I absolutely adore the cuteness aggression fic lovely!! They're so adorable ughh😭🩷 Could you do one with Haldir & Lindir as well? Thank you! <3
Thank you! ❤️🫶✨I truly appreciate cuteness aggression as well—it’s like a masterpiece of emotions, both overwhelming and delightful at the same time. 🤣🤌
Haldir, Lindir version below.
🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻
The moment Haldir turned his back, he knew he had made a mistake. He barely had time to register the shift in the air before—oomph—a familiar weight crashed into him. Arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist as you latched onto him with the unwavering determination of a creature unwilling to be dislodged. The force of your jump barely made him stumble—he was too used to this by now, too accustomed to the unpredictability of your affections to be caught off guard for long.
“Valar…” Haldir exhaled, adjusting his stance with practiced ease, as though this were a routine drill he had long since mastered. He sighed, voice tinged with equal parts amusement and resignation. “Again?” You grinned triumphantly, your chin coming to rest against his shoulder as you squeezed tighter, reveling in the warmth of his presence. “Your fault for being too cute,” you murmured, your breath a whisper against the delicate point of his ear. “What am I supposed to do?”
Haldir let out a long, weary sigh, though the slight shake of his head betrayed his amusement. He knew better than to argue. You were relentless in your affections, and by now, he had learned that resistance was not only futile—it was entirely unnecessary. “You are supposed to behave,” he muttered, though his hands instinctively moved to support you, strong fingers bracing against your legs to keep you steady.
He didn’t need to hold you up—you had made it abundantly clear that you weren’t letting go anytime soon—but he did it anyway. Not that you had any intention of letting go. With a contented hum, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, savoring the faint scent of fresh leaves and earth that always seemed to cling to him. Beneath your cheek, you felt the subtle tension in his muscles, the smallest, almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders.
Anyone else might have overlooked it, but you knew Haldir far too well. You knew his composure, the disciplined stillness he carried himself with—but more importantly, you knew the way that composure faltered when it came to you. “I am behaving,” you countered, your voice dripping with mischief as you squeezed him even tighter, arms tightening like a vice around him. “See? I could be tackling you to the ground, but instead, I’m being nice and just hanging here.”
“Hanging,” Haldir repeated flatly, lifting a single silver brow as he flicked his gaze toward the gathered Galadhrim nearby. His warriors, ever disciplined, were doing an admirable job of pretending not to see their Marchwarden being used as a personal tree by his aggressively affectionate lover. Their expressions remained carefully neutral, though he did not miss the subtle twitch of a few lips, the slight tightening of shoulders that suggested barely contained amusement. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” you said smugly, tilting your head so you could watch his profile, “here you are, still carrying me like I’m the most precious thing in all of Arda.” For a moment, Haldir did not respond. He simply stood there, his grip unwavering, his stance steady beneath your weight. His silence stretched between you, long enough that your heart gave a small, uncertain flutter—until, finally, he spoke.
“You are,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, softer. Your breath caught. And just like that, you clung to him even tighter, pressing yourself against him as if you could mold yourself into his very being. If Haldir noticed the way your hold became impossibly more firm, he said nothing. He only adjusted his grip, as if silently promising—I will hold you for as long as you need.
Another version (as this are too fun to write)
Haldir stood with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his posture rigid, his expression the very picture of discipline. Before him, Lady Galadriel listened in serene silence as he delivered his report on border security, her knowing gaze fixed upon him as if she already foresaw every word before it left his lips. To his right, several of his fellow guards stood in quiet attention, nodding along as he detailed the latest patrol routes and areas of concern.
Everything was proceeding as it should—orderly, efficient, utterly without incident. And then, out of nowhere, you happened. A sudden weight crashed against him, arms flinging around his shoulders as a blur of movement erupted at his side. Before he could react, before his brain could so much as process the ambush, your lips were everywhere.
Soft, rapid, aggressive kisses pressed against his cheek, his temple, his jaw—quick and relentless, like a storm of affection raining down upon him. The world froze. The other guards, in a display of truly impressive self-control, kept their gazes fixed firmly ahead, their expressions locked in a disciplined neutrality that could rival statues. They had long since learned not to react when you decided to… express your affections toward their Marchwarden in the most unpredictable and public of ways.
Lady Galadriel, however, was less discreet. Though her lips remained pressed together in composed silence, there was the unmistakable gleam of amusement in her eyes, the barest hint of a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Haldir, for his part, stiffened like a soldier under attack. “Meleth…” he muttered, voice a low, strangled plea as he felt yet another kiss land dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. “Please…”
But you only grinned, utterly unfazed by the rigid tension in his shoulders or the unspoken horror radiating off him in waves. “Please what?” you teased, pressing one final, deliberate kiss against his cheek before pulling back just enough to look at him. Haldir stared at you, his normally composed features betraying the faintest look of exasperation. You could see the battle raging behind his eyes—the instinct to maintain his dignity, to not make a scene, warring against the undeniable fact that you had just tackled him mid-report to smother him with kisses in front of the Lady of Lothlórien herself.
But still, he did not push you away. Instead, he merely exhaled through his nose—long and slow, as if summoning every ounce of patience the Valar had ever bestowed upon him. “You are impossible,” he murmured under his breath. You only beamed at him, pecked his cheek one last time for good measure, then turned on your heel and skipped off as though you had done nothing at all.
Haldir watched you go, his entire body still rigid with residual mortification. He almost allowed himself to believe the ordeal was over—until one of his guards, ever loyal but clearly struggling, subtly cleared his throat and hesitantly murmured, “Marchwarden… your face.” Haldir blinked. “What?” The guard flicked his gaze pointedly toward Haldir’s cheek. Another elf bit his lip. A third one refused to make eye contact entirely.
Dread coiled in Haldir’s stomach. Then, before he could react, Lady Galadriel finally spoke, her voice light, warm—tinged with unmistakable amusement. “I believe,” she said gently, “you have been marked, Haldir.” Marked? Marked? With growing horror, Haldir lifted a hand and touched his cheek. When he pulled it away, faint smudges of red stained his fingertips. Lipstick. (You only put lipstick on bright red to stand out on haldir face.) His breath caught in his throat. His composure shattered like glass.
A deep, vivid flush crept up his neck, painting his usually pale complexion a shade of red that nearly matched the lipstick now adorning his face. By the time realization fully sank in, you were already long gone, giggling to yourself as you disappeared into the trees—leaving your proud, stoic Marchwarden standing there, completely and utterly ruined.
🎻𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓻
The moment you catch sight of Lindir standing still, utterly engrossed in a scroll, you know something must be done. That’s illegal. He is not allowed to be so still in your presence. Standing still? Unacceptable. A playful thrill shoots through you as you lunge forward without hesitation, your hands seizing his before he even has the chance to react. With absolutely no warning, you spin him. Wildly.
The scroll slips from his grasp, forgotten the instant your fingers clasp around his, pulling him into a sudden, dizzying whirl. A sharp gasp escapes his lips, the sound high and startled, his silver eyes widening in shock as his elegant footing stumbles into the sheer chaos of your movement. “Meleth—!” Lindir exhales, his voice breathless, barely managing to catch himself before he fully loses balance. But then— Then comes the laugh.
It is startled at first—a soft, unguarded sound that escapes him before he can stop it. A rare, breathless chuckle, something unrestrained and real, a sound so warm it makes your chest swell with victory. But it lasts only a moment. The laugh quickly turns into a half-groan, half-laugh of protest as you refuse to slow down, twirling him with absolutely no rhythm, no plan—only sheer, unfiltered joy.
“At least let me lead—!” He is trying. Truly, he is. Lindir’s hands instinctively find your waist, his fingers curling around the fabric of your tunic, desperate to regain some level of control. His movements are smooth, practiced—graceful, elegant, proper—despite the absolute lack of coordination on your part. Even as you throw him into utter chaos, he moves with the poise of an elf trained in centuries of music and dance.
He adapts. He guides you effortlessly, despite your unpredictability, his lithe body shifting fluidly, his weight adjusting with precise ease. You feel his grip tighten, his balance solidify. He’s taking control. He twirls you once. Twice. His movements become refined, elegant, structured—turning your whirlwind of chaos into something almost beautiful. For a fleeting moment, it feels like an actual dance. But you? You refuse.
The moment he begins to lead, you dip him like a dip kiss—dramatically lowering him in a grand, theatrical flourish, fully expecting him to move with the effortless grace that elves always seem to possess. Except—You miscalculate. Horribly. Lindir gasps sharply as his balance shifts too far. His fingers grasp at your arms in a desperate attempt to stabilize, but your grip on him is anything but stable.
The world tilts. His footing slips. For a single, fleeting moment, you both realize what is about to happen. But neither of you can stop it. Before either of you can recover— You both crash to the ground in a tangled, unceremonious heap. Lindir lands first. His back slams against the polished stone floor with a heavy, breath-stealing thud. The force of it knocks the air from his lungs, his entire frame tensing from the impact. His dark brown hair spills across the floor in disheveled silver strands, a stark contrast to the pristine elegance he usually maintains.
And then— You topple directly onto him. Another startled oof escapes his lips as your weight collapses over his chest, the breath fully stolen from him now. His arms instinctively tighten around your waist, a reflexive attempt to steady you—to salvage something of this disaster—but it’s far, far too late for that.
Silence. The only sounds that remain are the distant murmur of Rivendell’s waterfalls, the rustle of disturbed fabric, and the faint echo of your shared breathlessness. Then— “Meleth,” Lindir finally breathes, staring at the ceiling with the most exasperated expression you have ever seen.
His chocolate brown eyes blink once. Twice. His chest rises and falls in a slow, measured motion, as if he is still trying to process how exactly this has happened. Again. His delicate brows knit together, his gaze shifting toward you—a look of sheer disbelief etched onto his elegant features. His composure, his dignity, his entire scholarly grace—ruined.
His robes are a crumpled mess, his once-impeccable hair now an unruly halo of silver strands, and the frustration on his face is so pure, so utterly fondly exasperated, that you can barely hold back your laughter. You lift your head from where it has landed against his chest, eyes wide, blinking at him. Then, biting your lip, you grin.
”…That wasn’t my best move, was it?” Lindir finally looks at you. And his expression is one of pure, unfiltered exhaustion. His chocolate brown eyes glint with something unreadable—equal parts fondness and utter exasperation. He is still out of breath. He is still processing. He exhales slowly, his voice flat, utterly unimpressed. “No. No, it was not.” A beat of silence lingers—just long enough for you to catch your breath. Then— You lose it.
The laughter bursts from your chest, uncontrollable, breathless giggles shaking through you as you cling to his robes, pressing your forehead into his chest. And despite everything—despite his aching back, his ruined dignity, and the sheer absurdity of it all—
Lindir laughs too. It starts as a quiet chuckle—a sound of surrender. Then another. And soon, it grows into true, warm laughter, his body shaking beneath yours as he lets go of any attempt to fight it. His arms remain loosely wrapped around you, his head falling back against the floor, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips as if he cannot believe this is his life.
“You are going to be the end of me,” he sighs between laughter, shaking his head. You grin down at him, utterly unrepentant. “But what a wonderful way to go, no?” Lindir exhales another dramatic sigh, as if he wishes to disagree. As if he wishes to resist. But then— His hold around you tightens. And he does not let go.
Another version (as this are too fun to write)
Lindir had fully intended to give you a proper scolding. Truly, he had. Your relentless affections were becoming impossible to control, and while he would never openly admit it, his dignity was in great peril. Not only had you launched yourself onto him in the middle of the library earlier—earning quite a few amused stares from passing scholars—but you had also, for some unfathomable reason, attempted to sweep him off his feet and carry him through the halls of Rivendell as though he were some helpless maiden in need of rescue.
The sheer indignity of it all! And now, here he stood—his arms crossed, his posture impeccably straight, and his expression schooled into what he hoped was a look of quiet authority—while you sat before him, utterly unrepentant, practically radiating smug delight. Lindir inhaled deeply, willing himself to remain composed.
This cannot continue, he thought sternly. I must establish boundaries. I must be firm. I must— “Meleth,” he began, his voice firm but not unkind, determined to maintain control of this conversation. “I truly must insist that you exercise some restraint. This—” he exhaled sharply, collecting himself, “this endless barrage of affection—while… not entirely unpleasant—is entirely inappropriate in certain settings.” He clasped his hands neatly behind his back, his tone measured, logical—a scholar’s precision woven into every word. He had full control of this situation.
Or so he thought. Because the moment he finished speaking, you simply stood, took a single, deliberate step forward—and kissed him. It was swift. A light press of your lips against his, soft and fleeting, but enough to shatter Lindir’s composure entirely. His body locked up, his breath catching in his throat. “Mmph—Meleth—” His protest was feeble at best, cut off as you kissed him again—this time lingering. Your lips pressed more firmly against his, your head tilting just slightly to deepen the contact.
Lindir’s breath hitched. A soft noise—one he would later vehemently deny making—escaped his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to push you away in desperate self-preservation or pull you closer in surrender. He had started this conversation with purpose, with every intention of standing his ground—but what was it he had been saying?
It was hard to think when you tilted your head just so, pressing closer, your lips impossibly soft against his. You, of course, knew exactly what you were doing. Lindir was far too proper, too composed to ever openly admit how easily he melted under your touch. He would sputter, look away, grasp for weak arguments about propriety and decorum—but the moment your lips met his, every carefully constructed defense crumbled into nothing.
And so, you continued. Another kiss. Softer. Slower. Your hands came to rest against his chest, fingers teasingly tracing the intricate embroidery of his robes. The slow, deliberate movement sent shivers through him, his pulse pounding in his ears. Lindir’s breathing turned uneven. This was highly unfair.
You were entirely unfair. “I—Meleth—” he tried again, but his voice betrayed him, coming out far weaker than intended. And then, one final kiss. Deliberate. Lingering. Your lips brushed against his like a whispered promise, like something meant to unravel him completely. And it did. When you pulled away, Lindir felt as though the very foundation of his mind had been shaken. His thoughts were a scattered mess, his lips still tingling from your touch. And you—insufferable, impossible you—were smiling up at him with a twinkle of pure mischief in your eyes.
“You were saying?” you asked sweetly, feigning innocence. Lindir blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. What… had he been saying His ears burned a furious shade of red, his hands clenching at his sides as if trying to physically gather his scattered thoughts and reassemble his dignity. You had won. Again. Lindir huffed, a sharp exhale of sheer exasperation, and turned away swiftly before you could see just how much he was blushing. “You,” he muttered, voice painfully weak, “are utterly impossible.” But you caught the way his fingers twitched, the way his lips parted just slightly, as if he were tempted—aching—to chase yours again. And you knew. You had him.
