ETAGLANN

HEADCANNONS:

LOTR &THE HOBBIT-

REACTION TO YOU BEING INJURED-(KILI, FILI, LINDIR, ELROND)

YOU WORRYING ABOUT THEM-(FEREN, GALION, ELROS, MELUDIR)

CLUMSY READER-(HALDIR, LEGOLAS, TAURIEL, FARAMIR)

INSECURE READER-(ARAGORN, KILI, FILI, THORIN, BOROMIR, FARAMIR, LEGOLAS)

GUARD READER-(THRANDUIL, ELROND, CELEBORN)

READER TROUBLE EXPRESSING THEMSELVES-(LEGOLAS, THRANDUIL, LINDIR, ELROND)

READER WHO HAS TROUBLE WALKING-(ELROND, THRANDUIL, ARAGORN)

SCARY AND STRONG-(ELROND, GLORFINDEL, THRANDUIL)

HEAVY MOMENTS-(THRANDUIL, ELROND, LEGOLAS, GALADRIEL)

SAVIOR-(THRANDUIL, ELROND, LEGOLAS)

ACCIDENTAL GUILT-(LEGOLAS, THRANDUIL, ELROND, HALDIR, KILI)

CALLING THEM CUTE-(LEGOLAS, HALDIR, ELROND)

BALDURS GATE 3

QUIET MOMENTS-(ASTARION, GALE, SHADOWHEART, KARLACH)

DOMESTICITY-(ASTARION, GALE, SHADOWHEART, LAE’ZEL, KARLACH, WYLL, HALSIN)

FIGHTERS GRAVITY-(GALE, ASTARION, SHADOWHEART)

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN-(ASTARION, GALE, KARLACH, LAE'ZEL, WYLL, SHADOWHEART)

INDIVIDUAL-

Legolas-

Gale-

Gale realizes very early on that you’re incapable of resisting the urge to steal things purely for your own amusement. Not expensive things, either —which somehow makes it worse. Over the course of the journey, he loses a singular glove, two fountain pens, an earring he swears he left beside his bedroll, and, most mysteriously of all, an entire wheel of cheese. He spends days trying to solve the mystery with the same intensity he’d apply to deciphering ancient magic. You let him suffer through it right up until he dramatically announces to camp that “an intellectual battle is clearly underway.” That night, you sneak into his tent intending to return the missing earring before he loses his mind completely, only to freeze when Gale speaks from the darkness. “You know,” he says calmly, “most.. thieves try not to get caught.”-

whipping around so fast you nearly stab him out of reflex. Gale- unfortunately for you....finds this hilarious.

Instead of being angry, he becomes curious. Very curious. Suddenly he’s asking questions about lockpicking techniques while you’re picking through whatever breakfast you've scrounged up. He watches your hands, so closely your sure he's about to burn holes into them whenever you shuffle cards or flip a dagger between your fingers. One evening, he even insists you teach him “the fundamentals of subtle theft,” despite the fact he has absolutely no natural talent for it whatsoever. You sit cross-legged beside him for over an hour trying to teach him how to palm a coin without dropping it. His fingers brush yours constantly as you reposition his hands, and every failure earns another deeply offended sigh from him.

“This is absurd-” Gale mutters after the coin clatters onto the ground once again. “I can manipulate the Weave itself- yet this tiny silver disc...defeats me.”

Your laugh sputters out of you so hard you nearly tip backward off the log you’re sitting on. Gale catches your wrist automatically before you can fall, steadying you with a hand warm against your skin. The laughter fades slower than it should. His thumb brushes lightly against the inside of your wrist before he seems to realize he’s still holding it.

The two of you stare at each other for one dangerously quiet second.

Then you grin. “Want me to teach you how to pick pockets next?”

He lets out a soft, helpless laugh and shakes his head. “Gods help me, I think you already have.”

Astarion-

The rivalry between you and Astarion becomes the single most annoying thing in camp according to literally everyone else. It starts small— little contests over who can unlock doors faster or swipe supplies without getting caught. Then it escalates. Suddenly you’re stealing each other’s belongings just to prove a point. Astarion wakes up one morning to find every buckle missing from his armor. In retaliation, he steals your favorite dagger and spends the entire day twirling it smugly between his fingers whenever you look at him.

Shadowheart threatens bodily harm within the week.

The worst part is how much fun the two of you are having. There’s an easy understanding between you whenever you work together — the kind built on quick reflexes and mutual bad decisions. During jobs, you move around each other effortlessly, covering blind spots without speaking, exchanging knowing looks across crowded rooms. The flirting slips naturally into it all, sharp and playful and constant.

One evening in Baldur’s Gate, the two of you end up cornered in a narrow alley after a theft goes slightly sideways. Astarion has one hand braced against the wall beside your head while both of you try not to laugh loudly enough to give yourselves away. “Well,” he whispers, breathless with amusement, “that could have gone better.”

“You were the one who insulted the guard.”

“I was being...charming.”

“You called him ‘architecturally unfortunate.’”

Astarion snorts softly, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Gods, he’s close. Close enough for you to feel the cold brush of his rings when his fingers briefly catch your wrist. The teasing slowly quiets after that, slipping into something softer without either of you acknowledging it. His gaze flicks toward your mouth for half a second too long.

Then, because neither of you can handle sincerity for more than three consecutive seconds, you smoothly pull his stolen dagger from inside your sleeve.

Astarion stares at it in betrayal. “You absolute menace.”

You grin. “Too slow.”

He laughs then— genuine, bright, beautiful, before leaning in just enough for his forehead to briefly rest against yours. “I’m going to kiss you eventually,” he murmurs. “Possibly just to stop you talking.”

Shadowheart-

Shadowheart pretends your rogue habits are deeply irritating, but she’s suspiciously tolerant of them compared to everyone else. She complains every time you vanish mid-conversation only to reappear directly behind her five minutes later, yet she’s stopped reaching for her weapon when you do it....Mostly.

One night at camp, you sneak up behind her while she’s reading beside the fire and whisper dramatically, “Hand over your valuables and nobody gets hurt.”

Without even glancing up from her book, Shadowheart drops a small pouch of coins into your lap. “There. Buy yourself better hobbies.”

You stare at her, scandalized. “You prepared for this?”

“I’ve been traveling with you long enough to adapt.”

The smug little smile she gives you afterward nearly kills you on the spot.

Despite the teasing, there’s something strangely comforting about being around her. Shadowheart understands guarded people better than most, even if neither of you says it aloud. She notices the way your hands always hover near your weapons when strangers get too close. Notices how lightly you sleep. Notices the moments you instinctively reach for exits in crowded spaces. She never pushes too hard about it, though. Just stays near.

Later that same evening, after everyone else has gone to sleep, the two of you remain by the dying fire trading quiet insults back and forth. At some point you end up shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a shared blanket because the night air turned colder without either of you acknowledging it.

“You know,” Shadowheart murmurs eventually, gaze fixed on the stars overhead, “for someone so good at stealing things, you’re remarkably obvious sometimes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Her eyes flick toward you briefly, softer now than they usually are. “You look at people like you’re waiting for them to leave.”

The comment hits far too close to home. You go quiet. For once, Shadowheart doesn’t tease you about it. Instead, her hand slowly brushes against yours beneath the blanket, hesitant enough to give you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Her fingers curl carefully with yours, and the tiny smile she hides against your shoulder afterward feels more precious than anything you’ve ever stolen.

Karlach-

Karlach loves your stealth skills with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a very cool magic trick for the first time. Unfortunately, she has absolutely no ability to participate in stealth herself. None. You spend an entire afternoon trying to teach her how to move quietly before an infiltration mission. Karlach listens with complete seriousness too, nodding along while crouched behind a tree like she’s preparing for the world’s loudest assassination.

“Step lightly,” you whisper. “Careful foot placement. Controlled breathing.”

Karlach nods solemnly. “Got it.”

Five minutes later she accidentally shoulder-checks a suit of armor hard enough to send it crashing down an entire staircase.

The mission devolves immediately after that. Guards start shouting, Karlach yells “SHIT!,” and suddenly the two of you are sprinting through corridors trying not to laugh yourselves sick. At one point she grabs you around the waist and throws you over her shoulder so she can run faster while you protest loudly the entire time.

“This is kidnapping!”

“This is teamwork!”

By the time you finally escape onto a rooftop overlooking the city, both of you are completely breathless. Karlach collapses beside you, laughing so hard tears gather in the corners of her eyes. You can’t help laughing too, even while shoving weakly at her shoulder for ruining the plan within seconds.

“Hey,” Karlach says eventually, grin softening as she looks at you. “You still brought me with you, though.”

There’s something quieter beneath the teasing now. Something warm.

You glance over at her. “You make terrible decisions.”

“Yeah,” Karlach replies easily, nudging her knee against yours. “But I make them with confidence.”

You snort. She beams at you like that was the funniest thing anyone’s ever said. Then, after a small pause, Karlach’s expression softens further. Carefully— almost shy despite her size, she reaches over and hooks a finger through yours.

The gesture is so gentle compared to everything else about her that it catches you completely off guard.

Karlach notices your expression immediately and laughs under her breath. “Aw, look at you,” she murmurs fondly. “Got all flustered. Cute.”

Legolas-

Legolas genuinely thinks you are making fun of him the first time you call him cute. He’s sitting across from you near the campfire, carefully restringing his bow with the sort of effortless grace that makes people stare without meaning to, and you —entirely distracted by the way his tongue briefly peeks out in concentration you take a breath in and before you can stop yourself you let out your first thought, “You’re actually really cute.” His hands stop mid-motion. Slowly, very slowly, he lifts his head. “Cute,” he repeats, like the word itself has personally offended him. You nod without a trace of shame. “Very.” He stares at you for a long moment, clearly waiting for the punchline that never comes. Legolas has been admired his entire life; praised for beauty, skill, elegance, nobility. Entire courts have probably composed poetry about him. But this? This warm, terribly human sort of affection that makes you smile at him like he’s something lovable instead of untouchable? He has absolutely no defense against it.

The worst part, for him, is that you keep doing it. Every time he shows softness without realizing it, the word slips out before you can help yourself. When he kneels to comfort a frightened horse after battle, gently smoothing its mane while murmuring in Elvish, you nearly melt. “That’s adorable.” Legolas closes his eyes briefly as if summoning patience from the Valar themselves. “I am attempting to calm the animal.” “And you’re being precious about it.” He gives you a look that should probably feel intimidating, but the faint pink beginning to creep across the tips of his ears ruins the effect entirely. After that, you start noticing the signs every time he gets flustered, the way he suddenly becomes very interested in adjusting his knives, or how his voice goes quieter whenever you smile too fondly at him.

One night, long after the others have fallen asleep, you find him sitting beneath the trees watching the stars through the canopy. The silver moonlight catches in his hair, making him look almost unreal. You settle beside him quietly, shoulder brushing his. “You know,” you murmur, “you act all serious, but you’re secretly the cutest person I’ve ever met.” Legolas lets out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “You continue to use that word as though you wish to torment me.” “Maybe I just like seeing you blush.” He turns his head then, pale eyes catching yours, and the fondness in them is so open it nearly steals your breath away. “Cruel creature,” he murmurs, though there’s no heat behind it at all. Then, after the smallest hesitation, he leans closer until his temple rests lightly against yours. “Though I confess,” he says quietly, “I find... I do not dislike hearing it from you.”

Haldir-

Haldir reacts to being called adorable like you’ve just deeply insulted generations of Elven dignity. The first time it happens, he’s escorting you through the woods of Lórien with his usual stern composure, sharp-eyed and graceful as moonlight through trees. He looks untouchable —right up until he pauses mid-sentence to carefully move a spiderweb out of your path so you won’t walk into it. The gesture is so gentle, so quietly thoughtful, that you stare at him for a second before smiling helplessly. “You’re kind of adorable; you know that?” Haldir stops walking entirely. Slowly, he turns to look at you with the expression of a man who has just suffered a psychic attack. “Adorable,” he repeats flatly. “Mhm.” “I am a March warden of Lórien.” a beat before you respond with a sentence that acts as a flag on top of a hill “.....And a very cute one.” The silence afterward is so profound that even the birds seem uncomfortable.

From then on, you accidentally make his life impossible. The problem is that once you notice how soft he actually is beneath all that intimidating composure, you cannot stop noticing it. The way he automatically reaches to steady you when the path gets uneven. How he quietly gives you the warmer blanket during cold nights without acknowledging it afterward. The tiny, almost embarrassed smile he gets whenever you laugh particularly hard at one of his dry comments. Every single time you point these things out, he looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. “You're smiling again,” you tell him one evening while sitting together near the talan ladder. Haldir immediately smooths his expression into neutrality. “No, I am not.” “There! You just did it again. That little smile.” “I do not have a ‘little smile.’” “You do when you’re flustered.” He folds his arms tightly, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “I have survived Orc attacks with greater ease than these conversations.”

But eventually, beneath all the embarrassment and long-suffering sighs, you begin catching moments where he almost seems to crave it. One afternoon you find him repairing a tear in your cloak with surprising care, long fingers moving delicately through the fabric. You watch quietly for a moment before your chest aches with affection. “You’re precious,” you say softly. Haldir stills instantly. This time, though, he does not argue. His eyes lift slowly to yours, and something vulnerable flickers there so briefly you almost miss it. “No one has ever spoken to me this way before,” he admits, voice quieter than usual. Your expression softens immediately. “That’s a shame.” For a moment he simply looks at you, all that practiced composure slipping just enough for you to see the tenderness underneath. Then he exhales softly through his nose, shaking his head as though you are an impossible thing he no longer wishes to resist. “You are troublesome,” he murmurs, but his hand slides over yours and stays there long after the conversation ends.

Elrond-

Elrond discovers quite suddenly that he is entirely unequipped to handle affectionate teasing from someone he loves. Flirtation, yes — he can manage that effortlessly. He’s elegant, composed, devastatingly charming when he chooses to be. But one sincere little “you’re adorable” and centuries of dignity begin collapsing immediately. It happens late one evening in his library after you find him asleep in his chair, a book half-open against his chest and his spectacles sliding precariously down his nose. For a long moment you simply stand there staring because there is something unbearably endearing about seeing someone so wise and revered look so human in exhaustion. Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out in a whisper. “Oh, that’s precious.” Elrond’s eyes open instantly. You jump in surprise while he blinks up at you with sleepy confusion that only makes things worse. “Did you just call me precious?” he asks carefully. You try very hard not to laugh. “Maybe.” “I am Lord of Rivendell.” “And currently very adorable.”

The deep sigh he lets out afterward is one of quiet resignation. Still, you notice the faint color rising along his cheeks as he removes his glasses and sets them aside with deliberate dignity. “This is not generally how I am described,” he informs you. “Well, everyone else is wrong.” Elrond gives you a look that is clearly meant to regain control of the conversation, but it fails completely when you smile at him with open fondness. Because that is the real problem: you do not look at him with reverence. You look at him gently. Like he is someone safe to love instead of someone ancient and distant. And Elrond, who has spent so long being wise and composed for everyone else, finds himself quietly unraveling under the warmth of it.

After that, it becomes almost unfair how easily you fluster him. You call him cute when he gets excited explaining ancient histories and starts gesturing with his hands. You call him adorable when he forgets where he left a book despite insisting he has an excellent memory. Once, after catching him carefully tending a small injury on your hand with absurd concentration, you smile so fondly he immediately becomes suspicious. “What?” he asks. “Nothing.” “You are thinking something.” “Just that you’re very sweet.” Elrond narrows his eyes slightly. “That expression is always followed by emotional devastation for me.” You burst into laughter while he tries unsuccessfully to remain stern. But eventually he reaches for your hand anyway, thumb brushing gently across your knuckles as his expression softens into something helplessly affectionate. “You have made me unbearably indulgent,” he murmurs. “Good,” you whisper back. “You deserve to be adored a little.” And the look he gives you afterward is so tender it nearly hurts.

y'all I powered through. don't say I never did anything for y'all

Legolas-

The arrow flew before Legolas realized you had stepped into the clearing. One moment his bowstring was drawn, the next the shot had already been released. It struck your shoulder instead of the target. The sound you made made his heart stop. Legolas was beside you in an instant, bow forgotten in the grass as he caught you before you could fall. His hands hovered for a moment, almost afraid to touch the wound he had caused. “I did not see you,” he whispered, voice strained with guilt. Carefully he pressed cloth to the bleeding, his normally steady composure shaken. “I have faced countless enemies without hesitation, yet the thought that I might harm you…” He swallowed hard, gently brushing hair from your face. “Forgive me. I would sooner break this bow forever than see you hurt by it again.”

Haldir-

During training in the woods of Lothlórien, your blade clashed with Haldir’s. He moved swiftly to disarm you, but the maneuver twisted your wrist too sharply. The small cry that escaped you made him release you immediately. Silence fell between you as he stared at your hand, his calm expression tightening with regret. Haldir stepped closer, gently taking your wrist in both of his hands as though it were something fragile. “I used too much force,” he said quietly. His fingers brushed the swelling carefully, already reaching for herbs from his belt pouch. “You place your trust in me when we train… I should never forget that.” His voice softened further as he wrapped the cloth around your wrist. “I will be more mindful. Of you.”

Kili-

You had barely finished laughing at Kíli’s joke when his dagger spun playfully through his fingers. The hilt slipped and struck your arm with a dull thud. The laughter died instantly. Kíli stared at you in horror before dropping the blade entirely. “Durin’s beard—! Are you alright?” He rushed forward, grabbing your arm before you could even answer. His usual bright confidence was gone, replaced by frantic worry as he inspected the forming bruise. “I was only showing off,” he muttered angrily at himself. “Stupid trick…” For the rest of the afternoon he refused to leave your side, bringing water, food, anything he thought might help. Every few minutes he glanced at your arm again, guilt flickering across his face. “Next time,” he said softly, “remind me I’m not allowed to juggle weapons around you.”

Elrond-

The horse shifted suddenly beneath you as Elrond helped you mount in the courtyards of Rivendell. Your foot slipped and you struck your shoulder against the saddle. Before you could react, Elrond had already steadied you, strong hands guiding you safely back to the ground. Concern darkened his eyes as he examined your shoulder. “Forgive me,” he murmured, voice calm but clearly troubled. “I should have anticipated the horse’s movement.” Though the injury was minor, he insisted on treating it himself, his touch precise and gentle as he applied a healing salve. Even after the pain faded, he remained beside you longer than necessary, speaking softly and watching you carefully, as though ensuring his mistake had not caused deeper harm.

Thranduil-

In the halls of Mirkwood, a sudden commotion among the guards made Thranduil pull you sharply aside to keep you from the path of rushing soldiers. His grip tightened more than he intended, and you flinched. The king released you immediately. For a moment the court fell silent as his gaze dropped to the faint marks forming on your wrist. “Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly. Though his voice remained composed before the others, something in his eyes had changed. With a brief gesture he dismissed the court entirely. When the hall had emptied, he stepped closer again, his touch now far gentler as he examined your wrist. “My strength is not always suited for gentleness,” he admitted softly. “Yet with you… I should remember to try.”

Astarion

The dagger left Astarion’s hand with perfect aim, until the bandit lurched forward at the last second. The blade clipped your side instead. You gasped. The sound made him spin instantly. “What—?” His eyes dropped to the spreading red on your tunic and the little color he had drained from his face. “Oh hells… I didn’t—”

He was beside you in seconds, catching your arm before your knees could give out. For once there was no teasing remark waiting on his tongue. Only worry.

“Stay still,” he murmured, pressing a cloth to the wound. His hands were steady, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“I’ve been stabbed before,” you tried to joke weakly.

“Yes, well, I’d prefer not to be the one responsible,” he shot back quickly. Then quieter, almost reluctantly, “I’ve spent two centuries surrounded by monsters. You’re the one good thing I’ve managed to find.”

Once the bleeding slowed, his thumb brushed gently against your wrist “Next time,” he said softly, eyes meeting yours, “try not to stand between me and my targets.” After a pause, he added with a faint, fond smile, “…or I might start thinking you’re important to me.”

Gale-

“Now, theoretically,” Gale began, raising a glowing hand, “this spell should behave perfectly.” The weave on the other hand had other ideas. in a twisted sense of humor way the arcane surge cracked outward like lightning, snapping across your arm before the magic dispersed.

You yelped.

Gale froze mid-cast. “Oh no.”

He rushed to you immediately, eyes wide with alarm. “That—was absolutely not part of the theoretical model.” His hands hovered uncertainly before gently taking your arm, examining the burn with deep concern.

“Let’s see… minor arcane backlash, slight energy discharge—nothing permanent, thank Mystra.” His fingers glowed softly as he channeled a careful healing spell. The sting faded quickly. Gale let out a relieved breath, shoulders relaxing as he finished the incantation.

“I do apologize,” he said sincerely. “It seems my enthusiasm occasionally outruns my caution.” You smiled at him.

He returned the look, softer now.

“For what it’s worth...” he added gently, “if I must test dangerous magic… I’m rather glad you’re the one who stays by my side anyway......still maybe we try this with you further way next time, yeah?"

Wyll-

The demon lunged faster than Wyll expected. He stepped forward to meet it, blade flashing—but the fiend twisted at the last moment. His strike still landed… just not where he intended.

Your cry cut through the clash of steel.

Wyll’s heart dropped.

He turned instantly, horror flooding his face as he saw the shallow cut along your side. “No—no, that wasn’t meant for you!” He caught you before you could stumble, one arm wrapping firmly around your back while the other pressed cloth to the wound. His hands were steady from years of battle, but the panic in his eyes betrayed him.

“I swear, I had it under control,” he said breathlessly, shaking his head at himself. “The Blade of Frontiers, defeated by his own terrible aim.” “It barely hurts,” you tried to reassure him.

“That’s hardly the point,” Wyll replied softly. Once the fight was over, he guided you to sit beside the campfire, carefully tending the injury himself. His fingers moved with gentle precision as he tied the bandage.

“You spend far too much time protecting me,” he murmured. You smiled faintly. “Someone has to watch the hero’s back.”

Wyll looked up at that, something warm settling in his expression. He took your hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Well then,” he said quietly, “when this adventure is over, I think the hero owes his shield a proper reward.” You raised an eyebrow.

“A dance,” Wyll said with a small grin. “Under the moonlight. Somewhere far from monsters.” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “And this time,” he added softly, “I promise not to hurt you.”

Karlach-

Karlach charged into the fight with a shout, swinging her axe in a wide arc. The enemy went down instantly—but the momentum knocked you off balance and straight into the dirt. The moment she realized, her triumphant grin vanished.

“Oh shit! Hey, hey—!”

She dropped the axe immediately and rushed over, crouching beside you. “You alright? Tell me you’re alright.” You groaned, pushing yourself up. Karlach carefully checked your arms and shoulders like you might fall apart if she moved too fast.

“Damn it,” she muttered. “I forget sometimes I hit like a runaway cart.”

When you assured her you were fine, the tension finally left her face. Her grin slowly returned. “Good,” she said, helping you to your feet with surprising gentleness. “Because if I accidentally flattened you, I’d never forgive myself.”

She bumped her forehead lightly against yours, warm and affectionate. “C’mon,” she said with a laugh. “Next round, you stand behind me. Safer for everyone involved.”

Lae'zel-

Steel rang sharply as your blades clashed during training. Lae’zel moved with brutal precision—but the final strike nicked your shoulder before she could stop it. You hissed. She froze instantly. Her yellow eyes flicked to the cut, studying it with intense focus. “You lowered your guard.” The words came automatically.

But when she saw the blood running down your arm, something in her expression shifted. Lae’zel stepped closer, gripping your arm firmly to examine the wound.

“…Still,” she admitted after a moment, “my strike was excessive.” She wrapped the injury with quick, practiced efficiency. When she finished, her hand lingered on your arm just slightly longer than necessary.

“A warrior protects their ally,” she said quietly. “You fight beside me. That makes your safety… my responsibility.” After a pause she added, voice softer, “And I do not intend to fail you again.”

Shadowheart-

The battle had barely begun when Shadowheart’s guiding bolt burst past you in a flash of radiant light. The spell struck the enemy, but its edge caught your side. Your sharp inhale made her heart drop. She turned immediately, horror flickering across her usually guarded expression. “Wait.. did I—?” The sight of you clutching your ribs answered the question.

“Gods,” she whispered, already kneeling beside you. Her hands glowed softly with divine magic as she pressed them against the wound. “Hold still.” Warm light spread through you as the pain faded. Shadowheart kept her hands there longer than necessary, concentrating harder than the injury demanded. “You’re supposed to be the reckless one,” she muttered, shaking her head.

When the healing finished, she helped you sit up, her fingers lingering around yours. “I’ve spent my life learning how to mend wounds,” she said quietly. “Hurting you was… not part of the plan.” You squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Thranduil-

You’d always been careful to keep your wings bound beneath your cloak, the soft shimmer of silver-white feathers a secret you guarded with your life. Too many old stories spoke of people plucking feathers for luck, or worse- of warriors branded as “other” for carrying angelic traits they never asked for. So, you fought alongside the elves with your shoulders squared and your back hidden, earning respect through skill, not strangeness. But the ambush left no time for caution. The spiders of Mirkwood struck fast, tangling Thranduil in a sticky snare while more surged from the shadows. He went down, pinned by chittering limbs. You tore at the webbing with your blade, but there were too many, and he shouted for you to flee.

Instead, you exhaled a shaky breath and released the ties at your shoulders. Your wings unfurled in a rush of moonlight, scattering dust from the forest floor. With one mighty sweep you launched yourself above the swarm, dropping like a falling star to crush the largest spider before it reached the king. Feathers flashed as you spun, steel singing in your hands, every movement a blur of silver and white. When at last the clearing stilled, Thranduil lay staring up at you, his fine features etched with awe instead of judgment. A single feather drifted down, caught on the edge of his sleeve. He rose slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I wondered why you always walked so carefully,” he said at last, voice soft as new snow. “You feared we would not accept what is… extraordinary.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. “I didn’t want to give anyone reason to see me as less.” He stepped closer, brushing the stray feather free and placing it gently in your palm. “Do not hide your light from me,” Thranduil murmured, gaze steady. “It saved us both.”

Elrond-

You had learned to carry the weight of your wings as though they were not there, folding them flat beneath heavy cloaks and broad leather straps. Rivendell was a haven of song and wisdom, yet you still feared the way people might look at feathers instead of you- as if you were a curiosity, not a companion. So, you fought with quiet skill, your secret buried under calm composure. But the day the Wargs breached the valley; there was no room left for hesitation. Elrond was cornered on a rocky rise, blade flashing as three snarling beasts pressed in. One lunged, knocking him off balance toward the river below.

Before you could think, you shed the cloak, and the bindings came loose. Wings unfurled in a blaze of pale light, catching the wind with a single, thunderous beat. You soared across the stones, seized Elrond’s arm, and swept him clear of snapping jaws. Together you landed on the far bank, your feathers still trembling as the Wargs fled back into the forest.

Elrond straightened slowly, grey eyes searching your face, then the arc of wings spread behind you. Instead of alarm, there was quiet wonder in his gaze- and a flicker of something like sorrow that you had felt the need to hide. “I suspected you bore a gift,” he said softly, smoothing the sleeve of his robe where your fingers had gripped him. “Yet I did not know its beauty.” Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I feared it would make me seem… unnatural.” He shook his head, the faintest smile curving his lips. “There is nothing unnatural in what was woven into your being. Today it has saved us both- and I would see you carry it unburdened.”

Legolas-

You had always kept your wings pressed flat beneath leather and cloth, their silver-white feathers bound so tightly that sometimes you forgot they were there- until the ache in your shoulders reminded you. Mirkwood was no place for strangeness, and though Legolas had always treated you with quiet respect, you weren’t sure even he would understand.

But the patrol went wrong. A band of orcs had surged from the shadows, cutting you off from the prince. He loosed arrow after arrow, graceful and unyielding, until one slammed into his side and sent him staggering toward a ledge above a deep ravine. You sprinted for him, but a second orc raised its blade high.

You didn’t think. The ties across your back snapped as you tore them free, and your wings burst out in a rush of light and air. With one powerful sweep you cleared the gap, feathers catching the dim forest glow. You caught Legolas just as his footing failed, wrapping an arm around him while your wings drove you upward. You landed a heartbeat later, the world settling around you in drifting leaves.

Gale-

Gale often found himself hovering near the edge of the clearing whenever you trained. He claimed he was only there to observe your technique, to learn how best to support a warrior of your skill in battle- but the truth was far less clinical. There was a quiet pull in the way you moved, the confidence in your stance, the steadiness of your gaze. He rehearsed confessions in his mind, always discarding them with a nervous laugh. Someone like you, so capable and radiant, could never be interested in a man burdened by dangerous magic and a past full of mistakes.

When you protected him in the thick of a fight- stepping in front of a gnoll’s spear so he had space to cast- the gratitude that rushed through him was almost painful. Afterward, when the camp was quiet and the only light came from the fire, Gale found himself sitting beside you, book forgotten on his knee. His words spilled out before he could stop them: that you were extraordinary, that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that he feared you’d never see him as anything more than a friend. His voice trembled, but there was resolve behind it too, as though finally speaking the truth had given him a courage he hadn’t known he possessed.

Astarion-

Astarion liked to pretend he was merely amused by your strength, but anyone watching closely could see the way his gaze softened whenever you took up your sword. During sparring, he would saunter over with a sly remark- “Careful, darling, you’re making the rest of us look incompetent”- though the laughter in his voice couldn’t hide the admiration in his eyes. Sometimes he used training as an excuse to stand too close, slipping behind you to adjust a wrist or steady a stance, his touch lingering just long enough for you to notice. Underneath all the charm and playful jabs, there was a genuine appreciation for how you treated him: never as someone fragile or broken, yet never dismissing the boundaries he’d set.

On quiet nights, when most of the camp was asleep, Astarion would drift to your side of the fire with a goblet in hand. He’d watch you polish your blade or mend a strap, silver light from the moon catching in his pale hair. Without the audience of the others, his voice softened. Sometimes he would offer a compliment so low it almost vanished into the night- a quiet “You’re remarkable, you know,” spoken like a secret meant only for you. It was in those moments, when his teasing faded into sincerity, that you caught a glimpse of something far deeper than charm.

Shadowheart-

Shadowheart prided herself on being careful with her emotions, keeping them tucked away where no one could use them against her. But ever since you’d joined the party, that discipline had begun to fray at the edges. She told herself she only paid attention because a fighter’s composure was useful to a cleric who needed to heal and protect- but the truth was, there was something grounding about you. In battle you moved with a steady confidence, cutting through danger as if it were smoke, and the calm you radiated lingered long after the fighting stopped. Around the fire, she often found herself watching the quiet strength in your posture, the way you listened more than you spoke.

One evening, after a hard day’s march, you sat by the river washing grime from your hands while the others prepared camp. The late sun caught the faint sheen of your armor, and for a moment Shadowheart simply stood and watched. Then, almost against her better judgment, she walked over with a small jar of salve. “You’ve got a scrape on your arm,” she murmured, kneeling beside you. Her fingers brushed yours as she guided the ointment over the shallow cut, and she caught the flicker of surprise- maybe even warmth- in your eyes. She ducked her head quickly, hiding a smile. For a heartbeat she wanted to say more, to admit how safe you made her feel despite all her walls. Instead, she tightened the lid on the jar, gave you one of her rare, genuine smiles, and said softly, “Don’t forget there are people here who’d rather see you whole.”

Astarion-

Evening comes, and while the others prepare for sleep, Astarion claims you for himself with an exaggerated sigh, gesturing for you to sit. He produces a comb with a flourish, as if he’s about to perform on stage rather than tend to your hair. The first few strokes are accompanied by teasing remarks- how scandalous it is to travel with such unruly locks, how lucky you are to have someone of his refinement around. But the longer he works, the quieter he becomes, his hands gentle and unhurried.

By the time he’s finished, the air between you has softened. He lingers, fingertips brushing your neck in a way that feels far too intimate for an 'innocent' gesture. When you catch him watching you later across the fire, there’s no teasing smirk- just a rare, unguarded softness. For Astarion, these small acts of care are the closest thing he has to home.

Gale-

Life on the road is never easy, but Gale does everything in his power to make camp feel like a hearth. He insists on cooking, despite limited ingredients, and somehow transforms mushrooms, roots, and dried meat into something that actually tastes good. As he stirs, he talks- stories of his mother’s kitchen, of recipes perfected through trial and error, even of culinary disasters from his younger years. His voice is warm and steady, the kind of sound that makes the world feel less sharp.

When he passes you a bowl, it isn’t just food he’s offering. His eyes crinkle with quiet affection, lingering to make sure you take the first bite. “See? Not so dreadful,” he says with a smile, pretending not to care about your approval, though the relief in his expression betrays him. With Gale, every shared meal feels less like survival and more like family.

Shadowheart-

Shadowheart has a way of caring without ever admitting it. At camp, she’s always the first to stake her bedroll near yours, brushing it off as convenience. But when the others drift into sleep, she often stays awake with you, the firelight flickering across her sharp profile as she sharpens her blade. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable- it’s deliberate, a kind of quiet sanctuary she builds for the two of you.

Every now and then, your hands brush when you both reach for something, or her shoulder leans just slightly into yours. She doesn’t speak about it, doesn’t draw attention to the closeness, but the warmth lingers all the same. In those quiet hours, Shadowheart doesn’t need to say she cares. Her nearness, her steady presence, and the trust in her silence say it for her.

Lae'zel-

Lae’zel’s version of affection is practical, almost brusque. At dawn, she checks your gear before you’ve even had time to rub the sleep from your eyes- tugging on straps, inspecting blades, adjusting the weight of your pack. “Careless,” she mutters, even when everything is in perfect order, but her hands linger longer than necessary, tightening a buckle with precision or brushing against your arm as she works.

When you protest, she scowls, as if the very idea of you doubting her care irritates her. Yet later, by the fire, you catch her watching you with something softer than her usual steel gaze. She may never say the words outright, but the truth is in the way she ensures you’re always ready, always safe. For Lae’zel, love is protection, and she offers it fiercely.

Wyll-

The road can be dark, but Wyll always brings light to it. At night, while the fire crackles, he tells stories- not just of devils and heroics, but of simpler things: childhood festivals, dancing under lanterns, chasing fireflies in fields. His voice carries warmth, filling the camp with a sense of comfort, and he always makes sure to include you, watching your face as though your laughter is the only reward he needs.

When the air grows cold, he drapes his cloak around your shoulders without a second thought, his fingers brushing your arm. “Can’t have my favorite adventurer catching a chill, can I?” he says with a grin, though the softness in his eyes betrays how deeply he means it. Beside Wyll, the dangers of the road seem smaller, swallowed up by the warmth he carries with him wherever he goes.

(this gif is huge lmfao)

Karlach-

Karlach is the soul of camp life. She gathers firewood, sparks the flames, and then collapses beside you with a booming laugh, warmth radiating from her like a second sun. Sometimes she insists on teaching you little games from her time in Avernus- silly things with sticks and stones, or ridiculous riddles that end in both of you laughing until your sides ache. She makes even the dreariest nights feel like celebrations.

On harder days, when the weight of the journey is heavy, she doesn’t try to fix it with words. Instead, she scoops you into her arms without hesitation, holding you tight against her blazing heart. “Got you,” she murmurs into your hair, her voice unexpectedly soft. In her embrace, the world’s cruelty feels far away, as if nothing could touch you while she’s there.

Halsin-

Halsin makes the wilderness feel like home. He knows just where to set up camp so the wind won’t bite, which herbs will ease sore muscles, and how to line your bedroll for comfort. When you’re weary, he coaxes you to sit, large hands steady as he works the tension from your shoulders. His touch is firm but careful, his deep voice rumbling low as he tells you to rest.

“Sleep, little one,” he says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. The warmth of his presence makes it hard to argue. With Halsin near, the chaos of the road feels distant, replaced with the steady rhythm of his care. He doesn’t just offer protection- he offers peace, a rare and precious gift in the midst of turmoil.