The Tumblr Hub for Scribbles & Drabbles and other related autumn events. Scribbles & Drabbles is a Tolkien-based event for creating Tolkien fanworks. Partnered with Spring into Arda.
This is a summary of the changes weâve made to the rules for this year.
Please make sure you read through the full rules on our website, including the section on claims before you sign up.
Updates for everyone:
Communication:
All official communication (e.g. slide submissions or drop out) must happen via email to the event email. That means the e-mail you signed up with must be accessible to you and able to both receive and send e-mails for the entirety of the event. E-mail addresses using any form of masking will not be permitted.
Proxies
Proxies are allowed if the participant is unable to submit their own claims, slides, art or fics. However, there are some things to keep in mind:
If you NEED a proxy: Ask somebody you trust. For slides, art and fic, the proxy needs access to your email and/or AO3 account, because art must come from the email address you signed up with (NOT a friendâs email address), and fics must be posted by the AO3 account you signed up with. This might be possible to do with a partner/spouse or similar, but we do not recommend this if you donât already have a close relationship with that person.
If you do not feel confident in creating your own slides, you can always send the art and information to the mods, and we will create the slides for you, so long as they come from the right email address.
For claims, make sure your proxy has the name you signed up with and your list of arts you want to claim.
If you ARE the proxy: Make sure you trust the person who asked you to become their proxy. With the number of bots invading fandoms, ensure that you are more certain than not that the person asking you to proxy exists and is a participant in the event (the latter can be verified with the mods if in doubt). Remember that you can always say NO to being somebodyâs proxy if you are unsure.
AI usage
Generative AI continues to be banned for the complete creation of creative works.Â
AI tools may be permitted for assistance in the creation of the final product. If you wish to use generative AI tools for any part of the creation of your art, such as reference pictures for example, you must verify the ethics of the tool with the moderators (specifically Zhie) ahead of time. You must also put a disclaimer on your work that clarifies which AI tools were used and how.
The topic of AI tools is extensive, and therefore it is essential that you read and understand the full section about AI content Information at the bottom of the FAQs page linked above before signing up.
Compliment sheet
The compliment sheet is for nice things only. It is not for criticism of any kind, even if you add something nice to it. Do not force us to turn on account tracking for the compliment sheet to enforce this rule. If you have nothing nice to say about the art, keep your silence.
Updates for Artists:
Donât share any of your submitted art on the event server prior to the gallery reveal for authors.
If you wish to stream your art prior to the gallery reveal for authors, you can do so, but only for the pieces outside of your three new, previously unshared arts. Once art posting begins, you can stream all your art.
Art must be submitted from the email address you signed up with. If you are unable to do that, and somebody else will do it for you, send us an email from the email address you signed up with telling us who will be submitting your art and from what email address it will come from to avoid confusion.
Updates for Authors:
If you are also an artist and wish to write for your own work, go for it. Do not use the claims form to claim your own art. You donât even need to inform the mods you want to do this. Even if you do tell us, not posting the piece for your own art will not result in a defaulting penalty.
If you need to drop any of your claims, you must EMAIL the moderators and inform them of which slides you are dropping. DMing a moderator on discord does not count as a proper drop-out, and you will be considered defaulted for next yearâs claims. Dropping out past the deadline also results in a default.
Absolutely! Please make sure that the images you use are either your own or public domain/otherwise copy-right free and you're good to go.
~ Mod Shadow
Scribbles & Drabbles returns for 2026! Take a look at the schedule and get excited!
June 1: Sign-ups and art submissions open
July 7: Artist sign-ups close
July 19: Art submissions close
July 24: Gallery opens
July 25 & 26: Art viewing parties
August 1: Claims Day (Times to be announced)
August 2: Additional Claims Open
August 3: Art posting begins
November 1: Drop-out without penalty deadline
November 15: Fic submission deadline
November 28: Reveals!
We'll have a rules update coming soon for you as well, so stay tuned for that. As always we're available for questions on discord, tumblr and via email at [email protected].
Scribbles & Drabbles returns for 2026! Take a look at the schedule and get excited!
June 1: Sign-ups and art submissions open
July 7: Artist sign-ups close
July 19: Art submissions close
July 24: Gallery opens
July 25 & 26: Art viewing parties
July 30: Author sign-ups close
August 1: Claims Day (Times to be announced)
August 2: Additional Claims Open
August 3: Art posting begins
November 1: Drop-out without penalty deadline
November 15: Fic submission deadline
November 28: Reveals!
We'll have a rules update coming soon for you as well, so stay tuned for that. As always we're available for questions on discord, tumblr and via email at [email protected].
Writtenf or the amazing @fall-for-tolkien event, Scribbles & Drabbles.
Based on art by my amazing Baginshield Besties @shantismurf and @lisellelascelles thaat can be found here
đŹ 0  đ 2  â€ïž 9 · Scribbles and Drabbles 2025
Bagginshield Art Collaboration
by @shantismurf and @lisellelascelles
(6 of 6) Urban Meet Cut
Summary: Bilbo has been going to get a vile cup of tea three times a week all so he can look at the handosme man busking outside of it.
He expected today to be the same, and it was, up until the man spoke to him for the first time.
And as always, an excerpt:
âI wanted to thank you, I wanted to tell you how grateful we were and now ⊠now I find myself not wanting to let you walk away from me,â Thorin admitted, making Bilboâs head snap towards him in surprise. âI just wanted to let you know how much you helped and to let you know I would not be there from now on. Now Kilian is in school, Dis is able to work. I will be able to sleep, to rest, but I did not want to disappear and not allow you to know what was happening,â Thorin admitted.
âOh, so I wonât see you any more?â Bilbo asked in a soft, sad voice.
âNot there, but you are always welcome here and I have a phone if you wish for the number?â Thorin asked, the first hint of nervousness entering his voice.
âYes, of course,â Bilbo said quickly as he rushed to grab his own phone before Thorin changed his mind.
My third submission for @fall-for-tolkien Scribbles & Drabbles 2025, a photograph of a glittering blue river.
This is an open-ended prompt about the river Bruinen, or perhaps the Ford. Could be regarding the members of the Fellowship, Elrond, or anyone else who seeks to cross it, completely up to the author's discretion.
Unclad, his erstwhile stream drowned with Beleriand, the minor water-maia had drifted eastwards, returning to an old favourite river near the northern end of a mountain range wreathed in the mists of fellow spirits who loved both water and air. ...
Loud Waters, The Source of a Stream is my ficlet for @oak-hawthorn's scenic photo prompt The River Bruinen for @fall-for-tolkien
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Words: 600
Warnings: None
Summary: A study of Gilraen, Aragorn's mother, in the wake of her widowing.
Done for @fall-for-tolkien's Scribbles and Drabbles event, based on @erdarieldraws gorgeous drawing.
Read on AO3
When she was young and foolish, Gilraen had thought to herself: my father understands nothing of love. The barest moment of it would sate me for a lifetime.
It was not so many years ago now. It should certainly not be long enough to be able to think of that former self as young, but no matter what she tells herself she feels more ancient than the stones, and as empty as the hollowed hills of the dead. She remembers being fullâof love, of certainty, of fierce and defiant longingâbut that girl with her replete heart is a stranger now, someone who might as well have lived in a previous Age.
Glorfindel laughs and takes each of their hands to pull them to their feet. âGood one. Come on; weâre going swimming. Last one thereâs a balrogâs behind.â
The summer heat gets to the denizens of Rivendell, but Glorfindel has a solution.
My fic for Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 Slide 90 - "Heatwave" by @sortumavaara! Hope you have fun!
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Words: 3,393
Warnings: Pippin can have a lil PTSD, as a treat
Summary: A Guard of the Citadel stands under a bright morning on the other side of crushing darkness. His deeds were slight, nearly meaningless against the vast evil that threatened the world; but there is one, at least, who has cause to honor his small actions.
Done for @fall-for-tolkien's Scribbles and Drabbles event, based on this lovely drawing.
Read on AO3
High on the walls of the Citadel, keeping watch to the North, a small figure in black and silver stood quietly at his post in the gentle summer morning. His shoulders and back were straight beneath the livery, his attention trained and steady, but about him there was an energy barely beneath fidgeting as the breeze that stirred the courtyard's banners played over him in turn.
At his back, a white sapling bloomed. Far below, the scars of war were removed enough to cover with one small hand.
There were footsteps on the flags. He did not turnâthere were other guards set to watch the comings and goings within the courtâbut his head in its winged helm shifted ever so slightly in interest as the walker failed to pass him to the right, down toward the gate, but instead drew near.
"If that's Gandalf," he said to the open air, "unless you have orders from the Captain, I'm on duty until the fourth bell."
"I've been called many things, but never before in my memory has someone mistaken me for a wizard."
Pippin spun around with a gasp. "Myâmy lord Faramir!" he cried, and dropped to a knee.
Written for @fall-for-tolkien's Scribbles & Drabbles event. Inspired by @z-h-i-e's beautiful artwork.
Maedhros/Fingon, 4000 words, E
Warnings: implied past torture and non-con
On Ao3
The wooden structure had turned out quite sturdy. Fingon circled it once more just to be sure it looked exactly like he had envisioned it. It was a point of pride for him. He cast a glance at the thick whips and other tools he could not think of without shuddering, put a vial of oil next to them in any case, and undressed before calling to Maedhros through osanwë.
Himring was the only place where Maedhros would keep his mind open for anything other than urgent messages, so his answer was immediate. He was irritated, which was to be expected, considering Fingon had routinely vanished during his stay to work on the device. Still, he was also curious about what exactly Fingon was doing in his dungeons. He would fight it when he found out, Fingon thought as he waited, running hot with excitement and anticipation, but he would lose.
As soon as Fingon heard Maedhrosâs footsteps outside, he hurried to kneel on the platform and gave Maedhros a cheerful grin when he opened the cell door.
Maedhros stilled. His heart beat loudly in Fingonâs ears. He felt Maedhros struggle against the instinct to turn back and flee, to lock the door and forget he had ever been here. But he walked, step by forceful step, to the platform on which Fingon was kneeling.
âWhat?â he said, even that single word sounding as if it had to claw its way out.
âPlease, listen before saying anything,â Fingon said. âYou told me once you wished you could talk to me, but the words get tangled in your mind when you try. You find it hard to share your memories in mind-speak, so I found another way. Show meââ
âNo.â
âI asked you to listen. Show me what happened to you there. Use my body to speak to me. I want to know. I want to have a part in everything you are.â
âI cannot do it to you,â Maedhros said, pale, strained. âYou cannot wish for it.â
âYet I do.â
It would be easier to convince Maedhros if Fingon focused on his own desire. If he spoke more about how his suggestion would help Maedhros, he would lose this battle.
âI assure you I can take it,â he said when Maedhros kept shaking his head.
He would not let Maedhros leave him out, leave him behind. Never again.
âYou know nothing of what you speak of.â
âDo you think me weak?â Fingon asked and, without giving Maedhros time to answer, continued, âDo you not trust me?â
He had him, he knew. It was the only sure way to make Maedhros surrender short of telling him you owe me, which Fingon would not do, especially in such circumstances.
âWhere did the pillory come from?â Maedhros asked with a hideous twist of lips.
Stalling, now. Fingon would play along.
âIs that what you call it?â he asked. âI made it.â
He beamed with pride, knowing it was in stark contrast with his position.
âIs that where you kept disappearing?â
Fingon shrugged and grinned, which did little to put Maedhros at ease.
âWhat of the whips and the rest?â
âConfiscated from the latest orc raid.â
âHow long have you been preparing for this?â
âLong enough. Have you satisfied your curiosity, or should we also discuss what kind of wood I used to make this?â
Maedhros, who had been stubbornly looking into Fingonâs eyes and nowhere else until that moment, glanced at the pillory.
âHow did you know?â he asked quietly.
The hard platform dug into Fingonâs knees. He fidgeted, grasping the wood and releasing it.
âYou dream too loudly sometimes,â he said. âI did not pry intentionally. I caught only a glimpse.â
For a brief moment, he felt Maedhrosâs urge to flee again before Maedhros shut it down.
âYou should have woken me,â he said.
âNext time,â Fingon answered. âNow, will you finally do it?â
Maedhros wet his lips, ran a hand over his face, and nodded once.
âPut your neck in place,â he said.
Fingon readily obeyed, a small, triumphant smile on his face.
âWhy would you do it?â Maedhros asked in an exasperated tone, one he had once used for children who had successfully graduated from toddlerhood but were still far from adulthood.
âBecause you said so,â Fingon said, raising his head again.
âWhy would you do as I say?â Maedhros asked. âYou must fight. Where is your pride? Where is your dignity? Is that what you think happened? Is that how you think of me?â
âNo, forgive me,â Fingon said.
He looked away and blinked very fast. If he cried now, Maedhros would stop immediately. He straightened his shoulders, set his jaw and stared into Maedhrosâs eyes.
âI told you to bow your head,â Maedhros said.
Fingon spat at his feet, his skin tingling, his stomach tightening.
Instantly, his braids were wrapped around Maedhrosâs hand. Fingon did not even have the time to think about resisting before the pillory was closed and locked around his neck. He could not help the small noise that escaped his lipsâsurprise and arousal, fear and thrill.
Maedhros took a step back.
âIf you are not going to follow the rules of your own game, we might as well end it,â he said.
Fingon looked up, even though it was quite hard with the wood clamped around his neck like a vice.
âWhat did I do wrong this time?â he asked.
âNot a sound should pass your lips! Do you wish to show weakness before your enemy? Do you enjoy your mistreatment?â
This time, Fingon had to look away, so Maedhros wouldnât see him biting his lips to stifle his laughter.
âVery well,â he said. âDo your black work, villain! You shame only yourself. Craven you are, daring to stand before me only when I am in chains. Release me, and we shall see who between us shall be victorious.â
Maedhros slapped him, which Fingon expected and relished. He laughed merrily, earning another slap.
âIs that all you are capable of?â he grinned.
Maedhros slowly circled him, stopping behind him. Fingonâs breathing picked up. He bit his lip when Maedhros took his braids again and pulled his head back.
âI could break your neck,â Maedhros said, leaning over him. âIn time, you will wish I had. If you ask me nicely, I shall do it now. I shall spare you.â
Fingon didnât speak. Maedhrosâs hot breath tickled his ear, his chest was almost touching Fingonâs back, and the tip of his boot pushed against Fingonâs rear, slipping under it, so close toâ
âOh, please,â he moaned.
Maedhros let him go.
âNo!â he said. âThis is not right. You would not beg so easily. You would be defiant despite your torment.â
âAll right.â Fingon cleared his throat. âYou may have imprisoned me, but you shall never see me broken, you fiend! Try as you might, you will not shatter my spirit! No evil will tarnish the light of Blessed ValinĂłrĂ«.â
He looked up at Maedhros with as much pride as he could muster from his position.
âWell, now I simply do not believe you,â Maedhros said.
Fingon let his head fall with a sigh.
âI am listening,â he said. âAnd I am getting cold.â
âFirst and foremost, do not slouch,â Maedhros said. âHold your head high. No, not that high. By this point, you have already realized that you will hurt your neck in this position. You have realized that you will spend a long time in this device, so you must calculate where to spend your strength. Do not clench your fists. It betrays your pain. No, it does not mean you should hold your palms wide open. Unnatural. Just let them fall. But not weakly!â
Fingon rolled his wrists in the pillory.
âDo you think I cannot see what you are doing?â he asked. âDo you believe I cannot take it if you show me the truth? For once, be honest with me.â
Maedhros would turn this into mockery if Fingon allowed him, instead of unburdening himself of his secrets; he would stall and pretend until Fingon laughed and spoiled the mood or lost his temper and put an end to this. But he wouldnât get what he wanted. Not this time. Fingon stared at Maedhros and did not let him turn his gaze away until Maedhrosâs eyes narrowedâtwo ice floes in the middle of deathly pale lakes. Fingon had won.
âIs it honesty you wish for?â said Maedhros, and now there was all the frost of Himring in his voice. He drew his blade. âSee that you do not come to regret your wish.â
Fingon thought Maedhros would put the dagger to his throat, would whisper to him how easy it would be to cut him, bleed him out like a pig; he thought, at worst, Maedhros would carve a few scars into his skin like the ones he bore on his. Fingonâs breath stuttered in anticipation; his hips shot forward.
But Maedhros did none of it. What he did was catch the ends of Fingonâs braids in his right elbow and slash them off with a smooth, precise movement. Fingon cried out but in vain. Twice more, Maedhros repeated it until Fingonâs thick braids lay on the ground around him, his shorn hair falling in curls over his ears, barely reaching his jaw.
Fingon could not speak for a moment, breathing in the cold air with the greed of a drowning man.
âWhy?â he whispered finally.
âIt will make shaving your head easier,â Maedhros answered.
He took Fingonâs chin in his hand, turned his head from side to side, examining. Fingon looked into his eyes, trying not to shiver.
âWhen I came for you, your hair was longer than it had ever been,â he said.
Despite himself, his voice cracked. Maedhros smiled, hearing it.
âWhen I hang you in chains from my tower, yours, too, will grow long again,â he said.
He tugged at Fingonâs hair, nodding satisfied at the sound it tore from his throat. Fingon blinked his tears away, but a few escaped, falling rapidly on the wood below. His braids! He did want the truth from Maedhros, but such cruelty was still unexpected, still humiliating, laying him bare in a way that was beyond simple nudity.
Maedhros caught a tear and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.
âNot enough,â he said. âBy now, you should be weeping. You should be cringing away from my touch. You should be trying to bite your tongue off, so you will not beg, at the same time knowing that it is inevitable. You are beginning to realize that you are not as strong-willed, not as resilient, not as proud as you thought yourself to be.â
Fingon gritted his teeth and raised his head.
âI see you need more persuasion,â Maedhros said and took the whip.
Fingon wasnât unfamiliar with painâunwanted and sought for alikeâbut the beasts and orcs lacked the deliberateness of these swift, painful strikes, and their games with Maedhros lacked the viciousness.
Fingonâs heart beat in the rhythm of the song the whip sang as it lashed across his back. Fingon imagined it breaking open his skin, his flesh, exposing his spine, unmaking him.
âWait!â he cried, unable to stop himself.
Maedhros halted. He walked slowly to stand before Fingon.
âThe word you are looking for,â he said, âis mercy.â
âI assumed you would be unfamiliar with it,â Fingon panted, his hand stretching in vain to wipe off the sweat from his forehead.
Maedhros cracked the whip across his face. Fingon cried out in surprise rather than in pain. Pain came later, exploding along the weltâstarting from his right temple and writhing in a line of fire across his nose, under his left eye, over his lips and his jaw. Fingon swallowed the blood flooding his mouth. Maedhros grabbed his chin again, forcing him to tilt his head up. Fingon had closed his eyes. He feared that if he opened them, it would not be Maedhros before him.
âThe next one will take your eye, so tread carefully,â said Maedhrosâs voice.
He let go of Fingon and walked behind him again. Another burning lash, and he dropped the whip. Fingonâs shoulders sagged.
âRelief should be the farthest thing from your mind,â Maedhros said. âI have not finished with you yet.â
Fingonâs trembling knees pressed against the wooden pillar, his hands clenched into helpless fists.
âDo your worst,â he spat, light-headed from pain.
âNo,â Maedhros said. He leaned down, put his chin over Fingonâs headâan imitation of a loverâs gentle gestureâand whispered, âI shall do my best.â
He brushed Fingonâs neck with the back of his hand, stopping for a moment to feel his frenzied pulse. He traced a welt stretching from Fingonâs shoulder to his lower back, so tenderly that it scarcely hurt.
Ever had Maedhros been fond of Fingonâs back. It pleased him to sit and watch as Fingon trained with the swordâshirtless for his benefitâmuscles coming alive under his skin. Later, he would put a hand between Fingonâs shoulder blades and give a slight push, and Fingon would bend easily, skin damp with sweat, limbs still quivering with exertion. Maedhros would stroke his neck, his shoulders, run his fingers along the ridges of his spine, trace his ribs, his hipbones, then slip his hand lower and make Fingon utter sounds he would never think himself capable of. His mindâunguarded for a brief momentâwould open before Fingon, so that he would feel Maedhrosâs ravenous desire, his worshipful reverence, his tremulous devotion.
Now he knew none of it. Maedhrosâs mind was carefully controlled, and his fingertips did not press into Fingonâs skin in adoration. No longer was Fingon an idol to worship, a lover to cherish; he was a possession, a toy to be played with or broken on a whim.
He shuddered as Maedhrosâs fingers continued their unhurried journey over his cracked skin, mixing cold sweat with beads of blood and adorning Fingon with this unholy stain.
Yet, those fingers were slick when they began playing with him, teasing him. Fingon, deafened by the drumbeat of fear and desire, had not heard him uncork the vial, had not even thought he would.
But Maedhros took care with him, going slower than he had even their first time. Fingon strained against the wood, his neck stiff, as one after another, four digits invaded his body. He focused on the painful marks the whip had left on him, locking his knees around the pillar, so he wouldnât arch back, wouldnât give his torturer the satisfaction.
Maedhros wasnât deterred. He pushed his stump to Fingonâs back, forcing his body down. The wood pressed against Fingonâs throat, snug as a loverâs hand. Maedhros twisted his fingers. Fingon flushed hot again despite the damp coldness of the dungeon. The sting of the welts betrayed him, striking a harmonious chord with the thrum of pleasure instead of distracting him from it. He rocked with the fingers, rubbing against the pillar, a distant part of his mind hoping he had polished it well.
âMore?â asked an amused voice. âYou only have to ask.â
Fingonâs stubborn silence was broken by a strangled whine when the fingers slid out of him and gripped his hardness.
âA proposal for you, then,â the voice continued. It was not even slightly out of breath. âTell me a secret, and I shall be merciful.â
Fingon wanted to spit at him again, but even if he could move his head, his mouth was too dry.
âI am no traitor!â he forced out.
The hand tightened around his cock, and Fingon twisted, helpless, sobbed once before biting on his tongue.
Short, fey laughter made him fold his ears.
âYou will speak,â he heard a low whisper. âYou will tell me all I wish to know. You will do all I wish you to do. You will become what I make you.â
âNo,â Fingon said, weeping. âNo.â
His cock was finally freed, but he had no time to take a relieved breath before the fingers were back inside him, stabbing, leaving their burning prints within his flesh for good.
âAlready you yield.â
The fingers left him and, without thinking, he struggled against his restraints so he could follow them.
âAlready you show your true nature.â
He was breached slowly, smoothly. There was no pain, yet it stung, and he wept bitter tears.
âSo easy it is to break you. Even the youngest, weakest Moriquendi resist more. Yet, a prince of the Noldor, nurtured in the Light of the Trees, shatters like a porcelain bowl, spilling his essence, emptied, ready for me to reshape it as I wish, fill it with what I wish.â
âYou lie,â Fingon whispered, rocking in rhythm with the slow thrusts. âI am not yours. You might mark my body, but you will never touch my fĂ«a.â
âCurious. Elven hröa and fĂ«a are connected, are they not? Are they not one, intertwined? Maim one, and the other shall reflect its defacement. Perhaps it is the marring of your fĂ«a that your skin shows so plainly. Do you not feel itâthe shadows inside you, the charred edges of your fĂ«a? Do you not feel the seed of hatred blooming, extinguishing the light? Soon, it shall consume you all.â
âNo,â Fingon cried, âno, you lie! It burns bright. It burns bright!â
âIndeed, bright and powerful is hate. There it sits now inside you and feeds and grows. You shall lie in the dark and stoke its fire. Its flames shall consume you and all who are foolish enough to stay near you. You shall hide in the dark and plot their demise for the crime of being unmarred unlike you, for having the daring to care for you. You shall hate them and hate yourself for it with no reprieve and no escape. You shall hate life itself and all that binds you to it.â
âNo,â Fingon said through tears. âI still love. I love.â
âYou shall succumb to me,â the voice said. âYou shall succumb to hatred. You shall be consumed by fear.â
âNever!â Fingon cried through halting sobs. âNever!â
âAdmit it!â The punishing angle of the hips changed. The hand gripped him again. âAccept it!â
âNo,â Fingon wept even as he arched his back, even as he trembled under the touch of that cruel hand. âNo, never!â
The hand was gone momentarily, then it returned with the dagger and pressed it to Fingonâs throat.
âSubmit to me if you wish to live. Accept what you are.â
Fingon shook his head, the cold blade grazing the tender skin of his throat.
âI know,â the voice saidâgentle, mocking. âWhat you truly long for is death. I offered you the chance once, and you refused it, yet now you beg for it. But I am nothing if not generous. Admit what you are, what you have turned into, what you have always been destined to become, and I shall grant you your release.â
The thrusts had become faster, erratic, carving Fingon from the inside, the way the dagger threatened to do.
âSay it!â the voice demanded. It wasnât so unaffected now. It was angry. It was trembling, teary. âSurrender!â
Fingon shook and bit his tongue against the words that threatened to spill from his lips. But he understood now. He knew it was not what Maedhros truly wanted. It was not what he needed.
âDo what you will,â he rasped, aware how the blade dug imperceptibly deeper into his skin. âYou shall not have me.â
A wordless cry of rage. Hot seed filling him. The dagger dashing past his throat.
When Fingon gathered his wits enough to be aware of his surroundings again, for a moment, he was sure Maedhros had opened his throat from ear to ear. His hand twitched, but he was still restrained. He took a breath, exhaling with relief when he realized that he still could. His thighs and stomach were sticky. He vaguely remembered feeling his release, though he was not sure if Maedhros had touched him.
His back was cold, deprived of Maedhrosâs warm weight. His heartbeat was slowing down. He tried to turn his head to find Maedhros, but his field of vision was limited.
âRussandol,â he called, âyou forgot to release me.â
No hurried footsteps approached him; no apologetic exclamation was heard.
âRussandol?â Fingon cried. âRelease me!â
He heard Maedhros rasping as if a blade had punctured his lungs, and he was choking on his own blood.
Fingon thrust his arms up and easily broke the lock and the wood. Straightening his aching back and neck, he took a glance at his shorn braids, the taste of regret sharp in his throat, then he ran to Maedhros, slumped in a corner.
âRussandol,â he said, slowly sitting down by him.
Maedhros turned his head to him. Blinked.
âYou will be cold,â he said. âWhere are your clothes?â
âNever mind that now. Are you well?â
âOh, you are bleeding!â Maedhros cried. He turned Fingonâs head to the side and hissed at the sight of the welt. âYou should not be sitting in the cold, naked and wounded.â
âRussandol,â Fingon said. âStop it.â
They looked at each other, locked in a silent struggle. Fingon proved more stubborn. Maedhros let out a breath, closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against Fingonâs. For a few moments, they stayed motionless, breathing, Maedhrosâs hand grasping Fingonâs arm, Fingonâs palm resting over Maedhrosâs heart.
Finally, Maedhros opened his eyes, shuffled back, looked at Fingon and winced.
âYour hair,â he said. âHow are you going to explain it if someone asks?â
Fingon felt another sharp stab of regret at the mention of his hair. He stifled it.
âI shall refer them to you,â he said. âPerhaps you can explain that you will be using it to make a chain to hang me from your tower.â He laughed, earning a raised brow from Maedhros. âIt was your worst line,â he said. âPlease never write poetry.â
âYou did not find it so amusing when I spoke it,â Maedhros said, but he was laughing too, even though there were a few familiar shrill notes in his laughter.
He fell silent abruptly, looked at Fingon again, grimaced and shook his head.
âThis was a terrible idea,â he said. âYour worst one so far.â
âHmm,â Fingon said. âI am certain I can recall worse ones. But I shall not remind you, for I am merciful.â
Maedhros laughed his dissonant laugh again, cupped Fingonâs face with a shaking hand, and pulled him close, hiding his face in Fingonâs short curls.
With dismay, Fingon realized that Maedhros had once again deflected, changing the focus of the conversation from himself to Fingon, but he waited until the tremors running through Maedhrosâs body subsided.
âWas any of it true?â he asked quietly.
His strength had seeped away, and he was leaning against Maedhrosâs side, shivering a little but still refusing to dress.
âYou will have to spy on my dreams more to find out,â Maedhros said.
Fingon could not discern his tone, and his mind remained closed.
âI only wonder if this helped you at all,â he said.
âIs that why you did it?â Maedhros asked. âTo help me?â
âMostly, yes,â Fingon said. âDid I?â
âEver you come to my aid unlooked for,â Maedhros said bitterly. âI cannot say if this was helpful, FindekĂĄno. I am too angry and ashamed.â
Fingon shifted, the welts on his back smarting as they brushed against Maedhrosâs woolen tunic.
âIs that all you feel? Anger and shame?â
Maedhros looked at him, and there was sorrow in his eyes and savagery. But he smiled.
âNo,â he said. âCome now, come! I cannot abide leaving you in filth and cold for so long.â
He rose to his feet and dragged Fingon up with him. Exhausted as they were, they both stumbled but caught each other with firm hands.
Elrondâs eyes flick with a third membrane. Something feral within him wants to escape; something feral within him hums with glee. His fingernails lengthen to dagger-sharp, bloodied claws. His teeth taper to match. A dark side of him craves violence â to maim, to mutilate, to rend flesh from blood and consume.
The blood of Men and the blood of the Ainur combine to create devastating side effects in the line of LĂșthien.
My Scribbles & Drabbles 2025 fic for @z-h-i-e's art "Blood on Their Hands," which itself was inspired by a concept from @sortumavaara!
I had so much fun with the thought of Kinslayer Elrond and could not help but add some werewolf-y goodness. Thanks for a great S&D!
He hums in curiosity; the flavor is almost unlike anything he has ever tasted before â some variety of cheese with a hint of something artificial. The texture practically melts on his tongue; dusty, spongy, yet demanding for him to eat more.
âCaptainâs Log: Year of the Stars 2417 â The mission started like any other. The away team beamed down to inspect an unusual reading. Standard procedure was implemented. Mission went awry but delicious. â Captain Finrod Felagund, Noldorin Space Ship Nargothrondâ
My fic for NSFW Slide 13 of Scribbles and Drabbles 2025 - "Cheetos in a Kiddie Pool" by @z-h-i-e!
Possibly the weirdest fic I have ever written, in which I discovered a completely new side of Ao3 and questioned what I was writing multiple times while having an absolute blast! Thanks for a great S&D!
âCarhyalmo!â someone calls. Maglor eyes the waves as they hit the shipâs barnacles. The winds are changing. âWe brought in more fish today, yes?â The mariner gestures to one of his crewmates who disembarks with a full bag and approaches. The Two Trees are missing today. Maglor whirls around in a flurry of motheaten robes. Rays of golden light rise in the east.
âLaurelin.â Maglor clutches the marinerâs arm in a death grip. His voice carries as a wisp on the waves, there and gone again. âWhere is Laurelin?"
Maglor wanders the beaches of NĂșmenor. Tirion calls.
My fic for @arlenianchronicles's wonderful Maglor and Elros art "From Out of the Great Sea" for Scribbles & Drabbles 2025! This one broke my heart in the best way.
âStand back; give him space,â someone says. More voices buzz with Sindarin in the distance. Erestor groans. His muscles sink like a great aching stone. His eyes flutter open to meet navy fabric suspended above him. His hands fly up to shield his face, but someone catches them before he can hide. âI know, Erestor. I know.â
Erestor's captivity means brand-new, yet old, territory for their relationship with Elrond.
For Slide 172 of Scribbles & Drabbles 2025, "Itâs rotten work. â Not to me. Not if itâs you." by @maglor-my-beloved!
Thank you for the new ship! I love these two together and will most likely be writing more in the future!
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