elves react to a daring surprise kiss from reader/you while drunk on wine at a festival - Thranduil, Elrond Gil-galad, Celebrimbor Lindir, Haldir, Elrohir, Elladan
Gems of the forgotten love, gift for future (thranduil) - Part 1 Another part learned lesson
A birthday of his own (Gil-galad) - Part 1 Part 2
Elves reacting their you saving their life’s - Thranduil, Elrond, Círdan Gil-Galad, Haldir Glorfindel, Celeborn Celebrimbor Legolas Elladan, Elrohir
Elves how would they react to their human s/o being so…human with their ‘odd quirks’ by elven standards - Thranduil, Elrond, Gil-Galad Lindir, Erestor, Glrofindel Celeborn, Haldir, Círdan, Adar Feren, Meludir, Galion, Elros Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir
You Slapping their Butt and Calling them “Dummy Thick” in Front of Everyone - Thranduil, Elrond, Celeborn Lindir, Erestor, glorfindel Elladan, Elrohir Legolas, Meludir, feren, Galion, Elros Gil-Galad, Círdan, Haldir Adar
Elves reacting to human/mortal being human-self with openly affection and physically - Thranduil Elrond Gil-Galad Celeborn,Erestor, Legolas Galion, Elros, Feren Elladan, Elrohir Círdan Haldir Lindir Meludir Glorfindel Another thranduil, Elrond, Gil-galad
Elves with A bittersweet tale with heartwarming ending x mortal reader - Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir, Elrond
You who is initially afraid of elves but eventually warm up and befriend them - Elrond, Glorfindel, Elladan
Elves reacting to your ice powers - Thranduil, Elrond
Elves reacting to you being dragon - Elrond, Glorfindel, Legolas
Elves reacting to cheeky/snarky reader flirting with them - Celeborn, Gil-galad, Thranduil
Elves reacting to you Shapeshifting - Elrond, Glorfindel, Elrohir
You/reader surpassing lord Elrond at healing - Elrond
Feren x hobbit reader - Here
Princess of Mirkwood forbidden romance - Galion, Meludir
Elves reacting to you writing a book about them and that got popular - Elrond, Thranduil, Haldir
Elves reacting to their s/o being sad and how they would comfort them - Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir
Elrohir react to you being hurt - Elrohir
Tangled strands of affection - Elladan Haldir
Healing in the quiet: Elrond care - Elrond
The burn of the past thranduil’s dragon fire scar revealed - Thranduil
When the table turn: Hero’s need saving - Elrond, Gil-Galad, Círdan, Haldir, Legolas
A Touch of a home - Glorfindel, Feren
Gil-Galad Courtship x elf reader - Gil-Galad
Through his eyes, her perfection - Thranduil
A love unspoken, finally heard - Lindir
Mad science in middle-earth - Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas
The forest air is cool, but your body feels warm as you walk beside Legolas, the Elf’s quiet grace and keen focus making your heart race a little faster. The sunlight filters through the trees, glinting off his golden hair as he strides forward effortlessly, as if the world itself bends to accommodate him.
You fall into step beside him, the subtle sway of your hips and the low neckline of your shirt making your intentions clear. When your arm brushes against his, you don’t pull away. Instead, you take a bolder step—reaching out to loop your hand around his forearm, pulling it gently against your chest. The soft press of your curves against his toned, leather-clad arm is unmistakable.
Legolas stiffens for the briefest of moments, a flicker of surprise passing through his usually impassive expression. His sharp blue eyes glance down toward where your bodies are now touching before flicking back to your face, keen and curious. “You seem… comfortable,” he remarks quietly, though there’s a slight upward tilt to the corner of his lips—a hint of amusement, perhaps?
You smile, tilting your head playfully. “Is that a problem, Prince?” Your voice is soft but teasing, leaning a little closer so the warmth of your breath brushes against his pointed ear.
His jaw tightens slightly—not in displeasure, but as if he’s wrestling with some thought. “No,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and cool as a breeze through the leaves. “Merely unexpected.” There’s a tension in the way he holds himself—like a bowstring pulled taut—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze lingers, lingering just a little longer than before.
Feeling emboldened by his lack of protest, you press a little closer, allowing your chest to brush against his side as you shift your grip on his arm. “You don’t seem the type to scare easily,” you challenge softly.
Legolas’ lips part slightly as if he means to respond, but instead, he watches you—closely. His free hand twitches at his side, as though resisting the temptation to touch you back. “I do not frighten easily,” he agrees, his voice lower now, softer—like the hush before an arrow flies. “But you are… distracting.”
His words send a shiver of satisfaction down your spine. His elven restraint is impressive, but you sense the crack in his calm façade—a curiosity sparked, a tension brewing beneath the surface.
When you lean closer still, daring to press your chest against his back as you wrap your arms around him in an impromptu embrace, you swear you feel the subtle hitch in his breath. This close, you can catch the faint scent of the woods clinging to him—earthy and crisp.
“Is that a bad thing?” you ask innocently, even as you feel the warmth of his body beneath your fingertips. His answer is delayed—a beat too long for someone usually so quick-witted. Finally, his voice comes, smooth and edged with something you can’t quite place. “Not… entirely.” Yet, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch suggests he is not unaffected.
Though he may be an Elf of ancient years and discipline, there is no denying the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—a flame carefully banked but dangerously close to catching.
⚔️𝓔𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓷
The sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting warm light over Rivendell. The gardens are quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. Elladan stands near the edge of a small fountain, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the stone, enjoying a brief moment of peace.
You approach him casually, a glint of playful mischief in your eyes. Your outfit, slightly revealing, leaves little to the imagination as you step closer to him. He notices the way you draw nearer, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, well aware that something playful is about to unfold.
As you reach him, without a word, you slip your arm around his, hugging it close to your chest. The boldness is unmistakable. Your body presses against him, and he can feel the soft warmth of you against his arm, your presence impossible to ignore.
Elladan’s eyes widen just for a moment, then quickly glint with amused recognition. His body tenses slightly—not from discomfort, but because he’s well aware of the way this could play out. His first instinct is to laugh, but there’s a definite teasing edge to his tone as he glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Well now,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice. “Is this what you call ‘innocent’ flirting, or do I need to brace myself for more?”
He shifts his stance just a little, making sure his arm is firmly tucked in yours. He doesn’t pull away, but you can feel him tense with anticipation—Elladan enjoys a bit of teasing, but he’s also clever and knows when someone’s pushing his boundaries for fun.
His chest rises slightly as he takes in a deep breath, half pretending to be unaffected, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. He doesn’t move, letting the moment stretch for just a heartbeat longer before he gently shifts, turning his head slightly so his lips are near your ear.
“You’re bold, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his voice warm and almost husky as he adds just enough playful edge to the words to keep things light. “I think I need to remind you… I’m not so easily distracted.”
Elladan doesn’t shy away but instead stands a little straighter, pressing you closer against him for a brief second, his chest lightly brushing against you. His playful tone matches the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he turns his head to meet your gaze. “Though, I’m not entirely displeased, either.” His lips twitch in a sly grin, as he looks at you with that same teasing charm that makes him so hard to resist.
For a moment, the world seems to slow down as his gaze locks onto yours, and a wicked smirk spreads across his face. “But, you know… if you keep this up, I might have to make you work a little harder for my attention,” he adds with a wink, already thinking of some playful banter or competition to keep the mood light.
Elladan, ever the flirt and lover of fun, doesn’t take things too seriously—at least not yet. But his protective instincts kick in, and he remains mindful, always aware of how far to push the boundaries without making things uncomfortable for either of you.
It’s clear from his stance, the twinkle in his eyes, and the slow, teasing smirk that he’s in this moment with you, enjoying the game for all its playful, flirtatious fun—but always with a hint of his signature caution, aware of the fine line between jest and seriousness.
As you pull away, he chuckles softly, his gaze lingering on you with that familiar, confident gleam. “Careful, now,” he teases. “If you keep this up, I might just find a way to turn the tables on you.”
⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻
The sun dipped low over Rivendell, casting golden streaks across the stone walkways as you strolled toward the training grounds. You knew exactly where Elrohir would be—working with Elladan, honing their swordplay in the fading light. Today, you felt daring. Your tunic dipped lower than usual, framing the swell of your cleavage perfectly, and you’d chosen it with a purpose—to catch Elrohir’s attention.
You spotted him immediately. The dark-haired elf stood with his sword in hand, sleeves pushed back to reveal strong, muscled forearms. Sweat clung to his skin from the sparring session, the sight stirring something warm and mischievous inside you.
Without hesitation, you crossed the field, hips swaying just enough to draw his eye. Elrohir noticed you before you even reached him—his keen gaze sweeping over you with that familiar, calm intensity. But when his gaze dipped to the curve of your neckline, something darker flashed in his silver-grey eyes. His grip on his sword tightened slightly.
“Finished already?” you asked sweetly, your voice laced with playful innocence. Before he could answer, you stepped closer, slipping your arm through his—pressing your chest against the solid warmth of his bicep.
Elrohir’s body stiffened for half a heartbeat. His lips twitched, torn between a smirk and something more serious. “Is there something you need?” His tone was smooth but edged with a hint of roughness, his gaze dropping to where your body molded against him.
You tilted your head, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm, your touch feather-soft. “No, but… maybe you do.” You leaned in just a little more—ensuring he could feel the softness of your breasts pressing against him. Behind you, Elladan groaned in exaggerated dismay. “Valar, must you?” he muttered, rolling his eyes before striding off, leaving the two of you alone.
The corner of Elrohir’s mouth quirked into a smirk as he slid his sword back into its scabbard. “You enjoy testing my patience,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. His free hand ghosted along your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your tunic. “Is it working?” you teased, your voice soft and suggestive as you leaned up, your chest brushing against his.
His expression darkened—not with anger, but something far more possessive. In a swift movement, he turned to face you fully, his body crowding yours. One strong arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. The heat of him was undeniable, seeping through the thin barrier of your clothing.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growled softly, his breath warm against your ear. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into the curve of your hip as though daring you to move away. You only smiled, emboldened by his reaction. “And if I do?” you asked, your lips brushing against his jaw as you let your body press more firmly against him.
For a moment, he said nothing—simply held you there, his jaw clenched as though weighing his next move. But then, with a sudden, fluid grace, he spun you around so your back rested against his chest, his arms encircling you in a firm, unyielding hold.
“If you keep teasing me like this,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, his voice huskier now, “I will not be responsible for what happens next.” You shivered at the promise in his words, a thrill sparking through you as his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear. He held you there a moment longer—an unspoken warning, a temptation—before loosening his grip just enough for you to turn and face him again.
“I trust you’ll behave?” he asked, though the fire in his gaze suggested he hoped you wouldn’t. But you only smiled, reaching up to trace your fingers along the sharp angle of his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?” Elrohir exhaled a low, quiet laugh—a rare sound—and without another word, he caught your wrist and tugged you closer, sealing the distance between you with a kiss that left no doubt about who had won this little game.
Glorfindel is not one to easily lose his composure. As a lord and a warrior who has faced the darkest creatures in Middle-earth, his discipline and self-control are nearly unmatched. But with you—it’s different. Your boldness, your touch, the way you press against him—all of it stirs something inside him that not even centuries of wisdom can entirely suppress.
The moment you slide up beside him, your arm brushing his, his attention shifts immediately. He had been reviewing a map spread across the polished wooden table in one of Rivendell’s quiet chambers, the soft golden glow of candlelight flickering against the walls. But now, you occupy his focus entirely.
Your fingers trail lightly over his forearm, and without hesitation, you wrap both hands around it—pressing your body close. The soft, supple warmth of your breasts against his arm does not go unnoticed. In fact, the heat of your touch burns through the fine, golden fabric of his tunic as if it weren’t even there.
At first, he stiffens slightly—a reflex from years of battle and discipline. But then, he glances down at you, his ocean-blue eyes catching the way your figure molds against his arm. His lips curve into a knowing smile—gentle but undeniably amused, as if he’s fully aware of the game you’re playing.
“Is my company not enough to satisfy you,” he says, his voice smooth and rich, like warm honey. His tone carries that familiar teasing edge, but beneath it lies something deeper—something warmer. “Or perhaps you seek something else?”
When you press closer, subtly adjusting yourself to let your cleavage rest against him more boldly, his sharp elven senses do not miss a thing. His eyes flicker—just for a moment—to the curve of your chest, though he is quick to return his gaze to your face, his self-control slipping just enough for you to catch the spark of temptation lurking beneath the surface.
Without pulling away, he lifts a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear—his touch slow, deliberate. The brush of his fingers against your skin sends a shiver down your spine, and he seems to notice that too. “Careful, meleth-nîn,” he murmurs, the Elvish term of endearment—my love—slipping from his lips like a caress. “If you keep this up, I may begin to think you enjoy distracting me more than you let on.”
When you lean in further, this time letting your chest brush against his back as you circle around him, his breath catches just slightly—a reaction so subtle you might miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But you are paying attention, and the flush of color rising to the tips of his pointed ears betrays the calm façade he tries to maintain.
“You’re playing with fire,” he says, though his voice is softer now—lower, rougher around the edges. The disciplined lord is still there, but beneath the surface, you’ve awakened something far more primal.
Then, in a bold move of his own, Glorfindel reaches down, catching your wrist in his large, strong hand. With surprising ease, he pulls you to face him fully—leaving barely an inch between you. His golden hair falls in soft waves over his shoulders, framing his striking, ageless face as he looks down at you.
“If this is your idea of a game,” he muses, his thumb brushing lightly over the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse quicken beneath his touch, “you must know…I am not one to lose.” And with that, he leans in—so close that his breath brushes against your cheek—waiting, watching to see just how far you’ll take this teasing… or if you’re prepared for how far he might take it in return.
🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻
Haldir is not easily flustered. As the Marchwarden of Lothlórien, his composure is legendary—he is disciplined, stoic, and carries himself with an air of calm authority. Yet, even someone as reserved and controlled as he is not immune to you.
The first time you brush against him, it’s subtle. Your hand glides along his forearm before you wrap your fingers around it, pulling yourself close. The soft swell of your breasts presses against his arm, and though his expression remains neutral, the briefest flicker of tension crosses his jaw. His body stiffens slightly, as though he’s not sure whether to pull away or remain still.
He doesn’t speak immediately—of course, he wouldn’t. Instead, his sharp, ocean-blue eyes shift to you, assessing with that ever-watchful gaze. His face is calm, but you know him well enough to notice the small tells. The way his lips press into a thin line. The faint twitch of his fingers as if resisting the urge to move. “You are bold today,” he finally says, his voice smooth and low, though there’s a slight edge to it—a warning, or perhaps something else entirely.
But you don’t stop. If anything, his restrained reaction encourages you. The next time, you take things a little further. Standing beside him, you lean forward as if to whisper something, allowing your chest to graze against his arm again—this time more deliberately. The warmth of your body is unmistakable, and Haldir freezes for just a heartbeat. His fingers curl into a loose fist at his side—a rare sign of his internal struggle.
His composure slips just enough for you to notice.“Is there something you require of me?” His tone is calm, but you catch the way it deepens slightly, a hint of strain beneath his polished exterior. His eyes linger on you now—not just observing, but noticing. The graceful line of your neck. The way your shirt dips just low enough to tease him with a view.
When you press your breasts to his chest—boldly, without hesitation—it’s the first time his façade truly cracks. His hands, which are usually held so neatly behind his back or at his sides, move without thought. One large, calloused palm rests against your waist, fingers spreading just enough to feel the curve of you beneath them. He doesn’t pull you closer—but he doesn’t push you away either.
“You test my patience,” he murmurs, though there’s no real bite to the words. Instead, there’s something else—an unspoken challenge. A hint of curiosity beneath his usual seriousness. And then, as if to prove to himself that he still holds the upper hand, Haldir tilts his head down, allowing his lips to brush your ear as he speaks again—so quietly, so intimately, that the warmth of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine.
“Be careful, meleth nín. There are consequences to tempting a Marchwarden.” But despite his warning, Haldir doesn’t move away. If anything, his grip on your waist lingers a little longer than necessary, his thumb brushing the soft curve of your side—a fleeting touch, but enough to make it clear: He is affected, no matter how much he tries to hide it.
🎻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓻
Lindir is not prepared. It had already been a trying day for him—balancing trade negotiations, organizing Elrond’s schedule, and mediating a minor disagreement between two particularly stubborn elves. By the time he finally sees you approaching across the polished floors of the Last Homely House, a soft breath of relief escapes him. Your presence always manages to soothe his frayed nerves, though today… today, you seem to have other plans.
You’re wearing a shirt that is—well, revealing. Too revealing, if you ask Lindir’s already panicked thoughts. The neckline dips in a way that draws his gaze without his permission, and when he notices, his face flushes a delicate shade of pink. He tries—Valar, he tries—to keep his eyes on your face, to maintain propriety, but the softness of your skin is impossible to ignore.
When you greet him, your smile is warm—too warm. He senses mischief beneath the sweetness, but before he can puzzle it out, you move closer. Your hand finds his arm, delicate fingers curling around it as you lean in, pressing the curve of your breasts against the soft fabric of his robes. His breath hitches—just barely—but you catch the faint tremor.
“Lindir,” you murmur, your voice smooth and honeyed, “you’ve been working so hard today. I hope I’m not interrupting.” He blinks rapidly, as if doing so will somehow reset his composure. “N-No, of course not,” he stammers, voice soft yet strained, betraying just how much your touch is unraveling him. “I—um—your presence is always welcome.”
You hum softly, giving his arm the gentlest squeeze, tilting your head to look up at him through your lashes. “Good,” you purr, shifting just enough to brush yourself even closer against him, and that’s when you feel it—a subtle, involuntary twitch in his muscles as his entire frame goes rigid beneath your teasing.
Lindir is trying—oh, how he is trying—to remain the picture of Elven composure, but you are making it impossible. His pale skin burns with color high on his cheekbones, and his lips part slightly as if to speak—but no words come. His long fingers twitch nervously at his side, desperate for something to do, some distraction from the warmth of your body against his. “You’re warm,” you observe playfully, your voice low as you lean your head against his shoulder. “Are you feeling well, Lindir?”
“I—I am perfectly fine,” he insists, though the quiver in his voice betrays the opposite. He dares to glance down at you—immediately a mistake, because the sight of your cleavage so close, so intentionally pressed against him, has his breath faltering again. “It is simply… warm in here.”
“Is it?” you tease, your tone light, but your intentions anything but. You shift slightly—innocently, as though you have no idea what you’re doing—letting your breasts press more firmly against his arm.
Lindir makes a sound—soft, strangled, utterly helpless. His hand clenches into a fist at his side as if to anchor himself, but his gaze darts away, desperate to find something—anything—else to focus on. “Y-You should—um, perhaps you should—” He swallows hard. “I mean to say—your attire is rather… light.”
You smile, pretending to misunderstand. “Oh, do you not like it?” You tilt your head, letting your hair brush against his neck as you lean closer, the scent of you surrounding him. “I thought it was rather… comfortable.” His ears—already delicately pointed—are now a lovely shade of red, and he clears his throat, struggling to form a coherent thought. “It—it suits you,” he admits, almost breathless, though he quickly adds, “though it may be… distracting.”
“Distracting?” you echo, as if you are genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t want to distract you, Lindir.” Liar. You know exactly what you’re doing. His composure is unraveling by the second—his usual poised, polished exterior now reduced to nervous fidgeting and stammered words. His heart pounds in his chest, far too loud for his liking, and his mind is caught in a tug-of-war between propriety and desire.
Then, just to push him further, you slide your hand down his arm to entwine your fingers with his—delicate and deliberate—as you lean into his side. “You work so hard,” you murmur softly, your voice a warm caress against his ear. “I only want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.” Lindir inhales sharply—so sharply you almost feel bad for teasing him. Almost.
“I—I do,” he insists, though his voice trembles slightly, and he cannot bring himself to meet your gaze. “I… I should—um—attend to my duties.” But even as he says the words, his body makes no effort to pull away from yours. If anything, he is too still—frozen in the delicate agony of your touch, torn between duty and the undeniable pull toward you.
If you were to tease him any further, you might actually break him. But as much as you enjoy his flustered reactions, you also love the delicate tremor in his voice—the soft, breathless way he says your name when he’s completely undone. For now, though, you settle for one last playful press of your body against his chest as you release his hand. “Don’t work too hard, Lindir,” you whisper before stepping back, leaving him standing there—wide-eyed, breathless, and utterly at your mercy.
Not sure if requests are open but if they are may I make one? I loved the ear teasing from the reader. I was thinking another way of the reader teasing the elves for thier attention but in a much more bold way. Like she wears a shirt that shows a nice view of her cleavage and even goes to grab their arm and hug it making sure to press her breasts on their arm or she would press her breasts to their chest or back. Ty!
I absolutely love the idea! I wasn’t sure which character you wanted, and will continue working on more. I’ll definitely post them as I go. Glorfindel, haldir, lindir, Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir are coming soon. Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor versions below (you Female reader)
🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭
The sun was dipping low over Lindon, casting the sky in soft hues of rose and gold. The sea breeze rolled in, cool against your skin, but you barely noticed as your attention remained fixed on one figure—the High King himself.
Gil-galad stood on the balcony overlooking the Gulf of Lune, his tall frame cloaked in silver blue threads gleaming like stars against the velvet fabric. His dark brown hair caught the fading sunlight, a crown of fire atop his proud head. His expression was as composed as ever—calm, unreadable—but there was always a quiet intensity about him, a gravity that only made him more alluring.
You decided to test that composure. Your steps were soft as you approached, the delicate sound of your shoes against the polished stone barely registering over the distant waves. The neckline of your gown dipped daringly low, offering an inviting glimpse of your curves. With boldness humming beneath your skin, you reached out, sliding your hand around his forearm before pressing yourself lightly against it.
His body tensed beneath your touch, the lean muscle of his arm firm beneath your fingers. You tilted your head slightly, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you leaned closer, allowing your breasts to graze against his arm—a deliberate, teasing touch.
“My lord,” you purred, your voice as smooth as fine wine. “You always seem so serious when you stand here alone. Is the weight of the crown too heavy tonight?” Gil-galad’s head turned slightly, his silver blue gaze sweeping down to meet yours. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, but you felt the subtle shift in his stance—the slight tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something darker in his expression.
“You play a dangerous game,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. Yet he made no move to pull away. If anything, the weight of his arm shifted subtly against your chest, deliberate as though testing your resolve.
A bolder spark flared within you, and you stepped closer, your body brushing against his side as you slid your hand higher along his arm. “Perhaps I like danger,” you whispered, allowing your lips to hover just near the curve of his jaw, teasing but not quite touching.
His hand moved with elegant precision—faster than you expected. Strong fingers caught your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly until you were standing directly in front of him. Your chest brushed against his, and the warmth of his body seeped through the thin silk of your gown.
“Do you?” His voice was softer now, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable—an undercurrent of restrained desire. His gaze traced the curve of your lips before lifting back to your eyes, sharp and assessing. “You would provoke your king this way?”
Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you refused to shrink beneath his scrutiny. Instead, you allowed your hands to trail up his chest, savoring the feel of him—solid and warm beneath your palms. “Only because I wonder if my king enjoys being provoked,” you countered, your tone playful but laced with challenge.
A quiet chuckle escaped him—a rare, low sound that made your pulse quicken. “You are bolder than most would dare.” His free hand drifted to the small of your back, his fingers brushing your spine in a touch as light as silk. “Do you think I have not noticed your… efforts?”
His words were intoxicating, a promise of something just beneath the surface. Your confidence flared, and you leaned in fully, your breasts pressing firmly against the hard plane of his chest. “Perhaps I wanted you to notice,” you admitted, your breath warm against his skin.
For a moment, the air between you hummed with tension—thick and electric. Then, with slow deliberation, his hand slid further around your waist, pulling you more firmly against him. “Consider me… intrigued,” he said softly, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. But beneath the smooth words, there was no mistaking the hunger in his gaze. “But be careful, my bold one. You may find the fire you play with burns hotter than you expect.” And yet, despite the warning, his grip did not loosen—if anything, it tightened, holding you against him as though he had no intention of letting you go.
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
The grand halls of the Woodland Realm shimmer in the warm, golden light of the lanterns. The scent of ancient wood and fresh moss lingers in the air as the sound of soft Elven music drifts through the space.
Thranduil stands at the edge of his throne room, his tall, regal frame draped in fine silks and silver-threaded robes. His platinum hair gleams like moonlight as it flows over his shoulders, a sharp contrast to the cold, calculating gaze he directs toward the distant entrance.
He is the picture of unyielding authority—serene, aloof, and untouchable. But you know better. You’ve been testing his patience all evening, and while his face remains unreadable, you sense the tension simmering beneath the surface.
Your attire for the night was no accident—a finely tailored gown cut just low enough to leave little to the imagination. The delicate fabric clings to your curves, and each time you move, the neckline shifts ever so slightly, drawing attention to the swell of your breasts. And if there is one thing you know about Thranduil, it is that despite his cold exterior, he is not immune to temptation—especially when it comes to you.
You glide toward him with deliberate grace, your footsteps soft on the polished stone. When you reach his side, you don’t wait for permission. Instead, you loop your arm through his, pressing yourself against him with just enough pressure to ensure he feels the fullness of your breasts against the firm muscle of his arm.
“Is something troubling you, my lord?” you murmur, your voice smooth and honeyed as you tilt your head up to meet his icy blue eyes. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and though his expression remains impassive, you do not miss the way his gaze flickers downward—brief but telling. For a moment, the air between you thickens, heavy with unspoken tension.
“You are bold tonight,” he replies, his tone smooth and composed, though there is an unmistakable edge to it. His hand twitches at his side as if resisting the urge to touch you, to pull you closer. “I wonder—do you seek to test my patience, or something else entirely?”
A wicked smile curves your lips as you shift closer still, the swell of your breasts brushing against his side with undeniable intention. “Perhaps I merely enjoy your company,” you purr, allowing your fingers to trail along the length of his forearm, feeling the tautness of the sinew beneath his robes. “Is that so wrong?”
He lets out a soft, nearly imperceptible exhale through his nose—a sign that your antics are not going unnoticed. Without a word, he shifts his arm slightly, as if to dislodge you—but instead, his hand brushes against your waist. The heat of his touch lingers through the thin fabric, even as he attempts to maintain his mask of indifference.
When you step in front of him, bolder still, you press your palms gently against his chest, feeling the smooth fabric stretched over the hard planes of his body. “You seem tense, my king,” you tease, tilting your head so that your breath skims over the elegant line of his jaw. “Allow me to ease your burden.”
Thranduil’s fingers flex at his sides, and this time, when his gaze falls to your cleavage, he does not bother to hide it. “Do you truly believe I am so easily swayed?” he asks, but his voice is quieter now—lower, darker.
You lean in, brushing your breasts deliberately against his chest as you reach up to adjust a lock of his platinum hair that has fallen out of place. The simple touch is intimate—too intimate—and the way his eyes flash with something far more primal makes your pulse quicken. “Not easily,” you admit, letting your lips hover just inches from his. “But perhaps… if I try hard enough…”
His restraint snaps, but only slightly. His hand lifts to your jaw, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face upward. His thumb brushes along your lower lip with a touch that is both possessive and punishingly gentle. “You play a dangerous game,” he warns, but there is no true heat in the words—only a dangerous hunger beneath his cool facade.
“And if I enjoy the danger?” you challenge, your voice barely a whisper between you. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you have pushed him too far. But then, in one smooth motion, he pulls you flush against him, your body molded to his as his other hand slides along the curve of your waist. The press of your breasts against his chest is no longer teasing—it is all-consuming.
“You seek to tempt me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “And you succeed far too easily.” His lips graze your skin in a touch that leaves you breathless, and when he pulls back, his expression is no longer cold—it is fire and ice entwined, smoldering beneath a thin veneer of control.
“You should tread carefully, my bold little temptress,” he continues, fingers tracing the line of your spine. “For once I decide to claim what is mine…” His lips curve into a faint, wicked smile. “I do not let go easily.” And by the gleam in his eyes, you know that tonight, you have awoken something in him—something he will not allow to go unanswered.
📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭
It’s a quiet evening in Rivendell. The fading light of the setting sun casts a golden hue over the polished marble floors and cascading waterfalls. You find Elrond seated in his study—an elegant, spacious room filled with ancient tomes, scrolls, and the lingering scent of aged parchment.
He’s dressed in flowing silver-and-blue robes, his long, dark hair falling in a sleek cascade over his shoulders. His sharp, timeless features are calm and composed as he reads from an intricately bound volume, though the furrow of his brow suggests his mind is deep in thought. You decide to catch his attention—boldly. You wear a shirt cut just low enough to leave little to the imagination, the curve of your cleavage peeking temptingly from the fabric.
The soft silk clings to your form in all the right places. With deliberate grace, you approach him, the gentle sway of your hips as you walk making your intentions clear. Elrond doesn’t glance up immediately, but you notice the subtle pause in the movement of his fingers as he turns a page—he is aware of your presence.
Without a word, you step behind his chair, leaning down slightly until your breasts press softly against his broad back. The warmth of your body seeps through the fine layers of his robes. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, your fingers tracing delicate circles through the fabric.
“Elrond,” you murmur, your voice soft, sultry—just for him. “You’ve been working far too long. Don’t you think it’s time for a distraction?”At your touch, his shoulders tense for the briefest of moments—a flicker of restrained reaction beneath his composed façade—but then, his posture relaxes beneath your hands.
He turns his head slightly, and when his gaze meets yours, his grey-blue eyes are darker than usual, as though stirred by a rising storm. “You are bold tonight, meleth nín,” he says, his voice smooth and deep, laced with something heavier beneath his usual calm. “Do you seek to test my resolve?”
Without answering, you move around the chair, standing before him. Before he can return to his book, you lower yourself onto the edge of his desk. The movement draws his eyes downward—he cannot ignore the teasing glimpse of your cleavage as you lean forward, intentionally brushing against his arm when you reach out to touch his hand.
His hand remains still beneath yours, but the heat radiating from his skin is undeniable. With deliberate slowness, you slide your fingers up his forearm, savoring the feel of the strength hidden beneath the silk. You pull his hand gently toward you, guiding it to rest on your thigh as you lean closer, your breasts brushing lightly against his chest. “Elrond,” you whisper again, your lips tantalizingly close to his ear. “I am only as bold as you allow me to be. Have I gone too far?”
His breath hitches—just for a moment—and his fingers flex against your thigh, betraying his composure. But when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.“You know well that you walk a fine line,” he replies, his hand remaining on your thigh, firm and warm. “Do you seek to unravel my restraint, ind-nîn?”
Your boldness only grows. You shift forward slightly, closing the remaining space between your bodies until your breasts are pressed fully against his chest. You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the edge of his jaw—a teasing, feather-light touch.
“And if I am?” you challenge softly. For a heartbeat, Elrond remains still—calculating, controlled. But then, his hand tightens ever so slightly on your thigh, his other hand rising to brush against your waist. His thumb traces a slow, deliberate path along your side, igniting a warmth that spreads through you.
His expression remains composed, but there is a glint of something far more primal in his eyes as he speaks, his voice just above a whisper. “Then you shall learn, meleth nín,” he murmurs, tilting his head so that his lips hover just above yours, “that even my patience has its limits.”
And with those words, his hand slides higher, his touch burning through the thin fabric between you. Though his restraint holds—for now—you can feel the weight of his desire hanging heavy in the air between you, and you know that it would take very little to make him abandon all pretense of composure.
💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻
The forge hummed softly in the background, the air warm and laced with the faint scent of molten metal and polished wood. Celebrimbor stood at his workbench, his mithril hammer resting lightly in his hand as he inspected a delicate circlet—a new design, intricate and shining beneath the light. His focus was razor-sharp, as it always was when he worked, the smooth lines of his face set with intense concentration.
But then—you entered. The gentle click of your heels across the stone floor made his pointed ears twitch slightly, but he did not immediately turn. It wasn’t until you were close—very close—that he faltered. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the soft shimmer of your shirt—cut low enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of your cleavage. The smooth curve of your skin stood out against the dark fabric, and the way it hugged your figure was… impossible to ignore.
He swallowed hard, but his fingers, usually so steady, tensed. “Celebrimbor,” you murmured, your voice low and warm, laced with playful mischief. Before he could respond, you reached for him—delicate fingers wrapping around his forearm. You pressed yourself against him, the soft swell of your breasts molding against his lean, muscular arm as you held him close.
The tension in his body spiked—he stiffened beneath your touch, though not from discomfort. No, the slight hitch in his breath betrayed him. His pale skin, always so serene, bloomed with a faint flush across his high cheekbones. Still, his voice remained steady—barely .“What… are you doing?” he asked, his tone caught between genuine curiosity and a tremor of restraint.
You smiled—sweet, bold, unrepentant. “Just making sure you aren’t working yourself too hard,” you purred, leaning in until your lips were dangerously close to the pointed curve of his ear. “It would be such a shame if you neglected anything important.”
The hand holding his arm slid a fraction lower, brushing against the warmth of his skin through the thin sleeve. You shifted your stance slightly—just enough to press your chest more firmly against him. Your softness contrasted with the toned lines of his body, and for a heartbeat, you felt his muscles flex beneath your touch.
His jaw tightened as if he were trying to maintain control, but his free hand—usually so precise—curled into a fist by his side. “You’re… distracting,” he admitted, a rare vulnerability slipping through his usually composed façade.
Satisfied, you tilted your head and let your lips graze softly along his jawline—just a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver rippling through him. The sensation clearly rattled him; his perfect composure cracked ever so slightly.
“I should stop, then,” you teased, loosening your hold as though to pull away—but his reaction was immediate. “No,” he said—quieter, rougher than you expected. His hand moved at last, firm fingers curling delicately but possessively around your wrist. “Stay.”
His eyes, usually so distant in their focus, burned when they finally met yours—light gray but stormy now, clouded with something deeper. For a moment, all the walls he so carefully maintained crumbled under the weight of his desire.
You pressed your advantage, moving in front of him and sliding your arms around his waist—this time resting your chest against his. The heat of his body was intoxicating, the tension humming beneath his skin palpable. His breath came faster now, his heart hammering beneath your touch.
“Do you always let distractions linger this long, my lord?” you asked, your lips curling into a wicked smile. His lips parted as though to answer—but instead, he surprised you. Slowly—hesitantly—he dropped his mithril hammer onto the workbench behind him and brought both hands to your waist. His touch was firm, but reverent, as though he was still trying to convince himself this was real.
“I’ve never had a distraction quite like you,” he confessed softly, the words carrying a weight you hadn’t anticipated. And when you shifted again—pressing your body fully against his chest—you swore you felt his hold tighten, his self-control hanging by a frayed thread.
Whatever pride or restraint usually held him back was slipping away. And, judging by the way his hands lingered—fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt—he wasn’t eager to regain it.
I was just watching ROP and now have a need for reader helping Gil-galad with his armour before the battle and then reuniting after, maybe reader helping him with a few cuts and scrapes.
Thanks, I enjoy your writing so much!
Thank you so much for your kind words! I love the idea of exploring these quiet, intimate moments with Gil-galad. 🥺❤️🔥✨
Gil-Galad version below.
🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭
The tent was quiet, save for the occasional muffled sound of armor being fastened and the distant clamor of preparations outside. The war camp was alive with activity, soldiers making their final checks, murmuring battle prayers, sharpening blades. But within these canvas walls, there was only the steady rhythm of breath and the soft rustle of fabric as Gil-galad stood tall, his back to you, waiting as he always did. Your hands moved with practiced ease, smoothing out the fine tunic against his skin. The fabric was cool, freshly cleaned, a stark contrast to the warmth of him beneath it. The contours of his back, the strength in his shoulders, all so familiar now after countless times performing this same duty. Yet it never felt routine. Not truly.
Gil-galad did not speak at first, allowing the moment to stretch between you both. The battle ahead loomed heavy, but here, now, there was still this—your hands, your care, the quiet intimacy of dressing him for war. He let out a slow breath as you adjusted the folds at his waist, your touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. He could feel the unspoken words in the way your fingers brushed against him. Be safe.
The temptation to turn, to capture your gaze, was strong. But he resisted. If he did, he might not wish to go. Instead, he stood still as you reached for the chainmail. The fine rings of mithril shimmered faintly in the dim light, a silent promise of protection. You lifted it carefully, stepping close as you guided it over his head, the cool metal cascading down his form with a quiet shhhh of shifting links. His body tensed, just for a moment, as the weight settled upon his shoulders. The familiar burden. The price of kingship.
Gil-galad exhaled, the weight grounding him. This was who he was—High King of the Noldor, protector of the Free Peoples, the leader of this war. And yet, as you reached forward to adjust the fit, ensuring each link fell perfectly into place, he did not feel like a warrior or a ruler beneath your hands. He felt like a man. A man who, for these fleeting moments, was not alone in his duty.
Your fingers traced over the clasps, tightening them with careful precision. You always did this, checking, adjusting, ensuring his armor was secure. Not because you doubted its craftsmanship, but because this was your way of protecting him. You could not fight beside him, could not stand between him and a blade, but you could do this. And he let you. “You always do this,” he murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was low, steady, but there was something else beneath it. Something softer.
You did not answer right away, only smoothing one last fold before stepping back. His armor was set, his tunic adjusted, his chainmail fitted. Soon, you would help him into the heavier plates, the gauntlets, the pauldrons that would make him the warrior the world saw him as. But for now, he was simply Gil-galad, standing before you, feeling your touch lingering in the fabric against his skin.Your voice, when it came, was quiet. Certain. “Because it matters.” He turned then, just slightly, meeting your gaze for the first time since you began. The battle called to him, but for a moment longer, he remained here—with you. Silent. Grateful. Understood.
The silence between you stretched, but it was not empty. It was filled with the quiet understanding that had long settled between you and Gil-galad, a language spoken not through words but through action, through touch, through every careful motion as you fastened his armor piece by piece. the breastplate was next. The silvered steel gleamed in the candlelight, adorned with the sigil of the High King. A symbol of strength, of leadership, of a burden he bore without complaint. You lifted it with both hands, stepping close as you helped him ease it over his head. He remained still, allowing you to guide the weight of it into place, the cool metal pressing firmly against his chest.
Your fingers worked to secure the clasps at his sides, pulling the straps snug, ensuring a perfect fit. He watched you as you did, his keen eyes catching the flicker of concern in yours. You did not speak of it, and neither did he. But as your fingers hesitated, just for a breath, against the engraved patterns on the steel—against the emblem that marked him as a warrior first and a man second—he felt your unspoken plea. Stay safe.
He wanted to reassure you. To promise that he would return. But he had given enough empty promises to the families of his fallen kin. He would not give one to you. Instead, he let his hand lift just slightly, the backs of his fingers grazing yours before you moved on. The pauldrons were next. You retrieved them without hesitation, the heavy shoulder guards cool beneath your fingertips. As you secured the leather straps, making sure the weight was balanced, he felt the firm, steady tug of your hands grounding him. There was a precision to the way you worked, but more than that, there was care.
“You have always been meticulous,” he murmured, a hint of something softer in his voice. You smirked faintly, tightening the last strap. “You would complain if I weren’t.” He huffed a quiet breath, something that might have been amusement if not for the heaviness in the air. “Perhaps.” You gave the armor one last firm press, ensuring it would not shift in battle. “I do not intend to let you fight with loose armor, Aran nín.” The title—my king—was spoken with the same reverence as ever, but there was something else beneath it now. A quiet plea. A silent promise. He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just slightly.
“It is not the armor that keeps me standing,” he said, voice low, steady. “It is those who remind me why I fight.” You swallowed, but did not reply. Instead, you moved to his vambraces. The forearm guards were the final layer before the heavier gauntlets, and as you strapped them into place, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his wrist. The touch sent a shiver up his spine, though he did not show it. He flexed his fingers slightly once they were secured, testing the fit. But more than that, he savored the feeling of your hands on him, knowing it would be the last true warmth he felt before battle.
You lingered longer than necessary, fingertips pressing lightly over the leather strap, as if committing the feel of him to memory. As if this might be the last time. He lifted his gaze to yours. “I will return,” he said quietly, knowing full well it was not a promise he had the right to make. You did not answer at first. Then, softly, you murmured, “I will hold you to that.” A pause. Then, with the smallest ghost of a smile, you pressed a final touch against the vambrace and stepped back, giving him space. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight, but all he could truly feel was the warmth you had left behind.
The gauntlets were the last true barrier. The final part of him that would be shielded, the last place where your touch could linger unimpeded. You slid the first over his hand, adjusting the fit with the same practiced care you had given every other piece. He flexed his fingers as you fastened the straps, testing the range of movement, but his focus was not on the fit—it was on the distance it created. When the second gauntlet was secured, he lifted his hands, curling them into fists before relaxing them again. The weight was familiar, but it was not comforting. “I prefer when my hands are free,” he murmured.
Your fingers, still bare, traced lightly over the ridges of the metal before pulling away. “I know.” There was something unsaid between you. Something both of you felt, but neither spoke aloud. He could no longer feel your warmth against his skin. The last piece of you had been locked away beneath layers of steel and leather. But there was still more. You knelt before him, retrieving the greaves and sabatons. The final weight he must bear. He watched in silence as you fastened them over his legs, adjusting each strap with precision, ensuring that every buckle was firm.
The sight of you kneeling before him sent something sharp through his chest—not because of what it implied, but because of what it did not. You were not beneath him. You had never been. And yet, here you were, securing his armor as if you bore some duty to him beyond obligation. As if this was not just your role but something more. His hands, still armored but not yet burdened with a weapon, twitched at his sides. He wanted to lift you, to pull you back to your feet, to keep you near. But instead, when you rose, he did the only thing he could—he let his gloved hand brush against yours.
It was brief, fleeting, but you still felt it. You looked up at him, eyes searching, but you said nothing. And neither did he. Finally, you reached for the last piece—the helmet. He did not move to take it from you. Instead, he hesitated, watching as you held it in both hands, turning it slightly in the dim light. The polished silver gleamed, its crest unmistakable. When he wore it, he would no longer be simply Gil-galad. He would be the High King. The warrior. The commander who must lead his people into battle.
Once it was on, there would be no more softness. No more warmth. No more lingering touches between you and him. You knew this too. So you met his gaze one last time. No words were spoken, but everything was said. Then, with steady hands, you lifted the helmet and placed it over his head. The metal settled over his brow, cool and firm, its weight pressing into his skin. His sight narrowed, his breath deepened. He was sealed away now, encased in steel. But beneath it all, he still felt you.
He did not move, but he was not looking at the battlefield beyond. He was watching you. “You needn’t fuss over me, you check it 100 times already.” he murmured, his voice low, steady. But he did not pull away, nor did he stop you as you smoothed the leather straps across his wrist. You knew what lay beneath those words. You knew the things he would not say aloud. Be careful. Come back to me.
Your hands moved with certainty, securing his armor in place, yet you felt the smallest tremor in your fingers as you adjusted the clasp at his shoulder. He felt it too. As you fastened the final strap of his gauntlets, his hand moved suddenly, covering yours. The metal was cold against your skin, but his touch was not. His grip was not firm—not commanding or demanding—just there. A quiet tether, a moment of stillness before the storm. “You always do this,” he mused, his tone softer now, edged with something else. “Making sure everything is perfect.”
You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze, feeling the warmth beneath the steel. “It must be,” you murmured, though you both knew your concern ran deeper than that. The battlefield was close now, the echoes of preparation vibrating in the distance. You knew you needed to let go, to step back, to let him walk forward as he always did. Still, you lingered. Your fingers brushed against his arm, a final adjustment, a final excuse to remain close. “Promise me,” you said suddenly. The words were quiet, yet they carried a weight that even the armor between you could not dull.
Gil-galad did not answer right away. Perhaps because he did not know what you were asking for—his safety, his return, or just one more moment before the world took him away from you. Finally, he exhaled, the barest shift of his shoulders beneath the armor. “I will try,” he said. It was not a promise, not truly, but it was the only truth he could give you. Slowly, he reached up, his gauntleted hand resting gently against your cheek. Even through the cold metal, the touch was unmistakably his. “Thank you,” he murmured.
The words were simple, but they carried the weight of all he could not say. Your hand lifted, pressing lightly against his wrist, as if trying to find him beneath the armor. “Come back soon my king,” you whispered. He did not answer. Your throat tightened, but you nodded. There was nothing more to say. And so, with one final lingering touch, you stepped back, letting him go. Instead, with one final lingering touch, he turned and stepped away—toward the battlefield, toward war, toward fate. And you watched him go, feeling the warmth of his touch even as it faded.
…
The battle was over. The cries of war had faded into silence, swallowed by the vast, aching hush of the aftermath. No more clashing steel, no more battle horns or desperate shouts—only the distant murmur of the wounded, the quiet sobs of those who had survived, and the weary shuffle of boots across bloodstained earth. The weight of it all still lingered in the air, thick and unrelenting, pressing down with every breath. Smoke curled in the distance, its acrid scent mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the damp musk of churned soil.
The field was littered with the remnants of war—discarded weapons, shattered banners, the fallen lying still beneath the mournful light of the moon. And then, amid it all, you found him. Gil-galad sat in the quiet, his usually radiant presence dimmed by exhaustion. His armor, once gleaming, was dented and streaked with blood—some of it his, some of it not. The royal sigil upon his breastplate was nearly unrecognizable beneath the grime of battle. Yet, even beneath the weight of war, the burden of leadership still clung to his shoulders.
His head was bowed slightly, his hands resting limply against his knees, fingers still curled as if they had not yet learned how to let go of his sword. The golden circlet atop his brow remained, though dulled with dust and sweat, a silent testament to who he was—who he had to be. But then, as if sensing you, his gaze lifted. Your breath caught. The moment his eyes found yours, something in them shifted. The hardened steel of a warrior softened, just slightly, just enough for you to see the relief beneath it. He was here. He had come back.
You swallowed past the knot in your throat and stepped forward. Your hands moved before you could think, reaching for the damp cloth at your side, your fingers trembling with the need to touch—to reassure yourself that he was real, that he was still warm, still breathing. Wordlessly, you knelt beside him. The firelight flickered over his face, highlighting the shallow cut along his cheek, the smudges of dried blood against his skin. He barely flinched as you pressed the cloth to the wound, wiping away the remnants of the battle that had almost taken him from you. His skin was warm beneath your touch. Alive.
“I’ve had worse,” he murmured, voice rough from exhaustion, edged with quiet amusement. “I don’t care,” you whispered back, your fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing lightly over the curve of his jaw before you pulled away. His lips quirked, the ghost of something almost amused, but he did not argue. He only watched you, allowing you to tend to him in the way you always did.
The world beyond this moment was still broken, still stained with loss, but here—here, there was only the quiet press of your hands, the hushed breath between you, the unspoken relief of survival. Slowly, you began the painstaking task of unbuckling his battered armor, peeling away the layers of metal and leather that had shielded him in battle. Beneath them, his tunic was torn, revealing a deep gash along his forearm. Your breath hitched.
“You’re hurt,” you whispered, your brows drawing together in concern. Gil-galad exhaled slowly, his body finally surrendering to weariness. “Nothing I wouldn’t endure again,” he said softly, “to see you standing here.” Your fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, your grip betraying the fear you had not spoken aloud. The battlefield had taken so much. Had nearly taken him. And yet—here he was. You reached for the bandages, hands steady despite the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. He did not resist as you wrapped the cloth around his arm, securing it with careful, practiced movements. He let you take care of him. “You fuss over me,” he mused, voice dipping into something gentler, quieter, as if he were afraid to disturb the stillness between you. “As if I am not a warrior.”
You glanced up at him then, arching a brow. “And yet, you do not stop me.” A low hum of acknowledgment, almost a laugh. “No,” he admitted. “I do not.” His eyes fluttered briefly shut, the rigid composure of a warrior melting beneath your touch. His breaths slowed, deepened, as if, for the first time since the battle had begun, he was allowing himself to rest. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, smoothing back the strands that had fallen loose from his braid.
And then—his hand moved. He caught yours gently, his fingers wrapping around yours, the warmth of his skin seeping into your palm. “You were right,” he murmured, thumb tracing absently over the back of your hand. Your throat tightened. “About what?” His grip firmed, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That I would return to you.” Your breath stilled. You had asked for a promise he could not give. The battlefield was cruel, fate unyielding. And yet—here he was. Alive.
With you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Words felt too fragile, too small to hold the weight of what lingered between you. Instead, you moved closer, pressing your forehead gently to his, the warmth of his skin, the scent of steel and earth and him filling your senses. He sighed, the sound soft, his breath mingling with yours. And in that moment—away from war, away from duty—he was just Gil-galad. And he was home.
I came up with this idea myself after seeing fan art from a fandom. But I hope you enjoy it. Plus you you wish for any more characters please do ask. Gil-galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor version below. (You are their spouse messing with them mid act of the deed of you giving them head)
🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭
Gil-galad is a king of immense composure—stoic, regal, and calm under pressure. But even he is not immune to being caught entirely off guard, especially by you his spouse. He had been resting against the smooth headboard of your shared chambers, the moonlight from the open balcony casting silver streaks across his bare chest. His crown had been long abandoned, along with the formal stiffness of the day, and now the great High King of the Noldor was reduced to something far more vulnerable beneath your touch—beneath you.
Your mouth had been working him skillfully, worshipping him in a way no council or battle victory ever could. For all his dignity and restraint, Gil-galad was not above letting his head tip back against the wall, letting soft, breathy groans escape him as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. His large hands, usually so steady when wielding a spear, had found their way to your hair—threading through it but never pushing, just holding. Always the gentleman, even when undone.
He was watching you now, golden eyes darkened with something primal. His chest rose and fell in controlled, measured breaths, though you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. And then—you did it. Mid-act, you pulled back, releasing him with a wet, sinful sound, and he opened his mouth to question you—only to watch in utter disbelief as you brought a delicate hand to your lips and let out a deliberately obnoxious, dramatically loud cough.
“Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with playful mischief. “It’s a little dusty down here.” Dusty. You had called him—the most immaculate, clean, and composed being in all of Middle-earth—dusty. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crashing of the sea against Lindon’s shores. His face remained perfectly still, utterly unreadable—so much so that you almost wondered if you had gone too far. And then… he laughed.
It was not a quiet chuckle, nor one of his rare soft hums of amusement—it was a full, rich, unrestrained laugh that shook his broad shoulders. A sound that seemed to ripple through the air, bright and free, like a glimpse of the carefree young Elf he must have once been.
“You—” he began, voice catching as he tried to regain his usual regal composure. His head fell back for a moment, exposing the elegant line of his throat as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Dusty?” His golden eyes flashed back to you, glinting like sunlight on polished steel. There was warmth there—affection—but something else too. Something dangerous.
“You dare mock your king in such a way?” His voice had dropped, smooth and commanding, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought the smile threatening to return. “I should have you punished for your impudence.”
His fingers tightened slightly in your hair—not harsh, but enough to make your heart skip. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward, towering over you even from his seated position. His expression was calm, but there was a gleam of playful menace beneath it.
“And yet,” he mused softly, lifting your chin with two fingers so your eyes met his, “I find myself in awe of your boldness. To say such a thing to me… You must think yourself very brave.” You bit your lip, suppressing the smile threatening to break free. “I thought you liked my boldness, my king.”
“I do,” he admitted, a rare hint of indulgence creeping into his voice. His thumb brushed gently across your bottom lip, his tone growing darker, silkier. “But such audacity cannot go unanswered.”
Without another word, he guided you back down—slowly, deliberately—until your lips hovered once more over the very place you had so brazenly mocked. “Now,” he commanded softly, the regal weight of his voice settling over you like a velvet shroud, “be a good little thing… and finish what you started.”
And as you obeyed—lips and tongue working to draw out every sound you loved to hear—he let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the warmth of it brushing against the air. Dusty, indeed. You would pay for that.
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
Thranduil, the proud and dignified King of the Woodland Realm, is not a man easily shaken. He has faced down dragons, orcs, and the endless burdens of ruling for centuries—but this… this is new in what you pulled upon him tonight.
The soft golden glow of candlelight bathes the royal chambers, flickering across the elegant lines of his body. His long, silver-blond hair spills over his shoulders as he reclines against the silken sheets, all smooth muscle and effortless grace. His crown—usually worn like a barrier between himself and the world—is absent. Here, with you, he allows himself to be unguarded. For once, he isn’t a king—just a man, completely at your mercy. And what mercy you give him.
Your mouth works over him with a skill that makes even Thranduil, with his centuries of composure, lose himself. His breath hitches—quiet but audible—as your tongue drags along the sensitive underside of his length. One of his hands rests in your hair, long fingers splayed over your scalp, while the other lazily strokes the curve of your jaw, guiding you but never forcing. He is indulgent—until you push him too far.
And you do. Right when he’s on the cusp of letting a rare, pleased sound escape his lips, you stop—his eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, snap open to find you staring at him with a glimmer that immediately puts him on edge. He knows that look.
Then, with all the audacity of someone who clearly values danger, you dramatically cough into your hand. Fake cough. “Sorry, love—” you murmur, your voice dripping with playful innocence, “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room falls into stunned silence.
For a moment—just a moment—Thranduil does not react. His expression is perfectly blank, as though he is trying to process the sheer disrespect you’ve just committed against his very clean, very regal self. And then—his jaw clenches.The hand tangled in your hair tightens—not painfully, but firmly—tipping your head back so you’re forced to look directly into those impossibly sharp, icy-blue eyes. His gaze burns with a dangerous glint, one that promises retribution.
“…Dusty?” His voice is smooth, silk over steel, but there’s an edge lurking beneath it. A dangerous calm. “You dare.” There is no dust—you both know it. This is Thranduil—everything about him is immaculate, from the gleaming marble of his palace to his flawless body. Yet, here you are, mocking the Elvenking while on your knees, no less.
He tilts his head slightly, a slow, elegant motion that makes the long strands of his silver hair shift over his shoulders. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks—dangerous, calculating. “I invite you to repeat that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something lower, silkier, and entirely too calm. Oh, you’re in trouble now.
He releases your hair—only to trail his fingers lightly down the side of your neck, brushing over the sensitive skin with deceptive gentleness. His nails scrape lightly in their wake, sending a shiver down your spine. “It seems,” he continues in that dangerous purr, “you have mistaken my patience for leniency.”
His gaze drifts lower—slow, deliberate—before meeting yours again. His voice is velvet-dipped authority when he speaks next. “Since you find the air here… unsatisfactory, perhaps I should remind you precisely who you kneel before.” Without another word, he shifts forward—a graceful, fluid motion that leaves no doubt as to who is in control. You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your chin, tipping your face up, his thumb brushing along your lower lip.
His expression is calm—too calm—but his eyes? His eyes burn with the promise of vengeance. “Let us see,” he muses quietly, “how much of your cheek remains… when I’m through with you.” And oh—he means it.
Play with fire, melleth nîn, and you will burn. “If it is too dusty for you, my love… perhaps I should have you remain down there a while longer. Until you have adjusted.” His smirk is infuriatingly elegant. And you— you know exactly what you’ve done.
📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭
Elrond, ever composed and regal, had been thoroughly immersed in the intimate pleasure of your touch—his body tense beneath your hands, his breath controlled but growing heavier with each passing moment. His long fingers, usually so steady in their grace, now tangled gently in your hair as you worked him with deliberate care, your mouth a warm haven against the cool air of his chamber.
The Elf-lord rarely allowed himself to be undone, but with you—oh, with you—he did not resist. He savored every sensation you offered him, his head tilting back slightly, yet black -threaded hair cascading down his back as a soft sigh slipped from his lips. You knew precisely how to unravel him, slow and patient, until the weight of his centuries-old control began to fray beneath your affection. And then—you struck.
Pausing mid-act, you released him from your mouth, sat back just enough to meet his gaze with a glint of wicked mischief in your eyes. With all the audacity in the world, you raised a hand delicately to your lips and coughed—an exaggerated, melodramatic sound, as if you had spent hours breathing in the dust of ancient scrolls in his study. “Sorry, love,” you said, your voice rich with playful teasing, “it’s a little dusty down here.” The room fell utterly silent.
For a breathless moment, Elrond simply stared at you—his expression unreadable, but his lips parted slightly as if he could not quite believe the words that had left your mouth. His keen, discerning eyes, bright and sharp as starlight, held yours in a gaze so intense it sent a shiver down your spine.
It was true—he was immaculate. Always. From the polished leather of his boots to the silk of his robes, though right now he just in silky open robe and certainly in the more intimate areas you now so boldly teased. The very idea that you would dare to call that dusty—when he took the utmost care of himself—was nothing short of blasphemous.
A flicker of something dangerous—amused, yet wholly unyielding—crossed his face. His brows arched ever so slightly, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile, though his voice, when he spoke, was low and measured.
“Dusty?” he repeated, each syllable laced with an elegant disbelief. “You are bold indeed, meleth nín…” His hand, still resting in your hair, shifted subtly—fingers curling just a fraction tighter, as if to remind you precisely who you were teasing. “And here I thought your tongue could be put to far better use than… mockery.”
That soft, velvety voice sent heat pooling low in your stomach. You knew you were playing a dangerous game—a game where Elrond, with all his patience and centuries of restraint, would let you win only so much before he decided to turn the tide. He leaned forward then, the warmth of his body brushing yours as he tilted your chin up with the back of his knuckles, forcing you to hold his gaze. His face was serene—too serene—but the heat in his eyes betrayed him.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel entwined, “you require a more thorough… demonstration to remind you how well I tend to what is mine.” Oh, you had awakened something now. And judging by the way his grip firmed against you—possessive, yet achingly tender—you would be learning that lesson very soon.
💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻
Your mouth, warm and eager, had been working him into a state of breathless bliss. His hands, always so steady in the forge, were tangled in your hair, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. For all his grace and composure in public, in private, he was putty in your hands—shivering under every slow, deliberate movement of your mouth. And then—you did it. You stopped. Dramatically.
Pulling back just enough to lock eyes with him, your face the picture of pure mischief. You brought a hand delicately to your mouth and let out the most exaggerated, theatrical cough you could muster. “Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with mock concern. “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room hung in silence.
Celebrimbor blinked once. Twice. His lips parted slightly, as if his brain was trying and failing to process the sheer cheek of your words. His usually sharp, calculating mind—capable of crafting the most intricate designs in Middle-earth—had utterly stalled.
“…Dusty?” he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically high, disbelief etched into every syllable. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, it was as if you had spoken to him in some foreign, incomprehensible tongue. “I—It’s not—I am not—”
His hands fell away from your hair as he glanced down at himself, as if to confirm that, no, there was absolutely nothing remotely dusty about him—least of all there. His skin was smooth, immaculate, and had he not just bathed less than an hour ago? He was an Elf, for Eru’s sake, and Elves did not get dusty.
And yet… here you were. Calling him dusty. His ears, those delicately pointed tips, flushed a pale pink—an unintentional betrayal of how flustered you had made him. He inhaled sharply, a sound caught between indignation and disbelief. “I—this—that’s impossible.”
You bit your lip to hold back a snicker, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. You weren’t sorry. Not even a little bit.
His mouth opened again as if he intended to present an impassioned, logical defense of his cleanliness, but no words came out. For once in his long life, the Lord of Eregion was utterly speechless.
And then—you saw it. That spark in his silver-gray eyes. The slow shift from shock to something else. Something far more dangerous. “Oh…” His voice dropped an octave, smooth as polished mithril. “Dusty, is it?” Your stomach flipped at the sudden change in his tone.
Without another word, he reached forward and grasped your chin, tilting your face upward. There was no trace of his earlier fluster—only the slow, deliberate curve of his mouth as he considered you with a heated, wicked gleam in his eyes.
“You’re awfully bold for someone on their knees,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Perhaps I should give you a better reason to lose your breath, since you seem so… easily distracted.”
And oh—he did. By the time he was through with you, there wasn’t a breath left in your lungs. Dusty or not, he was going to make sure you never forgot just how clean and thorough he could be.
I've really enjoyed your manspreading posts and I was wondering if you could please do something in reverse, elves reacting to the reader manspreading for them, with Cirdan, Gil-galad and Celebrimbor?
I love writing this 😂🫶 Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, cirdan version below.
🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭
The golden light of Lindon’s afternoon sun filtered through the open archways of Gil-galad’s private chamber, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and pine, and the faint rustle of leaves outside added to the quiet serenity of the space.
Gil-galad sat with his usual poise, his back straight, one hand resting lightly on the intricately carved armrest of his chair. Across from him, you were far less composed. Your leg stretched outward, taking up a rather excessive amount of space as you leaned back with an air of relaxed ease.
His keen silver eyes flickered to your posture—unbothered, yet entirely aware. His lips pressed together in a manner that suggested amusement rather than disapproval. A slow blink. A deliberate glance at the space you occupied. Then, a single raised brow.
“You seem quite at home,” he remarked, his voice smooth, carrying a quiet authority laced with something dangerously close to amusement. He did not reprimand you—he never did. He merely watched, as if measuring something unspoken between you.
You didn’t move, emboldened by the lack of outright censure. “I am quite at home,” you replied, stretching just a little further, a deliberate challenge. A silence followed—one that might have been intimidating if it weren’t for the telltale gleam of mischief in his eyes. And then, with the grace only a High King could possess, he mirrored you.
Effortless. Poised. Intentional. One leg extended, his form shifting ever so slightly into the very position you had taken. The sight was almost absurd—Gil-galad, the dignified and composed ruler of the Noldor, perfectly mimicking your stance with an air of undeniable elegance.
Yet, there was an unmistakable edge to it, a quiet checkmate in the game you had just started. His expression remained composed, but there was no mistaking the humor beneath the surface. “It seems,” he mused, voice softer now, dipping into something dangerously smooth, “that I, too, am quite at home.” The challenge was clear: your move.
💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻
The warm glow of the forge flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across the polished floor. The scent of molten metal and aged parchment filled the air as Celebrimbor, nose buried in an intricate blueprint, barely glanced up when you settled into the chair across from him.
Then, he noticed. His quill hovered mid-air, a thin drop of ink trembling at its tip. His keen Elven eyes flickered from your face to the way you sat—sprawled out with undeniable confidence, legs spread, utterly at ease in his presence. It was casual, effortless, perhaps even unconscious, but to him? It was something else entirely.
A sharp inhale. A slight twitch of his fingers. He swallowed, realizing only now that his grip on the quill had tightened enough to leave an indent on the parchment. He was a craftsman, a smith who had forged wonders beyond mortal comprehension, and yet, at this moment, his mind could not shape a single coherent thought.
His lips parted slightly, as if to say something—perhaps a reprimand, perhaps a question—but no words came. Instead, his gaze flickered away, darting to a safer place: the curve of your wrist, the glint of your belt buckle, the polished surface of the table. Composure. He needed composure.
With a quiet breath, he adjusted his posture, suddenly aware of how stiffly he sat. His own legs, always carefully placed together in an almost regal manner, shifted slightly—just enough to mimic your stance, though he would never admit to the influence. His fingers drummed against the parchment before he finally spoke, voice carefully neutral.
“… Is that comfortable?” A pause. Then, softer, almost contemplative “It suits you.” His eyes met yours again, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he swiftly turned back to his work, though the slight flush at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷
You sit across from Círdan in a quiet chamber overlooking the sea. The air is filled with the scent of salt and aged wood, and the sound of distant waves lulls the space into a solemn stillness. The ancient Elf sits with his usual grace—straight-backed, his hands resting lightly upon the arms of his chair. His silver beard, rare among his kind, catches the dim light like woven starlight.
You, on the other hand, are… well, comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable. Legs sprawled wide, taking up more space than strictly necessary, you lounge in the seat as if the weight of ages does not sit upon your shoulders. There is an ease in your posture—casual, perhaps even a little careless.
Círdan does not react immediately. He simply watches, his sea-grey eyes calm, unreadable, but undeniably aware. He is in no rush to speak, nor does he fill the silence with unnecessary words. The room itself seems to hold its breath, waiting.
Then, at last, he exhales softly and tilts his head just so, regarding you with the patience of one who has seen empires rise and fall. His voice, when it comes, is deep and steady—like the tide rolling in.
“I see,” he muses, his tone carrying neither scorn nor amusement, only observation. “You are comfortable here.” A pause. A single, deliberate glance at your seating arrangement. “Perhaps more than is customary.”
He does not command. He does not need to. His presence alone is enough to shift the air in the room, to remind you—gently, yet unmistakably—that you are in the company of someone whose authority does not need to be asserted to be felt.
And so, without thinking, you adjust. Not out of fear, nor out of embarrassment, but because there is something in Círdan that invites a quiet kind of reverence. The kind that asks not with words, but with being.
Hello! I was wondering if you might be able to write about reader returning to Rivendell after taking a solo trip elsewhere, but is ambushed/attacked as their journey was nearing its end, but manages to get away and quickly make it back, but not without a few injuries and how Elrond reacts to the state that they're in and swiftly acts to treat their wounds and the following days as he continues to care for them as they heal? Reader and Elrond are already close friends that this point, but this whole experience brings them even closer and even in a possibly romantic kind of way? Thank you!
Thank you! Who doesn’t love Elrond? 🙌This sounds like a fantastic idea—there’s so much potential for emotion, care, and that quiet but deep bond between them to grow even stronger. The contrast between the danger of the ambush and the safety of Rivendell, plus Elrond’s natural role as a healer, makes for a perfect setting for their relationship to develop. I hope you’ll enjoy it!
Elrond version below.
🪷 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭
The world blurred at the edges, twisting and shifting like a half-formed dream. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the earth should have been steadying, but it felt distant, like something happening to someone else. You barely registered the reins in your hands, your fingers curled loosely around them, numb and weak. Pain roared through your side with every movement, hot and sharp, the wound deep enough that even the cold wind could not numb it completely. Blood had soaked through your tunic long ago, sticky against your skin, seeping down your side. The smaller cuts and bruises from the ambush throbbed, dull echoes of the worst injury, but they were nothing compared to the gash that sent waves of nausea rolling through you.
The trees overhead blurred together in streaks of green and gold as you swayed in the saddle. You tried to focus—on the path ahead, on the familiar landscape of Rivendell’s borders—but your vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. You were close. So close. The distant roar of waterfalls reached your ears, and relief curled in your chest, but it was a fragile thing, slipping through your grasp as quickly as it had come. You had to hold on. Just a little longer.
Elrond stood on the terrace of Rivendell, his gaze set on the distant horizon. The evening air was crisp, the last light of the sun casting long shadows across the valley. It was quiet, peaceful—yet something unsettled him. A whisper of unease that he could not place. Then, the sound of hooves. Fast, unsteady. His sharp gaze turned toward the main path just as a lone rider emerged from the trees, their horse lathered and panting. His heart clenched the moment he recognized you.
Something was wrong. He did not hesitate. Moving swiftly, he descended the steps, his long robes billowing behind him as he strode toward the courtyard. Others had begun to take notice—Elves murmured in concern, but none moved as quickly as he did. His pulse quickened when he saw how you swayed in the saddle, barely holding on. Then, just as the horse crossed into Rivendell’s embrace, your body gave in. Elrond was there before you could hit the ground.
He caught you, arms strong yet careful, cradling you as he lowered you gently onto the stone pathway. Your skin was far too pale, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across your brow. Blood—too much of it—stained your garments, and when his sharp gaze found the wound at your side, his breath hitched. Deep. Dangerous. Fresh enough that you must have barely escaped with your life. “Stay with me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within him. His fingers pressed lightly against your throat, searching for your pulse—weak, but there. Relief was a fleeting thing, chased by urgency.
Your eyelids fluttered. You could hear him—his voice, familiar and grounding, but the words barely registered. A hand, warm and reassuring, cupped your face briefly, tilting your head so he could look at you properly. His greyish blue eyes, normally calm and unreadable, were tight with something unreadable—fear? Worry? You tried to speak, to tell him something—anything—but the effort was too much.
Elrond did not waste another moment. He lifted you carefully into his arms, mindful of your wounds, and turned sharply toward the healing halls. The urgency in his steps betrayed what he did not say. He had seen wounds like this before. He knew how quickly life could slip away. Not this time. Not you. “Hold on,” he murmured under his breath, though he knew you could no longer hear him. As Elrond adjusting his hold of you.
Elrond’s grip was firm yet careful as he cradled you against his chest, his every movement precise, controlled. Though urgency pressed at him like a rising tide, he did not allow it to shake his composure. He moved swiftly through the halls of Rivendell, his long strides carrying him toward the healing chambers, but he was mindful not to jolt you, not to worsen the pain already wracking your body. Your head lolled slightly against his shoulder, breath shallow and uneven. His hold on you tightened just a fraction, as if to keep you anchored—to reassure himself that you were still with him.
“Stay with me Y/N,your in safe hands” he murmured, his voice a low command edged with something softer, something almost pleading. You stirred faintly in his arms, but your body was limp, the weight of unconsciousness threatening to pull you under completely. He could feel the warmth of your blood seeping through the fabric of your clothing, against his hands, against his own robes—but he did not allow himself to dwell on it. Not yet.
The soft glow of lanterns flickered along the corridors as he passed, the air rich with the scent of herbs and fresh earth, but none of it registered. His thoughts were consumed only by the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath—the fragile, precious sound that told him he was not too late. When at last he reached the healing chambers, he did not hesitate. With the same care he had shown in carrying you, he lowered you onto the healer’s bed, his hands lingering for the briefest of moments as if reluctant to let you go. But there was no time for hesitation. Your wounds needed tending. And he would not allow you to slip away as he pushed open the doors of healing chambers with his strong shoulder.
Elrond barely registered the familiar scent of herbs in the air or the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls. His focus was entirely on you. Every breath you took was too shallow, too fragile, and each second that passed without action was another moment you slipped closer to the brink. He laid you down with the utmost care upon the healer’s bed, his touch gentle despite the urgency burning within him. His hands never faltered, never hesitated, even as his mind raced. He had seen wounds like this before—had treated warriors who had barely made it back from the edge—but this was different. This was you.
Without delay, he reached for his tools, fingers steady as he retrieved a small, sharp blade. With practiced efficiency, he cut away the torn, blood-soaked fabric of your tunic, peeling it back to expose the deep, angry wound slashed across your side. The sight of it made something flicker in his gaze—something unreadable, though his expression remained controlled.
The wound was deep, the edges jagged, evidence of a cruel blade that had nearly done its worst. Too close to your vital organs. Too close to being beyond his skill to repair. The thought sent a sharp pang through him, but he pushed it away. You had been lucky. But luck alone would not save you now. Elrond pressed a hand lightly to your forehead, testing for fever. Already, he could feel the unnatural warmth creeping in. Your body was weakening, exhaustion and blood loss dragging you downward. His jaw tightened as he watched your face twitch, a soft sound of discomfort escaping your lips.
Despite his sharp focus, his features softened at the pained noise, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. His fingers brushed against your temple for the briefest moment, a touch meant to ground you, to remind you that you were not alone. “This will hurt,” he murmured, his voice calm, steady. He knew you likely weren’t fully aware, drifting in the haze of pain and unconsciousness, but still, he spoke to you. A warning, a reassurance.
Without another moment of hesitation, he began. He worked quickly, cleaning the wound with careful precision. The moment the medicinal herbs met your torn flesh, your body tensed, a weak cry of pain slipping past your lips. The sound struck something deep within him, but he did not let it slow him. Instinctively, your fingers twitched, grasping blindly at the air, reaching for something unseen—something to anchor you against the waves of pain and darkness pulling you under.
Without thinking, Elrond caught your hand in his. His grip was firm yet warm, steady as if willing his strength into you through the simple touch. His thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles, a small, soothing motion—an unspoken promise that he would not let you go. He murmured soft Elvish incantations under his breath, his voice a low, soothing cadence that wove through the air like a balm. The ancient words, spoken with reverence and care, carried power beyond mere sound. They wrapped around you, guiding you away from the pain, from the edge of unconsciousness.
Through the haze, you felt him—not just his touch but his presence. A constant, unwavering force standing between you and the abyss. He was the only thing keeping you tethered, his voice the only thing grounding you to wakefulness. He stitched the wound closed with precise, practiced movements, each motion efficient yet careful, ensuring no further damage was done. His hands had saved countless lives over the centuries, had performed this task more times than he could count—but this time, it felt different.
His focus did not waver, but beneath his steady exterior, something in him was coiled tight, something that had nothing to do with duty or skill. He finished binding the wound, ensuring the wrappings were secure. His fingers lingered against your skin for a breath longer than necessary before he finally exhaled, a slow, measured release of tension. Your breathing had steadied, though still weak. The worst had passed. But he would not leave your side. Not yet. Not until he was certain you would wake. Not until he knew you would stay.
…
The passage of time felt indistinct, blurred together by fevered dreams and the soothing cadence of Elrond’s voice murmuring in Elvish. You drifted between wakefulness and sleep, lost in the gentle rhythm of Rivendell—the distant trickle of water, the hushed footfalls of healers, the rustle of fabric as Elrond moved beside you.
Each time your eyes fluttered open, he was there. Sometimes seated near the bedside, eyes skimming over ancient texts while keeping watch over you. Other times, he was standing, preparing a tincture or adjusting the pillows beneath you with careful hands. No matter how many hours passed, he remained—a steady, grounding presence through the haze of recovery.
The first time you truly woke, awareness settling firmly in your body rather than slipping away like sand through fingers, it was to the sight of him pouring steaming liquid from a delicate earthenware pot. The scent of healing herbs filled the space between you. He glanced up, and his ever-perceptive gaze immediately sharpened at the sight of your eyes open.
“Drink,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of something softer beneath the command. He did not have to say what you already knew—that he had spent countless hours ensuring your strength returned, that he had prepared this remedy himself rather than leaving it to his healers.
You tried to push yourself up, a weak attempt at reclaiming your own strength, but the moment your muscles tensed, sharp pain lanced through your side. A quiet gasp escaped you, and before you could even brace yourself, his hand was there, firm yet gentle, pressing you back against the cushions. “You must rest,” Elrond murmured, his voice leaving no room for argument. His palm remained against your shoulder for a breath longer than necessary, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of your tunic. Only when he was certain you would not attempt to rise again did he finally withdraw, though his presence remained as unwavering as ever.
The tea was warm when he brought the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the base. The herbal bitterness was softened with a touch of honey, and the heat of it spread through your chest, easing the lingering ache. “You have been restless in your sleep,” he observed, watching you closely. “Your body still fights to heal.” A faint smile ghosted across your lips, though it was tired. “You speak as though I have much choice in the matter.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, but there was something else in his expression—something unreadable. His fingers brushed absently over the rim of the teacup as if deep in thought. You recognized the look. It was the same one he had worn when stitching your wounds, when sitting by your side in the long hours of the night, when he thought you unaware. Elrond had seen countless wounds in his time, had healed injuries far worse than yours. And yet, there was something in his presence that spoke of more than duty, more than obligation.
You felt it in the way his hands lingered as he adjusted the blankets around you, smoothing the fabric with a touch so careful, so deliberate, it made your breath catch. You saw it in the way his gaze softened when he caught you watching him, the way his usual composure seemed to shift, growing heavier with something unspoken.
Days passed like this—quiet moments filled with careful gestures and words that seemed to carry more weight than they once had. There was no need to speak of it outright. The shift between you had already settled into place, steady and unshakable, waiting for the moment it could no longer be left unspoken.
The night air was cool, carrying the distant murmur of the waterfalls and the faint scent of blooming jasmine. The gardens of Rivendell stretched before you in soft silver hues beneath the moonlight, the quiet only broken by the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. It had been days since you were able to walk without feeling as though the weight of your own body might betray you. Even now, your steps were careful, measured. But Elrond was always near, his presence a silent reassurance, his hand hovering just close enough to steady you should you falter.
He had been this way since you first woke—attentive, steadfast, unwavering. Yet, there was something different now. A shift in the air, a weight in his gaze when he looked at you. You felt it when his fingers lingered a breath too long on your arm after helping you sit. When his voice softened in ways it never had before. When his presence beside you felt less like duty and more like something else, something unnamed but undeniable.
Tonight was no different. You had walked together in silence, your steps slow but steady as you made your way to the garden’s edge. Now, you sat beside one another on a stone bench, the world around you bathed in moonlight. The silence between you was not uncomfortable, but it carried something unspoken within it.
Elrond’s gaze was distant, lost in thought, but when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you had ever heard it. “I feared for you.” You turned to look at him, finding his expression unreadable, though his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. His usual composure had cracked, just enough to let something else slip through. “I could not bear it if you had not returned.”
The words were quiet, but they landed with weight, settling deep in your chest. This was not just concern for a wounded friend. Your heart pounded, your breath caught, and in that moment, the space between you felt impossibly small, charged with something that had always been there but had never been acknowledged.
“Elrond…” you started, but the words failed you. He turned then, meeting your gaze fully, and for the first time, there was nothing guarded in his eyes. There was no carefully placed mask of wisdom or restraint—only honesty, raw and unspoken. The ancient weight of his years, of all he had endured, was there in his gaze, but so too was something else. Something meant for you alone.
And then his hand was reaching—not to steady you, not out of obligation, but simply to hold. His fingers brushed yours first, hesitant, as if giving you a chance to pull away. But you did not. Instead, your hand turned, meeting his, fingers intertwining in a way that felt both new and inevitable all at once. The silence stretched between you, no words spoken, but none were needed. The shift had already happened, unspoken yet undeniable. Elrond did not let go. And neither did you.
The silence between you stretched, thick with unspoken words and the weight of something that had long been lingering between you. Elrond’s fingers tightened slightly around yours, as though grounding himself in the moment, in you. His composure, always so steady, seemed to waver now, something uncertain flickering behind his gaze. He exhaled softly, a sound barely louder than the whispering wind. Then, with quiet resolve, he turned toward you fully, his free hand hesitantly lifting before falling away again, as if he were unsure whether he had the right to touch.
“There is something I must confess-” he began, voice low, careful, but before he could finish, you moved. Without thought, without hesitation, you leaned in, closing the space between you in a heartbeat. Your lips brushed his, soft and warm, silencing the words he had been about to speak.
Elrond tensed beneath your touch, his breath catching in surprise. For a single, fleeting moment, he was utterly still—his mind halting, short-circuiting in a way that had likely not happened in an age. You could almost hear the way his thoughts stalled. Then, slowly, the tension in his body melted. His grip on your hand loosened only so he could cup your face instead, fingers trembling just slightly as if he could scarcely believe this was real.
And then, he kissed you back. It was tentative at first, unsure but impossibly gentle. His lips moved against yours with aching softness, as if afraid to break the moment, to wake from something too precious to be real. Yet, as the seconds passed, that hesitancy gave way to something deeper. A quiet sigh escaped him as he leaned in, pressing into you with more certainty, more longing than he had perhaps meant to reveal. His other hand found its way to your waist, steadying, anchoring—not to hold you back, but to keep you close.
When at last you both pulled away, the world felt different somehow, quieter, as if the air itself held its breath. Elrond’s forehead rested against yours, his warm breath mingling with yours in the space between. His eyes, always filled with wisdom and depth beyond mortal years, now held something softer, something far more human—something meant only for you.
A faint flush dusted his pale cheeks, a rare sight, but his lips curved ever so slightly. Not a full smile, but something close—something real. “You… interrupted me,” he murmured, voice tinged with quiet amusement, though the way his thumb brushed absently along your cheek betrayed the fondness behind his words.
You huffed a quiet laugh, fingers tightening slightly where they still rested against his. “Really, Elrond, I think I understood what you were going to sa—” Before you could finish, he moved. Swift yet deliberate, he caught your chin gently between his fingers and leaned in, silencing you in the very way you had silenced him just moments before. His lips met yours in a kiss both teasing and tender, stealing the rest of your sentence before it could ever be spoken.
A surprised sound caught in your throat, and for a fleeting moment, your mind short-circuited. He had kissed you. Elrond had kissed you. You barely had time to process before warmth flooded through you, your hands gripping his sleeves as if to steady yourself. And, Valar help you, you were loving every second of it. When he pulled away, it left you utterly breathless, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “You—! Did you just—? Elrond!” you sputtered, part scandalized, part awestruck, but mostly just overwhelmed with how much you had enjoyed it.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from him, low and undeniably amused as he watched your flustered state unfold before him. His gaze, however, remained warm, unguarded—a depth of feeling long restrained now allowed to show. “There,” he murmured, his lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Now you have had a taste of your own medicine.” You gaped at him, torn between offense and sheer delight. “That—! That was entirely uncalled for!”
“Was it?” His tone was impossibly smooth, his fingers still lingering at your jawline, tracing feather-light touches that sent shivers down your spine. Your mouth opened, then closed, your mind struggling to conjure an argument while still reeling from the way his lips had felt against yours.
“I—” You huffed dramatically, throwing your hands in the air before letting them rest against his chest, as if steadying yourself. “I cannot believe you just did that.” Elrond exhaled a soft laugh, the warmth in his gaze never faltering as he leaned in once more. This time, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the night. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was softer, more serious, edged with something deeper. “And I must admit… it is quite the remedy.”
Hello, I absolutely love how you write! I'd like to suggest mortal reader who takes a liking to some of the more intricate elf braids and hairstyles and asks the elves if they could style readers hair for the first time? With Elrond, Thranduil, and who ever else you'd like to include! Thanks!
Thranduil, Elrond version below.
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
The air in the Woodland Realm is thick with the scent of moss and autumn leaves. The flickering candlelight casts golden hues across the stone chamber where you sit, your heart pounding just a little faster than usual. Across from you, Thranduil reclines in his carved wooden chair, adorned in flowing silks of deep green and silver, his long, pale fingers tracing idle patterns along the stem of his goblet.
He looks ethereal, as he always does—every movement of his as effortless as wind shifting through the trees. His hair, impossibly smooth and woven into elaborate braids, catches the dim light like spun starlight. You’ve always admired it. More than once, your fingers have itched to touch those braids, to understand their intricate weaves. And now, sitting before him, you find yourself speaking before you can rethink it. “My lord,” you begin hesitantly, voice softer than intended. “Would you… braid my hair?”
There’s a pause. A long one. His silver-blue eyes flick to yours, unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve overstepped. Then, slowly, he sets his goblet aside. “You wish for me to braid your hair?” His tone carries neither mockery nor warmth, just the cool, deliberate cadence of someone weighing a request with great care. You nod. “I’ve always admired Elven braids. But I’ve never had someone weave them into my hair.”
Another pause. Thranduil studies you as if unraveling some hidden meaning behind your words. Then, wordlessly, he extends a hand, fingers curling just slightly—a silent summons. Your breath catches as you move closer, kneeling before him. He shifts, his long, elegant fingers sweeping through your hair in a slow, methodical motion. The touch sends a shiver down your spine—not cold, not warm, just… aware. “Your hair is softer than I expected,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
His fingers move with practiced ease, sectioning your hair, twisting and weaving in a rhythm both foreign and hypnotic. You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, steady and composed. There’s something almost reverent in the way he handles each strand, as if the act itself holds meaning beyond simple aesthetics. “Elven braids carry purpose,” he says quietly, his voice close to your ear. “They mark kinship, allegiance, history. A warrior’s braid is not the same as a royal one. A lover’s braid… differs still.”
Your throat tightens. You want to ask what kind of braid he’s weaving into your hair, but the words catch behind your lips. He finishes with a final, gentle tug, securing the plait with an unseen motion. His hands linger for a moment, fingertips ghosting against your skin, before he finally leans back. “There,” he says, his voice softer now.
You reach up, fingers brushing over the intricate work. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever worn before, elegant and precise. Somehow, though you cannot see it, you know it is not just any braid. It is something his hands crafted, something deliberately chosen. “It suits you,” Thranduil remarks, and when you turn back to him, there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something thoughtful. Something unreadable. You don’t know what it means yet. But you think, perhaps, he does.
📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭
The halls of Rivendell shimmered in the golden light of the afternoon, casting long, delicate shadows across the carved archways and polished stone. You sat upon a cushioned bench in one of the balconies overlooking a waterfall, watching the cascading mist drift into the air. The elves of Elrond’s house moved gracefully through the corridors, their hair adorned with intricate braids, woven like silver and gold filigree.
You had always admired their artistry—the way their hands wove strands together as if crafting something sacred, something eternal. And so, in a quiet moment, you turned to Elrond, who sat beside you, immersed in a book. “Elrond,” you asked softly, hesitant yet eager. “Would you braid my hair?”
He lifted his gaze from the pages, dark brows rising slightly in surprise. A small, knowing smile played at his lips. “You wish for an elven braid?” You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I see the others wearing them, and they seem… intricate, beautiful. I would like to know what it feels like.”
For a moment, Elrond regarded you, as though measuring the weight of such a request. Then, with a gentle incline of his head, he set his book aside and gestured for you to turn. “Sit before me,” he instructed, his voice low and smooth, carrying an age-old patience. As you obeyed, he reached forward, his hands threading through your hair with a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers were warm, deliberate, and precise—his movements slow, as if memorizing each strand.
“You have fine hair,” he murmured, his tone contemplative. “Soft… different from that of my kind, but no less lovely.” A comfortable silence settled between you as he worked, gathering sections with practiced ease. The occasional brush of his knuckles against the nape of your neck sent warmth curling through your chest. The sound of the waterfall faded into the background, the moment narrowing down to the steady rhythm of his fingers and the quiet hum of his breath.
“I have braided the hair of my children before,” he admitted after a time, his voice almost wistful. “Arwen, when she was young, would sit just as you are now, though she often wriggled away before I was finished.” You smiled at the thought. “And did you let her?” A soft chuckle rumbled from him. “Not once.”
You felt the final strands being woven into place before his hands stilled. He ran his fingers over the braid, ensuring its hold, before securing it with a delicate silver clasp. Then, with a reverent slowness, he traced the length of his work. “There,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though reluctant to break the moment. “A braid worthy of the elves.”
You reached up, fingers brushing over the intricate weave. It was flawless—each strand woven with such precision and care that it felt less like a hairstyle and more like a piece of art. Turning back to him, you met his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, there was something unreadable in his expression—something softened, something ancient and knowing.
“Thank you,” you murmured. He inclined his head, but his eyes lingered on yours, unreadable depths of wisdom and quiet understanding. “It suits you,” he said at last. And the way he said it—so simple, so certain—made your heart flutter like the rustling leaves in the wind.
Could you do the manpread with haldir, Halsin and Glorfindel pls 🙏🏻? Thanks
They both so flawless sexy! 🛐🥰❤️🫶✨ Glorfindel, Haldir version below
☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵
The gentle breeze of Rivendell whispers through the open balcony, rustling the silken drapes as Glorfindel lounges gracefully on a cushioned bench. His golden hair gleams in the afternoon sunlight, loose strands falling over his shoulders as he sips from a delicate goblet of wine. His posture, as always, is noble—poised and dignified, his long legs crossed with effortless grace. You, however, have something mischievous in mind. Leaning in closer, your voice takes on a flirtatious lilt, a teasing smirk curving your lips as you drop the bait. “You know… I find it incredibly attractive when a real man does the manspread. There’s just something so undeniably sexy about it.”
Your gaze flickers meaningfully to his legs, then back up to his face, daring him to take the challenge. You see the flicker of surprise in his deep, knowing eyes before they narrow with something unreadable—an amused glint, perhaps, or the beginnings of a challenge of his own. He exhales a short chuckle, setting his goblet aside with slow deliberation. “Is that so?” His voice is like warm honey, rich and smooth, but there’s a touch of wry amusement lacing his words. “A real man, you say?”
His brow lifts slightly, as if questioning whether you truly believe he needs to prove himself. There’s no offense in his expression—only intrigue, perhaps a flicker of playfulness. For a moment, he debates keeping his usual elegant stance, just to see your reaction, but then you add— “But if you’d rather sit like a lady, then by all means…” Your voice is all but dripping with challenge, and that’s when you see it—that glint in his eye, the unspoken oh, you think you’re clever, don’t you? And just like that, Glorfindel moves.
With the fluid grace of a warrior, he shifts, stretching out his long, powerful legs as he leans back against the cushions. His thighs part wider, his arms spreading casually over the back of the seat, exuding effortless confidence. The motion is unhurried, deliberate, and commanding. He doesn’t just do the manspread—he owns it, as if he’s always sat this way, as if it was never a question. And yet, there’s a knowing smirk curving his lips as his piercing blue gaze locks onto yours.
“Better?” he asks, voice edged with velvet amusement. It’s impossible to ignore how good he looks like this—broad shoulders relaxed, powerful frame taking up space in a way that is both natural and dangerously alluring. The sheer confidence in his expression sends heat prickling up your spine. But Glorfindel isn’t one to let a moment slip without turning the tables. Tilting his head slightly, he studies your reaction with an almost infuriating amount of satisfaction.
“You seem flustered,” he muses, feigning innocence. “Was this truly what you wanted? Or are you regretting your boldness?” There’s a tease in his voice, a challenge. The air between you hums with a different kind of tension now, his presence utterly magnetic. He leans in slightly, dropping his voice just above a whisper. “I wonder,” he continues, “how else would you like a real man to sit?” His smirk deepens, waiting for your next move.
🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻
The dim glow of the Lórien lanterns casts a soft light upon the silver-clad Marchwarden as he sits upon a carved wooden bench, his posture as composed and upright as ever. Haldir is ever the image of elven grace—legs close together, back straight, movements precise. He is, as always, utterly refined. Perhaps too refined. You tilt your head, a slow, teasing smile curling your lips as you lean closer, voice dropping to a sultry murmur.
“You know, I find it incredibly attractive when a real man sits like one.” Your eyes flick meaningfully downward, and then back up, holding his gaze. “The manspread—it’s just… undeniably commanding. You must understand why it’s so appealing, don’t you?” Haldir, at first, does not react. His icy blue eyes assess you with that ever-perceptive, unreadable stare, as if weighing the very nature of your words. But there is a flicker of something—subtle, but present. A quirk of a brow. A barely-there shift of his shoulders, as if uncertain whether to regard this as jest or challenge.
“Manspread?” he repeats, voice smooth as river stones yet carrying a note of perplexity. “I am unfamiliar with this term.” Your smile widens, and with a slow, deliberate motion, you part your own legs just a little—just enough to illustrate your meaning. His gaze follows the movement, before flicking back up to meet yours once more. There is a glimmer of realization, and something else—mild amusement? The faintest flicker of offense? It’s hard to tell. “Ah. I see.”
You lean in, emboldened by his attention. “So, will you do it for me?” You let the request linger in the air between you, heavy with playful suggestion. “Or are you too… proper?” Haldir’s lips press into a thin line. His fingers curl slightly at the edges of the bench. For a long moment, he simply studies you, his gaze sharp and assessing—as if determining whether this is a challenge to his dignity or something else entirely. Then, deliberately, his posture changes.
It is not an exaggerated shift, not an overt display—but there is a measured parting of his legs, just enough to widen his stance, just enough to shed some of that rigid formality. His arm drapes casually over the back of the bench, his fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. It is not quite human-like manspreading, but it is something—a silent acquiescence. A concession made with intent.
His eyes meet yours again, and there is something dangerously knowing in his expression now. “Is this to your satisfaction?” he asks, his voice edged with something unreadable—challenge, amusement, perhaps both. You inhale, pulse quickening at the sight, and nod. “Much better,” you murmur. A slight smirk ghosts across his lips, fleeting but there.
“Good.” And yet, the way he holds your gaze now, the slight, deliberate way he adjusts his position further, tells you one thing he knows exactly what he’s doing, as he adds, “Or shall I sit like a woman?” He knows exactly what he’s doing now. And he’s waiting—watching—just to see how you react. A slow smile curled your lips. “Much better.” Haldir held your gaze a moment longer before letting out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “You are insufferable,” he murmured, though the ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. And yet… he did not move back.
If you have the time and it isn't that big of s problem, can you do the eyeliner ask with Glorfindel?
Love, 3am anon <3
Glorfindel version below
☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵
The evening sun filtered through the open balcony, casting golden hues across Glorfindel’s chamber. The elf-lord sat at the polished wooden desk, his golden hair gleaming like spun sunlight as he finished writing a letter. His strong, elegant hands moved with practiced ease, but his brows furrowed ever so slightly in concentration.
You stood behind him, arms crossed, watching with a mischievous glint in your eyes. He had no idea what was coming. As he set his quill down and stretched, you took your chance. “Glorfindel, can I try something on you?” you asked sweetly, moving closer. He turned his head, giving you a wary but amused look. “That depends. What sort of ‘something’ are we talking about?” You held up the small pencil eyeliner with a triumphant grin. “This.”
Glorfindel’s blue eyes widened slightly. “You want to draw on my face?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “That seems… unnecessary.” You tilted your head. “Unnecessary? No, no. Enhancing. Think about it! You already look like you’ve stepped out of a Valar-painted portrait, but a little bit of definition around your eyes? You’d look even more striking. Imagine the intimidation factor in battle.”
Glorfindel scoffed but couldn’t hide his smile. “Intimidation? I think a Balrog was already quite intimidated without kohl-rimmed eyes.” You waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not about scaring Balrogs. It’s about… finesse! Elegance! Mystery! I bet even Ecthelion would be jealous.” At the mention of his best friend, Glorfindel let out a deep chuckle. “Ecthelion would never let me live it down.”
“That’s exactly why we must do it.” You leaned forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, if you hate it, you can just wipe it off. Where’s the harm?” Glorfindel sighed dramatically, closing his eyes as if in deep thought. He was pretending to be reluctant, but you knew you were winning. “Fine,” he relented at last, “but if I end up looking ridiculous, you owe me a week’s worth of tea.”
“Deal.” You beamed, grabbing his chin gently to tilt his face toward you. “Now, hold still, my golden lord.” Glorfindel let out a soft chuckle, but he obeyed, watching you through lidded eyes as you brought the eyeliner closer. The first touch of the pencil against his skin made him blink, but he quickly adjusted, remaining still. You traced the liner along his upper lash line, smudging it slightly at the corners.
The effect was immediate—his already brilliant blue eyes became even more piercing, framed by the dark contrast. You took a step back, admiring your handiwork. “Oh. Oh, this is good.” Glorfindel arched a brow. “That sounds either promising or concerning.”
You grabbed a small mirror and held it up to him. He studied his reflection, tilting his head slightly. His lips pressed together as if he were trying not to admit something. Finally, he exhaled and gave you a side-eyed glance. “I look… rather dashing, don’t I?” You grinned. “See? Told you.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. You win this round.” He paused, then smirked. “But if Ecthelion sees this, I will tell him it was all your doing.”
“Perfect. Then I’ll convince him to try it next.” Glorfindel chuckled, standing up. As he turned to leave the room, he paused by the mirror once more, subtly adjusting his hair. You caught the motion and stifled a giggle. Yes, he liked it more than he’d admit. As Glorfindel studied his reflection, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. He turned to you with a glint of amusement in his bright blue eyes, then dramatically placed a hand on his hip, tilting his head ever so slightly.
With exaggerated elegance, he struck a pose, flipping a golden lock over his shoulder. “Well then,” he said, voice rich with mock seriousness, “do I make a pretty woman?” You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle your laughter. “Oh, absolutely stunning. The fairest maiden in all of Imladris.”
Glorfindel gave an exaggerated sigh, fluttering his lashes. “Alas, beauty such as mine is both a blessing and a curse.” He placed a dramatic hand against his forehead as if about to swoon. You snorted. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” He dropped the act just enough to smirk at you. “You started it.” With one last playful twirl—his golden hair catching the light like spun sunlight—Glorfindel laughed, shaking his head. “You’re terrible for my dignity.”
“And yet, you keep me around.”
“A regrettable yet inevitable truth.” He grinned before throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Now, tell me—where do we parade my newfound beauty first?”
i love your writings so much!!! your círdan ones are my favorite. he doesn't have enough writing for him so i love when i find a story or two. i was wondering if you could write a piece where the reader is having a really bad panic attack due to stress from a bunch of responsibilities. they're overwhelmed and their muscles are tense and they finally break- but círdan is there to calm them and be a steady presence.
if you don't feel comfortable writing this. feel free to ignore! thank you
-🍊
Círdan version below.
🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷
The weight has been pressing down for so long that you’ve stopped noticing it—until now. Until it becomes unbearable. It starts as a twinge, a whisper of unease that coils around your ribs, tightening, squeezing. Then, all at once, it crashes into you. Your chest constricts, each breath shallow and ragged, as if the air has turned to molasses. The harder you try to inhale, the more your lungs rebel, rejecting the air like a foreign thing. Your heart hammers—too fast, too hard—each beat a violent drum against your ribs. It hurts. A dull, aching pressure, then a sharp pang as panic grips your body with an iron fist.
Your hands tremble. First a small, involuntary twitch, then full-blown shaking. You clench them into fists, nails digging into your palms deep enough to leave crescents in your skin, but it doesn’t stop. The tremors spread up your arms, seizing your shoulders, making them lock so tight they ache. You can’t move. You can’t control it.
The room warps. The edges blur, twisting and pulsing like a mirage, the colors too bright, too sharp. Every sound stretches and distorts, voices blending into a low, incomprehensible hum. Someone calls your name, but it’s distant, hollow. The words slip past you, unreachable. The only thing you hear clearly is the pounding in your skull, the rush of blood in your ears, and the uneven, gasping rhythm of your own breath.
You tell yourself to keep it together. You always do. Just breathe. Just push through. You try to count, to ground yourself, to grip onto something—anything—to anchor yourself. But your fingers won’t listen, won’t unclench, and your mind is spiraling, spinning out of reach. Then—something small. A tiny, insignificant failure. A missed deadline. An unanswered message. A single task forgotten in the avalanche of everything else. It shatters you.
The dam breaks, and suddenly, you are drowning in it. A sob claws its way up your throat, but it sticks, choking you. You lurch forward, body folding in on itself, arms wrapping around your middle in a desperate attempt to hold yourself together. But it doesn’t work. You’re unraveling, breaking apart in pieces too jagged to catch.
The walls press closer. The air thickens, suffocating. Your head spins, a dizzy, sickening sensation that makes your stomach clench. The floor tilts beneath you. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the darkness only makes it worse. You can’t move. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.
The panic is everything now, crashing over you in waves, sweeping you under. Your body is no longer yours, hijacked by something stronger, something relentless. Tears burn down your cheeks, but you don’t remember when they started falling. A sob wracks through you, your chest convulsing, but it only makes the air harder to find.
Somewhere, a voice cuts through the storm—a quiet, steady sound. A hand touches your shoulder. The contact is grounding, but it feels distant, like you’re floating just beyond your own skin. You try to hold onto it, to latch onto something real. But you are still lost, still gasping, still fighting against the invisible force that won’t let you go. And for a moment, you wonder if it ever will.
A voice—low, ancient, carrying the weight of centuries—cuts through the storm. Not sharply, not forcefully, but like the pull of the tide, steady and inevitable. “Y/N” A hand rests on your shoulder—light, warm, impossibly steady. It doesn’t jolt you or demand your attention, but its presence is undeniable, anchoring you when everything else feels like it’s slipping away. Círdan.
You don’t see him at first. The room is still warping, your vision still swimming, your body still locked in the iron grip of panic. But he is there. Unmoving. Unshaken. And somehow, you know he will not leave. The weight on your shoulder shifts, not pressing, just present. The gentle warmth of his touch seeps through the storm raging beneath your skin, quiet but firm against the tremors racking your frame. A silent reassurance.
“Breathe.” Not a command. Not an expectation. An offering. A reminder, as simple and constant as the waves against the shore. You try. The breath comes shallow, ragged, unsteady. Your chest still feels like it’s caving in. But Círdan does not rush you. He kneels beside you, moving with the slow grace of the tide, his presence vast but never overwhelming. His robes whisper softly against the floor as he settles in, as if he has all the time in the world to sit here with you. “The sea is never still,” he murmurs, voice as deep as the ocean, as soft as the wind over open waters. “Yet it does not fight the tide. Do not fight this, child. Let it pass through you.”
His words slip past the noise in your mind, threading through the panic with the patience of one who has seen ages pass. There is no urgency in his tone, no expectation that you must master yourself this instant. Only quiet understanding. Your hands are still clenched into fists, nails biting deep into your palms. He notices. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for one of them. His touch is impossibly gentle, as if he understands exactly how fragile you feel in this moment.
“Here,” he says, guiding your fingers to unfurl with the same patience he has for the shifting tides. His palm is warm against yours, his grasp neither firm nor weak—just steady. Just there. You don’t even realize you’ve exhaled until he nods slightly, as though acknowledging the small victory of that single breath. Then, with the same quiet patience, he lifts his hand from yours and brings it to your face.
The roughened pads of his fingers brush against your cheek, steady and sure, as if grounding you further in the present. His thumb catches the damp trail of tears, smoothing them away without a word. You flinch at the touch—not in fear, but in surprise at the sheer gentleness of it. He does not pull away. Instead, his fingers move with the lightest pressure, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, brushing it back from your face as if to remind you that you are still here. That you are not lost.
“The worst of it will pass,” he says, quiet but sure. “Not at once. But it will.” Your breathing is still uneven, your body still wracked with tension, but—he’s right. The crushing weight hasn’t lifted, but it has loosened, if only by the smallest degree. He does not tell you to stop shaking. He does not tell you to be strong. He only stays, hands warm against your skin, letting you feel the solid warmth of his presence.
“I have seen tempests rage across the sea,” he murmurs, voice like the hush of waves on the shore. “I have watched them churn and crash with fury, relentless and wild. But no storm lasts forever.” His thumb traces one last soothing line across your cheek before his hand falls away, but his presence does not lessen. If anything, it deepens.
“You are not lost.” The words are spoken with certainty, like a truth as old as the world. Something in you unravels—not in the way you were breaking earlier, but in the way tightly bound ropes loosen after years of strain. The room is still too bright. Your body is still too tense. But Círdan remains beside you, unwavering, patient. He does not pull you to your feet, does not ask you to move before you are ready. He is simply there. And slowly, breath by breath, the storm inside you begins to ebb.
The storm has not fully passed, but its grip loosens, retreating in slow, weary waves. Your breaths are no longer sharp gasps but uneven, trembling inhales. It is still too much—your limbs are heavy, your chest aches, and exhaustion clings to you like sea mist after a storm. But you are no longer drowning. Círdan does not move away. He does not pry, does not demand explanations you cannot yet give. He only watches, steady and patient, with the quiet understanding of one who has seen tempests rise and fall a thousand times over.
“You bear much,” he says at last, his voice a low murmur, deep as the tide. “But you are not alone in this burden.” The words settle over you, not with the weight of expectation, but with a quiet certainty that does not require a response. It is not pity, nor is it empty reassurance. It is simply truth—offered gently, freely, like the sea meeting the shore. A shudder runs through you, though whether from lingering fear or sheer exhaustion, you do not know. Your body is too tense, too tightly wound, like a rope pulled to its limit. The weight of everything still lingers, pressing at the edges of your mind. But then—
Warmth. Círdan’s hand moves, slow and careful, running through your hair in a soothing motion, his fingers threading through the strands with practiced ease. The touch is light, deliberate—not to restrain, not to control, but to comfort. To remind you that you are still here. Still breathing. Still held. The motion is hypnotic, steady as the lapping waves. Your body sags under the quiet reassurance, the tension in your shoulders easing, little by little. He does not rush you, does not pull you away from the last echoes of your fear. He only stays, grounding you with the quiet weight of his presence.
Then, carefully, his arm shifts. The change is subtle, almost imperceptible—until you feel the warmth of his embrace, solid and unwavering. He does not force it upon you, does not demand you take solace in it. But he offers, and when you do not resist, he draws you closer. The motion is slow, deliberate, as if he understands how fragile you still feel. His arms are strong, steady, cradling you against him—not as something broken, but as something precious. He holds you as one would hold something long lost and newly found, with a patience that does not waver, a quiet presence that speaks of lifetimes of understanding.
Your forehead rests against the fabric of his robes, the scent of salt and wind wrapping around you like a distant memory. His hand continues its slow path through your hair, a quiet, ceaseless rhythm that grounds you, anchors you. “The sea is patient,” he murmurs, his voice a lull in the stillness. “It wears down stone, reshapes the land. But it does not rush.” You do not know if he speaks of the tides or of you. Perhaps both.
Your body is still weary, your mind still frayed at the edges. But for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you do not feel like you are drowning alone. Círdan does not offer easy answers. He does not tell you the burden will vanish, nor does he promise that the storms will never return. But he stays. And perhaps that is enough. “Rest,” he says, quiet and sure. And this time, you listen.
can u do the eyeliner fic with elladan and elrohir pretty please🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
Elladan, Elrohir version below.
⚔️𝓔𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓷
The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm golden hue across Rivendell’s peaceful courtyards. The evening breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves like a secret conversation. Elladan and his twin brother Elrohir were leaning against a stone railing, chatting lazily, their laughter ringing through the quiet space. But as usual, Elladan’s attention was split—his eyes flitted between the peaceful surroundings and the object of his newest mischievous interest: you.
You had somehow gotten your hands on a pencil eyeliner, and it was only a matter of time before your playful spirit found a way to involve Elladan in yet another harmless prank. You had been talking to him about how “his eyes would look even more striking” with a little eyeliner—completely ignoring the obvious challenge of convincing a proud, playful warrior to allow you anywhere near his face with something that sharp.
He had, of course, laughed at the suggestion at first. “Me? A bit of makeup? I’ve faced armies of Orcs and beasts of shadow, and now you think I need to play with that?” Elladan had smirked, his arms folded across his chest, leaning back with that confident, almost cocky grin that was entirely Elladan. His eyes, dark and mischievous, locked onto you, daring you to try.
But you weren’t one to back down from a challenge, especially when it came to having fun with Elladan. His serious, warrior exterior didn’t scare you. If anything, it made this even more entertaining. “Oh, come on, Elladan. It’s not like anyone would know about it. A little eyeliner never hurt anyone.” You playfully waggled the pencil in your fingers, catching his eye. “I bet it would highlight that amazing gaze of yours. You’d look like a dark, mysterious Elven prince.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but not yet fully convinced. “Dark and mysterious? Is that how you see me?”
“Absolutely,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “And I’m sure the eyeliner will only enhance your already flawless features.” Elladan chuckled, clearly entertained. “I thought you were all about mischievous banter, not playing artist. Though I suppose if I let you do this, I can claim to have the most playful, unpredictable elf ever to grace Rivendell. Imagine the tales I’d tell!” You could see he was enjoying the idea of being the subject of a ridiculous story, but he was still hesitant. You didn’t waste time. Reaching out, you gently cupped his chin, making him meet your eyes. “Think of it like a little rebellion. A small adventure in the midst of all the tension. A secret. Only you, me, and the stars will know.”
His smile softened into something a little more thoughtful, and for a moment, you thought he might back out. But then he let out a sigh, his playful grin returning. “You’re relentless, aren’t you? Fine,” he said with a teasing gleam in his eyes. “But only because I trust you not to make me look utterly ridiculous. If you ruin my good looks, you’ll never hear the end of it.” You could barely contain your excitement as you reached for his face, your fingers lightly brushing the edge of his high cheekbones. With a wink, you gave him a reassuring smile. “Trust me, Elladan. It’s going to look perfect.”
As you uncapped the pencil, Elladan tilted his head slightly, a mix of amusement and curiosity crossing his features. He didn’t flinch as you brought the pencil to his eyelid, drawing it along his lash line with precision. “I must admit, I never imagined you would be doing this. I’ve faced countless foes and yet here I am, the unwilling model for your antics,” he said, voice full of humor.
You chuckled as you worked, admiring the way his sharp features seemed to take on a new intensity as the dark line traced his eyes. “You make a good model. You should consider it more often.” He gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “As if I have time to sit around being painted like some… portrait.”
You laughed, finishing the final touch and stepping back to admire your work. Elladan blinked a few times, clearly not accustomed to the sensation. But his expression softened when he met your eyes. The eyeliner had given his eyes an even deeper, more alluring quality, and he caught sight of the approving smile on your face. “You didn’t ruin me,” he admitted with a little smirk, inspecting himself in the nearby reflective pool. “I suppose I do look a bit… mysterious.”
“See?” You grinned triumphantly. “Told you it would highlight those amazing eyes of yours.” Elladan’s playful smirk returned, but there was something softer about it now. “You’re impossible. I still can’t believe I let you do that. But… I admit, you’ve made it look rather impressive.” He shook his head, turning to face you fully. “I never thought I’d find myself in this position, but now I’ll never hear the end of it from Elrohir, will I?”
“Nope,” you replied, a wicked glint in your eye. “But I’ll make sure he knows you were a willing participant. This was your idea, after all.” He gave a dramatic sigh, half-laughing, half groaning. “My vanity is my downfall, I suppose. Well, at least you’ve made it interesting.” He winked at you before leaning in closer. “But only because you asked so nicely.” And with that, Elladan’s charm, combined with the playful mischief in his eyes, had you thoroughly convinced: this was definitely a victory.
⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻
The sun had already begun to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the forest surrounding Rivendell. The air was cool, and the soft hum of the evening breeze rustled through the trees. Inside the grand hall of Elrond’s house, a warm fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with its comforting glow. The soft sounds of laughter echoed in the distance from where Elladan and a few of the younger elves were engaged in a game.
But here, in a quieter corner of the hall, Elrohir sat, brooding in his usual way, his back resting against a stone pillar, his sharp gaze fixed on some distant thought that seemed to cloud his usually easy-going demeanor. You sat across from him, leaning slightly forward, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you surveyed the perfect opportunity. You had been toying with the idea for some time now, and tonight seemed like the night. You had come prepared with a small case, a faint smile playing at the corners of your lips as you approached him, the pencil eyeliner tucked in the palm of your hand.
Elrohir glanced up when he felt your eyes on him. A slight smirk crept onto his face, though it was mixed with wariness. “What are you up to?” he asked, his voice rich with suspicion but tinged with amusement, already sensing your playful energy. “Nothing,” you answered innocently, though you couldn’t hide the glint in your eyes. “Well… nothing that might be considered mischief.” You raised the small pencil in your hand, its delicate graphite tip gleaming in the dim light. “I just thought it might be fun… if I tried something new.”
Elrohir raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure what “something new” entailed. “What are you going to do with that?” He gestured toward the eyeliner, leaning back slightly, a faint wariness in his posture. “Do not even think about trying that on me.” You tilted your head, putting on your best charming smile. “Come on, Elrohir. It’s just a little eyeliner. Just a tiny bit.” You let the pencil roll between your fingers, making it look almost casual, though the spark in your eyes betrayed your excitement. “Trust me, you’ll look magnificent. You could pull it off, I’m sure.” His eyes narrowed. “I am a warrior, not someone to be made into… a canvas.”
“Oh, but imagine it,” you coaxed. “You, the brave and dashing warrior, with a sharp, smoldering look. Just a hint of dark elegance, don’t you think? Besides,” you added, leaning closer, your voice lowering into something more playful, “it might make Elladan jealous.” At that, Elrohir’s lips twitched into a slight smirk, clearly entertained by the thought of his brother’s reaction. He glanced toward the door as though considering a retreat, but you could see the moment his defenses wavered. “You are impossible,” he muttered, but the edges of his words held a grudging amusement.
You seized the opportunity. “Please? Just once. It will only take a moment, I promise.” You placed the pencil in his hands, urging him to feel its weight, the promise of fun gleaming in your eyes. “Elladan will never know, and I’ll keep it between us.”
He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze flicking between you and the pencil. You noticed how his fingers brushed lightly over the small, smooth object, the resistance in his posture beginning to soften. There was a brief pause, and then—unexpectedly—he sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled, giving in to the playful temptation. “But if this becomes a trend, I will never forgive you.” You grinned, almost too victorious in your triumph. “I promise it will be our secret,” you teased, moving behind him and gently guiding him to sit properly in the chair.
As you uncapped the eyeliner, you could feel his wariness still lingering, but there was a quiet sense of trust in his submission. His hair was long and dark, flowing down in soft waves over his shoulders, and the faintly mischievous glint in his eyes softened as you approached with the pencil. You gently took his chin, coaxing him to look up at you. “Relax,” you said softly. “It’s just for fun. Trust me.” Elrohir remained quiet for a moment, then finally nodded, his voice low and resigned, but with a trace of affection. “Do your worst.”
Smiling, you carefully applied the pencil to his eyelids, your fingers steady as you drew the fine line. Elrohir was still, his breath even, as he let you work. Every so often, you’d glance up at him, catching a flicker of amusement in his expression, but he didn’t protest. His usual sternness was slowly being replaced by the warmth that came from his trust in you. When you were done, you stepped back and took a long, admiring look at him. Elrohir’s features, normally sharp and piercing, now had a subtle but striking allure, his dark eyes deeper, more intense. The eyeliner had transformed his face, giving him an air of mystery, a quiet magnetism that even he hadn’t expected.
You couldn’t help but laugh lightly, delighted with the result. “See?” you teased. “I told you it would look good.” Elrohir’s lips twitched, and he reached up to touch his face, running his fingers lightly over the eyeliner, as though trying to adjust something he hadn’t expected to find. After a long moment, he met your gaze. “You may have a point,” he admitted, his voice carrying a touch of reluctance. “But only because you caught me off guard. I will not let this become a habit.”
You chuckled softly, sitting down beside him. “Oh, of course. It’ll be our little secret, remember?” He rolled his eyes at you, but there was no real anger in it, only the unmistakable affection that he always showed you beneath his playful grumbling. “If you tell anyone about this, I will find a way to make you regret it,” he warned, but there was a warmth in his voice that made it clear he wasn’t truly upset.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, reaching for his hand to give it a playful squeeze. “Besides, you look stunning.” Elrohir gave you a dry look, but the twinkle in his eye told you that—despite the embarrassment—he was secretly enjoying the fun. “I suppose this is how you get your way, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, clearly resigned. “Absolutely,” you replied with a grin. “But only because you’re so easy to convince.” He smirked at that, shaking his head. “I will never hear the end of this, will I?”
“Not likely,” you said with a wink, already planning your next playful victory. The evening stretched on, and although Elrohir may have grumbled, there was an undeniable camaraderie between you both as you shared in the simple mischief. The once stoic, serious Elf now wore a lighter expression, his earlier wariness replaced with the easy affection that you both shared. Even in the most unexpected moments, you had a way of drawing out the warmth he so rarely showed, and he, in turn, could never resist your playful charm.
Trying to convince Legolas to let us use pencil eyeliner on him x
(And succeeding)
Legolas version below
🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼
You find him sitting by the campfire, tending to his bow with practiced ease. The flickering flames cast long shadows over his impossibly sharp features, the angles of his face catching the light just so. He looks up as you approach, curiosity flickering in his clear blue eyes. “You are up to something,” he observes, tilting his head slightly.
You grin, producing a small, unassuming stick of pencil eyeliner from your pocket. “I have a proposition.” Legolas eyes the object warily, his fingers pausing in their rhythmic movement over the bowstring. “That is not an arrow.”
“Very observant of you.” You kneel beside him, twirling the eyeliner between your fingers. “It’s called eyeliner. It’s used to emphasize the eyes. You already have unnaturally stunning ones, but this would make them even more striking.” He blinks at you, visibly unimpressed. “For what purpose?”
You roll your eyes. “To look intimidating. Mysterious. More otherworldly. Imagine facing an enemy in battle, your stare cutting through them like a blade—enhanced by the sharp, dark lines of this.” You gesture dramatically with the eyeliner, as if it holds some ancient power. Legolas exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to amusement ghosting across his lips. “I do not require paint to intimidate my foes.”
“Fine,” you say, shifting tactics. “What about strategy, then? Your face is already difficult to read. This will make it even more unreadable. A tactical advantage.” He considers this, then squints at you. “That sounds dubious.”
“You trusted me when I told you that stew was safe to eat.” Legolas narrows his eyes. “You swore it was edible.”
“And it was! Mostly. But that’s not the point—if you trusted me then, you should trust me now.” There’s a long pause where he studies you, and you can practically see the calculations running through his mind. Finally, he sighs, setting his bow aside. “Very well. But if I do not like it, you will remove it immediately.”
You barely contain your excitement as you move closer, gently tilting his chin up. He doesn’t flinch under your touch, but his expression is carefully neutral as he watches you with something between suspicion and reluctant amusement. As you drag the pencil along his lower lash line, his gaze flickers upward. “This feels strange.”
“You’re doing great,” you murmur, stepping back to admire your work before moving to the next eye. “Do you want a wing?”
“A wing?” His brow furrows slightly. “A dramatic flick at the corner,” you explain, gesturing with your fingers. “Sharp enough to kill a man at ten paces.” At that, Legolas actually smirks. “Make it sharp enough to kill one at twenty.” You grin as you angle his face, carefully drawing the winged edge outward. The effect is devastating—his already inhuman beauty is somehow heightened, his piercing stare now framed by bold, elegant lines.
When you finally pull away, you can’t help but beam. “There. Have a look.” Legolas takes the small mirror you offer him, turning it in his hands. His expression remains unreadable as he examines himself, tilting his head this way and that. Finally, he hums, nodding slightly. “It is… acceptable.”
“You look magnificent,” you correct him. He sets the mirror down, arching a perfectly lined brow at you. “I already looked magnificent.” You snort. “Well, now you look like you could assassinate a king with a single glance.” Legolas considers this for a moment, then—surprisingly—smirks. “I suppose that is not entirely undesirable.”
“See?” You clap your hands together, triumphant. “Tactical advantage.” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You are impossible.” But as he reaches for his bow once more, he makes no move to remove the eyeliner. And later that night, when Aragorn notices and raises an eyebrow, Legolas merely shrugs and says, “It is strategic.”
so I saw this video going around from Star Rail character Honkai did the manspread here the link if you wanna watch 🛐🥵🙏https://www.instagram.com/reel/DGDl3ulS9dv/?igsh=d3E4MWFld2l2OG5x
Please would you do how would the elves react to reader asking them do the manspread for reader? Would they do it?
Elrond, thranduil, gil-galad Celebrimbor....
By the gods, that video was absolutely breathtaking! 🛐❤️🤌 I can only imagine how mesmerizing it would be with elves—truly enough to make me swoon.
Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor version below.
🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭
Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor, was a man of unwavering dignity, measured composure, and effortless authority. He had faced the horrors of war, commanded armies, and carried the weight of his people’s future on his shoulders. But this? This was an entirely different kind of battlefield—one he was not entirely sure how to navigate.
You were sitting across from him in a quiet, candlelit chamber, lounging with a playful smirk as you leaned in just slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. The moment was slow, deliberate, and laced with unmistakable intent. “You know,” you drawled, tapping your fingers lazily against your knee, “I find it so incredibly attractive when a real man sits with confidence. That sort of effortless strength, that presence.” Your gaze flickered down to his posture before meeting his eyes again. “Manspreading, as they call it—it’s just… undeniably sexy.”
You let the words settle, let them wrap around the space between you like an unspoken challenge. Gil-galad, ever composed, regarded you with that same inscrutable expression he so often wore, his blue eyes calm, steady, unreadable. But you knew better. There was a flicker—something sharp and assessing beneath his otherwise unshaken exterior.
His posture was, as always, one of controlled grace: poised, upright, his long legs set in their usual disciplined stance. For all his power and battle-hardened might, he had always held himself with a reserved, gentlemanly restraint. But then you tilted your head, feigning disappointment. “Oh?” you mused, dragging the moment out just a little longer, letting your voice dip into something softer, teasing. “Perhaps I was mistaken. If it makes you uncomfortable, I suppose you can just—sit like a woman then.”
The silence that followed was weighted. Gil-galad’s brows lifted, just barely—so subtly that if you weren’t watching him closely, you might have missed it. A dangerous, amused glint flickered through his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that he had heard you. Understood you. And more importantly—accepted your challenge. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders shifting as he settled in. And then—oh. There it was.
His legs, once held in their disciplined stillness, stretched apart with the kind of self-assured ease that only a king—a warrior—could exude. He did not break eye contact with you, not once. His chin lifted ever so slightly, the corner of his lips curving in the faintest, most imperceptible smirk. “Better?” he asked, his voice a rich, measured baritone—calm, unbothered, but laced with undeniable amusement. Your heart skipped. Your breath caught. Damn him.
You swallowed, fighting to keep your composure, but the heat of his gaze, the sheer power behind something so deceptively simple, had your confidence faltering for just a fraction of a second. But Gil-galad had already seen it. Had already noted it. He tilted his head, voice dipping just slightly lower. “I would not wish to disappoint.” And oh, he knew exactly what he was doing.
🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵
The grand halls of the Woodland Realm are bathed in flickering candlelight, casting long shadows along the polished stone floors. Thranduil sits on his carved throne, exuding his usual air of elegance and cool detachment, legs crossed in the precise, refined way befitting a king of his stature. His silver-blond hair cascades over his shoulder, and his fingers rest idly on the arm of his throne, tapping ever so slightly, as if entertained by some private thought.
You stand before him, arms folded, a teasing smile curling on your lips. You tilt your head, voice dripping with playful mischief as you lean just slightly into his space. “You know,” you begin, letting your tone drop into something lower, sultrier, “I find it incredibly sexy when a real man knows how to sit properly.” His eyes flick to yours, the faintest arch of a pale brow the only sign of interest. You press on, emboldened.
“Just taking up space, comfortable, powerful—none of that delicate, crossed-leg posture.” You let your eyes deliberately drop, sweeping over his seated form, before looking back up with a knowing smirk. “But if you’d rather sit like a lady, by all means.” A slow blink. A pause. The room seems to still. For a moment, you almost think he won’t react. That maybe you’ve gone too far. And then—
A breath of amusement escapes him, a sound so soft you barely catch it, but the shift in his expression is unmistakable. His lips curl, the barest hint of a smirk forming at the edges. “Is that so?” His voice is smooth, touched with something dark and edged with a quiet, regal arrogance. He regards you as if you are an amusing puzzle, a piece on a board he has just decided how to move. Then, with slow, deliberate ease, he moves.
He uncrosses his legs, his boots scraping lightly against the stone floor as he spreads his knees apart, his entire posture shifting from poised refinement to something far more deliberate. His arms drape over the armrests, his fingers curling idly against the polished wood. His silver cloak pools around him, but nothing hides the way he now takes up space—owns it. His piercing gaze locks onto yours, daring, taunting.
“Like this?” His voice is deceptively casual, but the challenge in his eyes is unmistakable. Your mouth runs dry. His smirk deepens, a flash of satisfaction in his sharp features as he takes in your reaction. Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.“Strange,” he muses, tilting his head just slightly, his silky hair shifting with the motion. “For someone so eager to make such a bold request, you suddenly seem at a loss for words.”
The amusement in his voice is infuriating, his arrogance almost unbearable—and yet, your heartbeat quickens. “Well?” he presses, one elegant brow lifting. “I have done as you asked. Are you pleased, meleth nîn?” He is toying with you. And you realize, with no small amount of exasperation, that once again, Thranduil has flipped the game in his favor.
📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭
The flickering candlelight casts a golden glow over Elrond’s study, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink. He sits in his high-backed chair, elegant and composed, one leg crossed over the other with effortless grace, his long robes falling in perfect lines. His hands rest lightly on the armrests, a tome open before him, though his keen eyes are now fixed on you.
You lean forward, the corner of your lips curving with playful intent. “You know,” you murmur, voice laced with mischief, “I find it incredibly attractive when a real man—” you let the words stretch, your gaze flicking downward, ”—spreads his legs like he owns the room.”
A beat of silence. His brow arches, imperceptibly at first, but enough for you to catch the flicker of intrigue behind his cool, knowing gaze. Elrond is not a man easily rattled, nor one to be drawn into games he has not already chosen to play. “Is that so?” he finally says, his tone as measured as it is amused. He does not look away, nor does he move yet, simply studying you with the patience of one who has lived far too long to be goaded so easily.
You tilt your head, doubling down, dropping hints like they are too obvious to be ignored. “Mmm, yes,” you hum, dragging a fingertip idly along the wooden arm of your chair. “Something about the confidence, the power of it…” You let your voice dip, eyes heavy with suggestion. “Of course, if you prefer, you can just sit like a lady—” You gesture vaguely, a teasing little smirk playing on your lips. “All tucked in, neat, reserved… delicate.”
And that does it. His gaze sharpens—subtle, but unmistakable. A slow inhale, measured, controlled. There is no offense in his expression, no flash of irritation—only something deeper, something laced with challenge. Then, with deliberate ease, he moves.
The shift is unhurried, as if he is humoring you, yet entirely in control of the moment. The crossing of his legs unravels first, long and fluid, robes parting ever so slightly as he lets himself settle differently into his seat. His right leg extends forward, his left falling open with just enough space to exude something unmistakably, undeniably masculine. It is not crude. It is not exaggerated. It is simply Elrond, composed yet undeniably powerful in his presence, now taking up more space with quiet confidence.
He watches your reaction, searching, analyzing, measuring if you are truly satisfied—or if you have merely played yourself into his hands. “There,” he says at last, his voice dipping just slightly, a thread of something almost teasing beneath his composed exterior. “Does this please you?” And yet, even as he humors you, there is something in his gaze that warns—this moment, this game? You may have started it. But Elrond, ever the strategist, ever the lord, will always be the one to finish it.
💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻
The forge is warm, the dim glow of enchanted lanterns casting flickering shadows against the walls. Celebrimbor sits at his workbench, carefully polishing the filigree on an intricate silver ring. His brow is furrowed in deep concentration, hands steady despite the hours he’s spent working. You, however, are feeling playful.
Sauntering over, you lean against the bench, just within his line of sight, arms folded under your chest as you smirk at him. He glances up briefly, giving you a soft smile before returning to his work. That won’t do. You take a step closer, tilting your head. “You know,” you begin, voice slow and teasing, “I find it super sexy when a real man sits with his legs spread—relaxed, confident.” Your gaze deliberately drops to his posture. “Not all… prim and proper.”
At first, Celebrimbor doesn’t react, his expression unreadable. Then, his hands still. His grip tightens ever so slightly around the ring he’s holding. His ears twitch—a telltale sign that your words have reached him, that they’re settling somewhere deep. You swear you can see the tips darken with color.
He exhales through his nose, setting the ring down with exaggerated patience, as if carefully considering his next move. His sharp silver eyes flick to you, and his lips press together in thought. You recognize that look—his mind is working through a dozen possibilities, weighing propriety against the sheer fact that you clearly want this from him. “…Is that so?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a slight tension beneath it.
You nod, grinning. “Mmmhmm. Nothing more attractive than a man who knows how to take up space.” You give him a pointed look before adding slyly, “But if you’d rather sit all neat and closed off like a lady—” that does it His pride flares visibly—his shoulders straighten, and his jaw tightens just a little. A challenge. He cannot let that slide. There’s a second where he hesitates, visibly torn between flustering under your teasing and proving you wrong. But then, with measured deliberation, he leans back against his seat and spreads his legs.
The shift is subtle at first—one knee tilts outward, then the other, until his thighs are comfortably apart, his usual composed posture discarded in favor of something looser, more assured. His arm drapes over the back of his chair, fingers curling against the wood. His chest rises with a slow inhale, as if settling into it.
His sharp gaze locks onto yours. “Like this?” His voice is quieter now, lower, with an edge of amusement. Your heart gives an embarrassing little flutter. Damn. He really committed. But you’re not about to let him know that. Feigning an exaggerated once-over, you hum in approval, arms still crossed. “Not bad. Almost convincing.”
He lets out a breath—something between a laugh and a scoff. Shaking his head, he finally looks away, as if suddenly realizing what he just did. His fingers tap against the chair, and his ears are still slightly pink. “You are impossible,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move from his new position. You grin, victorious. “And you love it.” He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he picks his ring back up. But even as he resumes working, his posture remains loose—legs still spread, just for you.
Hey, I love your writing so much and I had request if you're taking them right now. I read your headcanons about Glorfindel and I thought it was interesting that people kind of underestimate him because he's attractive. Could you do one where Glorfindel overhears the reader defending him to other people? Hope this isn't too strange of a request!
That’s such a kind thing to say—thank you! I’d love to write this for you. 🫶 It’s a great idea, and not strange at all! Glorfindel is such an interesting character, and I really like exploring the contrast between his beauty and his strength. 😉❤️🔥🤌
Glorfindel version below
☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵
Glorfindel was no stranger to admiration. His golden hair, striking blue eyes, and radiant presence often left people in awe before they even knew his name. It wasn’t unusual for conversations to shift when he entered a room—whispers of his past heroics, quiet sighs over his beauty, or, occasionally, dismissive laughter from those who assumed his looks outshone his substance. Most days, he ignored it. He had lived too long to care about the idle chatter of those who did not truly know him. But today was different. Today, he overheard you.
The voices reached him just as he turned a corner in the halls of Rivendell. He hadn’t been paying much attention—his mind had been on council matters, his upcoming patrol, and, admittedly, the thought of seeing you later that evening. But the moment he heard his own name, spoken with a sneer, he slowed his steps.
“Oh, come on. He’s Glorfindel—he’s all charm and golden hair. He’s a warrior, sure, but it’s not like he’s some grand strategist. If he weren’t so pretty, do you think people would take him half as seriously?” Glorfindel’s steps halted. He exhaled sharply through his nose, already prepared to walk away. This was not new. He had heard it all before. He had nothing to prove to those who judged him by his face rather than his deeds. And then, your voice cut through the air like a blade. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” His brow lifted slightly, curiosity sparking in his chest.
“Glorfindel is one of the most formidable warriors in Middle-earth. He literally fought a Balrog single-handedly and won. He has led armies, advised lords and kings, and is one of the few elves wise enough to be trusted as an emissary of the Valar. He’s not just ‘some warrior’—he’s a leader, a tactician, and a legend.” Silence followed, and Glorfindel could practically see the way the others must have shifted awkwardly under the weight of your words. But you weren’t finished.
“And even if he weren’t all those things, even if he were just ‘some warrior’—what of it? He’s kind, selfless, and one of the most honorable people I have ever met. He doesn’t look down on others, even when they clearly don’t deserve his patience. The fact that you all assume he gets by on his looks alone just proves you’ve never actually spoken to him. And maybe you should, instead of sitting here making fools of yourselves.”
Glorfindel had been called many things in his lifetime—hero, lord, captain, legend. But standing there, listening to the raw conviction in your voice as you defended him without hesitation, he had never felt more seen. His heart clenched, warmth flooding through him in a way that had nothing to do with the golden light of his spirit. You hadn’t defended him because you wanted something from him, or because you needed to impress anyone. You had spoken because you believed in him. Because you knew him.
The sound of chairs shifting signaled the end of the conversation. He waited until the footsteps faded before stepping forward, rounding the corner just as you turned to leave. You nearly ran into him. Your eyes widened slightly, guilt flashing across your face—as if you’d been caught saying something you shouldn’t have. “Glorfindel,” you breathed. He tilted his head, amusement glinting in his gaze. “That was quite the speech.” A flush crept up your neck. “You… heard that?”
“Every word.” He let a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. “Legend, was it?” You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “They were being idiots—what was I supposed to do? Let them keep talking nonsense?” Glorfindel chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “No, I rather enjoyed hearing you put them in their place.” He hesitated for a moment before reaching out, the back of his fingers brushing lightly against your hand. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, more sincere. “Thank you.”
You looked up at him, and for a brief moment, he felt like that young elf from Gondolin again—awed, hopeful, endlessly grateful for the kindness of another. “They don’t deserve to speak about you like that,” you said firmly. “You matter, Glorfindel. And not because of what you look like. Because of who you are.” His breath caught. For all his centuries of existence, for all the titles and accolades and whispered praises, this—this simple, earnest truth—was what meant the most.
With a smirk, he nudged your shoulder lightly. “Well then, my most loyal defender, what say you to a walk? After all, if I am to keep up this image of a ‘legend,’ I ought to be seen in the company of someone just as formidable.” You laughed, rolling your eyes but accepting his offered arm nonetheless. “Fine. But only if you admit that you’re more than just a pretty face.” Glorfindel grinned, leading you down the corridor. “Oh, I never doubted it.”
Cirdan, Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir version below. (You the reader are their spouse and Gender-Neutral Reader.)
🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷
The soft glow of lanterns flickered in the dimly lit chamber, their golden light casting long shadows across the smooth elven-crafted wood. The scent of the sea drifted through the open window, mingling with the faint aroma of aged parchment and the subtle salt of the wind—a constant companion in the Grey Havens. The distant crash of waves upon the shore was a familiar lullaby, one you had come to love in the years of your marriage to Círdan.
Tonight, however, the sea was not the only thing awaiting him. You stood near the large, intricately carved bed, your fingers idly tracing the delicate lace of the red garment you wore. The fabric was unlike anything you usually adorned, sheer and intricate, clinging in ways that left little to the imagination yet carried an elegance befitting the spouse of the Shipwright. The deep crimson stood in striking contrast to the cool silver and blue tones of the chamber, a bold and daring departure from the usual. The door creaked open.
Círdan entered, moving with the steady grace of an elf who had lived for countless ages. His long silver hair, slightly windswept from the evening air, framed his face in soft waves, and his piercing, ancient eyes—eyes that had seen empires rise and fall—were tired, though not without warmth. His robes, adorned with the symbols of the Grey Havens, were slightly disheveled from a long day’s work, the weight of duty still lingering upon his broad shoulders.
He was halfway into the room before he noticed you. His steps slowed. His keen gaze, accustomed to reading the tides and discerning the wisdom of the ages, took you in with a rare flicker of surprise. For a moment, he simply looked, his lips parting slightly, his normally serene expression shifting to something unreadable. Then, he exhaled, low and steady.
“My heart,” Círdan said at last, his voice deep and resonant, tinged with something softer—something that was reserved only for you. “You are…” His words trailed off, and he stepped closer, his sea-worn hands reaching to brush against the lace at your hip, his fingers reverent as if touching something fragile, sacred. A slow smile, rare and warm, curved his lips. “You surprise me,” he murmured, his voice like the tide—calm on the surface, yet carrying depths unseen. “And yet, I should have known you would.” His touch lingered, tracing patterns over the fabric, his eyes never leaving yours. “Red suits you.”
The compliment was simple, yet the weight behind it sent warmth blooming in your chest. You tilted your head playfully. “Do you approve, my love?” Círdan let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rare but rich. He lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering at the curve of your jaw before trailing down, mapping the shape of you with the slow, deliberate patience of a shipwright admiring his finest work.
“I am an elf of great patience,” he said, his tone thoughtful, teasing. “But I fear you test it most exquisitely.” His other hand settled at your waist, pulling you gently against him. “And after such a long day…” He exhaled, his breath warm against your skin. “You undo me, my beloved.” There, in the quiet sanctuary of your chambers, the weight of the world—the tides of time, the calls of duty, the long years of waiting—fell away. Tonight, the Shipwright had no need of ships or foresight. He needed only you.
🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼
The moon hung high over Mirkwood, its silver glow seeping through the intricately carved windows of Legolas’ bedchambers. The soft rustling of leaves outside and the occasional distant murmur of the night creatures were the only sounds that filled the air. You stood in the center of the room, anticipation humming beneath your skin, wrapped in nothing but delicate red lace that contrasted beautifully against the candlelit glow of the chamber.
Legolas had been gone for hours, tending to his duties as prince, and you knew how much the weight of responsibility could pull at him. He always carried himself with grace, but even he was not immune to exhaustion. Tonight, you wanted to give him something different—something to pull him away from the thoughts of diplomacy and duty.
The moment you heard the faintest footfall outside the door, your heart quickened. The heavy wooden door swung open with a whisper, and there stood Legolas, the very picture of regal elegance. His travel-worn tunic clung to his lean frame, and strands of golden hair had come loose from his warrior’s braids, falling messily around his face. His keen blue eyes, ever so sharp and perceptive, landed on you—and immediately, they widened.
He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness, his usual graceful composure faltering for just a moment as his gaze traveled over you. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply stared, his hands hovering slightly at his sides as if unsure where to reach first. “You seem tired, my love,” you murmured, your voice softer than the candlelight flickering around you. Legolas finally exhaled, his expression shifting from surprised admiration to something deeper—something unreadable yet entirely consuming. “And yet,” he said, his voice barely above a breath, “I feel as though I have been given new life…I’m not as tired now.”
A slow, appreciative smile ghosted over his lips as he stepped closer, one hand finally lifting to touch you. His fingers traced delicately along the lace at your waist, reverent, almost hesitant, as though he feared this was some dream he would wake from too soon. “You are…” He trailed off, searching for the right words, his Elven eloquence failing him for once. He swallowed and tried again, his voice softer now, filled with something unspoken but utterly felt. “Exquisite.”
His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin, and the way he looked at you made warmth spread through your chest. There was something in his gaze—more than desire, more than admiration. It was love, deep and unwavering. “You wear the red of the setting sun,” he murmured, tilting his head as if to study you further. “And yet, you glow as if you are Ithil itself.” His voice carried that Elven poetry, words woven with meaning only he could craft so effortlessly.
You chuckled, leaning into his touch. “I wanted to surprise you.” Legolas let out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, his hands sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer. “You have done more than that, meleth nîn,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss just above your brow before his lips found their way lower, ghosting over your temple, then your cheek, before finally hovering just above your own.
His breath mingled with yours as he whispered, “Shall I show you how much I have missed you?” His lips met yours then, slow at first, savoring the taste of you as though he wished to memorize the moment. His hands, once hesitant, now traced the delicate fabric along your spine, fingers pressing into you as if trying to ground himself in the reality of your presence. The night stretched ahead, long and full of whispered words, gentle caresses, and the quiet hum of love spoken not in Elvish poetry but in the language of touch.
⚔️𝓔𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓷
The flickering glow of candlelight bathed the chamber in a warm, golden hue, casting shadows against the intricately carved wooden walls. The scent of lavender and cedar lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of leather and steel from Elladan’s armor. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its embers glowing like distant stars. You sat perched on the edge of the grand bed, adorned in red lace, the delicate fabric tracing over your skin like whispered promises. The rich color stood in stark contrast against the silken sheets beneath you, catching the low light in a way that made the intricate patterns all the more enticing. The air was thick with anticipation as you awaited his return, a mischievous glint in your eyes.
The sound of boots against the stone corridor sent a shiver of excitement through you. A moment later, the heavy wooden door swung open, revealing Elladan standing in the doorway. His dark hair was tousled from the long day, stray strands falling into his striking grey eyes, which widened the moment they landed on you. His usual air of exhaustion was instantly replaced with something far more primal, far more awake.
His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching before he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate slowness. He remained still for a moment, drinking in the sight of you as if memorizing every detail. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for you immediately. “Well…” His voice, usually laced with teasing amusement, was now thick with something deeper, huskier. “And here I thought I would return to my chambers only to collapse into bed with nothing but exhaustion. It seems you had… other plans.”
You tilted your head, watching him with playful patience, your fingers tracing idly along the lace at your thigh. “You always return home looking so tired,” you murmured, your voice soft yet purposeful. “I thought I might provide a distraction.” Elladan exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took slow, measured steps toward you. His gaze never wavered, fixed on you with an intensity that made your heartbeat quicken. When he finally stood before you, his hands found your waist, fingertips ghosting over the fabric as if testing whether or not you were truly there.
“A distraction, you say?” His voice was lower now, laced with something dangerously affectionate. His hands trailed up your sides, over your ribs, before one slid to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline with exquisite slowness. “You are far more than that. Do you have any idea what you do to me, seeing you like this?” You chuckled, tilting your face up to meet his, reveling in the warmth of his touch. “I was hoping you might show me.”
That was all the invitation he needed. Elladan leaned in, his lips ghosting over your cheek before trailing down to the pulse point at your throat, his breath hot against your skin. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand traced down your back, fingers playing with the delicate lace teasingly. “You are dangerous,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with something between amusement and reverence. “Wicked, even. But I would not have you any other way.”
His lips captured yours in a kiss that was slow yet possessive, a silent promise woven between every movement. His hands explored the lace with agonizing patience, mapping out every inch of the fabric that separated you from him. The tension in his body melted away, exhaustion forgotten as his focus shifted entirely onto you. After a long, lingering kiss, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark with something unspoken. His fingers trailed over your shoulder, toying with the delicate strap of your lingerie.
“You wore this just for me,” he mused, his voice thick with emotion. “How fortunate I am.” His forehead rested against yours for a brief moment, his breath mingling with yours before a smirk tugged at his lips once more. “I do hope you are prepared, my love,” he murmured, voice dripping with mischief. “For I am not nearly as exhausted as I thought.” And with that, Elladan proved just how grateful he truly was.
⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻
The door creaked open, a whisper against the silence of the dimly lit bedchamber. You had waited patiently, anticipation thrumming beneath your skin, listening for the familiar cadence of Elrohir’s footsteps in the corridors beyond. Now, as he entered, the candlelight flickered across his tired yet sharp features, his dark hair still damp from the evening air. His tunic hung loosely over his frame, the weight of the day evident in his posture.
He exhaled softly, pulling his gloves from his hands before running his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t until he turned fully into the room that he finally saw you—standing near the bed, bathed in the golden glow of the fire, clad in nothing but red lace. Elrohir stilled. His sharp Elven eyes, ever watchful, swept over you in slow, deliberate assessment. Surprise flickered first, a momentary widening of his silver-grey gaze, before something darker, something far more primal, took its place. His lips parted slightly, as though words were poised to form, but none came. Instead, his expression shifted—hunger, warmth, possession.
“You,” he finally murmured, voice low and thick like honeyed wine. The single word was laced with exhaustion, yes, but also something deep and aching—longing. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you tilted your head, letting the delicate lace whisper against your skin as you shifted slightly. “A long day?” you mused, your voice smooth, teasing.
Elrohir took a slow step forward, then another, his movements graceful despite the weight of his burdens. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every detail—how the red lace contrasted against your skin, the way it clung to you in all the right places, how the firelight danced in your eyes. When he finally reached you, his hands came up to frame your face, fingers calloused but reverent as they traced along your jaw. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his touch achingly tender despite the intensity in his gaze.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. He let his hands trail down, skimming over your shoulders, your sides, a featherlight touch that sent shivers racing through you. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours even through the thin barrier of lace. “Perhaps I do,” you teased, tilting your chin up in challenge.
A sharp breath left him, almost a laugh, before his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him was intoxicating, his scent—pine, leather, and something distinctly Elrohir—filling your senses. “You are wicked,” he murmured against your ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. “And I have spent all day in duty, in restraint, in patience.” His voice dropped, thick with promise. “Do you intend to test me further?”
Your smirk widened as you traced a teasing path down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch. “Would you prefer I waited for another night?” His answer was immediate. “No,” he growled, hands tightening, his control snapping like a taut bowstring. “Not another moment longer.”
And then, Elrohir claimed you—his lips pressing to yours in a kiss that was both tender and searing, his hands sliding over lace and skin with equal reverence and hunger. Whatever exhaustion had plagued him moments ago was forgotten, burned away in the fire of his need for you. Tonight, you were his sanctuary. His home. And he would worship you as such.
