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losing my grip, losing my mind

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: staying with maitimo and his family for a week of celebration, your evening activities in his room have to be kept quiet. of course, this is easier said than done

content: explicit 18+ only, gender-neutral afab reader. pegging (surely valinor has sex toys), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, breeding kink, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, face sitting, unrealistic stamina but who cares none of you are here for realism, elvish terms of endearment I made the fuck up.

eat me alive - artemas ✵ series masterlist

“Maitimo,” you whisper, lips brushing against his ear. He shudders against you, back nearly arching as his movement has you grinding deeper into him. “Shhh, shhh, hush ruinincë.”

#silm smut #ok. everyone pretend the dirty talk in this is good. i tried and thats what matters #nobody look at things that are unrealistic in this. theyre elves. the elven strap can easily be removed they live by two glowing trees #its fantasy everybody have fun forever #also. i haven't written smut in a billion years. if this is bad you can all laugh and throw rocks <3 #series: honor and marigolds #maedhros x reader #maedhros x you #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion x you #maedhros imagine #maedhros one shot #leto writes #nsfw.

His hands are cold.

His hands have always been cold. Exo hands weren’t meant for the warmth, they weren’t meant to keep something warm. They were machine hands. They were cold, and harsh, and rough.

His hands are cold, even beneath the thick layers of padding meant for the frozen tundra of Europa. The cold glare of the light against the snow was harsh. Europa’s temperature suited him.

Before, his hands felt warm. His hands felt the warmth of happiness and comfort and safety. Warmth, like being wrapped up in a blanket, like holding hands with the one he loved.

His hands are cold now, but they once knew warmth. It felt so long ago, now, since Cayde was so unjustly taken from him. That cold enveloped him since he thought he got revenge for him. Ghost said it was justice - Tempest thought differently.

He felt cold, despite hands hovering over a small pit of fire meant for the humans and Awoken in a fireteam.

Cayde would joke about his hands melting off when he did this. He joked about a lot of things Tempest did - things that others, like Zavala, would simply get annoyed at.

His hands were cold, frigid and unforgiving, harsh and calculating, ever since he held Cayde in his arms as he took his final breath, as he watched the light leave his eyes. Tempest fully blamed himself for Cayde’s death, no matter what Ikora had said at the time.

He felt cold, colder even, when Uldren - no, Crow - appeared with the help of Osiris. He remembered sending a bullet into Uldren’s head. He’d gotten his revenge that day, and yet there he was, standing not twenty feet from him, as if nothing had happened.

His body felt warmth, the warm embrace of rage and fury, as Tempest flung a fist in Crow’s face. Osiris had told him not to, to keep his anger in check, but Uldren was dead.

That warmth in him died like Cayde did, soon after they’d defeated Xivu Arath. His hatred towards Crow had dimmed, feeling that same cold emptiness wash over him. He’d embraced it like an old cloak, tattered and ripped, but his.

Europa was cold, yet it suited Tempest perfectly. At least, that’s what Elsie had said.

She was just as cold as he was. It wasn’t from lack of Light, neither was it from the Darkness they both shared. That cold changed to lukewarm. It confused him.

His hands were as cold as the Stasis he wielded and formed on his own, Elsie helping him along the way. His hands were cold, the same way Elsie’s hands were. But at the same time, they were getting warmer. Slowly, but surely, they were getting warm. His hands were hot when he talked to Elsie, day after day, on Europa. The contacts between himself and the Vanguard became few and far between. His hands were hot when they simply did nothing but stare out at the frozen tundra for hours.

His hands are hot, when he holds Elsie. He feels safe and comfort, and happiness. His hands are hot, in the same way they were with Cayde.

His hands are hot now, but they once knew cold.

#destiny #destiny 2 #cayde #exo #exo stranger #leto writes #this feels so out of the norm for me but like #i wanna write in the worst way rn #and i think the name 'tempest-18' fits my guardian so so well bc he's fucking nuts i love him #elsie bray #maybe i just have a thing for exo who knows #half of my fucking guardians are exo anyway faksjdf #i needed to get this off my chest wowza

interlude: cramps

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: maedhros comforts you through cramps, thats it thats the post

contains: afab!elf!reader who gets periods, still referred to with gender neutral terms. very brief mention of period sex, comfort through bad cramps, I don't know or care if elves get periods I'm taking creative liberties. stand-alone fic, but it was written with hm!reader in mind

Maedhros watches you, rather worried as you pace back and forth across the floor, fists clenching and unclenching at your sides as you do so.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until you have to stop and lean against the wall, face screwed up in pain.

Your bleeding cycle was a particularly vicious one, he knew. A period where you were excused from most, if not all, tasks, given leave to rest as best as you could. In Tirion, it was hardly ever this brutal, pain seemingly dulled in the Valar’s world meant to exist without it. Or maybe there were just more remedies for such maladies, more things to soothe the pain.

As it was, you had no such luxury, other than a crude pain killer you could only take in spaced out intervals.

He’s familiar with this time. Has seen you at its best and at its worst, kept you company when you had to pace, held you as sobs wracked your body on the rarer occasions.

“My love?” He questions as you stop and all but keel over.

“Fine,” you croak out, taking all your effort to try and breathe through a nasty wave of pain. You start to pace again, nails digging into your palms as you breathe in and out on counts, focusing on the repetitive actions to keep you grounded against the pain.

He’s seen you work through this before, knows that even now you could push this all aside and stand straight should you demand it of yourself. He thinks of your form on the battlefield, blood running down half of your face, one hand holding a knife stuck in your side so it doesn’t slip out as you swing your sword with the other.

He thinks if you put your mind to it, if needs must, you could push through anything and persevere.

Wordlessly he stands and offers you his hand to hold. You take it and grip it like a lifeline, and slow your pacing so he can circle around with you. It's easy enough even with the extra steps he must take circling on the outside, for he is far taller than you.

The next hour finds you in different positions around the room, in attempts to soothe the waves of debilitating pain. Lying face down on your bed, fists bunching the covers. Pacing back and forth across the floor. Curled up with Maedhros, his warm palm on your lower stomach, until you grow restless with pain once more. Lying on your back on the pelts on your floor, bouncing your legs and closing your eyes.

More than once, he offers his hand in another sense, to help draw away the pain with pleasure. You both know this to be an effective method, and Maedhros is not shy nor disgusted by the mess it produces. But each time you decline, claiming to feel far too gross to have him touch you as such.

He supposes this to be a good sign - were you desperate enough to escape the pain, you would take him up on his offer anyway, any other discomfort almost minuscule in comparison to the discomfort of the unbearable pain.

If he could, he would take this pain away from you. Would help you bear it, so you wouldn’t have to suppress noises of pain and ride through waves of torment.

Eventually, you find a spot on the floor that suits you well enough, on the soft furs with a pillow underneath your lower back. Occasionally you shift your hips, or bounce your legs, working through a wave of pain - you squeeze his hand through them, only able to close your eyes and wince.

The intensity evidently starts to dim after a while in this position. You tell him you think it’s the pain killer the healers had provided you with finally kicking in, and while the cramps aren’t gone, they don’t have you writhing in pain anymore.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment on the floor. Your hand has relaxed in his, though he keeps a hold of you anyway. “It can’t be easy having to deal with - with all of this.”

“The only pain it brings me is seeing you in pain, melda,” he says, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I have seen you get cut with swords and show less of a struggle than this. I couldn’t imagine it.”

By the time the cramps pass enough to have you relaxing, you’re falling asleep on the furs, curling up close to Madehros. He holds you close, resting his hand over your lower stomach, far warmer than any blanket.

There’s no better feeling than drifting away safe in his arms, peace after so much pain and discomfort.

#less of a one shot more of a drabble. I’m sticking with hm naming conventions here bc it was written with that world in mind #anyways hello girls gays and theys who get laid the fuck out on their period. this ones for u #maedhros x reader #maedhros x you #series: honor and marigolds #maedhros imagine #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion x you #silmarillion imagine #leto writes

name game

characters: celebrimbor, fingolfin, eärendil

summary: characters + a kink (or two) starting with the same letter of their name

content: explicit 18+ only, reader specified per character, cockwarming, power dynamics, fingering, forbidden romance, edging, exhibitionism (in theory), dirty talk, praise, humiliation if you squint

Celebrimbor // cockwarming + control (gn!reader)

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting still, Celebrimbor’s cock pressed deep inside of you.

All the candles in the room are behind you, flickering on his desk and lighting up the designs he’s been working on. If you were to turn around, you’re sure you could see how far the wax has dripped down, how low the tapers burn. You might even judge the passing time by the progress he’s made, the improvement of the sketch and increase of equations in the margins.

You don’t dare to risk it. You’ve been patient thus far, so endlessly patient, and you’re certain if you were to move now, to twist even a little, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from rolling your hips, seeking any sort of friction.

He had told you to sit still, and so there you sat. But you’ve sat still long enough, it’s less about obedience and more about the principle of the matter.

#silm smut #celebrimbor x reader #celebrimbor x you #celebrimbor smut #fingolfin x reader #fingolfin x you #fingolfin smut #earendil x reader #earendil x you #earendil smut #silmarillion imagine #nsfw.#leto writes

17 and Elrond for that prompt list?

17 ⧽. carefully bandaging the other’s wounds, even if it’s just a tiny cut

prompt list ✵ masterlist

Elrond has always been a capable healer and a capable warrior. He had even proven himself to be a capable leader, when the land needed his wisdom. You knew this well about your love, in all the years you have spent at his side.

It does not stop you from fretting when he comes home from patrol, banged and bruised with a nasty cut across his forehead.

“Do not fret,” is the first thing he says when he dismounts his horse and sees you are there to greet him. He knows you too well, and knows how he must look, covered in blood. “It is far better than it looks.”

He speaks in that gentle way of his, reassuring and certain in a way that is always soothing. A leader before he was a warrior, and a healer before he was a leader, he had long mastered the skill of speaking in a way that cemented authority and soothed all who would listen.

You know the elf beyond all the roles he’s ever played, and so you do not listen, and drag him as politely as you can to the nearest available medical room when he insists on staying to debrief and send out the next patrol.

Despite his protests, he follows without much fuss, and is patient as you sit him down and gather a bowl of water and a cloth, salve for his wound, and a roll of bandages.

You kneel down next to him, wet the cloth and wring it out, and frown as you start to dab at the worst of the grime around his forehead. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he reminds you. “Truly, it is not as bad as it looks.”

“But it is worse than it could be,” you counter. You dip the cloth back into the water and squeeze it out again, internally wincing as the water turns red. “Why was this not bandaged before now?”

At that, he looks sheepish - an uncommon look on the Lord of Rivendell. “There were others injured,” he begins to explain. You finish his sentence for him with a sigh.

“And you would not use them on yourself if others had the need.”

You wish you could chide him for such selflessness. You wish he could see you how you see him now, his face half covered in blood with bruises blossoming across the cheek that isn’t stained red. You almost wish he wasn’t such a devout healer to put all others above himself - but you don’t, because if he wasn’t who he was you wouldn’t love him nearly half as much.

Once the wound is cleaned, you inspect it, deciding on if it needs sutures. He does not interrupt nor provide his own input, trusting you with his well being despite his own mastery and knowledge. It truly is much better than it had seemed - with the old blood rinsed out and the grime wiped away, it is far more clean a cut than you had first assumed.

You end up slathering the cut in the salve and wrapping it with bandages. You’re careful to keep his hair out of the sticky salve, and wrap his head without tangling hair into the bandages.

Your hands remain steady. Certain and calm, as you have learned from him, proving yourself to be capable when holding his health in your hands. Shaky hands are not the reason he reaches up to hold your wrist when you grab the wet cloth again to clean the rest of his face.

“I will be alright,” he promises. His thumb rubs against the pulse in your wrist, and something wound tight inside of you loosens, like a peg turning to lower the tuning of a string.

“I know,” you sigh out. “I know. Just - let me have this. Please.”

You need to wipe the rest of the blood from his face with warm water and a cloth. You need to bandage his wounds and ensure the binding is tight. You need the process of stitching him back together to reassure yourself that he is truly alright, alive and healing well under the palms of your hands.

He lets you go, and sits patiently as you wipe away the rest of the blood that had dripped down his face. He holds still for you, even as you brush the cloth over the bruises that sit high on his cheek, wiping the grime away from the tender skin as carefully as you can.

The more you clean him up, the longer he sits under the gentle care of your hands, the more you both relax. His eyes flutter closed at some point during your routine, his shoulders dropping even as you rub cream into what must be painful bruises.

You would keep him this way forever if you could. Safe from all harm, in the quiet halls of healing. You would give him time to sit still, peace and quiet until his skin stitched back together and his bruises faded from a splotchy blue to a faded yellow.

A distant bell chimes somewhere in the valley, and Elrond opens his eyes, breaking the spell. A capable elf your love was, and that meant duty was a weight he would never drop off of his shoulders.

So you relinquish your control, trusting him once more with the life you cherish more than your own. “You’re clear,” you tell him, feeling much more certain about it.

He carefully inspects your work as you tidy, long fingers running along the lines of the bandages. You busy yourself with re-capping the salves you used as he stands, as not to reach for him once more.

It does not stop him from reaching for you. The front of his armor is still tacky with blood when he pulls you close, but you find you don’t care as he kisses you. He tastes like healing herbs and summertime, and the rush of him and his love is enough to have you forgiving the distant chiming of bells that demand his attention elsewhere.

You didn’t mind the demands of duty, so long as he came to you at the end of the day to put him back together again.

#!!! thank you for the request!#first request it’s an honor. I hope this little blurb is alright by you #if there’s any typos no there aren’t. it’s 4 am #elrond x reader #elrond x you #lord of the rings x reader #lotr x reader #writing prompt #requests #leto writes

a joy hard learned in winter

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: the cold of himring is not as harsh as the grinding ice, but it's still a biting thing. dealing with the aches and pains of an oncoming storm, maedhros is there to remind you that you are not on the ice anymore

content: gn!elf!reader, reader who crossed the helcaraxë. depictions of ptsd, physical pain and discomfort that can be read as chronic, food insecurity (or the effects of it), hurt/comfort. stand alone fic that is technically part of a series.

to someone from a warm climate (uiscefhuaraithe) - hozier ✵ series masterlist

It’s far too cold to be reasonable in the early mornings in Himring, especially during the winter season. This is not always such a terrible thing, though you will always opt to stay inside until the sun is high, and wear an extra cloak when duty demands you march through the snow for one reason or another.

Sometimes the crisp air, freezing as you breathe it in, is something purifying. The solitude of the fortress walls as the snow covers everything in white and grey, the cold bitter and biting, yet refreshing and honest. Sometimes, it’s brisk for a wake up call, sharp but still bearable underneath the layers. Sometimes, it reminds you of the grinding ice, and it is not so startling as it is familiar, a cold that will never be so terrible for how dry the climate is.

On days like this, however, when the ache of your bones and the distant clouds mean a storm is nigh, and the wind rattles the windows and digs its fingers through what openings it can to tear the warmth away, it’s miserable. Your morning routine is spent with your cloak pulled high and the regret that you did not sacrifice the weight of your armor to wear another heavy cloak.

Your afternoon is spent cursing how your hands ache as you write, wondering how poor your penmanship would become if you said fuck it and donned your gloves.

Your evening is spent checking and double checking the firewood supply for the fortress, the cold nipping at your heels making you unable to shake the fear of the storm drenching the wood, making it unusable.

You’re properly reassured and sent on your way by the woodsman by the time the storm rolls in, and you cannot bear to bring yourself back to your rooms and strip out of your warm outer layers - so you find yourself in the kitchens instead. Cloak secured, armor fastened, and gloves and boots laced tightly.

#goodmorning to people who ache when storms come in. this ones for you #series: honor and marigolds #maedhros x reader #maedhros x you #maedhros imagine #maedhros one shot #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion x you #silmarillion one shot #silmarillion imagine #hurt/comfort #maedhros #the silmarillion #leto writes

your hair, your face, your smile

prompt/inspo: ‘“The poets were always correct,'' I say softly. ''You are half my soul.’”

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: in the years of peace in beleriand, you help maedhros with his hair. in the years of peace in imladris, you wish he was there to help with yours.

content: gn!elf!reader, who has long hair. fluff in the first half, angst in the last (would the opposite of hurt/comfort be comfort/hurt?), themes of grief, mention of canon character death, mentions of canon-typical violence. this is technically part of a series, though there’s no real order so it doesn’t matter - I'll be posting more as I continue to format my writing for this godforsaken website

words - gregory alan isakov ✵ series masterlist

Your fingers run through Maedhros' hair, parting it properly to braid the strands back. For a moment there is silence as you start your work, starting with a simple face framing braid. After you tie off the first one, his hand reaches up to grab your wrist. Gently, so gently, he tugs you forward as he tilts his head back, and brushes his lips across your knuckles.

“I love you, you know?” He whispers against your skin. Soft words from his cracked lips against your calloused fingers.

His hand holds yours like he's never held a sword before, like this gentleness is all he’s ever known. Like you’re back in Tirion, and the only blood you’ve seen are from scraped knees and bloody noses. If you try hard enough, you could imagine the sunlight spilling over the fire of his hair is that of Laurelin, instead of Arien in her ever consistent journey across the sky.

Another thing you’ve always loved about him, the red of his hair. Under this light, the fire is a gentle thing, the warmth of a hearth instead of an uncontrollable blaze.

#to be honest this writing is old. improvement is on the horizon but it works well for a first post i think #and yes. I’m a kidnap fam truther. Elrond is his son and I know this to be true #series: honor and marigolds #maedhros x reader #maedhros x you #maedhros reader insert #maedhros imagine #maedhros one shot #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion one shot #silmarillion imagine #maedhros #the silmarillion #leto writes

interlude: paperwork

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: there is no rest for the wicked, even during times of peace. maedhros suffers from paperwork, and you're there to convince him to take a break

contents: gn!elf!reader, banter and fluff, stand alone part of a series

✵ series masterlist

Maedhros is at his desk when you visit him in the morning, buried in paperwork. The lord of Himring’s work is never finished, it seems, even during times of peace. You leave him there with a cup of tea and a kiss on the top of his head, neither of which he looks up to, and he gives you a half remembered thanks as you leave to do your own work for the day.

He’s still there when you return in the evening, sitting in the exact same position you left him in, eyes squinting at a letter that’s more ink than paper.

“Enough of this,” you demand. It’s only the knowledge that the paper is delicate that keeps you from ripping it out of his hand. You would make your point without ruining requisition forms.

Maedhros, to his credit, looks up this time. “Enough of what?” He asks blandly. “Enough of inventory and stock? Enough of troop management? Enough of this cursed life we’ve chosen to live?”

There’s a dry sort of humor that comes out with his irritation, the kind that’s almost not humorous at all.

“Enough straining your eyes over Tyelko’s messy penmanship,” you reply in kind. You reach for the paper then, and tug gently until he lets it slip from his grasp.

For how you jest, you must squint in the candlelight to decipher whatever it is his wayward brother had written him for. Not a requisition form, it would seem, but something equally important - and equally boring.

“You’d think he’d know how to write legibly, considering our father made the cursed letters.” It’s a sign of his weariness that Maedhros simply uses his now free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes, instead of truly fighting you for the paper.

“You would think,” you reply, squinting as if that will make the letters rewrite themselves into something you could read. He reaches up then, blindly feeling for the letter, expecting you to hand it back.

You take a step back, letter held high, remembering just what you had stormed in there to do in the first place.

“Nope,” you say. “Enough of everything you mentioned, and everything on your desk.”

Maedhros sighs, and settles his shoulders, before gesturing with his hand again. It’s the no nonsense, I asked for something and expect an answer kind of gesture. Learned by being a lord in his own right - but especially learned by being the eldest of six brothers.

You step around him, and lean against his desk, placing the letter behind you as you do. “When will you learn to delegate?” You ask him, crossing your arms.

Maedhros blinks at you, as he lowers his hand back down. “I know how to delegate.”

You look pointedly at the stack of papers he’s yet to go through, and the candle burning far too low to be of much use. “How much of this has your steward touched?”

“He has his own work to worry himself over-“

“And you do not? O’ mighty lord of Himring?”

“This is my work to worry about.”

“This is not delegating, Maedhros,” you say, grabbing the letter and waving it around again. “This is the opposite of delegating.”

He’s deceptively quick. One moment, he’s slouched against his elbow in his chair. In the next, he’s snatching at the paper in your grasp.

You jolt away, holding the paper higher. His hand freezes where it’s at, half raised out of his seat with his arm crossed over your body. You’re not sure if his patience has worn thin, or if it’s mischief he’s now tensed with. He has this look in his eye, one remarkably similar to a cat preparing to pounce.

You tense similarly, and wait for him to lunge for the paper again. When he does, you manage to pull your arm down and twist, darting just out of reach. A laugh bubbles up out of you at your surprise as he stands to follow, having only missed your hand by inches.

You dart and dance around the room in your sudden game of keep-away, until Maedhros manages to catch you around the waist. He doesn’t reach immediately for the paper, and instead takes the chance to spin you around in his arms.

You can feel him chuckling, ever so softly against your back, and smile. You clutch at his arms when he sets you back down, dizzy with the sudden movement and the rush of affection.

“Do you yield?” He asks, his voice lightened with amusement as he tightens his hug around your waist. You pretend to think about it.

“I must consider…” The fingers of his left hand jab into your soft side, and you shriek at the feeling. “I yield, I yield!”

You hold out the paper, and he takes it from you. He doesn’t move right away, as he lowers his head to press his chin against your shoulder and his cheek against your jaw.

“Just one night,” you bargain, closing your eyes and leaning against him. “One night where you are not the general of the north, nor the lord of this fortress. One night where the world isn’t on your shoulders.”

You turn in his arms, and wrap both of yours around his neck. “One night where you are mine.”

Maedhros takes his own time pretending to consider it. He makes a valiant effort, looking back to the work on his desk and the missive in his hands. His weariness betrays him, as does the way your hands start to card through his hair, releasing tension he hadn't even realized he’d been stiff with.

“I suppose this will still be here in the morning,” he concedes. You take the paper from him again without protest, and set it down on the desk next to you both.

“Delegate,” you remind him. “You’re supposed to delegate, remember?”

He hums noncommittally, and presses his forehead against yours, inhaling deeply. You wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time today he’s simply stopped and let himself breathe.

You don’t press him for an answer. You’re happy enough when he leans in closer, dropping the weight of the world from his shoulders just for the moment to focus on kissing you.

#maedhros x reader #maedhros x you #series: honor and marigolds #this was meant to be short. i intend for 'interludes' to have less formatting for their lesser word count #but its still over 1k so fuck me #im not linking a song or doing a photo for interludes basically. but listen to like real people do by hozier for a vibe if you want #maedhros imagine #maedhros one shot #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion x you #silmarillion imagine #silmarillion one shot #leto writes

losing my grip, losing my mind

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: staying with maitimo and his family for a week of celebration, your evening activities in his room have to be kept quiet. of course, this is easier said than done

eat me alive - artemas ✵ series masterlist

“Maitimo,” you whisper, lips brushing against his ear. He shudders against you, back nearly arching as his movement has you grinding deeper into him. “Shhh, shhh, hush ruinincë.”

#leto writes

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