🌸

25

[nevui-penim-miruvorrr]

Haldir saving the day !

he will protect rumil and orophin at all cost !   v(ಠ_ರೃ)

[aotearoa20]

In my brain the entire house of Fëanor in Valinor pre everything going wrong has a strong “I love that you love what you do’ dynamic with each other. 

Maedhros practises his speeches on obscure legislature while modelling for Nerdanel while she listens intently. She’s completely lost and completely invested, interrupting him only once to ask he keep his hand up a little higher.

Celegorm discussing with Fëanor late into the night about the grammatical structure of the language of rabbits and how it affects their hierarchical structures. Everything he’s saying sort of scratches the part of Fëanor’s brain still hung up on his linguistics hyperfixations way back when.

Caranthir knows nothing about musical theory but after hearing Maglor complaining about all the way through breakfast about this tune he just can’t get right, his math brain is like ‘the rhythm is off’ and Maglor has to switch on his music brain to translate but then is like “Valar above! I was using a mismatched time signature”

Curufin patiently sitting through Amras’ tea tasting test from random leaves he’s foraged while hunting. Amrod patiently waiting as Curufin halts his cartography expedition because “Ambraussa LOOK silver deposits!!”

Just like, the Noldorin meraki was strong in that family. They may not understand what it is so interesting about each others Things but they totally get being excited about a Thing so they happily listen to an info dump on rocks when they know their tirade on fabric pigments was up next,

[queenlucythevaliant]

I. There were deep mysteries: in the music, the metal, the fire. Celebrimbor Curufinwion only ever wanted to understand.

II. He was an inquisitive child: “Why does a star fall while an eagle flies, Ada?” “How do you know which way a bit of wire wants to bend?” Once, just before his name-day, his grandfather Fëanoró asked him what he wanted most. Tyelpe spread his arms wide and said, “I want to know everything,” eliciting a wide crack of a grin from his grandfather.

“I want that too, little Curufinwë.”  

III. Celebrimbor was scarcely full-grown when he set foot on the swaying planks of a Teleri ship. Under better circumstances, he would have wondered how the ship’s buoyancy was calculated, how the angle of the prow was chosen, how the rudder was balanced. As it was, there was no room for such ponderings. All his questions were bloody.  

IV. After his father and grandfather, Uncle Nelyo had always been the most indulgent in the family when it came to little Tyelpe’s questions; he was endlessly patient, impossible to wear down by power of persistence. Now, when he knelt beside Maedhros’s sickbed, all Celebrimbor’s kind words felt leaden on his tongue. He sat, silent, almost dumb, staring at the stump of his uncle’s hand.

“Will you tell me about Þauron?” he asked. The question was out before he had thought it through, and he almost wished he had not said it. Yet he did not take it back. Fingon might be persuaded to describe the tawny feathers of Thorondor; his father had answered nearly all the questions about the Black Enemy that he could think could ask. Yet only Uncle Maedhros knew about Þauron.

There was a heavy bandage over part of Maedhros’s face, but still Celebrimbor could see a faint tug at the corner of his mouth. “What would you like to know?”

V. In Himland, Lord Curufin was in the business of warfare. His son hid himself in workshops and experimented with different alloys of steel. A higher carbon content for power, lower for resilience. Titanium for strength, at half the weight. Oxidization, tempering with different materials. Novel tools at the forge. Curufin beat metal into elegant blades, perfectly balanced. His son made them better.

Once, during a long night at the beginning of the Bragollach, Curufin squinted into the noxious fog and almost casually asked, “How is it that you came to be a greater swordsmith than I?”

“I ask the right questions, I think,” Celebrimbor replied.

VI. In Nargothrond, there were men that wandered Lord Finrod’s halls. Celebrimbor pestered them incessantly.

VII. Gradually, his father and Uncle Celegorm withdrew from him and became secretive. To anyone else, it would not seem so; Celegorm laughed loudly with the soldiers at supper and Curufin conversed as cordially with Finrod as he had ever done. Yet for the first time in his life, Celebrimbor saw with the foreknowledge of some of his kin—through no magic, but because they had begun evading his inquiries.

VIII. Cousin Artanis, he wrote, I would ask a boon of you. Go to the library of Elu Thingol and send me whatever treatise on ethics you judge best.

IX. In the wake of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the only question Celebrimbor Curufinwion could formulate was “why?” The worst of it was, he was fairly certain he knew the answer:

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. The Valar have spoken.”

X. In Gondolin and in Sirion, he made himself small. He kept out of the smithies and workshops; he kept his curiosity to himself. He gave counsel only when it was requested of him, and requests were infrequent. The name Fëanor clung to him like a foul odor, however many times he tried to rinse it off. Those few who had followed him from Nargothrond encircled him, familiar, and Celebrimbor allowed their presence to become an easy, thoughtless thing.

XI. Yet when his last two uncles fell upon Sirion with their desperate armies, Celebrimbor turned to his lieutenant and asked, “Must we stand against them?” It was a rhetorical question, but Celebrimbor still wanted an answer.

XII. He saw Morgoth chained and he felt his senses clearing. Yet he would always wonder whether, if he had claimed the Silmarils then, the oath might have been fulfilled and his uncles spared their dreadful ends.

XIII. In Eregion, at last, Celebrimbor built a temple to inquiry; a citadel for all unanswered questions. He set his mind to the mysteries of the physical world, and worked to put what if? behind him.

XIV. There were laboratories where a group of Sindar were studying the things that lived in river water beneath powerful lenses; a woman working alongside them wanted to know which of them caused illness in men. Elsewhere, an assemblage of dwarves was systematically chronicling the hardnesses of different minerals. One of Maglor’s old guard was developing ways to sing different colors out of prisms. Celebrimbor sat cross-legged on the floor of his study late one night and made a list of experiments he wanted to conduct. He had all the time in the world.

XV. “What do you want?” Narvi asked him not long after they began their partnership.

Celebrimbor spread his arms wide. “I want to build and build and build,” he said. Then, with a wry chuckle, he added, “And I still want to know everything.”

XVI. Annatar called himself “Lord of Gifts,” but all Celebrimbor had ever wanted was to understand. Could he really be blamed for being taken in, when the gift of new knowledge was laid out in front of him for the taking? Curiosity can be a hungry thing, as surely as greed or revenge can.

XVII. There were deep mysteries in the music, in the spirit, which, once spoken aloud, could be bound in metal. What a joy, to dig the mysteries of the universe out from their silence. What a privilege, to speak their names aloud and pound them into bits of gold and silver. What a wonder, to wear them on his hand.  

XVIII. Eregion emptied; all its laboratories and workshops were abandoned, door barred and lights extinguished. Celebrimbor rested a hand on the pommel of his sword (titanium-steel, a light yet powerful blade with a unique resistance to damage, the result of centuries of sword-making research) and made for the gates of the city.

XIX. Was it ironic that Celebrimbor’s last, most crucial battle should be against volleys of questions? (What was irony? Celebrimbor couldn’t remember)

XX. At last, Celebrimbor Curufinwion stood before the Valar in the Halls. A thrill rose up in his chest. He was going to ask them everything.

[irithyllians]

rog, house of the hammer of wrath

[xhyjin]

husband gojo! who turns into “the neediest” after a long day of being “the strongest” the moment he walks through the door. his blindfold or glasses are tossed aside because, to him, you’re no sight for sore eyes; he wants nothing obstructing his view of you. he’s immediately all over you, clinging to you like a lifeline. and when you groan, “toru, i need my personal space,” he only grins and murmurs, “i need your personal space too, baby,” before wrapping his long legs around you, nearly making you stumble and fall with him still stubbornly attached, laughing like it’s the best part of his day. (it is)

husband gojo! who, ever since you baked him a birthday cake once, fell head over heels for your baking. now, it’s a tradition; he refuses to have a birthday cake unless it’s made and decorated by you. this extends to his sweet tooth cravings too; whenever he comes across random dessert recipes on his phone, he immediately sends them your way with an innocent “doesn’t this look good?” even if you’ve never seen or heard of the dessert before. he’ll hover around the kitchen, sneaking peeks and stealing tastes, grinning like a kid because there’s nothing sweeter to him than something made by your hands.

husband gojo! who absolutely loves when you spend his money. it takes you a while to get comfortable using it because you feel bad, but he always reassures you with a grin, “my money is your money, sweetheart. it’s all gonna be spent on you anyway.” he gets genuinely excited when you come home from a shopping trip or when packages arrive at the door, practically glowing with pride. seeing you spoiled and happy makes him feel like he’s doing something right. his favorite part, though, is when you give him a haul, showing off everything you bought and trying on all your new clothes just for him. he’ll sit back, arms crossed with the biggest smirk on his face, and say, “damn, I knew my money looked good on you.”

husband gojo! who is so, so, so protective of you that sometimes he just wants to keep you home, away from the outside world, where nothing can touch you. he’s spent his whole life as nothing but a weapon for jujutsu society, and all he wants now is to keep you safe, to shield you from everything. when you’re out together, his arm is always wrapped securely around your waist or draped over your shoulder, a silent reminder to everyone that you’re his to protect. dates are rarely in public—he prefers private, intimate places or the comfort of home, where he knows you’re safe in his arms. he’ll even insist on teaching you self-defense, but the lesson always ends the same: him pinning you down, a smirk on his face as he attacks you with kisses, murmuring, “looks like you’re still defenseless against me.”

husband gojo! who quite literally steals your entire personality. the moment you say a new phrase or pick up a habit, he’s quick to latch onto it, memorizing it like it’s second nature. by the next day, he’s already using it effortlessly, as if it’s always been part of his vocabulary. when you catch him doing it, he just shrugs with a small grin, “what can I say? you’re my favorite person—I can’t help it.” he admires you so much that your quirks and habits naturally become his own.

husband gojo! who sometimes tries to scare you in the mornings by hovering over you, his face so close that the first thing you see when you open your eyes are his deep blue eyes staring wide into yours. it always makes you jolt awake, your hands flailing as you instinctively poke or smack him in surprise. he’ll laugh, completely unfazed, pulling back just enough to grin down at you with a playful, “good morning, sleepyhead. miss me?” even when you scold him for nearly giving you a heart attack, he just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead like it’s the most natural way to start his day.

husband gojo! who, just like he steals your personality, also steals your scent and fashion. if you have a favorite perfume, he’s either hunting down the “manly” version of it or shamelessly spritzing yours when you’re not looking. and when it comes to clothes, he’ll buy the exact same pieces you own—just a few sizes bigger so they suit him. it’s not even subtle; he’ll walk out wearing a sweater that’s just like yours, grinning proudly when you notice. “what? we match. it’s cute,” he says, completely unapologetic, because to him, there’s nothing better than being a reflection of the person he loves most.

husband gojo! who’ll dye a small streak of his snow-white hair your favorite color just to surprise you. he keeps it subtle and tucked away, hidden so well that no one else would even notice unless they were running their fingers through his hair—and no one gets that close but you. sometimes he changes it when your favorite color shifts, always paying attention to the little details that make you smile. when you do find it, gently brushing his hair aside, he grins at you softly and says, “figured I’d keep a piece of you with me.”

husband gojo! who genuinely tries his best to make time for you, despite how often he gets called away for missions. sometimes days pass without him seeing you, and the distance wears on him more than he'd ever admit. when he finally comes home, the moment he sees you, he's on his knees, pressing kisses to every inch of your body, mumbling softly between each one about how much he missed you. "missed you so much, baby... couldn't stop thinking about you," he whispers against your skin, his voice laced with exhaustion and love. it's in moments like these-when he's been deprived of your warmth and attention-that he starts to second-guess being a jujutsu sorcerer at all. because no mission, no battle, could ever compare to being with you.

husband gojo! who drops everything the second he steps through the door after a grueling three-day mission, exhaustion forgotten the moment he sees you standing there, holding out a small gift box. confusion turns to shock as he opens it, and inside, a positive pregnancy test. for a moment, the world stops; his heart races, his breath catches, and then it hits him: he has a family now.

husband gojo! who doesn’t even hesitate. right then and there, he decides he can’t be both a sorcerer and a father. he refuses to miss a single pregnancy milestone, a single moment with you or his child, because of his work. the next day, he quits. the elders, the Gojo clan, they can pester him, manipulate him, lecture him about “duty” and “protecting the country,” but he won’t budge. “It’s my duty to protect my family,” he’ll say firmly, his hand resting on your growing belly. no one will take him away from you and the life you’re building together.

[wanderer-clarisse]

been thinking about Beren and Lúthien ballet adaptation again...

[badookie]

No matter the universe, Hans will be a little brat who loves to play matching dressup with their Henry [nods nods]

[hotbabelien]

Trosky Spy vs. Nebakov Spy

[vancilart]

safe at kolin at last

[n0tamused]

OCxCanon(Haldir x Êlinsaer) meme thing

I'm so whimsical guys.

Middle-Earth and phones would be a funny thing to see. I bet if social media did exist Êlinsaer would get over her fear or elves much faster, and then she'd just start doing shit like this. Slay queen

[kathrenax]

devil's pack

[asinoeiv]

three 'warm up' sketches I did a while ago. They are so silly and I love them. 1- Maeglin Aredhel 2-Andreth and Aegnor 3-Ecthelion, Glorfindel and Egalmoth just lost Aredhel.

[lindenhe-deactivated20260716]

I was practicing with clothes and got a little carried away~

Also a little contribution for the tailor!Astarion au, because my Tav is a bard with a noble background and usually has a need in fancy outfits.

[senairart]

me and the devil on my shoulder (telling me to open the barn)

[taneysha-pictures]

I've wanted to portray them together for a long time. Well here's Lyra x Haarlep.

[kisblle]

An Outlaw's Christmas

Pairing: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Female reader

Word Count: 2939

Tags: Fluff, Shy Arthur

Summary: Arthur finds himself tongue tied when trying to tell you how he feels.

Author's Note: I wrote this rather quickly because I wanted to do a fluffy Christmas special type thing. Way different from my typical low honor content, but I still hope it's enjoyable!

...

Behind the flaps of Arthur's canvas tent, he brushes his calloused thumb over a small, velvet box. His heart thrumming like guitar string as he opens the delicate case.

He's had it for months now.

A pretty, little locket he had picked up after a job gone well.

Perhaps he was feeling a little too cocky that day, walking into that fine establishment fixing to buy something nice to impress the woman he was after.

And after his wallet lost a considerable amount of weight, he was able to secure the locket as his own.

He then strolled down the road to the barber, treating himself to a nice clean shave and a fresh cut. Then he made his way to the photographer that evening, requesting a portrait - one small enough to fit inside the locket.

A week later, when the portrait he had requested had been developed. Arthur wasn’t feeling as sure as he once had.

His heart still burned for you, but that same evening he saw you chatting playfully with Charles, much the same way you joked with him. And that’s when the thought settled. That maybe he was just a fool, a fool that was wasting time.

But as months passed, the flutters everytime he saw you never dissipated. His nerves never settled when you playfully swatted at his arm, his heart never stopped beating wildly everytime you threw him a kind smile.

Arthur could murder men in cold blood, climb mountains in the dead of winter, kill wild bears with only the knife strapped to his hip. But God forbid Arthur Morgan work up the courage to tell you he wanted you. To tell you he wanted to court you proper. That when he was in your presence, he felt like nothing more than a young virgin trying to work up the courage to speak to a woman for the first time.

And the locket. The one he was fixing to give you months ago as a token of his affection, sat lonesome in the bottom of his trunk.

Until today.

...

Arthur was never big on the holidays.

Growing up, he never had much of a family to celebrate with. But as the gang grew larger each year, Dutch turned Christmas into a time for celebration. It hadn’t always been that way, but ever since young Jack Marston had made an appearance, Hosea in particular had made a point to make it extra special for the young child.

It was never too much.

Just a few nights of rest and drinking, maybe trading a couple of gifts here and there, a bit of dancing too if there was music to played.

This year in particular felt a little fancier than usual, Hosea dragging Jack just outside camp, the two of them hauling a pine tree back in together. They decorated it with strings of popcorn and half lit candles, placing it right in the center of camp - for all to enjoy. The women played into it too, crafting wreaths to hang off the backs of wagons, and singing along to any Christmas songs Javier could learn on his guitar.

Arthur couldn’t complain.

Jack was getting more of a Christmas than he ever had as a kid, and in some ways it was healed him too. But as snow gently sprinkled over camp on the eve of Christmas, Arthur still hid away behind his tent flaps; feeling utterly torn.

After several long minutes of deliberation, holding the locket in his fists, he made his decision.

It would be tonight.

He would give you the locket tonight.

He would work up the courage to find you, get you somewhere private, offer you the gift, and then tell you how he feels. He would be confident and tenacious, he would place the locket over your neck, leaving you not only with with some new jewlery but with the taste of his lips on yours...

"Arthur," your soft, angelic voice rings from just outside his tent, breaking him from daze. "You in there?" You ask as he remains frozen. He glances down at the locket still tangled in his fingers, and suddenly he's not as confident as he was just moments ago.

"Give me a moment," he shouts back frantically, shoving the locket inside it's box and carelessly throwing the case underneath his pillow. "Come in."

He turns around and there you are; pretty as can be.

You hesitantly pull the canvas flaps back, entering his tent like it's a foribidden place. Snowflakes adorn your hair like jewels, vanishing quickly from the heat inside. Your face is a deep rouge, cheeks flushed with a cherry stain from the chill of winter's grasp. You're bundled tight with several layers: a nice warm jacket, a scarf pulled tight around your neck, a pair of wool mittens hugging your fingertips.

Arthur just stares: completely bewildered.

"How'r you Arthur?" you ask with gentle grin, the same one he fell in love with all those years ago.

He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck anxiously, eyes shifting to the corner of his tent out of nervousness. "Fine," he replies, coming off much colder than it meant to be.

Your eyes dart to the ground for a split second, suddenly feeling awkward at Arthur's sharp response. You grin anyway, reaching into your coat as you look back up at him. "Got you somethin'," you say hesitantly, pulling a quaint gift wrapped in parchment and twine out of your pocket, handing it to him like it was a peace offering.

He stares at you warily, one brow raised in curiosity as he lifts it from your palm. "Whats' this fo'," he asks as he cautiously stares at it.

You giggle, voice responding as sweet and innocent as anyone ever could. "For Christmas silly."

Arthur's heart pulses in his chest.

You'd gotten him a present?

He freezes, trying to remember the last time someone had gifted him something. Let alone that someone being you.

"Well," you say impatiently. "Open it."

Arthur's eyes stare wide and hesitant into yours for a few seconds before he pulls at the twine, unwinding the rope in his fingertips. The parchment gently opens and Arthur stares down at his palm.

He's reluctant to show any emotion, but his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest.

"Like it?" you ask cheerfully, like a child begging for any ounce of validation.

Arthur stares down at his palm, where a fancy canister of colored pencils lay gently.

He knows the brand, some French name he can’t quite pronounce. He knows they’re expensive. He thought about buying them for himself months ago, back when the gang was down in Lemoyne, after wandering through that high-end art supply shop once or twice.

In a way, the colored pencils are just what he wanted. But at the same time, he felt guilty.

Those pencils. Those damn, french colored pencils crafted from the finest pigments were not cheap. And he knew you didn't make a lot of money. Hell, you must've spent months worth of savings on them.

He looks up at you, his expression blank. You're smiling wide, as if you're waiting for a response from him but he remains impassive.

"Thank you," he says all too flat, all of a sudden feeling guilty about the gift.

He doesn't notice at first, but your smile instantly fades at his response. You expected something more than just a cold, stoic reaction from him. But deep down you knew that had always been Arthur, never really letting off much emotion in the first place.

Softly sighing, you shake your head back and forth, mentally berating yourself. You grab at his arm, squeezing it tightly, brushing your thumb over his bicep in a caring manor. “Merry Christmas....Arthur," you smile, fake like you've lost some game. Nodding your head and ducking back out of his tent.

Arthur remains stiff, the ghost of your touch lingering on him like an ancient magic calling out to him. He just stands there far too long, trying to savor the feeling of your touch as well as he could.

It’s not that he wasn’t grateful.

No.

He’d certainly put good use to those colored pencils.

There was just something in the way you smiled at him with those wide eyes that had always made him freeze. Something in the way you gently touched him - softly - like he rarely got to feel. A woman's touch - even if it's a simple grab of shoulder.

But contrary to the popular belief, Arthur was also not an idiot.

He'd seen that look of chagrin glaze over you when he responded flatly, when you left his tent all too quick. Like you were coming in there for more than the excuse of giving him the gift.

And that didn't sit right with him either.

He mentally berates himself as he gently rests the canister of colored pencils on his bedside, pulling the locket out from under his pillow. He brushes his thumbs against the velvet box once more, jaw tight like he was finally ready before pushing it into his pocket.

If he were a smarter man, he would have given you the locket right then and there. When he was already somewhere alone and private with you.

But you had caught him by surprise, and Arthur found himself speachless, words failing him like they always had when it came to you.

But now you probably think him rude.

Disinterested.

And worse of all ungrateful, which he was the opposite of - you had to know that.

He ducks underneath his tent flaps, scanning the camp for you.

Most everyone sits around the fire, singing renditions of christmas carols Arthur had never bothered to learn.

But you - you're standing under the awning of the provision wagon, bottom lip tight between your teeth, strugging to pop the cap off a nearly frozen beer.

He gulps, nervously as he struts towards the wagon. Stopping only when when he stands directly behind you. His large shadow swallowing your figure like a mountain hiding the sun.

You stop fiddling with the bottle the moment you feel him looming over you. Turning around, your eyes widen as he snatches the bottle from your hand without word. His eyes don't leave yours as he slowly reaches toward his gun belt, fingers finding his knife, pulling the blade from his hip and popping off the cap with swift motion.

Your thighs tighten at the sudden action as he pushes the beer back into your hands, suddenly feeling all too warm in places you know you shouldn't.

Arthur's eyes don't leave yours as you take a sip, his mouth opening as if he's about to say something important but is interupted by a cacophony of children's laughter.

You both turn your heads to see Jack Marston a few yards away, staring at the two of you. He’s bouncing in place with all the restless energy of a child, letting out an excited squeal as his knees pump up and down. One mittened hand is pressed to his mouth, the other pointing at something just above you both.

You and Arthur tilt your chins upward in unison, his throat bobbing with an awkward swallow as he stares at the mistletoe hanging just overhead.

He had forgotten it was there.

Days earlier he had witnessed Hosea help Jack hang it there, surely explaining to the young boy what it meant. But Arthur never thought twice about being caught underneath of it someone, especially you.

Jack doesn't run off, he continues to squeel loudly and point, surely excited to finally catch two people beneath it.

Arthur finally looks back down, his eyes meeting yours as his face flushes a deep, unmistakable red. His pupils dilate, and he goes completely still, caught somewhere between fear, shock, and surprise.

You can’t help but giggle.

At him.

At how a big, bad outlaw like Arthur Morgan can stand utterly petrified over something as simple as being caught beneath the mistletoe with someone.

Especially when a small child is the one egging it on.

You giggle once again, shaking your head as you lean up on your tippy toes. Placing a small peck on Arthur's left cheek, all while Jack Marston watches.

A burst of laughter erupts from the small child as he places both of his hands over his mouth in shock. Squeeling and bouncing like he'd witnessed something scandelous before charging away out of sight.

Arthur is completely frozen in place, eyes wide and transfixed, while you can only shake your head with a grin. You rest your hand against his bicep once more.

“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” you murmur softly before turning and walking away.

Arthur gulps, his heart beating down his throat as he turns around and works up the courage to yell, "wait."

“I-I got you somethin’ too,” he blurts out. His voice wavers as his hands fumble in his pockets, pulling out a small black, rectangular box, holding it out like he’s trying to gently coax you back.

You turn and walk toward him again. Careful, not out of fear, but confusion. He presses it into your hands, his voice steadying as he exhales.

“Should’ve given it to you earlier.”

Your fingers glide over the fine fabric of the box, opening it with simple flick of your thumbs.

It's a necklace - a locket.

A pretty silver heart that looked like it easily cost an arm and a leg.

Your eyes dart back to him as if you were looking for answers, but once again he's staring blankly.

"Oh Arthur," you coo. "This is too nice, I -I can't accept-"

"Open it," he commands in a way that he won’t let you object to.

You gulp as you lift the locket from it's box, unclasping it with hesitancy.

And there it was, a handsome picture of him on the inside. His hair swept back with pomade, his face shaved clean. You stare at it for a few moments, admiring the photo, but all so confused at what it meant.

You look back up at him, the locket tangled in your fingertips. Waiting for answers, completely baffled.

Arthur takes a step closer, towering over your small frame like a sturdy tree. His fingers reach for a loose strand, pushing it behind your ear in a way he never did, making your knees go utterly weak.

“I’m sorry I ain’t never been good with my words,” he gulps. “And I’m sorry I didn’t say this sooner..... but what I’ve been meanin’ to tell you is-” He pauses, searching for the right way to lay it bare. “Bein’ around you makes me feel like a boy again. When I’m with you, it’s like there’s a knot in my tongue, like I can’t get the words out right. And when you ain’t around….” His voice drops, quieter now. “You’re all I can god damn think about.”

Your heart pounds out of your chest, looking back down at the locket and then back up at him.

"I got this for you a while back," he admits as he looks down at the locket between your fingers. "I just ain't never had the courage to tell you that I want you to be my girl....t-to court you proper."

As you stare up at him. He searches for any hint of emotion behind your eyes but fails to read any.

But then you flash him a soft smile, cheeks blushing a deeper red than they already were. With a giggle you push the locket back into his hands and for a moment his stomach drops in dissapointment as if you were rejecting him.

But instead you turn around, dragging your hair over one shoulder.

And then he realizes what you want him to do.

He takes another step closer, breath heavy, as he drags his knuckle over the warmth of your nape. Shaking slightly as he lifts the locket over your head, clasping it together behind your neck.

You turn to face him, your eyes locking with his, a shy, teasing grin tugging at your lips. Your fingers linger on the locket resting against your chest, coaxing it open slowly, looking at the photo inside for just a moment longer before you let your gaze drift back up to him.

Your bottom lip finds the space between your teeth as you bat you lashes at him, pupils pointing upwards towards the mistletoe that still hangs silently above the two of you.

And suddenly Arthur feels a wave of confidence rush through him like he's never had when it came to you.

Gently, he lifts his palm, cupping your cheek as he pulls your face towards his. And in that moment, when snow gently falls from the sky, and a mistletoe hangs above him. He pulls you in - to kiss you proper this time.

His other arm wraps around your waist, drawing you close, and his lips connect with yours softly, only for a few seconds, like a gentleman would. When he pulls back, a confident grin spreads across his face for the first time, lighting up his whole expression.

"So Arthur Morgan wants to court me proper huh?" you say with a raised brow, breaking the silence before turning around and taking a few steps toward the center of camp.

He just snorts, shaking his head, utterly bewildered at his woman.

With a few long strides he catches up to you, slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you tight against his side. "Well I can court you improper too if that's what you’d prefer."

[alnilamen]

For the anon who requested Fingolfin months ago , I’m really sorry it took so long 😭 It didn’t turn out the way I originally planned .I wanted to do a full illustration, but ended up making a simple black and white drawing instead. I hope you like it 💙💙