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Hello! If I may, could I ask for Legolas, Thranduil, and Elrond with a reader who is a chaotic and slightly mentally unstable scientist? The reader enjoys experimenting with poisons or machinery and often refuses to sleep or take breaks, also the reader hates or despise everything and everyone but appreciates only them. I absolutely adore your writing style and am very fascinated by your work. I apologize if I made any dramatic mistakes; English is not my first language. Have a good day/night.☕

Thank you for your kind words! I’m glad you enjoyed what i write. 🥺❤️‍🔥🫶✨ It’s always a pleasure to help with creating these pieces for you all. Enjoy your day dearies 😘❤️

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Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas Version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The candles on your workbench had long since burned low, their flickering flames casting uneven shadows across the chaotic sprawl of your workspace. The wax dripped in jagged lines down the candlesticks, pooling around their bases like tiny fortresses of neglect. Parchments filled with half-written equations and intricate designs were scattered haphazardly, some crumpled, others curling at the edges from proximity to heat. Jars of ink sat precariously close to one another, their lids askew, while tools of every size and shape cluttered every available surface. The room reeked faintly of ink, scorched metal, and the faint tang of ozone from earlier experiments.

You were consumed. Immersed in your work to the point of oblivion, your fingers moving deftly as if guided by instinct rather than thought. Your quill scratched feverishly against the parchment, and every so often, you reached out blindly for a tool or shifted a piece of machinery on your desk. The ache in your neck had settled into a dull, constant throb, ignored entirely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten—was it this morning? Or yesterday? The concept of time had dissolved into the swirl of your thoughts, your experiments too engrossing to permit distractions like food or rest. The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic scrape of your quill, the occasional clink of metal against metal, and the faint rustle of leaves outside the workshop window. The forest outside was alive, yet distant, its whispering winds and birdsong utterly irrelevant to the furious churn of your mind. Until now.

The door to your workshop swung open with a decisive creak. The sound sliced through the bubble of your focus like a blade, but you didn’t bother to glance up. “Not now,” you snapped, your voice sharp with irritation. “Not now?” The response was smooth, unyielding, and unmistakably familiar. The voice carried a regal authority that sent a jolt of unease through your chest, though you refused to let it show. “You’ve said that every time I’ve come to check on you this week,” Thranduil continued, his words deliberate and edged with frost. “I grow weary of it.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you registered his presence. The weight of his gaze was palpable even without looking at him. Still, you kept your focus on the work before you, refusing to acknowledge the interruption beyond a clipped, “I’m close to finishing this.” You shoved aside a set of broken gears, their clatter muffled by a scattering of parchment, and reached for a thin, carved tool. “I don’t need a lecture,” you muttered, barely managing to keep the annoyance out of your voice. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone colder now, sharper. Something moved at the edge of your vision, and this time, you risked a glance. Thranduil had stepped further into the room, his robes flowing like liquid silver in the dim light. His tall frame seemed to fill the space, though his movements were deceptively quiet. Behind him, shadows flickered in the doorway—silent figures slipping into the room like wraiths. Your eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your tone sharp with suspicion. Thranduil turned his head slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ensuring that you don’t work yourself into an early grave,” he said, his voice calm but unrelenting.

Before you could respond, the elves behind him moved swiftly and deliberately. You barely had time to register what was happening before they began to gather your tools, notes, and half-finished contraptions. It was like watching a gust of wind sweep through the room, leaving only empty spaces in its wake. “Stop!” you barked, rising to your feet. “Put those back!” The elves ignored you, their expressions serene as they continued their task. Rage flared hot and fast in your chest as the realization sank in. “Thranduil!” you hissed, whirling on him, your hands curling into fists. He stood perfectly still, unperturbed by your outburst. His icy blue eyes met yours with infuriating calm, the faint amusement in their depths only fueling your anger. “You’ll find your precious notes scattered throughout the forest,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, as though explaining an unavoidable truth. “If you want them back, you’ll have to retrieve them yourself.” You stared at him, stunned by the audacity. “Perhaps in the process,” he continued, his tone as sharp as the edge of a blade, “you will remember how to breathe.” For a moment, you could hardly speak, your fury choking you. “You—”

But Thranduil was already turning away, his long robes sweeping across the floor as he strode toward the door. He didn’t so much as glance back as he left, leaving you standing alone in your ransacked workshop, the silence ringing in your ears. All at once, the absence of your tools and notes—the absence of your work—hit you like a blow. The hollow pang of disbelief quickly gave way to seething anger, your jaw tightening as you stormed toward the door. You would get everything back. And Thranduil would pay. You stormed into the forest, your chest tight with indignation and your thoughts ablaze with fury. How dare he? How dare he interfere with your work? The audacity of the Elvenking to decide, unbidden, that you needed his meddling. You clenched your fists as you stomped deeper into Greenwood, your boots crunching against the forest floor. The once-familiar paths looked suddenly alien, the towering trees and their sprawling canopies almost oppressive in their grandeur. The air was sharp with the scent of earth and pine, crisp and clean, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising in your chest. You muttered under your breath as you marched on, your eyes darting wildly across the landscape. You scanned the roots of trees and the mossy ground, your gaze flicking upward toward branches heavy with leaves.

The forest seemed alive with its usual symphony—birds trilled from unseen perches, the wind whispered through the treetops, and a distant brook babbled softly—but tonight, those sounds grated against your fraying patience. The tranquility of the Greenwood felt mocking, as though the trees themselves were amused by your plight. You yanked aside a low-hanging branch, its leaves brushing against your face, and froze as something caught your eye. Nestled in the hollow of an ancient oak was the first of your stolen belongings—a wrench, its familiar metal sheen dulled by the shadows of the tree. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you reached for it, tugging it free with an irritated huff. Thranduil’s game was as infuriating as it was calculated. A collection of gears gleamed beneath the crystalline surface of a shallow stream, their polished edges reflecting sunlight like fragments of a shattered mirror. You scowled as you knelt to retrieve them, the icy water biting against your skin. The effort was deliberate, painstaking; it forced you to slow down, to focus on details you might otherwise have ignored.

Further along, scraps of your notes fluttered in the breeze, pinned under stones or lodged between the ridges of tree bark. Each find felt like a small victory, though it came laced with exasperation. His elves had been meticulous, scattering your tools and papers far and wide, leaving you no choice but to scour every inch of the forest. And yet, as you trudged onward, muttering curses at Thranduil under your breath, something began to shift.The cool air brushed against your heated skin, soothing the tension coiled in your chest. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft, dappled patterns, painting the forest floor in golds and greens. The faint scent of pine mingled with the earthy richness of damp soil, grounding you in a way that your workshop’s ink-stained walls never could.

You began to notice things—details that had once seemed inconsequential. The way the moss clung to the knotted roots of an old tree, soft and vibrant beneath your fingers. The dance of sunlight on the rippling surface of a stream. The rhythmic crunch of your footsteps through fallen leaves, steady and grounding. It struck you, somewhere between uncovering a coil of wire tucked beneath a bed of ferns and retrieving a delicate tool balanced on a high branch, that your thoughts were no longer a tangled web of frantic ideas. The restlessness that had driven you to exhaustion was dissipating, replaced by an unfamiliar clarity. The single-minded act of searching calmed the storm in your mind, forcing you to focus on the present moment rather than the chaotic rush of unfinished designs. You hated it. You hated that his absurd, arrogant scheme was working. Hated that, in the absence of your tools and notes, you could feel the weight of the Greenwood pressing gently but firmly against your restless soul. Hated that you found yourself pausing for a moment—not because you were forced to, but because you wanted to. And most of all, you hated the growing suspicion that Thranduil had known this would happen all along.

The final clue led you to a secluded glade, where the air felt impossibly still and the sunlight poured down in golden beams, softening the world into something almost ethereal. The glade itself was breathtaking—ringed by ancient trees whose gnarled roots seemed to cradle the earth itself, their branches stretched high as if reaching for the heavens. And there, beneath the largest and most ancient of the trees, stood Thranduil. His regal form was unmistakable, even in this setting, where the simplicity of the moment seemed at odds with his usual grandeur. Yet somehow, he still seemed larger than life, an embodiment of Greenwood itself. His silvery robes caught the sunlight, their edges shimmering faintly as they shifted with his movements. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, his posture impossibly poised, as though he had been waiting for you all along.

Your gaze shifted, and the sight before him made you pause. A lavish picnic had been laid out on a blanket of rich green fabric, its color blending seamlessly with the grass beneath it. Platters of ripe fruits glistened like jewels in the dappled sunlight—plump berries, golden pears, and pale slices of melon arranged in perfect, artful patterns. Warm, crusty loaves of elven bread rested on a wooden tray, their sweet, nutty scent reaching you even from a distance. And beside it all, a delicate bottle of Dorwinion wine stood, the deep red liquid catching the light as it rested beside two crystal goblets. Your footsteps faltered as you emerged into the clearing, the fury you had carried throughout the day smoldering in your chest. Your hands curled into tight fists as you marched toward him, your boots crushing the soft grass underfoot. “You—”

The word left your lips in a growl, but before you could launch into the tirade that had been building within you all day, Thranduil turned to face you fully. His piercing gaze met yours, and for a moment, the intensity of it froze the words on your tongue. He did not speak immediately, but there was a calm certainty in his posture, in the faint tilt of his head, that told you he was already ten steps ahead of you. With a smooth gesture, he extended one hand toward the picnic. “Sit,” he said, his tone calm yet commanding, each syllable crisp and deliberate. You stared at him, your fury momentarily reignited by his audacity. “You can’t just—” “Sit,” he repeated, his voice firm but still impossibly composed. There was no anger, no frustration, only an unyielding steel beneath the silken tone. Your first instinct was to argue, to fight back against his high-handedness, but the sharpness of his gaze held you in place. Despite yourself, you felt the weight of exhaustion settle over you. The hours of searching, the endless trek through the forest, and the simmering frustration had worn you down in ways you hadn’t fully realized. The ache in your limbs and the emptiness in your stomach suddenly became impossible to ignore.

Your jaw tightened, but the fire of your resistance flickered. With an irritated huff, you lowered yourself onto the blanket, glaring daggers at him as you folded your legs beneath you. You made no move toward the food, your indignation still too fresh. Thranduil sank gracefully onto the other side of the blanket, his movements fluid and unhurried. He reached for the bottle of Dorwinion wine, pouring the deep red liquid into a goblet without so much as a glance in your direction. “Even the brightest minds,” he said, his voice as smooth as the wine he poured, “require nourishment and peace. Your work will still be there tomorrow.” He lifted his gaze, meeting your eyes with a look that was both piercing and soft, a contradiction only he could embody. “But only if you are.”

The words struck a chord you hadn’t been prepared for, though you refused to let it show. Instead, you reached for a slice of bread with deliberate defiance, breaking off a piece and biting into it as though you could spite him with your silence. Warmth bloomed across your tongue—the bread was soft and fresh, its faintly nutty flavor mingling with just a hint of honey. Despite your best efforts, the simple act of eating softened some of the tension coiled within you. You reached next for a handful of berries, their sweetness bursting against your palate in a way that momentarily distracted you from your simmering anger. Thranduil said nothing more as he filled his own goblet and sipped the wine, his gaze steady but not pressing. The silence between you felt deliberate, an unspoken truce that settled over the glade.

You made a point of chewing slowly, each bite deliberate and begrudging, though the food’s warmth and richness worked against your irritation. Your movements began to lose their edge as you sampled more of the fare—melons, pears, bread. Each mouthful eased the weariness in your body, though you refused to admit it.Gradually, the tension in the air began to ebb, replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. The glade felt timeless, untouched by the worries and chaos that had driven you for so long. The golden beams of sunlight seemed warmer now, and the whisper of the forest no longer grated against your frayed nerves.

When you finally glanced back at Thranduil, you caught a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably triumphant. Your irritation flared anew as you realized he had won—he had planned this, orchestrated every detail, and somehow, he had been right. You scowled, tearing off another piece of bread as if it were his smirk you were trying to destroy. But even as you bristled, the warmth of the food and the quiet beauty of the glade worked their way past your defenses. Slowly, against your will, you began to relax. And as the tension ebbed away, you found yourself sinking into the moment—into the stillness, the food, and the rare softness in Thranduil’s sharp demeanor.

The tension ebbed as the meal wore on. The food and the quiet rhythm of the forest softened your anger, and the stillness around you began to seep into your mind. For the first time in days, you allowed yourself to truly rest, leaning back against the base of the tree. When you glanced at Thranduil, you caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “What are you smiling about?” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. He tilted his head, his expression as imperious as ever. “You seem calmer,” he said simply. You scoffed, turning your gaze away. “Don’t think this means you’ve won.” His smirk deepened, and his voice carried the faintest trace of amusement as he replied, “Oh, but I already have.” You opened your mouth to retort but found yourself oddly at peace with his victory, much to your own surprise. Against your better judgment, you let yourself lean back into the comfort of the moment, silently vowing to never let him outmaneuver you again. But deep down, you knew he likely would.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The dim light of evening seeped through the intricate arches of Rivendell’s healing chambers, casting golden hues across the worn stone and polished wood. Inside the cozy lab study, chaos reigned. Books lay sprawled open, their delicate pages dog-eared and ink-smudged, while scrolls were crumpled in haphazard piles. Half-finished experiments glimmered dangerously on the broad stone table, an array of poisons in delicate glass vials and intricate machinery that ticked and whirred with ominous precision. The sharp tang of chemicals clashed with the earthy scent of dried herbs, creating an oppressive atmosphere that suffocated Rivendell’s usual tranquility.

You hunched over your workbench, the fabric of your robes stained with ink and faint burn marks from a misstep days earlier. A pile of scattered notes surrounded you like a fortress, your pen flying furiously across yet another page. Your trembling hands were smudged with soot and ink, but you ignored their protest. The steady, frantic rhythm of your work was fueled by caffeine, raw adrenaline, and sheer stubbornness, your body long past the point of exhaustion. Outside, the day quietly surrendered to dusk, but you didn’t notice. The soft amber light filtering through the windows meant nothing to you, lost as you were in a manic haze of focus and frustration. The room was alive with sound: the bubbling of liquids in alembics, the faint hiss of gas flames beneath burners, the occasional scratch of your pen as you etched more discoveries onto parchment. Even the shelves around you reflected your restless mind—laden with precarious stacks of vials, beakers, and jars, some labeled, many not. The disorder mirrored your state of being, and you thrived in it, or at least you told yourself you did.

The sound of a door creaking open behind you barely registered. You were too absorbed in your work, too immersed in your frantic pursuit of answers, to acknowledge the soft but deliberate footsteps that entered the room. It wasn’t until his calm, steady voice broke through the haze that you even realized you weren’t alone. “You cannot sustain yourself like this.” The words hung in the air, spoken with quiet authority, and yet they grated against you like an unwelcome distraction. You recognized his voice immediately—Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, his presence as commanding as ever despite the gentleness in his tone.

“A mind as brilliant as yours will only falter if you do not allow it rest,” he continued. His words carried concern, but they also held an edge of firmness, as though he’d long since passed the point of tolerating your self-destructive tendencies. You didn’t turn to face him. Instead, your shoulders tensed, and you snapped back at him, your voice sharp with irritation and exhaustion. “Save your wisdom for someone who cares, Lord Elrond. I have work to do.” Your dismissal hung heavy in the room, a deliberate rejection of his intervention. You turned back to your work, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but his steady presence lingered, unshaken by your outburst. From behind you, Elrond’s brow furrowed. Though his expression remained composed, there was a flicker of frustration in his sharp features. Still, he spoke with measured calm, each word deliberate. “This is not wisdom for others. It is for you. You may ignore me, but you cannot ignore the limits of your body.” You scoffed, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder. “Then leave me to those limits,” you muttered, your voice low but defiant. Your focus returned to the vials before you, the glass trembling slightly under your unsteady grip. The words were bitter, a final attempt to push him away.

There was silence then, the weight of your defiance pressing heavily into the space between you. Elrond stood motionless for a moment, his piercing gaze watching the faint tremor in your hands, the dark circles etched beneath your eyes, the signs of your slow unraveling that you refused to acknowledge. But he did not argue further. Without another word, he turned and left the room, his soft footsteps fading into the distant corridors of Rivendell. You exhaled sharply, your hands gripping the edge of the table as you forced yourself to block out his intrusion, returning to the frantic rhythm of your work. Yet, in the quiet that followed, his words lingered, unshakable. The kitchens of Rivendell were as serene as the rest of the elven haven, their polished wooden counters and stone hearths untouched by chaos. Herbs hung from the beams in bundles, their faint, soothing scents mingling with the warmth of the fire crackling in a broad stone hearth. Copper and bronze pots rested neatly on shelves, catching the soft glow of candlelight. The space was quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a waterfall outside.

Elrond moved with purpose, his steps measured and deliberate. He wore the calm air of one accustomed to tending to crises, though his thoughts were heavy with concern. He traced his fingers over the jars of dried herbs lining the shelves, their labels written in the elegant, flowing script of the elves. Lavender, chamomile, valerian root—he selected each with care, gathering the ingredients into his hands like a healer assembling tools of necessity. He placed the herbs onto a wooden counter and reached for a mortar and pestle. As the firelight danced across his calm but focused expression, he crushed the valerian root first, its earthy scent rising as he ground it into a fine powder. Next came the chamomile, its delicate golden flowers crumbling under his steady hand. He added lavender last, its sweet fragrance mingling with the others in a blend carefully measured for its restorative and calming properties. The motions were methodical, almost ritualistic, a testament to the centuries of knowledge and wisdom ingrained in his every action.

From a cupboard, Elrond retrieved a slender vial of a translucent golden liquid, an elven tincture crafted from the blossoms of Rivendell’s most sacred trees. A few drops of this would enhance the tea’s effects, soothing the mind and easing even the most restless of souls. He set a kettle of water to heat over the hearth, the flames licking the bottom of the bronze vessel. While waiting, he retrieved an elegant porcelain teapot, its surface painted with delicate elven runes, and carefully scooped the herbal mixture into its depths. The kettle hissed softly as steam began to rise, and he poured the boiling water over the herbs, watching as they swirled and steeped, releasing their potent aromas.

For a moment, he stood still, the teapot cradled in his hands. His eyes, sharp and ageless, softened as he considered the stormy soul awaiting this remedy. He had witnessed such restless ambition before, the kind that burned too brightly, consuming all in its path. He would not allow you to fall victim to it. The tea steeped to perfection, its rich, calming aroma filling the kitchen. Elrond poured the brew into a small, delicately crafted cup. With the practiced grace of one who had long served as both leader and healer, he lifted the tray, the porcelain set perfectly balanced, and turned toward the corridor that would lead him back to your study. The tea was ready, and so was his quiet resolve.

You thought he had finally given up. After his earlier attempt to lecture you, the silence that followed seemed like victory, allowing you to once again lose yourself in the storm of your work. The scratching of your quill, the bubbling of your vials, and the hum of dangerous energy coursing through your experiments drowned out any sense of time. But the faint creak of the door interrupted the delicate chaos, pulling at the edge of your awareness. You ignored it, convinced he had come to pester you again. Surely, he would leave after realizing he was being dismissed. But his voice cut through the haze of your concentration like a blade, low and firm. “Drink this.” The unexpected command forced you to look up. He stood there, his tall, calm figure silhouetted against the flickering lamplight. In his hand, he held a small cup of steaming liquid, the soft scent of herbs wafting through the air—calming, soothing, far too out of place amidst the sharp tang of chemicals and ink. You frowned deeply, your irritation bubbling to the surface.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” you snapped, turning back to the glowing equations scribbled across your parchment. You reached for a delicate vial, your hands trembling slightly from exhaustion, but you refused to let him see it. “You will make time,” he replied, his tone as unyielding as steel sheathed in silk. “Or I will make you.” His words halted you mid-motion. Slowly, you turned to face him, the exhaustion etched into your features only sharpening your glare. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” you challenged, your voice dripping with defiance.

Elrond’s gaze met yours, unwavering. His eyes, deep and ancient, held a quiet power that seemed to pull the air from the room. “Do not test me,” he said softly, and though his voice remained calm, it carried the weight of centuries. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. The room fell silent, the bubbling of your vials and the faint crackle of the hearth fading into the background. You stared at him, your frayed nerves and stubborn will clashing against the immovable presence of the elven lord. But even you, in your exhaustion, could feel the inevitability of his resolve. The trembling in your hands betrayed you, and the sharp ache in your eyes refused to be ignored.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, you snatched the cup from his outstretched hand. “Fine,” you muttered, your voice dripping with venom. “If it’ll get you to leave me alone.” You tipped the cup back in one swift motion, downing its contents in a single defiant gulp. The warm liquid slid down your throat, and for a moment, you grimaced at its bitter tang. But beneath the bitterness was a faint sweetness, an unexpected comfort that spread through your chest like the warmth of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. You set the empty cup down with a sharp clatter, glaring at him. “There. Satisfied?”

Elrond didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His expression was unreadable, serene as ever, though a faint flicker of something—relief, perhaps—touched his gaze. He didn’t answer you, and the silence only fueled your irritation. But then, as you sat there fuming, something shifted. The edges of your vision blurred ever so slightly, the exhaustion that you had so stubbornly ignored creeping over you like a slow tide. Your hands, once trembling with urgency, grew still. Your thoughts, sharp and chaotic, began to soften, slipping through your grasp like sand. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the weight in your limbs only grew heavier.

“What—” you began, your voice slurred and weak. You tried to sit up straighter, to fight the sudden pull of sleep, but your body betrayed you. “What did you—?” Before you could finish, the world tilted. Darkness swept over you like a gentle wave, and you felt yourself falling. But the impact never came. Instead, strong arms caught you, cradling your body with a care that made the sting of surrender slightly less bitter. “Rest now,” Elrond murmured, his voice low and soothing. Though you tried to muster some retort, some last flicker of defiance, the pull of sleep was too strong. His words followed you into the darkness, a quiet command that even your willpower could not deny. Elrond adjusted his hold on you, his arms steady as he lifted your limp form from the cluttered chair, one arm beneath your knees and the other cradling your back. You barely stirred, your head lolling against his shoulder as the tea’s potent herbs fully took hold. His steps were measured and deliberate as he carried you through the quiet halls of Rivendell, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound against the faint murmur of the distant waterfalls.

The flickering lamplight illuminated his calm features, though his brow furrowed slightly as he glanced down at you. The exhaustion etched into your face, the dark shadows under your eyes, tugged at something deep within him. You had pushed yourself far beyond your limits, and though you would never admit it, you needed care—care that you were too proud or too stubborn to seek. Crossing one of Rivendell’s graceful stone bridges, he paused for a moment, gazing out at the soft glow of the moonlight reflecting off the cascading water below. The air was cool, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers, and he shifted his grip ever so slightly to ensure you remained comfortable.

By the time he reached the spare residence chamber, he moved with the same quiet grace, carefully easing the door open with his shoulder. The room was bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, and he approached the neatly made bed, lowering you onto it with practiced care. You stirred faintly, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you did not wake. Elrond drew the blanket over you, smoothing it with an almost imperceptible sigh. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze lingering on your face, softened now in sleep. “Rest well,” he murmured quietly, his voice barely audible. Then, without another word, he stepped back into the shadows, leaving the room as silently as he had entered.

When you woke, the warmth of sunlight kissed your face, casting golden rays across the unfamiliar chamber. The soft flutter of a curtain swaying in the breeze drew your attention, its delicate fabric glowing in the morning light. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the faint aroma of Rivendell’s flowers—a blend of lilacs and something earthier, subtler, that seemed to soothe the very air you breathed. Blinking groggily, you pushed yourself upright too quickly, and the sudden dizziness made you clutch at the edge of the blanket. “You drugged me,” you croaked, your voice hoarse but laced with indignation. Your gaze, still adjusting to the light, sharpened as it landed on the figure seated near the tall window. Elrond sat composed in a high-backed chair, a leather-bound book resting in his lap. His posture was as straight and elegant as ever, and though his eyes had been fixed on the pages a moment ago, they were now fully focused on you.

“I ensured you slept,” he corrected smoothly, his tone calm and measured as always, though there was a certain weight to his words. “And judging by the color returning to your face, it was long overdue.” The calmness in his voice only deepened your irritation. “You had no right,” you snapped, though the heat in your words faltered as you glanced down at your own hands. They were still now, no longer trembling with the exhaustion and strain of days without rest. The familiar pounding ache in your skull had dulled to a faint thrum, and for a moment, the frustration gave way to an unwelcome realization. He was right.

“I had every right,” Elrond replied evenly, closing his book with a deliberate motion and rising to his full height. The sunlight seemed to catch the silvery threads in his dark hair, making him look all the more regal—and, to your frustration, all the more correct. “If you refuse to care for yourself, someone must do it for you.” His words struck a nerve. You clenched your jaw, but there was no rebuttal you could muster that wouldn’t feel hollow. Instead, you glared at him, though the fire in your expression had already dimmed. He met your gaze without flinching, his calmness unshakable, and for a brief moment, you were reminded of the previous night. The memory of strong arms catching you as the world tilted, of his voice low and steady, came unbidden to your mind.

The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. You wanted to argue, to retake some semblance of control, but the bed was too soft, the sunlight too warm, and your body too weary to fight anymore. With a resigned sigh, you leaned back against the pillows, your fingers absently brushing the soft fabric. “Fine,” you muttered begrudgingly, your voice quieter now, as though the admission tasted bitter on your tongue. “Maybe you had a point.” Elrond’s lips curved ever so slightly, a faint smile softening the sharp lines of his face. There was no gloating in his expression, only quiet satisfaction—perhaps even relief. “Perhaps you’ll listen next time,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. You rolled your eyes, though there was no true venom in the gesture. “Don’t push your luck,” you retorted, folding your arms over your chest like a sulking child.

Elrond didn’t reply, but the quiet amusement in his gaze lingered as he returned to his chair. Settling back into the same composed posture, he reopened his book, the soft rustle of parchment filling the space between you. As you watched him for a moment longer, the irritation in your chest gave way to something far gentler. His presence, steady and unobtrusive, filled the room with an inexplicable sense of peace. Finally, you allowed your head to sink back into the pillows, your eyelids fluttering shut. Just for a moment, you told yourself. Rest didn’t feel so much like a failure this time—it felt like the gift you hadn’t known you needed.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

Legolas, ever calm and graceful, is quite the opposite of the chaos surrounding you. His mind works at a different pace, always in tune with the natural world, attuned to subtle details. His connection to the forest allows him to sense and react to turmoil in a way most others cannot. So when he meets you—a scientist who is consumed by experiments, who refuses to rest and who often spirals into emotional instability—he is bewildered, fascinated, and deeply concerned all at once. At first, Legolas sees the cold precision in your eyes and the fervor in your work, but he’s keenly aware that beneath your sharp focus lies a fragile mental state. He notices how you forgo sleep for days, locked in your experiments, your face marked by exhaustion and obsession. To him, it is a mystery that doesn’t fit well into the natural world he knows so intimately.

Legolas finds it difficult to understand your disregard for your well-being. Elves, even with their long lifespan, are often seen to take the time to savor life, cherishing balance and peace. Your drive for knowledge, particularly in poisons or machinery, contrasts sharply with his tranquil lifestyle. He often finds himself watching you from a distance, perplexed by the way you approach your work—recklessly, but with an eerie genius that he cannot deny. Though he’s initially uncertain of your motives, Legolas is intrigued by your brilliant mind. It doesn’t take him long to see that despite your cold exterior and sharp words, there is something about your presence—your raw brilliance—that draws him to you. Legolas understands that beneath your scornful attitude and dismissive remarks lies a hidden vulnerability.

You’ve been working nonstop for hours—no, days. The boundaries between your experiments and the real world have blurred into one continuous haze of equations, theories, and chemical reactions. Time no longer matters. It is nothing more than a distant, fading concept, slipping away in the whirlpool of your thoughts. Sleep has become a luxury, an indulgence for those who do not have the weight of a breakthrough pressing down on them. Food? Well, that’s an afterthought—an insignificant detail that’s become so far removed from your mind that you hardly remember the last time you ate, let alone what you ate. It seems almost irrelevant, a distraction from the greater goal that sits just within reach. This project, this grand experiment, is your obsession now. It’s all you see, all you think about, and its success—or failure—feels like the only thing that matters in the world. The culmination of weeks of work, testing, and adjusting—it could either define your career or destroy it. And so, you immerse yourself fully, sinking deeper into the vortex of your research, unaware of the toll it’s taking on you. Surrounded by the relentless clinking of glassware, the hum of machinery, and the clutter of papers strewn about like the aftermath of some grand intellectual battle, you are lost in your task. There are formulas written on every surface, scattered notes, crumpled drafts of hypotheses that seem laughable now. Your entire existence is encapsulated in this mess—the lab has become both your sanctuary and your prison, a place where hours slip by unnoticed, unmeasured.

You sit hunched over, your back aching with the strain, fingers stained with ink and the occasional chemical, but none of it seems to register. Your eyes burn, your eyelids heavy, but still, you push forward. You haven’t noticed the growing tension in your shoulders, the stiffness in your neck, or the dull throb in your lower back. You haven’t even noticed how your stomach is starting to protest, sending waves of hunger that grow more insistent, gnawing at your insides. It’s not until an embarrassing growl rumbles from your stomach, louder than the clinking glass or the soft whirring of the lab equipment, that you realize just how badly you’ve neglected yourself. It echoes through the quiet lab, interrupting the rhythm of your thoughts, making you pause in the middle of a delicate calculation. And that’s when you hear it—a quiet, familiar voice from the doorway, breaking the trance you’ve been locked in for so long. “Have you eaten today?” Legolas’s voice is soft, yet it carries with it a sense of quiet concern, the calmness in his tone belying the sharpness of his gaze. He’s standing there, watching you from the threshold, his posture relaxed but his eyes filled with a subtle intensity, like he’s been observing you for longer than you realize.

Without lifting your gaze from the maze of numbers and equations spread out before you, you wave him off with an almost absent gesture, not even registering the tiredness in your own voice as you mutter, “I don’t have time for food.” The words slip out so easily, a reflex born of the obsessive state you’ve settled into. Your mind doesn’t even register the absurdity of your response as your focus remains laser-sharp on the experiment. The hunger, the fatigue—it’s all irrelevant. All you see, all that matters, is the next step, the next piece of the puzzle. Legolas stands still for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of you—the lines of exhaustion etched across your face, the faint tremor in your hands as you shuffle through papers, trying to make sense of the chaos you’ve created. The intensity of your concentration, the way your shoulders are so tightly wound, as if you’re on the edge of snapping. He sees it all, the way your body is beginning to betray you, but you don’t seem to notice.

It’s then that he observes how you pull a fresh sheet of paper from the stack, your fingers trembling just slightly, betraying the toll that this relentless focus has taken on you. Your eyes, bloodshot and strained, flick across the page, calculating, measuring, adjusting. There’s no room for anything else in your world, not even your own well-being. A quiet sigh escapes him, almost inaudible, but it’s enough to signal a shift in his mind. Something shifts in his gaze, and in that moment, an idea forms—a plan. He knows you too well. And if he has to drag you away from this obsessive spiral, even for just a moment, he will.

The next day, when you’re once again completely submerged in your work, unaware of the world outside your lab, Legolas decides it’s time to intervene. The soft hum of the machinery and the rustle of papers fill the air as you move from one equation to the next, your eyes never straying from the mess of calculations that have taken over your desk. The hours have become an indistinguishable blur, and your sense of time has long since faded into the background. Every inch of the space is dedicated to your experiment—papers scattered, glassware filled with colorful liquids, half-finished models, and scribbled notes covering every available surface.

But Legolas is no stranger to patience. He knows you are too deep in your work to even notice him now, not until it’s too late. He waits, watching for that perfect moment—when your back is turned, and your attention is entirely consumed by the puzzle in front of you. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the subtle signs of weariness beneath your focused gaze, and he knows that no matter how important your project is, you’ve reached a point where even you can’t function without a break. But of course, you would never admit it. With the silent grace of an elf, Legolas slips into the room, barely making a sound. His movements are fluid, practiced—he’s like a shadow in the corners of your mind, unnoticed as you continue to pour your energy into the experiment before you. He takes in the scene: the mess of papers strewn across the table, the cluttered counter covered in empty cups of cold coffee, the way your focus is so intense that you haven’t even acknowledged the growing darkness outside the windows.

He glances at your tools, each one carefully placed in its spot, each piece vital to your experiment. The precision of your setup is admirable, but Legolas knows better than to touch any of it. Messing with the actual work would be madness, and he knows it would only set you off. No, he’s not here to interfere with your research itself—he’s here to remind you of something that’s been long forgotten: the need to care for yourself. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he surveys the spread of snacks he brought along, carefully selected to tempt you—fruits, cheeses, assorted nuts, dried figs, and decadent pastries—things you’ve often mentioned craving during your late-night lab sessions, when your mind wanders to things other than work. The bounty of treats, so carefully chosen, seems almost mischievous in their abundance. Without a single sound, Legolas begins to work his plan. First, he moves your precious tools—one by one—carefully lifting each instrument and placing it under a growing pile of snacks. A handful of dried apricots here, a wedge of cheese there. A small pile of fresh grapes beside a measuring tool. The intricate set of tweezers, now buried beneath a stack of flaky pastries that, with their golden crusts, seem to beckon to you with their promise of indulgence.

As he works, the spread of food slowly grows into a mountain, each pile placed with intention. The snacks, once carefully arranged and colorful, begin to obscure the once-tidy counters, taking over the space in a vibrant display of abundance. You won’t be able to ignore this when you see it. You won’t be able to miss the pile of food mocking your focus. Only one thing remains untouched, sitting in the center of the chaos: a small, crucial piece of equipment—your vital component. It’s a delicate instrument, one that you’ve mentioned countless times in your calculations as the key to making everything work. Legolas has left it exposed, carefully placed in the middle of the snack-filled chaos as a subtle reminder that your experiment, while important, cannot function without balance. Without food. Without rest.

Satisfied with his work, Legolas steps back, his smirk widening. The lab now looks like a strange, confusing mess of delectable distractions. The tools you rely on are buried beneath mountains of food, and all that remains visible is the one piece you will need to continue. He stands silently in the doorway for a moment, watching the scene, content with his intervention. It’s a clever plan, a subtle nudge that you’ll surely feel the moment you enter the room. The food will tempt you, frustrate you, maybe even infuriate you. But it will be enough to break your focus, to pull you away from your work, even if just for a moment. With a final glance at the absurdity of the setup, Legolas slips back into the hallway, his quiet footsteps echoing in the silence of the lab as he waits for the inevitable explosion of confusion and frustration to come.

When you finally return to your lab, you pause at the doorway, your mind still consumed with the complex calculations and delicate experiments you’ve been absorbed in for days. The familiar hum of the equipment and the clutter of papers greet you, but then something feels… off. A strange, jarring sight stops you cold. Your tools—the carefully arranged instruments that were once your lifeblood—are nowhere to be found. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes scan the room, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Where your tools should be, there is nothing but a massive mound of snacks. Pastries, fruits, cheeses, nuts, and other treats lie piled high, covering your workspace in a chaotic heap. The pastries, golden-brown and flaky, seem to almost mock you with their perfect, untouched appearance. The fruits gleam brightly under the dim light of the lab, their smooth, vibrant surfaces almost daring you to notice the irony—how you’ve ignored them, just as you’ve ignored the needs of your own body in favor of your work. The entire scene feels like some sort of cruel joke, a twisted riddle you can’t quite solve.

A rush of confusion floods over you, followed quickly by a rising tide of frustration. Your mouth goes dry as you stare, helpless, at the absurdity before you. What is this? You can’t comprehend it at first. “What… What is this?” you exclaim, your voice rising in disbelief. You take a step forward, eyes wide, feeling your stomach twist in protest as the hunger you’ve so willfully ignored becomes painfully evident. There’s no sign of your tools. No sign of the precious instruments you’d spent hours assembling and calibrating. Where are they? You feel your pulse quicken, the frustration turning into a sharp spike of panic. Your hands fly to your hair as you whirl around the room, scanning frantically for any sign of your tools, but all you find are layers of food—doughy croissants, tangy cheeses, and salted nuts—mocking you, teasing you for your obsession with your work. “Where are my tools?” you demand, your voice sharp with irritation, each word laced with the growing anger that simmers beneath the surface. “This—this nonsense! Who did this?” Your voice rises even further, your eyes flicking to the door, where you half-expect to see one of your colleagues standing, grinning like a mischievous imp. But no one is there—except for him.

Legolas. He Leaning casually against the doorframe, as calm and composed as ever, is the elf. His arms are crossed in a way that is almost effortless, his expression unreadable but for the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’s watching you with a cool, collected gaze, taking in the scene before him with an air of detached amusement. It’s as if he’s entirely unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him. You lock eyes with him, your frustration growing. “Did you do this?” you demand, your voice trembling slightly with a mixture of anger and incredulity. Your hands push aside pastries, fruit, and cheese in a frantic rush, desperate to uncover the missing tools. You’ve already ruined the neatness of the lab in your search, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except finding the instruments you need.

Legolas takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his movements as fluid and graceful as always. His voice is smooth, calm, and almost… knowing. “Perhaps,” he begins, his tone casual yet undeniably filled with the hint of something deeper, something that speaks to an understanding you can’t ignore, “you need sustenance to better fuel your genius.” You stop, momentarily stunned into silence. Did he just say that? You blink, mouth slightly agape, struggling to process what he’s just uttered. He’s standing there, watching you dig through layers of food with an amused expression, completely unphased by your disarray. His words hang in the air like a challenge, his smile betraying nothing but confidence.

It’s in that moment that you feel a wave of frustration build inside you—frustration with him, with the situation, and with yourself. The urge to hurl something at him is almost overwhelming. You contemplate grabbing a handful of cheese and throwing it straight at his infuriatingly perfect face. But then your stomach growls—loudly. The sound is impossible to ignore, even louder than your growing irritation. You hesitate, feeling your anger ebb just a little as the reality of your situation dawns on you. You’re starving. You haven’t eaten in hours—maybe longer—and your body is beginning to revolt against the neglect. A sinking feeling spreads through you, and you can’t deny it any longer. As much as you want to shout at Legolas for interrupting your work, for turning your lab into a ridiculous food buffet, deep down, you understand what he’s doing. You begrudgingly acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, there’s some twisted logic to his “tactic.”

You take a deep, controlled breath, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling in your chest. You look around, the mound of food surrounding you like an insurmountable wall. Finally, with a resigned sigh, you grab a pastry from the pile, your fingers brushing against the flaky, warm surface. You lift it to your lips, still eyeing Legolas, and after a moment’s hesitation, you take a small bite. The sweetness of the pastry hits your tongue, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to savor the simple pleasure of eating. As you chew, your gaze remains fixed on Legolas. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes seem to hold a quiet satisfaction, as though he’s achieved something. You almost want to scowl at him—want to stay angry for the inconvenience—but the truth is, you can’t. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you swallow the bite, feeling a warmth spread through your body that you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, the words coming out muffled by the pastry in your mouth. But even as you say it, a small, reluctant chuckle escapes you. You can’t help but appreciate the ingenuity of his plan, even if it’s entirely infuriating. For once, you’ve been forced to take a break, to step away from your work. You almost… needed it. Legolas watches you for a moment, his gaze steady and thoughtful, before he speaks again, his tone as light as ever. “I’ll leave you to your work, then,” he says, as if the destruction of your lab doesn’t even phase him. “But I would suggest at least a few more bites before you dive back in.”

With that, he turns to leave, his quiet steps barely audible as he exits the room. You stand there for a moment longer, still holding the remnants of the pastry in your hand, shaking your head in exasperation. There’s no denying the satisfaction that lingers in your chest—although you’ll never admit it out loud, Legolas has gotten through to you in his own clever, infuriating way. The Great Snack Heist may have been a nuisance, but it was also, in some twisted way, brilliant. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he might just have a point. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll let him do it again. Just not too soon.

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