ingoldo smiles at him, and Maedhros notes that his voice is yet hoarse -- yet to fully recover from years of utility, no doubt singing enchantment and warmth for the others, spending his own strength to the utmost. Ingoldo reaches for his stump, and Maedhros flinches visibly.

There is a pause here, loaded with the unsaid, but Ingoldo closes delicate fingers upon his arm anyway and pulls the severed limb toward himself. With the softest touch he unravels the soiled bandages, and Maedhros looks away, as the final layer of cloth falls away to reveal the flesh and bone underneath.

But how can he suffer to let Ingoldo touch him? Ingoldo, his Ingoldo, the very embodiment of Light that eluded him in Angband, in Thangorodrim, the Light that Morgoth and Sauron used to taunt him with-- in visions of death and dismemberment and mutilation and disgust, disgust, most of all--

The gentle spill of medicated water stings against his flesh, and Maedhros grits his teeth. A low growl, a sound no Elda should be able to make, boils its beginnings deep in his chest, but Ingoldo is undeterred and continues his gentlest of ministrations, washing the wound, drowning out the growling with notes of song.

He sings, still, softly-- of healing, recovering; of flesh closing and skin mending, of bone blunting. Maedhros wants him to stop; he has not recovered fully yet, and his strength is better spent on those he can save-- not, not him, not the tattered remnants of his Nelyo, leftovers of the kill only fit for carrion birds.

He wants to say this to Ingoldo. Go, and be with someone whole, someone intact, someone whose flesh is untouched by the Enemy, go and be with someone adequate, whom can please you, and make you happy--

"You're the most beautiful person I have ever seen," Ingoldo speaks, as if he had read the very thoughts polluting Maedhros's mind. "You are to me as if the fairest of the Ainur, and nothing can change mine mind. Do you remember what I said to you, before Fëanáro's exile? My heart is a gift; given to whom I will, and once I have given it, I do not take it back. You hold it still, and I am content where it lies, for I will not let any one else have it."

But how can he say such things? How, in the face of what he is now?

No tears flow from Maedhros's eyes; they have dried in the dungeons of Angband; in the stone cell specially carved out for him in Thangorodrim. Yet he knows his heart weeps.

"How can you love a ruin, Ingoldo?" He asks, his voice low.

Ingoldo gives him a small hollow laugh, as he starts re-wrapping his stump. "Then we shall be ruins together. I am merely the ghost of one who you loved. He died, when he saw the ships burning at Losgar, and he died again, fallen into a crevasse in the ice. I am a wraith who took his visage. You will have to make do."

Maedhros shuts his eyes for a few painful seconds. When he opens them, Ingoldo has moved close, and is planting kisses by his scarred brow.

"We are both ruins, Nelyo. We are perfect for each other."

@elentarial

[dalliansss]

n or o for the kiss

kiss roulette

n. a kiss to the stomach

There is nothing more comfortable in entire Arda than laying down and utilizing your loved one's lap as a pillow. Maitimo is a firm adherent of this concept, which he abuses on that day. They are in his house in Tirion, by the university circle, and for once, his door is locked and the curtains drawn across the windows. The house is quiet, punctuated only by the happy sounds the owner of his live lap-pillow makes.

Ingoldo was eating cheese crackers, and it amuses Maitimo to no end that such a simple thing earned sounds of delight from his lover. He could hear Ingoldo crunching down on the crackers, the younger elf smacking his lips now and then, and then a happy murmur: mmmmmmmmmmmh!

Maitimo himself is laying on his side, head of crimson hair pillowed on Ingoldo's lap. He has his nose buried into the folds of Ingoldo's tunic, right toward a clothed, toned stomach. His head had been hurting terribly earlier that morning, but ever since Ingoldo had coaxed him to lay down and kneaded his scalp for a good half an hour, the migraine had receded to a dull throb.

And now, Ingoldo took a break: cheese crackers, and tea.

"Ai!" comes the exclamation. Maitimo senses a few tiny crumbs of cheese crackers hit his face. Ingoldo's fingers quickly brush away some crumbs that landed on his ear, to prevent them from going into his ear canal.

"Why are you eating like an elfling?" comes Maitimo's muffled voice. His words are tinged with laughter, however.

"You make the best cheese crackers in Valinor," Ingoldo chirps in return. Maitimo hears more crunching. More mmmmmmmhs.

Half a second later he feels Ingoldo's left hand card through the strands of his crimson hair. Maitimo could melt in sheer contentment. He presses closer into Ingoldo's middle, and somewhere, he kisses his lover's clothed tummy.

"I'll cook you chicken porridge later," Ingoldo says somewhere above him. "Thank you, melda," Maitimo murmurs. He does not open his eyes yet. Not until the last vestiges of the migraine goes away.

More crackers crunching. Maitimo sighs, and like this, surrounded by Ingoldo's scent, his warmth, the sound of him eating -- he falls into a blissful nap.

[dalliansss]

Description: A collection of Maedhros/Finrod stories, from Valinor, Beleriand and beyond.

Notes:

Timeline isn't fixed per story; I write whatever inspires me at that time. Stories jump from place to place and timeframe to timeframe as a result. Most of these stories are also written following Finrod's POV.

Stats: Words: 18,442 Works: 6 Complete: No

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Galadriel | Artanis, Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Maedhros | Maitimo, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Maedhros | Maitimo, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Galadriel | Artanis, Elrond Peredhel, Elros Tar-Minyatur, Ereinion Gil-galad Additional Tags: Second Age, Númenor, Eregion, Lindon, Finrod has a lot of pent-up anger, some comeuppance for Galadriel, where WAS she really?, excited Elros, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No beta we die like Carcharoth, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Angst, Sad and Happy Series: Part 10 of Glissando Summary:

Galadriel locates Eregion, but finds no welcome there. Across the sea in Númenor, Elros Tar-Minyatur receives good news.